[stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- Life Lessons

Sun Aug 2 23:58:31 UTC 2015

Bridgit,
It's great that you are rising above what your mom's expectations 
were of you, but I really do understand that what you hear in 
childhood sticks.
It's interesting that you said you don't have as much of a sweet 
tooth now that you are older.  I do, but from what you have said 
and other people have told me, many people seem to lose it with 
age.  My dad enjoys chocolate but that's pretty much it, and I've 
heard other people say they don't like soda anymore! Hard to 
understand when you are a boy of 18.
Vejas

 ----- Original Message -----
From: Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org
To: "'Writers' Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org
Date sent: Sun, 2 Aug 2015 18:46:16 -0500
Subject: Re: [stylist] Writing exercise: creative nonfiction- 
Life Lessons

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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