Book Review

The Complexities of Love, by M. A. Quigley, is the captivating journey of Mark, who grows up both knowing he's different and feeling tormented by his inability to communicate his desires. At a time when people don't talk about their sexual orientation, this young man also keeps his feelings for Dave a secret and waits, hoping his love will be returned. Will Mark find the love he is seeking? 

The author beautifully depicts the main character and takes the reader on an emotional ride. I highly recommend this book.

Goodbye, November

Goodbye, November.

November has always been a month of lessons for me. This past month has been no exception.

The month started with an old acquaintance reaching out to me and asking me for help with a book she wanted to write. I'd interacted with her before, and what came to my mind immediately was that in my past experiences with her, I'd always felt I'd wasted my time. My instinct told me to turn her down instantly. I don't know why I didn't listen to the voice that has always helped and protected me... Instead, I tried to rationalize everything: Just because I've kept a bad memory of my exchanges with her doesn't mean it will be the same this time... People change... Be kind...

Ten days in, and after I'd spent 26 hours researching other artists' books and other artworks like hers and creating an outline for her book, she told me she'd changed her mind and she wanted her money back, the first half which I always charge all my clients before I begin working for them. I knew I could keep it and justify keeping it in any court of law, but I took a deep breath and decided to give it to her. I just didn't want to waste another second on her. I refunded every cent of the money she'd paid for the potential book and moved on.

On Sunday, November 28, about two weeks after I gave her money back, I received a message from her asking me to give her the research I'd done... because I wasn't going to use it anyway and it would go to waste, right? All I could do was laugh, and, of course, I didn't respond at all.

The lesson here was not a new one, just a reminder. Always listen to your inner voice. Don't doubt it. Don't rationalize it. People don't change that much. Use your experience.

I'm grateful for that reminder.

Toward the middle of the month, someone I considered a friend on Twitter tweeted a lie about me. I was shocked... but I trusted this person and decided to be generous in my assumptions, so I sent her a DM in good humor, pointing out that what she had tweeted wasn't true, and I followed my message with self-deprecating statements just to keep the level of humor up. I expected her to reply something like “oh, crap... I meant to say –,” but, instead, I got “Stop DMing me! Leave me alone!” and the F word, followed by some crisis she was in. Again... I was shocked at her poor reaction to my message, but I decided to be understanding. I apologized for having upset her and told her “I didn't mean to upset you AT ALL.” Then I stopped DMing her and I left her alone, just as she wanted. 

A few days passed. I was expecting an apology from her, but that never came. To make things even clearer about her character and to remove any doubt from my mind that an apology wasn't coming, she played the victim and tweeted about someone having insulted her.

This was a friend, someone I trusted... someone who had given me valuable advice and help in the past, and, in return, I had purchased all her books at once as a thank you. This was someone to whom I had taken the time to explain grammar features she continuously used incorrectly in her books so that she wouldn't repeat these errors in her future books, someone for whom I had written two book reviews, someone whose tweets I had retweeted daily for the past two years. I was sure she was better than that. 

I took the time to write a long letter, just out of respect for what I thought was a friendship and because I hate miscommunication, explaining what my intentions and my expectations were and pointing out the humor in my self-deprecating messages. What I got once again was the F word, along with don't tag me and don't message me. I acknowledged receipt of her message with a thumb up and blocked her. 

I couldn't believe these exchanges, but she had gone out of her way to show me exactly what kind of a person she really was... twice. Goodbye, former friend. I wish you well... I won't stoop to your level. I won't trash your name like you did / are doing mine. As someone before me said, I still want you to eat, just not at my table. What's funny is all this started because she had tweeted a lie... and it has come full circle... with more lies... like her being the victim.

The lesson here was... Well, there were two lessons: 

First, don't ignore the red flags along the way just because you like someone. There were plenty of those, and I ignored them one after the other, the very last one being how I had only published one book whereas she had published so many. I wasn't aware it was a competition. 

Second, if and when someone publicly lies about you, confront them publicly, and don't worry about humiliating them. Remember that they didn't have a problem lying about you. I learned five – almost six – years ago that nobody trashes your name more than someone who's afraid you're going to tell the public the truth. 

I am grateful for these lessons as well.

Another unfortunate incident this month happened last week. I put my phone and my spare car key on the car right before I fastened the dogs' seatbelts, thinking I would pick them up right after; then I got in my car and drove away... I was about five miles away when I remembered what I had done. I pulled over, hoping everything would still be there. I live in the woods and drive slowly because of all the animals crossing the roads, so it wouldn't be completely impossible for the phone and the key to have stayed on the car... but no such luck. I had gone out to buy more bags of concrete for my construction, so I went and picked the bags up and returned home, looking at the road very carefully on the way back. Nothing. Maybe they were crushed by another car? Maybe someone picked them up? I didn't have a password on my phone, and that bothered me a lot.

As soon as I arrived home, I got on the computer and did a quick search. I learned three new facts: 1) You can lock your phone by adding a password to it remotely. 2) You can find the approximate location of your phone online. 3) You can make your phone ring loudly for five minutes even if it is set on silent. I did this and drove back with my four windows down, and about three miles out, I heard my phone. I pulled over and found it in the weeds on the side of the road, and, just a few feet farther, there was my spare key. I couldn't believe it! I felt so grateful.

Besides these three helpful facts, the lesson here was the reminder to never put anything on your car.

Goodbye, November. Thanks for the lessons. I appreciate them. I survived another November, and, for that I am grateful.

 

Almost...

Today is November 20^th. I have exactly one month – a self-imposed deadline, really – to finish the cabin. I started building the cabin from scratch on December 21^st, 2018, and on that day, I told myself this will be a three-year project.

The four walls, the roof, the doors, and the windows are all in place. The cabin is one big room, like a studio, divided into four parts: an office on my right and a kitchen on my left as I walk in the main door, and a bedroom and a bathroom, respectively on the right and left, in the back.

The bedroom is done. The bathroom is almost completed. The kitchen cabinets and my bookshelves are all just planks of wood sitting on blocks. I've built myself a desk. The only piece of furniture I have bought for this cabin is a desk chair, and I just got that today because its price was finally lowered, probably for black Friday, and my back desperately needed something more comfortable than the blocks I was sitting on.

I still have a lot to do, mostly little tasks, but I'm also making a sunroom in front of the cabin, and that's a rather big project. The floor is done. I still have to make the walls and the roof for it. I'm doing my best, and I still hope I can make it by the end of fall... if the weather allows it.

I love that I can say I've built this by myself. Of course, I've hired people to help with the tasks I didn't feel safe doing myself – like the wiring and the roof – but, still, I designed everything myself, and I've been living in it since February of this year so that I could work on little things around the house without having to leave the dogs alone. During the last three years, I've learned a great deal about construction work and developed muscles I didn't know I had. It's been an interesting journey.

 

Done That...

“Forget safety.
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.”
Rumi

Book Review

I read The Gift followed by Michael's Choice, by Barbara Avon, and loved them both.

I was hooked from page one of the first book, The Gift, and couldn't stop reading until I finished both books. The author's excellent pace and character development have made me want a book three (and four, five, etc.) – hint to author – just to spend more time with Michael, a handsome man – he is strong, Italian, in love, and he can cook. These two books are thrillers with a touch of romance and suspense. I give these books five stars and recommend them.

Communication & Assumptions

A few days ago, I read and commented on another one of Philip Anderson's thought-provoking posts – this one was on patience: https://www.independentliving.co.uk/philip-anderson/what-stretches-your-patience/

I specifically commented on one sentence: “From the moment the ambulance crew transfer me on my back from my bed to the hospital trolley, I prepare myself mentally for being separated from my loved ones and my true self, and for being at the mercy of strangers.”

Responding to my comment, he wrote about being carted off to hospital, and clarified, “being separated from my true self, I am referring to people (including hospital staff) who assume I am unable to communicate clearly, which is a frightening and potentially dangerous disconnection I’m powerless to overcome.”

Maybe that hospital staff could benefit from reading this post.

Philip Anderson's response reminded me of two distinct interactions I've had in my life, one with a former student and one with a paraplegic man.

The Former Student...

She was from Bulgaria. She and her family – husband and two sons – moved to the United States, and she took my test prep class to prepare for the TOEFL-iBT, a test all international students must take before they can enter a university in the US. She was a dentist in her own country, a brilliant one, one of the best in her city in Bulgaria, with excellent recommendations from professors and patients, but she had to take some courses here to get a degree here in the US to be able to work as a dentist in this country.

Her English writing wasn't bad, but her speaking needed a lot of work, mainly because she got nervous. She was a perfectionist, not the best attitude for language learning because she didn't allow herself to make mistakes, so she either didn't speak at all – which meant didn't practice enough – or if she did because I forced her to, she would get nervous and her voice would start to shake and she would stop whenever she wasn't sure if her sentence was structurally and grammatically correct.

Having taught for decades, I was familiar with this type of learner and behavior, so it wasn't a new case to me... but... one day she came to school in tears because some ignorant person had called her stupid. She explained that it had taken her a while to express what she needed and the employee – who clearly wasn't fit to be in customer service – had lost her patience, refused to help her, and called her stupid.

If and when a person doesn't or can't communicate perfectly or even properly in another language, it doesn't mean they are stupid. They may be remarkable scientists in their own country, using their own language. If you've read my book, Languages & Life Lessons (by Afarin Rava, my pen name), you know about the Chinese scientists I used to teach. I also knew a Korean lady who was the director of a television channel as well as the host of a television program in Korea. She came to my grammar and conversation classes to learn English and told the class she had been insulted by an employee at a hardware store who couldn't understand her accent during her first month in the US.

I know many people who don't use their first language correctly. I even know many Americans who can't communicate in their first language. In fact, I've taught Americans who needed help with reading (including the alphabet, sounds, and intonation) and writing (including spelling, grammar, structure), and I've even taught American English teachers both grammar and how to teach it to international students. Not once did I think any of them was stupid.

Language learning and teaching needs practice. Period. Just because someone doesn't communicate well in a language doesn't mean they are any less intelligent than anyone else. Often, it is people who speak only one language and who have never attempted to learn a second one who make such assumptions.

The Paraplegic Man...

Over two decades ago, I regularly checked the free magazine delivered to me weekly, to see if anyone needed help learning English. One “help-needed” ad got my attention week after week. It had nothing to do with English learning, but its recurrence intrigued me. It was a paraplegic man needing help in the evenings. I called and told him I had no experience whatsoever, but the recurring ad meant he couldn't find anyone, and I was willing to help him out the best I could. I gave him my name and phone number, and he thanked me.

About ten days later, he called and said he could use my help. That evening I drove 18 miles to get to his place. He lived with his parents, but they were too old to do some of the tasks such as helping him transfer from his wheelchair to his bed. I didn't know anything about any of the equipment, but he gave me clear step-by-step instructions, and I managed to help him. 

That first time took longer, but I eventually learned and went there weekly on those two nights his regular nurse couldn't go. The pay was ridiculously low – probably also the reason he couldn't find a helper. It barely paid for the gas I had to put in the car to drive there, but I considered the experience rewarding because I felt I helped someone in need and I learned how to work with a dozen new machines I'd never seen in my life before meeting this man. I continued to go there for nearly a year... until he finally found full-time help.

The point is that he was in a wheelchair and his speaking was slurred, but he communicated what needed to be done perfectly. It would have been easy to assume he wouldn't be able to communicate clearly, but that wasn't the case.

Back to Philip Anderson...

He may be in a wheelchair and he may be weak in some respects, but he writes some of the most wonderful posts I've ever read, and I for one am always looking forward to his articles – always beautifully written and clearly expressed. I also look forward to reading his memoir. Assuming a person can't communicate because they have some weakness is ridiculously wrong.

So... when it comes to communication, like in many other things in life, don't judge a book by its cover. 

Kia

October 10 marks the anniversary of Kia's death.

I met Kia over twenty years ago, when she was about two years old. She was a chihuahua, more specifically a terrier chihuahua, and weighed about ten pounds.

A friend had gotten her at an auction. He brought her to work with him because otherwise his live-in girlfriend, apparently not a dog lover, would lock her up in the bathroom all day.

Kia was shy at first but became playful after a few weeks. I would stop by my friend’s office after work just to play with her, and she seemed to look forward to my visits.

Kia was fast and smart, and she had the most beautiful eyes. She was very friendly with everyone she met when she was young and, as she grew older and got to know people better, she was more cautious in choosing friends. Kia’s character earned the love and respect of everyone around her.

Kia seldom acted like a dog. She was more like a two-year-old child: She was interested in snacks and play but hated to be left alone. She ignored silly things and gave us “the look” when our jokes weren’t funny; then, she would turn her back to us and yawn, showing her boredom… and maybe her disappointment. She was quite the character.

I gave Kia several nicknames: “Princess” when she was fussy about her food, “Jordy” when she jumped high, “Baby” when she acted like one, “Little Dragon” when she hyperventilated, and “Lion” every summer when her body got shaved and she sunbathed, looking naked with a head full of long hair. She answered to all these names.

A few years later, when I found out Kia was spending a lot of time alone on weekends, I suggested keeping her with me during the weekend. I would pick her up on Friday afternoon and drop her off Sunday night at her house or Monday morning at work. And just like that, Kia became my part-time companion. She wasn’t left alone anymore, and I enjoyed my weekends with her.

We both ate home-cooked meals, walked a few times a day, lay down on the couch to read and nap, watched movies, and did housework… Well, I did the housework while Kia watched me and inspected my work. If I went out, no matter where I went, I would take her with me.

Eventually, Kia became my full-time companion. I enjoyed every moment we spent together and felt guilty every morning I had to leave her home to go to work. I soon found out she didn’t mind staying alone when I left her, though. Maybe it was because before I went out the door I talked to her for a minute or two... and kissed her goodbye. Also, in the evening, I made up for leaving her alone. We played, wrestled, and went for a long walk before going to bed.

In 2009, when Kia was about twelve years old, one day I was busy with a project, so I took Kia to her dad's place to have some time to myself, take my laptop to a coffee shop, and work without worrying about her. We agreed Kia would spend the night with him and he would bring her back to me the next day, Saturday, around noon.

When I got in my car to leave, Kia wanted to get in the car and come with me. I ordered her to sit and stay, so she did, but when I started driving, she chased my car. I watched her in the rear-view mirror and drove faster so she would stop following me. She looked sad, and I hated leaving her like that, but I thought she’d be safe with her dad. Besides, it was only for one night.

The next day, at around one o’clock in the afternoon, I answered the doorbell and Kia’s dad walked in. I kept the door open and looked down behind him, “Where is she?” He didn’t answer. I looked out again and got nervous. “Where’s Kia?” I asked loudly. He finally whispered, “She’s gone.”

He explained he had fallen asleep on the couch and forgotten to walk her the previous night, so when he had woken up a little after one o’clock in the morning, he’d been sleepy and just opened the door for her and let her out alone to do her business while he had gone to brush his teeth in the bathroom. He’d heard a screech and rushed outside to see a coyote take Kia away.

My little Kia, the little girl whose presence had brought so much joy to my heart and to my life, had been killed, and it had been my own fault. My heart was broken. I shouldn’t have left her. 

Losing Kia taught me one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned in life. It taught me to think about what or who matters more to me and to prioritize my time accordingly. It was a valuable and extremely painful lesson.

That project I was looking forward to working on while Kia stayed with her previous owner was really to help an employer who didn’t even appreciate my efforts or the work I had done. That employer was a horrible person. She and her entire business weren’t worth losing even a day with Kia, and I had left my precious dog behind to complete a project for them.

All my days following that incident would start the same way for months. I’d open my eyes in the morning hoping it had all been a bad dream, then I’d look down at her empty bed next to mine... My tears would roll down my cheeks, and the terrifying thoughts would come back: Had she suffered? Did she know how much I loved her? Did she think I had abandoned her?

I still see Kia everywhere… in the street, in stories, in my dreams. Her picture is on my wall, and I talk to her all the time. Sometimes I tell her how much I miss her, and sometimes I ask her to forgive me for leaving her like that when she showed me she wanted to come with me.

Twelve years later, I still think about that day, about how I left her there, about how sad her eyes looked when I told her to stay, about how she chased my car. I don’t know what she was thinking when she realized she was in trouble, and I don’t know if she suffered a long time.

I drive myself mad with these thoughts until my tears come to my rescue and help me calm down. Then my thoughts turn to I hope it was quick and she didn’t suffer and I’m grateful for the time I had with her. Then I think about the lesson this loss taught me and say I’m grateful for the lesson I learned.

I’m grateful and honored for having known Kia for approximately ten years, during which I grew more and more fond of her. I’m grateful for everything her presence taught me. I’m grateful for everything her absence taught me. I’m grateful. Rest in peace, my little girl.

Book Review

A Click That Changed My Life, a memoir by Victoria Vorel, is a story of hope. The author's journey begins when she meets a man online. A simple friendship takes an unexpected turn as the Queen of the Forest finds herself in unfamiliar surroundings after she follows her “internet lover” to his world. The sincerity of this openminded woman and her true feelings are reflected in the authentic language she uses to describe her adventures. I recommend this book and thank Victoria Vorel for sharing her story of love, courage, and respect.