Homelessness, Racism, the Sports-Industrial Complex, and Dyslexia

Skid Row, Los Angeles

I've mentioned it before, but my son Oliver has a pretty severe case of dyslexia and associated learning difficulties. While the few months we've been homeschooling have done wonders for his self-esteem, he continues to struggle with his feelings for the disorder, and while the prevailing one is shame (and very common in dyslexics), he is also impatient with it and at best, angry, as opposed to accepting. Oliver is with me much of the time as I traverse this great and diverse city, and one of our favorite sights is in the heart of Hollywood, right at the intersection of Hollywood Blvd and Highland. If we're lucky enough to catch a red light, we look at the opposite corner to see the same elderly man holding up a cardboard sign that says, FUCK YOU. I don't know why this makes us laugh -- perhaps it's the audaciousness of it, mixed as it is among the crowds of tourists, the hucksters dressed as superheroes, the equally elderly man perched on top of a U.S. mailbox with the sign YOU'RE GOING TO HELL, JESUS SAVES (who I've always thought was incredibly hopeful and ambitious, given the location).  Yesterday, we were pulling out of a Chick-Fil-A (I know, we're not supposed to support a homophobic organization, but this is the Hollywood Chick-Fil-A), when we noticed a guy sitting on the curb across the street with his homemade sign that read I WOULD BE ALERT BUT I'M HOMELESS AND HUNGRY. I HAVE MORALS AND HERPES. Oh good Lord, I thought, steeling myself for Oliver's questions. Sure enough, he asked me what it all meant, so I told him. He thought for a few seconds and then said, Well, anyone who can spell those words is probably fine. That made me laugh out loud and then think in my mind about just how hard it is for Oliver to be dyslexic -- so hard that a man with apparently no possessions other than a dirty, weird sign would seem, to Oliver, to be in a better position. Then I worried that Oliver might need a little more perspective, so I lectured a bit, as I am wont, on compassion and perspective, and he tolerated it. Later on in the day, when I heard for the gazillionth time about the asshole basketball team owner and his sordid mistress and the outcome of his racist conversation being his swift dismissal and ban from the NBA, I wondered why some wrongs get such quick and relatively easy responses from the Powers That Be. Privacy issues aside, and trust me, I don't give a flying foo-foo about sports in general, much less the business of sports, what about that particular story warranted the enormous outcry that something like the growing number of homeless people living on our streets doesn't -- or children being denied medication like medical marijuana -- or women not making the same amount of money as men in similar jobs -- or people getting laid off when the CEOs of their companies pull in tens of millions of dollars in salary alone? Or, let's face it -- the growing number of citizens here who live in poverty alongside people who buy and drive $150,000 cars, or send their children to elementary schools that cost $40,000 a year?

Is it all relative?

One of my Facebook acquaintances (let's face it, not all of our Facebook peeps are friends) posted something about how awful it is that Obama had something to say about that basketball owner but, so far, hasn't said anything about removing marijuana from the Schedule 1 class of drugs. He was pretty angry about that as were most of his "friends," and if it weren't for the many racist comments on that string (not from him), I would have agreed with his frustration. I'm not a moral relativist and actually hate the expression it's all relative, but I have to wonder what, exactly, drives people other than money. I'm curious why, exactly, this particular instance got this particular enormous response. I guess it's a good thing, but it does make me wonder. Oliver's anguish over dyslexia seems to trump the homelessness of that man in his mind. Obama not taking a stand on medical marijuana trumps his taking a stand against racism for some. Freely using the word retarded which basically dehumanizes and denigrates millions of people is not nearly as bad, apparently, as denigrating millions of black people.

I don't know what to think, but I'm thinking. And it makes me think the guy with the FUCK YOU sign might have the answer.

When Homeschooling and Han Dynasty Men Collide with Technology

So, this morning Oliver and I were reading in his History of the World book about China in the seventeenth century -- while the Protestants and the Catholics were battling it out in the Hundred Years War, the Manchus were dictating to the Han Chinese about their hair (shave your forehead, grow a pigtail). I asked Oliver to use his iPad and pull up an image of a Han Chinese, and being dyslexic he spoke into the device and we got this:

Evidently, Siri or whoever the heck inhabits the iPad, misunderstood Oliver and gave us some hot Chinese men. Hilarity ensued, and it was hard going to get back on track with the historical executing and plundering and conquests.

There's some larnin' going on in these parts (and not pants!).






Good Lord. I imagine someone is blocking my post as we speak --

The Entrepreneur, Halloween, Christmas and The House of Crazy

If I told you the past week chez House of Crazy was crazy, it would be an understatement. Raymond Chandler and Santa Anas aside, between the Seizing Marijuana Chronicles and The Teenager and The Dyslexic Entrepreneur, I've been hard put to remain not just calm but even somewhat collected. I won't even go into The Husband. I've been wearing sunglasses all week to disguise my tears and have walked around the house whimpering when they're all at school. I've told you over and over that my Italian grandmother used to do so all day, whimper, sigh and mutter under her breath pray that I die, pray that I die. Last night I made a valiant and last ditch effort to cheer the Dyslexic Entrepreneur who had finished a horrific week of school that included about 5,321,789 emails back and forth to The Powers That Be at the school and the passing, Santa Ana-induced thought of homeschooling. He had just climbed into the car after baseball practice and begun another historic rant of negativity, how I suck at baseball and just about everything and how I'm just going to give it all up and be a giant loser, I'm really not supposed to be in this world, and while my eyes glazed over and my ears dripped blood, the tiny thought entered my mind, the valiant thought that I then actually voiced:

Why don't we go to Cost Plus World Market and get you some stuff for your lemonade stand?

If you're familiar with Los Angeles on Friday nights, and particularly with our local outdoor shopping mall called The Grove on Friday nights, you'd know just how outrageous this suggestion was -- how it was more the last ditch effort of a dying woman (pray that I die, pray that I die) than of a reasonable or even good enough mother. We went. We nearly killed ourselves wrestling a giant Exxon Valdeez SUV for a parking spot, and we walked the Christmas decorated clogged aisles (pray that I die, pray that I die) until The Dyslexic Entrepreneur decided that he'd use some of his earnings from last week's lemonade stand to buy a cotton candy maker for this week's stand. And given that I was dying, had contemplated buying some admittedly adorable silver-flecked Santa ornaments and wouldn't be spending the money myself, since the Dyslexic Entrepreneur has actually made about three times as much as it cost,  I said yes.

What's really cool about the cotton candy maker is that you can throw candies in the top to flavor the sugar.In fact, that photo of The Dyslexic Entrepreneur was taken at about 10:00 this morning, and his product became his breakfast. In addition, we're going to start decorating for Christmas early this year at The House of Crazy by putting silver flecks on the pumpkins and draping spider-webs over the life-sized Santa Claus that's sitting on my porch, a "gift" from my parents. The weird thing is that I'm no longer praying to die but actually getting excited.

Reader, what are you doing?

Meteors, Dyslexia, Tea Baggers and Lemonade

So, it's Sunday. I read about meteors flying over the mid-West, and Ted Cruz, the heinous Tea Bagger senator from Texas who won't give up his paycheck if the government is shut down but thinks it's all right that 800,000 soldiers will have theirs frozen. I fostered a pretty spirited debate on Facebook about the merits of the Affordable Care Act, and how it's going to help so many of us despite its problems. I feel nervous that the Tea Baggers are going to prevail and wish they'd all calm down and let the reform play out. I'm weary of the people who constantly whine about how our political discourse has disintegrated and wish they'd stop whining and say something in addition to how our political discourse has disintegrated. And yes, I'm perfectly aware that it's the Tea Party and not the Tea Baggers. They'll always be tea baggers to me, and I don't give a damn if it's offensive.

 Oliver is outside hawking lemonade again and cupcakes, this time, in an effort to raise money for fishing supplies and the Epilepsy Foundation of Greater Los Angeles. I had a talk last night with a friend's boyfriend who told me about his fascinating youth, growing up in Nebraska, how he was always in trouble, on the road, really, to jail,  his unruly behavior in part due to what was later determined to be dyslexia. It all turned out fine -- more than fine -- and that turning out happened when he learned of his strengths, not his deficits, when his mother persevered, when he made drastic and dramatic changes in his life. I'm reading a book by Ben Foss called The Dyslexia Empowerment Plan, and it's illuminating. Sometimes, when I read Foss' descriptions of himself in childhood, I feel as if I'm reading about Oliver, and little by little my gut instincts about my remarkable child are affirmed. When Oliver was young -- let's say three or four -- he was already such a pistol, as my father would say, that we would shake our heads and laugh, ruefully. A neighbor who has a powerful job in publicity once told me that she is always nice to Oliver because one day we're all going to be working for him. The book is not about overcoming learning disabilities but finding one's strengths and recognizing that dyslexia -- disability -- is just part of one's identity, something to accept, to almost embrace. Simple -- but radical -- stuff.  I think, sometimes, that part of my job with Oliver is to literally get him through school and out, to support him in whatever way I can and to guide him to constantly see his strengths and pursue them.

I price my lemonade at $.75. he says. Because most people will give me a dollar and tell me to keep the change.

So, Ted Cruz? Overcome him like a disease. Oliver? Help him to accept his dyslexia and discover his strengths.

What's up with you, Reader?

School

Forgive my lack of posting today, but I'm bogged down in reading aloud tracts about impetigo and other infectious diseases, courtesy of 7th Grade Science. The reading aloud is courtesy of Dyslexia. I would educate you on the finer points of blisters, crusty, moist scabs and the attendant itchiness, but instead I'm lying down, face-first on my bed while the violin plays plaintive and I restrain myself from telling the Big O that it's all a bunch of bullshit, that he should flee school all together and gather ye rosebuds while you may. Dinner tonight is tacos with all the fixings. A shot of vodka, too.

The Big O's I Have a Dream Speech

Yosemite, 2012

He's achingly sweet and scythe-sharp and gets from one to the other with breath-taking speed. He was assigned an I Have a Dream speech as part of the celebration of King's life, and while there was a whole lot of grumbling and agony, this is what came out (I should add, here, for new readers, that Oliver despises school and is moderately dyslexic, so he has to work very, very hard, and even then, feeling successful is very elusive):

I Have a Dream

I have a dream never to come back to school. I have a dream never to do my math homework again. I have a dream never to write any DBQ or mini-Q again. I have a dream never to open my orange science book. I have a dream never to fill out my P.E. log.

But I know that this dream will probably not come true.

I have a dream instead to wake up and build a big farm with animals and a river going through it for kids with disabilities and kids that are in wheelchairs and kids that need help. I have a dream that I’ll be the director of this farm so that everything runs smoothly and only kind, thoughtful and hard-working people will work for me at this farm.

And I know this dream will come true.

The Drug Mule Muses

I woke up at 5 this morning in the dim gray light of daylight savings and felt the delicious release of the too- early rising, when you don't have to get up for almost two hours! and while I'm usually able to fall soundly back asleep, I lay instead on my back and pondered. I thought about Oliver and his school troubles, his -- what I'm now deciding -- dyslexia and whether the school he's in is sufficient in resources to deal with it. I thought about a school some distance from us that is known for its excellence in the area of learning disabilities but is also quite expensive -- far too expensive for us to afford unless we were to apply for financial aid for which I'm not sure we'd qualify. That thought led me to the looming property tax bill sitting on my desk and the arranging and re-arranging The Husband and I will have to do to pay it on time. I was not yet agitated, actually, by these thoughts as they were free-flowing, one into the next, and the next was the high school tour Henry and I are going on this morning, one of the three choices we are considering for him for next year. What if he doesn't get into the school of his choice? I thought and let that one ride by, the anxiety it produced a fluffy, self-indulgent kind, one that I'm aware of and try to remain vigilant about because I know I would be sucked into the Where is My Child Going to School Bullshit that so many of my peers find themselves in, a vortex that I'd rather watch with equanimity from the outside, so redolent is it of prestige and elitism and privilege. As the clock ticked toward six o'clock, I read some emails on my phone, one of which described a new epilepsy drug called Perampanel that I hadn't heard about. Lest you think me an idiot to pursue such reading before I'd even gotten out of bed, I clicked the phone and email off and lay back down, closed my eyes, did a silent meditation and drifted off to sleep. 

The drug mule is dogged, though, and plods along with dolor, her burdens secure on her back. Later, when the children were off, I put on my straw hat and began to chew. I read that Perampanel, otherwise known as Fycoma is a novel drug showing some promise with resistant epilepsies. The word novel is one that is used quite often in the epilepsy/pharmacology world, and it makes me shiver. I'd rather associate it with the beloved objects that lie everywhere I can see in my house, or with the Russians, whose novels are quite novel in their depictions of the tragedy of the human condition. But I digress. Why is this drug called Fycoma? I muse and scan the rest of the article, dismissing the other usual words of description -- unknown mechanism of action -- noncompetitive antagonist of a particular glutamate receptor known as AMPA -- those of you in the world of drug-resistant seizures will perhaps identify with my lack of enthusiasm only infinitesimally tinged by hope. The following paragraph came at the end:

The drug does have some known adverse effects associated with this drug. The most common ones are anxiety, confusion, imbalance, double vision, dizziness, gastrointestinal distress or nausea, imbalance – some of which may lead to falls on some occasions, and increased weight. The effects of Perampanel on tasks involving alertness and vigilance, such as driving, were additive to the effects of alcohol itself. Multiple doses of Perampanel increased levels of anger, confusion, and depression, particularly when taken with alcohol. Fycompa may lead to euphoria and other similar feelings in some patients. Thus, the drug will be a scheduled in the United States. Final labeling and information is not yet available.

The drug mule chews on these words placidly -- anger, confusion, depression, euphoria and other similar feelings -- and then spits them out, wet and sour, tumbling to the ground. The word coma should not be used in a name for a drug meant for the delicate wiring of the brain, the drug mule thinks. 

Fuckycoma would be better, don't you think?