CAN ELEPHANT GIRLS FLY? Reflections Inspired by Jane Devin's Memoir

CAUTION: SPOILER ALERT!


Jane Devin and I have orbited one another’s outer blogosphere since I started blogging in 2008. Her writing and the issues she tackles give me pause.  I started reading her memoir, “Elephant Girl”, a few days ago and was immediately captivated.  In the first five pages, I wondered who Clyde was, and within seven, I was shocked, uncomfortable and completely locked in.  Half way through, I was summarizing it for Leslie, who asked “what’s happening?” every time I picked it up.  So, I read passages out loud frequently.

I know Jane as well as you can know anyone on the internet.  She is full of strong opinions, launches fearless dissertations on heavy duty topics, and is outgoing about her disdain of faith based spirituality or new age mysticism.  Crazy parents, brutality, and the cycle of poverty are rendered personal by her blogposts, but it never occurred to me that most of what she wrote was based on first-hand experience.  I thought perhaps she was an expert on the topic of childhood sexual abuse.  I was shocked and heartbroken to read the truth.

I am impressed by Jane’s willingness to be transparent.  In her book, she reveals innermost fears, insecurities, and hopes.  She owns them despite their crushing weight, and then spends considerable time expressing frustration and even despondency when life goes awry.  Perhaps she exercises her demons this way, which is what I do in my artwork from time to time.  Jane writes that more than anything she is afraid to lose her strength, the ability to bear that enormous burden without breaking.  She acknowledges constantly stretched thresholds of stress.  In fact, that is what the title “Elephant Girl” is about; remaining unbroken in the face of relentless adversity.

In my perspective, seen through a lens of both faith-based spirituality and new age mysticism, Jane is the quintessential Aries woman.  She is fiercely independent, but also needful, highly opinionated but still impressionable, outspoken yet suffering from either a case of uniquely horrible timing or being completely tongue tied at the worse possible moments.  This duality is a spot on Aries quality.  My daughter is an Aries, and I’ve had numerous close friends of the same sign.  They can be brilliant, self-possessed and insufferable, but more than anything they must live their truth. Who they are can by no means be compromised.   To do so would have dire personal consequences.  In a world where people pick and choose their delusion du jour, this is problematic.

In her book, Jane rails against bad things happening to those innocents lying in the path of destruction.  I can’t escape the suspicion that they (we) are pawns in some ridiculous Asgardian game of chess.  Somewhere out there, I’m convinced, the gods are laughing at our misfortune.  Perhaps that’s why I cling to my beliefs the way I do.  Personally defined ideals of reincarnation, karma, and the benefits of maintaining a positive attitude are infinitely better than the alternative, which to me is simply unacceptable.   I spent young adulthood completely pissed off because I wasn’t strong enough to deal with sadness.  I wasn’t ready to peer into that bottomless pit.  Jane, on the other hand, puts on night goggles to take a long, piercing look at the darkness, and then writes about what she finds there.

MJ's behavior in the book has me thinking about mothers.  My mother was neglectful and finally completely absent, but I know mothers who suffered from grave mental illness.  So what was MJ?  I just don't know, but I find myself pondering the gulf between mental illness and sociopathic behavior.  Mental illness by definition implies something broken that can be repaired.  Sociopaths (not autistic or handicapped individuals) have remorseless fits of violence against others for no particular reason.  The propensity for cruelty is etched within them.  Some people are born without sight or a limb and others without a conscience or empathy.  Sociopaths function well in the framework of society and have enough on the ball to be secretive about their behavior.  Think of Scott Peterson, who I’m certain is thriving in prison.  Concurrently, one of the first symptoms of true mental illness is a loss of perspective, the inability to view how your behavior is perceived by others.  Sociopaths know they are different and cover themselves up in order to satisfy predatory needs.

One might ascertain that the elephant is Jane’s spiritual animal or totem. She dreams about them, empathizes with them, and they often appear to her in the mundane world.  In the Hindu culture, the elephant God Ganesha is the remover of obstacles, and I have no doubt plenty of obstacles were removed in the publishing of this memoir. 

Growing up, I was more cheetah than elephant.  I was born in the year of the tiger. I seemed prone to sudden fits of activity, followed by necessary rest.  I was capable of extended hissy fits, but also a great, rumbling type of purring.  I was burdened with claws that wouldn’t retract, and I had an awful lot of personal baggage, not unlike a cheetah dragging it’s freshly killed gazelle up a tree.  I’m glad I didn’t have a child before I was ready, because I’m quite selfish.  If I had a baby in my early 20’s, I worry I would have repeated my mother’s magic disappearing act instead of learning about compassion and nurturing from my family.  Truth to tell, I’ve always been restless.  Now, approaching fifty, I feel more like a dragon.  I am bristly, hot headed, prone to grand flights of fancy, but no longer burdened so I am capable of flight.  I have confronted and come to terms with my sadness. However, in a world that is almost too painful to endure, I am willingly tethered to Leslie like a balloon. She holds my ribbon, and her earthbound energy keeps me from floating away. 

Despite having spent much of her life feeling inferior, inadequate or somehow to blame, I believe Jane found her worthiness.  Finding mine is what saved me.  Perhaps the lengthy struggle with pernicious anemia, being gravely ill for so long, caused Unworthy Jane’s demise.  Maybe the Jane who was repeatedly snagged in the web of careless people was sloughed off like dead skin, the seeds of self-loathing planted by perilous childhood snakes, lightning bolts and shadow burned away, leaving only rich fertile soil where Genuine Jane could then grow. 

And grow she did. 

Jane emerged decisively as the woman who put the blood, sweat and tears into this memoir, which is no small feat. Only someone with the strength of an elephant could pull that off.

Somewhere along the way, the bell rang and Jane earned her wings.  Emerging like a phoenix from the ashes of pernicious anemia and plans of suicide, she hit the road to prove that Elephant girls really can fly.

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The illustrations above are mine, all rights reserved.

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There is no doubt ... Elephant girls can fly.

I'M NOT READY FOR HIGH SCHOOL

Today is Elizabeth’s first day of high school, and for the first time in our family’s history, she doesn’t’ have to be driven there.  I can’t count the number of times Leslie has drive up and down the El Camino since Kindergarten.  In fact, it was only 10 years ago when I took a photo of our “baby” in her Hilldale uniform, oversize backpack at her feet and grinning like the Cheshire cat, on the morning of her first day in 2001.

It’s been six months since the commencement of my involuntary sabbatical.  Six months!  I feel that I’ve made good use of the time, but I can’t escape the sense that the clock is ticking. I really don’t want to return to Corporate, but I need to work.  So, I hit the computer every morning looking for a job. Leslie and I do it together, as she has an uncanny ability to find opportunities I overlook.  I’ve had a number of phone interviews, and a few face to face, but it’s challenging out there.  

The ginormous collection of comic books and action figures I’ve dragged from one side of the United States to the other has been a boon. I’m glad to be an obsessive collector, and equally happy that I am willing to let these treasures go when it matters most.  What if I was a hoarder?

Leslie has made a grand adjustment to my constant presence, as well as all my clutter, my artistic crap, and my gregarious opinions and commentary.  We had a rough patch or two, but things have become harmonious again.  I’m thankful for that.

Everything the media says about how economic difficulties affect our children is true. Elizabeth is quite concerned and asks difficult questions like “Will we be homeless?”  We explain everything to her in understandable terms and without completely freaking her out.  She’s been remarkably resilient and has worked very hard alongside us on various projects.  But no, we don’t expect to be homeless … ever.

While this has been an intense summer for all us, the last week was really tough for Elizabeth.  Her feelings got hurt as friends from Middle School seem to move on without her.  They made plans to go to the mall, apparently oblivious to the fact that all their conversations on Facebook are completely transparent.  She worries about where she’ll fit in at school. She’s been so preoccupied that she overshot a step coming down the stairs a few nights ago, fell down four stairs, landed awkwardly on one foot, and slammed her chin on the cabinet at the foot of the stairs on the way down.   The cabinet was heaped with clothes purely by chance and so her chin hit ample padding instead of rock hard wood.  I experienced a moment of sheer panic when I thought her jaw was broken, but we iced everything right away.  When she woke up the next day, I was braced for the worse, but she only had a bit of knee pain and no swelling anywhere.  I consider that a close call.

The summer has been difficult in a lot of ways, but as usual every dark cloud has a silver lining.  We lost Jack our Golden Retriever in May, but got Teddy shortly thereafter.  Jack was a painfully handsome, strong silent type, and Teddy is short, fuzzy and funny.  Daizy has become a different dog since losing Jack, as if his absence has forced her maturity.  I lost my grandmother not too long after that, and while I grieved for her, she was ancient, very sick, and ready to move on to her soul’s next adventure.  Leslie has become closer with her niece Tami, as well. 

Let’s see, what else has happened …

London had rioting.  The stock market dipped lower than ever, and people lost portions of their 401K. I suppose it’s a good thing that many had already cashed out to pick up the slack in unemployment.   The media has referred to this period as a recession, when in fact we’ve been in a depression since 2008.  The president even went on national television threatening to withhold social security payments, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about. What was he thinking?

This feels like being in the movie “Goodfellas”, and Leslie and I are the wise guys in prison for a while.  We’ve got plenty of time to cook spectacularly creative dishes, and we’re making the most out of sidebar opportunities, but we’re completely on our own.  There are no relatives helping us financially, and no friends with extra cash to toss around.  People have their own responsibilities and obligations; and in fact, many people we know are in the same precarious situation.

We remain here with our fragile pride and beat up egos, thrust unceremoniously through constant change of the most personal variety.  It is our duty to grow and change for the better within the fabric of our lives no matter how challenging doing so becomes.  Anything less, like wallowing in misery or raging at the injustice of it all, would not only be pointless, but would leave an indelibly negative mark on our daughter’s fragile growth at an important time in her life.  And so we hang in there, even if it takes some pushing and pulling between us to establish the harmony we’re used to.

I wonder if  this even compares to what our daughter Elizabeth is dealing with now on her first day of high school.  How does this compare to her search for a bosom friend, her first real boyfriend, or even her first kiss. 

I can handle unemployment.  I can even handle the world going to hell in a hand basket.

But high school?

I don’t think I’m ready for high school.

HOW I WRITE

I described my writing process to our daughter Elizabeth, and this is how she interpreted it. It's called "How Nana Writes". She calls me Nana and has called me that since she was less than a year old. Leslie is Momma, and I'm Nana (pronounced Nonna, which rhymes with Donna). This is how I write.

REMEMBERING THE BIG RED DOG

Read our tribute to Jack here.

HONORING THE MUSE

It’s just a day and a half away from our Fourth of July event, and I am deeply embroiled in all the activities that make me happy.  I’m hot gluing rocks and jars, tweaking captured faeries, and putting finishing touches on signs and framed art. All of this is the product of our family’s creativity.  Some of Elizabeth’s crafts will be for sale, and none of it would happen without Leslie’s ceaseless support.

Over the last few days, we’ve had good fortune on the art front.  I was chosen to participate in the prestigious “Celebration of Craftswomen” event in November, which is held at Fort Mason in San Francisco. There are a total of 200 artisans in its entirety, and I was one of the new artists picked out of thousands of emerging artist entries (according to the woman who organizes the event).  I feel like this puts my art on the map and empowers me to call myself an artist.  I remember hoping I’d have the confidence to seriously pursue this only a year or so ago. 

I also joined the Art Guild of Pacifica, which is my way of supporting art in my community.  They’ve got the Craftswomen event listed on their site, and I hope to participate in their upcoming member’s exhibit in the Fall.  I’ve started to feel quite at home here in the lovely coastal town of Pacifica.

All of this good fortune in creativity makes me ponder the muse.  I am thankful for inspiration in my life, but I know it stems from somewhere else, someplace ephemeral.  There continues to be a special someone or something who ruffles my feathers enough to rouse the feelings I need to begin and complete each artistic journey.  In fact, most of my recent work happened once we returned from Connecticut three years ago; at which point I was unburdened from detrimental relationships and friendships, old emotional baggage rooted in the past,  once and for all.  Then, I got settled back in the Bay Area and encountered people and circumstances that lit my spark again. All of my recent full color pen and ink work emerged from that small flame. 

So, I dedicate the event on the Fourth of July to my persistent muse … the spirit of my creativity, the inspiration I find daily, and the place she's held fast in my heart.

Thank you, dear heart, my darling muse for lighting the spark of my creativity.

I yearn for your kiss of inspiration again and again.