Neurodiversity

April 23, 2021

“Laundry Woman” by Meg EdenPosted by

Meg Eden

LAUNDRY WOMAN

in Chiang Mai, Thailand

Strange—to give my laundry 
to a stranger, pay her
to wash my shorts & underwear;
to carry my dirty clothes across
a street of motorbikes and baby
elephants; for a woman
to staple a number on the hem
of my boxers, creating a hole
that lingers years after I return home.

Only my mother’s ever washed 
my clothes, does separate loads for me,
my father, and herself. Insists 
on washing underwear separately.
If only she knew! My underwear, tumbling 
with the underwear of everyone else on this street:
the fruit stand lady, the chicken kabob girl, 
the noodle shop man, the porn shop man,
the missionaries, the motorbiking college students.

Collecting my bag the next day, I find
my Pacman boxers replaced with a pair
of foreign lace panties—as if 
even the laundry woman thinks a girl 
shouldn’t be wearing men’s underwear,
let alone in the streets like shorts, 
that I’m about to enter college, that I should grow up 
and start acting my age—as if my mother, 
half a world away, is here speaking in my laundry bag. 

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Meg Eden: “I am on the autism spectrum and have been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder with obsessive compulsive properties. ASD is why I write, and OCD helps me fight for the precise words. Because of my ASD, I feel everything so big—and I think it’s because of this that people connect with my poems. I’m actually currently submitting a children’s book about an ASD girl who learns to find her voice through poetry.” (web)

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April 21, 2021

“On Seeing Your Clothes on Someone Else” by Karen Downs-BartonPosted by

Karen Downs-Barton

ON SEEING YOUR CLOTHES ON SOMEONE ELSE

Sometimes, waiting outside the dining hall, 
or standing in line for the school minibus
you’d spot a girl wearing the clothes you’d arrived in
reassigned through the home’s washday rota. 
She’d look pretty in the dress your nan made,
though the flocked daisies had worn smooth and dulled,
and the lilac cotton seemed cirrus-thin.
You wondered if the girl even cared that pins
from nan’s mouth had been taken one by one 
to hold the seams together, had stabbed you
when the hem was taken up and you wouldn’t
stand still, that your blood and nan’s saliva
stained the memory of when the dress
had been spring-bright and special. 

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Karen Downs-Barton: “I am a neurodiverse poet with dyslexia, dyspraxia, and memory impairment. I’m studying for an MA in creative writing at Bath Spa University with the support of a proofreader and personal assistant. They help to highlight areas of spelling and grammar that become muddled, misspelt or are expressed in the wrong order or when chunks of thoughts have been missed out. However, I feel the mistakes I make take on their own logic, the ‘made-up’ words and ‘strange’ connections feel free and keep me amused. Sometimes my mistakes acquire a beauty that disappears when brought in line with neuro-normal expression, and losing them leaves me despairing for the thin but acceptable renditions. However, that doesn’t get me through exams or the right side of assessments, so I wade on trying not to drown in spellings, punctuation, especially apostrophes that never allow me to understand them. As I came from a culture where females didn’t attend school regularly, my dyslexia went undiagnosed until I was an adult, so I’m always playing catchup, which is tiring. My particular form of dyslexia also affects verbal interaction, and the obligatory university poetry reading aloud takes on a whole level of palm-sweaty horror as I maul my own writing and go off on tangents.” (web)

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April 19, 2021

“The Accountant” by Julianne Di NennaPosted by

Julianne Di Nenna

THE ACCOUNTANT

The accountant played numbers all day.
“They speak to me,” he said, like butterflies alighting, 
all plus-ed and minus-ed and multiplied and divided 
on the adding machine, figures fluttered across ticker tape.

The mating call of crickets on a hot summer day,
his tapered fingers tapped on numbered keys till twilight,
they sang of a forever love affair like cicadas chirping,
except numbers turned red like backyard bonfires, dead leaves,

checks bounced, the car broke down, 
groceries only minus-ed; a birthday, anniversaries, 
calendar numbers that did not calculate across, only up.

Numbers punched on keys 
like punching children
hard, mechanical, rhythmic.

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Julianne Di Nenna: “Writing poetry has been a channel to help calm anxiety and manage dyslexia. Expressing emotions through the written word helps bring clarity and precision to ideas that just don’t seem to stop wanting to bounce off the walls.”

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April 16, 2021

“Al-Anon” by Rachael CollinsPosted by

Rachael Collins

AL-ANON

We are all in the wrong hands. 

Before he was drinking, 
He held me like a drink. 
Before he was drinking, 
There was no before.

Before I invited him, 
he looked ready to stay. 

This is the house of narrative; 
This is the house of code; 
Your talismans, your prayers,
Your symbols and saviors.

Keep coming; come back; keep coming; 
Come back. 
Come to remember;
Come to record.

Your higher power is Jesus; 
Your higher power is the Lord God Almighty;
Your higher power is Protestant;
Your higher power is the expansive Episcopalian.

We have no place for politics.
Not Rasta Man, not Jimmy Page. 
For books with titles or for names.
We have no place for dates:
Not March 16, 1968. 
Not Santa Claus, not seafoam green. 
Not baby, bobo, darling dear.
We have no place for place: 
Not Odysseus sailing for home;
Not Hitchcock’s Hollywood;
Not Baldwin in Paris.
Don’t sing your songs: 
The “if I hads” 
“If I weres” 
And “if you gos”

Or tell your lies:
“When the night wears thin, 
I stare at an old photograph of him;”
“I took it when he was asleep? 
It’s limp. I smile at the sin;” 
“When the night wears on, 
I take out old credit card statements.
I look at what we used to spend;” 
“When the night passes into dream, 
We fuck until the cows come home. 
The windows hot with whiskey breath 
And hope.
The next day he moves in.” 

What do you hope to find here? 
We are your brothers and sisters. 
We sponsor your pain.
You narrate your pain. 
Put your wires in my brain.

My wife left me; she left my son. 

Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize. 
But do share,
Share your sacred pain. 
Bob Dylan won the prize. 
Share, share, lay your deep thoughts bare: 
“Odetta sings Dylan.”

But the Prize goes to Bob. 
The Prize still goes to Bob. 

Once upon a time
Buddha was not here. 
Once upon a time
A Jew wrings her hands;
She remembers the dead.
Once upon a time 
Hindus are not here; 
They wash it off in the river; 
They sing it from the books; 
They quiet, they sing;
He to school, she to fire;
She to fire, he to sun. 
Once upon a time 
She wanders through a valley of the dead, 
Then shares. 
Shares, she cries.

I came for the dead. 
I came to remember.
I came to record. 
In order to live.
In order.

In the beginning 
Was the word
And the word was with God
And the word was God
In the beginning
Before he was drinking 
I was.

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Rachael Collins: “I live with bipolar. It doesn’t affect my poetry; it is my poetry. For me, to be bipolar and to write poems is to insist on the value of neurodivergent modes of expression. When I am manic, I hear and process the world as if in fast forward. Voices, faces, sounds around me are a million little points of light in my brain, but I know these little points of light have meaning and value. When I write, the little points of light crystallize; they become incantations.”

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April 14, 2021

“Train of Thought” by Lois Baer BarrPosted by

Lois Baer Barr

TRAIN OF THOUGHT

Caution, the doors are about to close.
Scribbling on the inbound train from Highland Park
to Chicago, I’ve read Brent Lott’s essay halfway;
he thinks writers should burrow into personal topics
and pay less attention to technique. One night
we watched a 60 Minutes segment on ADD.
“Hey! That’s it. That’s you,” shouted Lew.
The train’s commotion reminds me of my struggle
with distraction, and we’re pulling out of Indian Hill—
wonder why they haven’t changed that one.
The next stop will be Kenilworth. Kenilworth!
Yes, that’s the street in Louisville where we lived
in a white stucco duplex on a steep hill by a wooded lot
where an Appalachian man squatted in a trailer, not
like the groomed gardens and fine houses flanking
these tracks. Look at those hydrangeas! Wilmette next.

But watch me; I can stay on track.
In high school I worked twice as hard as my friends.
In college a reading test predicted failure,
but roommates’ notes and NoDoz got me through.
Senior thesis, M.A. papers—
exercises in frustration.
My husband read chapters of my dissertation.
“Why can’t you just stay on topic?”

“I’m sort of interested in cubism,” says the man
across the aisle who got on in Glencoe.
His wife’s half-hearted nod, the furrow of her brow,
flowery tote bag hint she likes Impressionism.
Evanston Station next.

High school all-nighters fueled by amphetamines
Mom got from a diet doctor on Dixie Highway.
Wide awake, I wrote parodies for Skit Night.
It was and still is hard to stop the voices; yet
I sometimes focused.
“Look! Duck Duck Duck Duck Duck Duck Duck
Duxler’s Tires has ducks on the brick façade.”
Dancing gave me discipline; the music centered me.
Books. I lived inside of books: Clara Barton,
Nancy Drew, from her first caper to her last.
I got in bed with East of Eden. Got out to eat.
Marjorie Morningstar. I was starstruck.
Ninth grade Spanish surprised me.
Verb conjugation: such symmetry.
Word lists were repeated to mastery.
¡Gracias a Dios! I found a place to be.

Evanston, Davis Street.
A pale, round-faced man sits down facing me.
Our knees bump; so, he slides to sit catty-corner.
Still too close. He reeks of tobacco; his Dunkin’
Donuts coffee could spill on my new white shoes.

We’re close to Chicago, but I’m not finished.
Now I get why I postpone work on projects:
the panic of deadlines keeps me on track.

Rogers Park.
I focus with lists, goals, iron-clad syllabi.
As a teen I devised a sensory deprivation booth:
“Give me a break. Mr. Dunkin’ Donuts
is on his phone making an appointment!”
I would lie on the top shelf of my closet.
In college I locked myself into a small
green-tiled tub room adjoining the showers.
Oh dear, the conductor wants my ticket though
he punched and placed it in its clip as we left
Highland Park. I look on the floor. I sift through a purse
filled with receipts, coupons, Kleenex, bank
deposit slips, lipstick, gum wrappers.
The conductor gets huffy. People stare at me—
a white-haired suburbanite—like I’m a cheat.
Only round-faced man with coffee looks sympathetic.
“Oh well, let it go,” the conductor gives up.
Mr. Dunkin’ says, “They never let it go
when that happens to me.” Then he asks me
if I have tweezers. I am too furious
with the conductor to think how strange that is.
“Calm down. Control yourself.” Rose Hill Cemetery
rolls by, so beautiful from above. “Better
than the view from below,” I think.
I breathe deeply. Yoga focuses me.
My teacher says, “Take those precious thoughts
and lock them in your treasure chest for later.”
“What’s the big deal? I could pay again,”
I mutter. Sabbath ritual
in synagogue gives my life order.
Prayers fill my mind, blocking the chaos.
I like to return to places I’ve been,
places I know the grid, can navigate.
Places like Vegas and Home Depot kill me.

One day on the highway, my husband pointed
out a Ford. Usually I’m lost in thought,
don’t notice cars before they whiz by.
“Oh my God,” I cried, “you can buy a Focus!”
ADD tripping me, I drive an Escape!

We’re getting close to Madison Street, and I
must tell you that I drive my family crazy.
“Lois, are you listening?”
“I thought you were making lasagna for dinner,”
they protest when I serve paella instead.
My daughter, the shrink, says it’s not ADD.

Close to Ogilvie Station the train slows down.
Coffee guy finishes his newspaper,
moving his lips all the while. The couple
bound for the Art Institute collect their things.
Conductors wait at the door.
I’m meeting friends at the Mexican Museum.
We’ll visit the tortilla factory, see murals,
eat at Nuevo León. 3:00 on the dot,
we’ll stop everything, take the “El” downtown.
I’ll catch the 4:15 outbound train. Lew knows
I always come home from my wanderings.
Just like students know I always give quizzes
on the day stated on the syllabus, and editors
know I turn in copy by the deadline.
But could I become senile like my father?
What if ADD blends into Alzheimer’s?
Please collect all your belongings.
Pay attention as you disembark,
and thank you for riding Metra today.

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Lois Baer Barr: “I think I notice the random details of life and hear the bird calls others miss, so I’m thankful I was never treated for ADD. I was fortunate as a child to be very physically active with hours and hours of ballet lessons and biking and running barefoot in our little subdivision just outside of Louisville, Kentucky. That activity kept me from acting out and being hyperactive, although occasionally I was impulsive. I never knew I had ADD until I watched a segment on 60 Minutes many years ago with my husband, who is a physician. During my academic career as a professor of Spanish, I found research engrossing, but writing articles ruined every summer for over 40 years. I found it hard to organize my thoughts into a coherent piece. Then a book I co-edited soured a friendship because I couldn’t stop coming up with ideas and get down to the job at hand. Now when I get too many ideas, I take a nap.” (web)

 

Lois Baer Barr was the guest on Rattlecast #85! Click here to watch …

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April 12, 2021

“Tourette’s Sonnets” by Stephen AllenPosted by

Stephen Allen

TOURETTE’S SONNETS 16

My right hand shakes. What should I tell the children
I teach? This could be a very cruel lesson:
your body betrays you. I could skip medication,
but then the tics return, a different problem.

Long ago, before the current pills,
I slipped and told a class, “My brain is fucked.”
I couldn’t recover. Dispense with all the frills
and tell them, “It’s something medical.” I duck

the question again. No, I am not sick,
at least in ways they really understand:
not virus, not germ, not prion. Accept the tics
for what they are and give them pause. What can

I still explain? I want them innocent.
Put off for now the spiritual descent.

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Stephen Allen: “Would I still be a poet if I did not have Tourette’s Syndrome? Probably, but I would be writing very different poems. I find the constraints of form useful to keep my tics in check, but I still jump around within the sonnets and terza rima and all. It’s a sort of balance, which I find difficult to achieve in life without medication.”

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April 9, 2021

“How I Got Committed (A Chapter Book)” by Emily AdamsPosted by

Emily Adams

HOW I GOT COMMITTED (A CHAPTER BOOK)

Chapter 1  

I met Chris at drum band. He asked me out.  

 

Chapter 2  

For our first year being a couple, we went to the Waterfront Hotel. Chris likes to kiss on the lips and French kiss. We like to hold hands.  

 

Chapter 3

We dated for five years. In 2015 he asked me to marry him. 

 

Chapter 4 

In 2017 we started planning our commitment party. We went to a wedding planner at Hamilton Art Gallery. She showed us some rooms for wedding parties.

 

Chapter 5 

I got a pretty party dress in a package from a city far away and a new pair of black shoes. Justin, my brother-in-law, did the ceremony and helped me and Chris read our vows. Then we kissed each other.

 

Chapter 6

At the party, there were family and friends, pretty flowers and a cupcake tower cake. It had pink, white, and blue icing. We had some good food to eat and me and Chris danced to live music played by Dave from down the street and his friend. 

 

Chapter 7

I liked having my party at the gallery. The art made a pretty scene. The son of Mom’s friend Ruth took pictures for us. He got lots of pictures of me and Chris cuddling and dancing. Chris is a good dancer. 

 

Chapter 8

After the party we all went out to dinner at a nice restaurant. That night me and Chris stayed at the Sheraton Hotel. We liked reading the cards we got from our guests at the party.

 

Chapter 9

This past June, it was our 6th anniversary. Jenny, my sister, sent flowers. We got lots of happy anniversary cards. I have my party dress put away in one of the boxes in my apartment in my bedroom. I happy cried thinking of the commitment party and saying our vows. 

 

Chapter 10

When Covid came I moved in with my mom and dad. I gave Chris my cell phone, and he called every day. Me and Chris wish we could have kids.

 

Chapter 11

Now it is Thanksgiving. I made a pumpkin pie face that looks like Chris. He is making me into a girl making funny faces. Chris is walking like a running pumpkin, and I will be a turkey doing splits. 

—from Rattle #71, Spring 2021
Tribute to Neurodiversity

__________

Emily Adams: “I have a learning disability and wasn’t treated that nice. It is hard to have people accept me with my disability. I don’t like being different. School was hard but I learned to read and write. In 2019, I learned how to make pottery at Dundas Valley School of Art. Then I started my Blue Cat Pottery business and wrote a chapter book about it. Canadian Stories published it. So I decided to write another one about me and Chris. Being different is not fun, but I do okay.”

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