Slip. Fall. Get-Up. Repeat.

"Pretend that you're trying to open a door, and that you can only use your big toe."

Say what?

"Um. Okay. But where's the door?"

Our skating instructor sprawled out on her back on the ice, stretched her legs at a ninety degree angle above her torso, slightly waving them in the air, "Right here."

Oh, of course. Silly me.

Welcome to our Learn to Skate experience.

I should already know how to ice skate. Like at a semi-pro level. As previously noted, I grew up in Burrillville, the mecca of Rhode Island Boys High School skating. The rich sports heritage of the Burrillville Broncos included multiple state and New England hockey championship titles.

We even boasted our very own, drum roll please, indoor rink.

This grand structure, that doubled as an outstandingly low charismatic spot to host my high school graduation, also made it incredibly convenient to add a skating segment to gym class. My cousin reminded me recently that you had to have your own skates to participate. I did. David did not. So he spent the period transcribing articles from Sports Illustrated, while I pushed an orange traffic cone around the ice for balance.

Why did I have my own skates? Because of my mother of course. She loved to skate, taking my brother and I to a nearby frozen reservoir in an attempt to share her passion. There were other valiant tries as well: Family skating atop the swamp at the end of our driveway. A backyard rink constructed by my dad. Yet, even amongst the hours of cold weather bonding, I don't remember any formal instruction.   

Not that it would have helped. I'm think that my natural inclination was one of rebellion. I remember writing a piece for my Writing 101 college course that said I grew up in a town more concerned with hockey scores than SAT scores. I stand by that statement. My only regret? That I had been more open to the calorie burning benefits of the sport.

And so, my love for food has gotten me back on the ice. This time in downtown Providence. And for support, mental, not physical, I've enlisted my husband Andre. We thought we'd get some exercise, and have a hobby in order to pass the winter months constructively, instead of whining inside about how dark and dreary it is, while parked on our couch.

Our objective was simple: learn how to skate forwards. Apparently, unbeknownst to us, we had signed up for the US Figure Skating Program. And during the past four weeks, we have poorly attempted moves, many of which will not, and should not be duplicated. Especially that something something Andre demonstrated a couple of lessons back with a bit of chest puffing, outstretched arms and a channeling of his inner Johnny Weir.

Each week, the torture, ah, teaching continues, not with our instructor inspecting the gross shortcomings of our group and working with us to improve them, but by whipping out her dogeared copy of the US Figure Skating booklet, and running through exercises which have gotten increasingly more embarrassing.

Because truth is, no one in the class has any sort of skill. Nor the ability to stop. I've polled them all. Yet regardless, for some strange reason, each week, our audience in the bleachers seems to grow larger. Granted many of them seem homeless or have wandered over from the Occupy Providence encampment, but there must be a reason.

And I can't believe that they just showed up for a giggle. After all, there's nothing funny here. Well, not that funny. And certainly not funny enough to submit an entry to America's Funniest Home Video, which by the way, I'd have to sign a release for.

Instead, I'd like to believe the interest comes from the fact that we're providing a bit of inspiration to the masses, by offering up concrete proof that no matter what your age, you should not stop learning. Or getting up when you fall. In fact, that's something that we could teach our instructor. But to do that, she'd have to stop focusing on what we can't do. Instead of what we have already.











 

The End. Or the Beginning? Writing Your Own Obituary

When I was eleven, I wrote my own obituary.

Don't worry.  I wasn't some sort of Adams Family dark child. Nor did I suffer from any type of incurable disease, although I have been told by amateur palm readers that my lifeline is short. (Anybody want to see?)

Composing my obit was an assignment given by my sixth grade English teacher. Somehow, I don't think this would go over well in the current mood of hyper political correctness, but thirty years ago, having middle school kids take a pen to paper to consider their own deaths went blissfully under the radar.

The truth is, the exercise wasn't about death at all.

It was actually a lesson in self-reflection. One that I am still hugely grateful for.

Here's the thing. When you consider your own ending, you're actually thinking about your life, legacy and what you're leaving behind. At the core of this slightly unconventional activity, was the concept of conscious thought, as well as taking ownership of your existence so you can live the life that you want, not the one someone else has in mind. Now granted, I didn't pick all of this up as a pre-teen. But the seed was planted.

A bit dark? Maybe. But, the purpose of the exercise greatly outweighed, any shades of accompanying morbidness, especially in this world where so many people just move aimlessly through.

This long ago assignment crawled out of the depths of my memory bank, in response to the obituary of Robert Spiegel. http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/hartfordcourant/obituary.aspx?n=robert-spiegel&pid=154840762&fhid=4309

Since his death on November 30th, the obit of the professor Emeritus at Central Connecticut State University, has gone viral, well, because of bits like this:  'At the end of his life, Robert battled with cardiac disease and dementia. Where as the disease did thankfully erase most memories of the '62 Mets season, it eventually also claimed his life.'

Eh. I'm unimpressed.

Not because of Professor Spiegel's life, which seemed to be an amazing one that was well spent. And certainly not because of the wordsmithing of his son Jeff, who created a humorous tribute to his dad, that clearly captured his spirit. I am underwhelmed because of the fact that obituaries like this should be commonplace, instead of exception.

But they're not. Instead, most are collections of frighteningly similar facts and mundane details. And I wonder, why? Does all the blame go to obit writers, for creating a standard template in the name of efficiency?  Or does it speak to the much larger and more serious issue of a population simply sleepwalking through the human experience? You're really the only one that can answer that. And perhaps writing your own obituary is the best way to take stock.

I honestly don't remember what I wrote about my passing, as an eleven year old. I'm mildly curious about the life that my younger self thought may have unfolded. But I highly doubt that my limited experience would have ever dared to dream the life that I'm living now. Yet, all that really doesn't matter. I know that I'm the one with the final word.

In Defense of Writing

I'm not an expert at fixing brakes or extracting wisdom teeth. I don't know how to till the fields, code a website or land a plane  You probably wouldn't want me to defend you in a court of law. (However, if you needed a kick-ass letter of support, then I'm your girl.)

I do however know how to write. Writing is my profession. I am a professional writer.

Capisce?

And, like the aforementioned occupations, my career is one that's required quite a bit of training, both formally and on-the-job, to get me to my present level. So what exactly is it, about my chosen livelihood, that not only makes folks think that they can do my job, but that they can do it better than me?

Part of the problem is that technically, everyone can write. There's no great mystery in taking pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. There's no licensing process, no test to take, no governing board to fine you if you aren't doing your job properly. And often with this, comes a complete lack of respect for what we, as writers do.

Oh, not from other writers. Writers love writers. They appreciate the effort it takes to compose a thought. To get out a message. To obsess, over for just the exact word, phrase or sentence needed to bring the whole piece together.

Writers know that writing takes discipline. And concentration. Writing takes intelligence. And commitment. Writing takes research. And patience. Writing takes the ability to be analytical. And to be critical. Writing takes self-editing. And the courage to toss it all in the trash and start again. Writing takes the ability to steel yourself from your critics, especially the ones without any credentials.

The act of stringing words together, does not a writer make. Good writing needs to have meaning. A writer, above all, is an expert communicator, responsible for relaying information, breaking down complex topics into easy to understand tidbits or creating a mood, all while motivating you to keep on reading. The only tools at our disposal? Words.

Good writing should look easy.

A good writer will tell you that it never is.

In-State Tuition--No Green Card Required

There's certain things that I just don't understand in this life. The mass appeal of sit-coms. How an all white church in rural Kentucky recently banned mixed-race couples, then claimed they weren't racist. And why, in Rhode Island, there's so much anger towards a recent policy granting illegal immigrant students in-state tuition at our local colleges.

Seems to me, that our goal is to have an educated population. You know, so we can attract some industry and further tick down this ridiculous unemployment rate, which according to the Rhode Island Department of Labor and Training, stands at 10.4 percent for October 2011.

I have lived in Rhode Island my whole life. Don't cry for me Argentina. I think that it's a pretty special place to call home, with miles of beaches, a creative capital city, dedication to historic preservation and outstanding eats. The sad part is that not everyone who wants to stay, can. And as the unemployment rate continues to climb, so does my long distance phone bill.

Part of the problem is that Rhode Islanders are very routed in tradition. This works when we're sipping a Del's lemonade along the sidelines of the Bristol 4th of July parade, but not so much when we're trying to keep our economy from completely tanking into Narragansett Bay.

Yes, the industrial revolution did start here, thank you Samuel Slater, for building the first successful water powered cotton spinning mill in North America on the banks of the Blackstone River in 1793. And, truth is, that industrial jump off carried us quite far, even through my early childhood growing up in Pascoag. The prosperity of the mills in my small hometown created a vibrant downtown with a jewelry store, clothing boutique, hardware store, paint and paper shop, a furniture store and two department stores.

But no more. My childhood Main Street? Partially demoed, with a tackle shop laying claim as the industry. We are one depressed state.

So why doesn't education seem like a good thing--for anyone who wants to work hard for it? There's no free rides here; the application process is the same as it is for native born students. First, you have to be accepted into college in order to attend. And once enrolled, all those requirements for success are the same: study hard, don't party too much and get up for that eight o'clock class.

The only difference for children of illegal immigrants next September, comes from the bursar's office, as they become eligible for in-state rates. And there are stipulations. They must have attended a high school in the state for at least three years and graduated or received a GED. Students must also commit to seek legal status as soon as they are eligible, or lose their resident tuition. Seems fair to me.

So, which part of this should make me angry? I can't help thinking that the real issue is one of keeping people in their place, because the truth is, there's a very real possibility oh, ye, of no degree, that you're going to be somehow edged out by this non-white immigrant population attending your state school.  A possibility? Sure. But, in your linear thinking, you're not considering two things: a) Is the solution really to keep everyone down together? and b) If it bothers you so much, how about you go out and get that college degree yourself?

Personally, I'm thrilled by the progressiveness of our state. I understand the gifts brought by diversity. I'm willing to bet that this small piece of kindness, offered up by the people of Rhode Island, will create a fierce loyalty to the state, by those it benefits.

Like Brian.

My husband met Brian during his work as a juvenile probation officer. Indeed, Brian was an illegal immigrant, but all things considered, he had a pretty decent reason. He was trying to escape his life serving as a teenage soldier in the Guatemalan army, with who he had fought at the age of fourteen.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Brian did well here. His probation? For a minor issue that was quickly resolved. He truly appreciated and took advantage of the limited opportunities available to him, graduating from high school, with an intense desire to go to college. Only he couldn't, so back to Guatemala he went. And guess what? I still hope that someday, he returns.

And while I'm sorry that Brian may have missed this opportunity to continue his education in Rhode Island, I'm certain that there are many students, with a story like his, that will make our state a richer place--way, way beyond any financial bottom line.

Making Some Noise

Let's just get this out of the way. I, Dawn L. Keable, was voted most quiet girl of my senior class.

Slightly shocking right? I think so too.

My confession is dual fold. First, I'm actively trying to hedge off the local media, should something tragic happen to me and the only image they can find is the photo of me and my boy, Matt Barden, straight outta the time warp that is the 1989 Burrillville High School yearbook.

He held the title of most quiet boy. I have no updates on him.

I specifically remember that photo session, because I thought very carefully about my outfit. I wanted to wear something that screamed 'I am not this label that you are putting on me', so I opted for the loudest article of clothing in my possession:  a neon green striped sweater.

Only the photo was taken in black and white.

I do not want this to be my legacy.

The truth is, I don't think of those days very much, or very fondly. High school? Not a good time for me. I was tall. Tall as the teacher kind of tall. Sporting a short blonde, butchy 'do, because no one quite knew what to do with my super thick fro.

But, it really wasn't my lack of shoulder length straight hair, or cheerleader perkiness that made me not fit in here. I craved a life beyond partying in the woods. Where intelligence was valued over hockey scores. Where smart girls were celebrated, diversity, of all kinds, was accepted and there were way, way, way more than just one way of thinking about things.

So I became super quiet, to blend in. My goal was to not get my ass kicked (especially by those chicks smoking in the girls' bathroom), avoid getting taunted and bide my time until I could find my people. The only thing is, when you go this route, you can't quite turn it on and off at whim.

Finding my voice became a gradual process, one that I've worked on perfecting for over twenty years. My jobs helped. Working as a cashier at a busy cinema, then as a receptionist at an alternative newspaper, don't exactly lend themselves to silence. So did obtaining a college degree, where I was able to immerse myself in learning how to communicate. I am a writer after all.

And, then, there's this very reserved dude named Andre, who's played a huge role in my development. When I met my now husband, I really admired how he could talk to anyone. I've since realized that it's not that hard. I enjoy meeting new people and hearing their stories. And the more open I am, the more the universe keeps rewarding.

Having conversations with Maxwell and Lenny Kravitz. Yup, I've done that.

There is a downside however. Some folks won't appreciate your newfound voice. Quiet people are predictable, at least on the outside. And the sad thing about shyness is that sometimes it's all about maintaing control. Of you. More than likely, quiet is not a label that you put on yourself. You might be observant. Check. Thoughtful? Check. Analytical? Check. But shy? Maybe not.

In addition to my year book disclaimer, I also wanted to tell my story to provide inspiration to my newest web idol Brittany, a rockin' eighteen-year-old, who has not only decided to tackle her shyness head-on, but to document her efforts on her blog The Shyness Project:  http://theshynessproject.wordpress.com

You go girl!

I am also happy to report, Ms. Brittany, that I have been officially cured of my shyness for years. Done. Over. And if being interviewed on national tv doesn't speak to that, I'm not sure what does.

So, girlfriend, you keep on pushing. Don't psych yourself out with those labels. Just be you. Fabulous you.

And if you haven't gotten caught wearing a neon green striped sweater in public, you're already doing way better than me.