[stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

Sun Aug 2 23:46:16 UTC 2015

Vejas,

I didn't lose my sight until I was 22. I just grew up hearing that my
sisters and I should marry doctors or lawyers or any other person working in
a profession making money. On one hand, she told us things like this, but
her actions have always said an entirely different thing. And it is now as
an adult that I do not indulge en candy and treats. One, I actually do not
have a big sweet tooth, and two, I learned at an early age to watch what I
eat and how much I eat so I don't get "fat." As I try to allude in this
piece, I understand the wrongness of a lot of this intellectually, but it's
difficult to let go of things from a psychological standpoint. I grew up
expected to be a lady based on my mom's standards of what a lady should be,
but a lot of her ideas were, and are, antiquated, and not only off but a bit
damaging. It damaged her just as much as me, though she doesn't admit to any
of it and still has this attitude.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Vejas
Vasiliauskas via stylist
Sent: Sunday, August 02, 2015 5:52 PM
To: Writers' Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: Vejas Vasiliauskas <alpineimagination at gmail.com>
Subject: Re: [stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

Hi Bridgit,
I really enjoyed reading your story.
Just out of curiosity, did your mother want a rich husband to take care of
you because you are blind, or is that just the way she felt all girls should
be?
It must have been really tempting baking things and then not being able to
eat them.  If I were you, I probably would have snuck some in my mouth when
my mom wasn't looking...
Vejas

 ----- Original Message -----
From: Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org
To: "'Writers' Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org Date sent: Sat, 1
Aug 2015 16:03:46 -0500
Subject: [stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

List,

This has nothing to do with recent convos, but here's something I just wrote
up.  Needs lots of fleshing out.  I changed the POV between descriptions of
my mother and me, even when referring to myself in the past.  I like to play
with structure and format.  Just trying it out here.

Life Lessons

Chocolate fragrance permeates my nose.  Rich, velvet dark chocolate mingles
with sweet, sugary dough.  I spread the batter into a baking pan, hands
smoothing, pushing thick cookie dough into the corners.

My mother baked desserts almost daily.  Dinner was always accompanied with
cake or cookies or bars.  Each bite home-made, exactly how a woman should do
it.

I'm a little girl full of energy.  Riding my bike, building a fort, swinging
as high as I can-my mother frowns on these activities.  "It's not very
lady-like," she chants at me.

Chocolate chip cookie bars rise in the oven.  A kitchen full of bakery
smells.  Flour, sugar, vanilla, chocolate chips-comforting smells, smells
that feel like home.

My mother said she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom and wife.  She cleaned,
cooked and even sewed at times.  But time presented another mother.
Conflicted, confused, full of resentment, she never was content at home.

"You want to marry a rich man who will take care of you," she explains.

I watch her apply make-up with an adept hand.  "You want to be pretty,
Bridgy, especially for your husband." Another mantra chanted throughout my
childhood.

I pull on dance clothes, checking my reflection in the vanity mirror, the
vanity my mother insisted I needed.  Will I ever be pretty like Mom, I
wonder.  We drive to the dance studio she now owns.  Off to work.

Heat rushes out of the oven as the bars are removed.  The top is golden
brown, the chocolate chips still gooey.  It's perfection as mouths salivate
in anticipation.

Mom baked chocolate chip bars.  Standing in the kitchen, ingredients
surrounding her, she taught me how to follow a recipe.  "Baking takes
precision," she told me.  "You will need to know how to cook for your
husband."

The world is never black and white.  Grey seeps in through cracks, making
nothing clear.  Conflicting images intellectually understood, but
emotionally take a toll.  Who am I? What am I? Questions asked daily.  One
day I know, the next, it's unclear.

"Your joy is in God.  Without God, you will have no joy," my mother said.

She sat on the fllor mat, finishing her third work-out for the day.
"Remember, Bridgy, if you don't stay in shape, your husband will leave you.
No one wants a slob." She moved gracefully, a dancers body noticeable in
each step.  But she was drawn, frantic-like.  As though her very life
depended on the exercise at hand.

I follow her every move.

She's thin, so thin.  Beautiful and graceful-I stand in front of the mirror
scrutinizing every inch of my body.  Finding the flaws, I learn how to hate
my body.

The cookie bars cool on a wire rack, gooey in the center, crisp on the
edges.  Moist banana bread covered in foil sits on the counter.  
Chewy
Snickerdoodles welcome guest on the table.  Each item prepared with heart-a
wish to bring joy to any entering my kitchen.  Treats for others but not me.
Rarely do sweet confections touch my lips.

Perfection, always strive for perfection.  Lessons in childhood collect on
me like weights drawn to a magnet.

Bridgit

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