Poem: "Part of Who I Am"
This poem came out of the September 3, 2013 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by prompts from tigerbright and Dreamwidth user Rainflowermoon. It also fills the "psychological healing" square in my card for the author bingo meme. This poem belongs to the series Walking the Beat.
This microfunded poem is being posted one verse at a time, as donations come in to cover them. The rate is $.50/line, so $5 will reveal 10 new lines, and so forth. There is a permanent donation button on my profile page, or you can contact me for other arrangements. You can also ask me about the number of lines per verse, if you want to fund a certain number of verses.
So far sponsors include: amaebi, Anonymous gift to tigerbright, mdlbear, baaing_tree, technoshaman
FULLY FUNDED
158 lines, Buy It Now = $79
Amount donated = $49.50
Verses posted = 22 of 34
Amount remaining to fund fully = $29.50
Amount needed to fund next verse = $.50
Amount needed to fund the verse after that = $2
Part of Who I Am
The first cane is plain aluminum,
the one the hospital sent Dale home with,
and she uses it because she needs it
but it never quite feels like her.
Kelly knows this,
and when Dale becomes
sufficiently accustomed to the limp
to take up neighborhood walking,
suggests that they shop for a replacement.
Just look,
Kelly signs to her
when they approach
an antique store or import shop.
You don't have to buy.
For a long time, it is Kelly
who lifts the canes from umbrella stands
or white plastic pipes or cardboard boxes
where the shop owners have displayed them.
There are wooden ones
twisted like walking sticks
or carved with New Age symbols
that make Dale grimace and shake her head.
Nothing flaky, she signs,
so Kelly puts the rune cane back.
There's one of pale smooth oak
that Kelly taps smartly against the sidewalk,
but something in the vibration of the wood
makes her frown and set it down.
Metal canes are common too,
but there is no point replacing Dale's
with another much the same.
Both women agree
that the acrylic ones look ridiculous.
Some of the composite canes are tempting,
dark wood with animal heads of silver or brass.
Once Kelly finds a sword cane and
draws the blade shimmering from its sheath.
Dale laughs and declines.
I'm not Sherlock Holmes, she signs.
I could be your Watson, signs Kelly,
and she is, they are, in their own way
but this isn't the cane for Dale
and back it goes.
They're sorting through the contents
of a fake elephant foot rack
when Dale hears a richer note
than the flat clatter of aluminum.
One of these is different,
she signs to Kelly.
Help me find it.
It comes up in Kelly's hand,
the metal darker than aluminum,
a beautiful blue-gray like a stormy sky.
Its canted handle has the graceful curve
of a ski pole, its shaft straight and true.
Kelly raps it on the ground and smiles.
This one is strong, she signs.
Strong enough to trip someone,
she means, or block a blow if needed.
There are reasons beyond
not wanting to look like a fool
that Dale won't take a fashion cane.
Dale takes it from Kelly.
It's a little heavier than the one
now leaning against her hip, but
she can feel the soundness of the shaft
promising to make up for what
her leg can no longer provide.
Her fingertips skim over the handle
and find irregularities there.
Looking closer, she sees something
etched silver-bright along the side:
a pair of wings bracketing a shield.
I'm not a pilot, Dale signs.
I should probably put this back.
Do you really want to? Kelly asks.
This feels like titanium.
I think it's a custom model,
not mass-produced; we aren't likely
to find another one like it if we pass it up.
Dale doesn't want to, no,
just thinks it's a bit presumptuous --
not quite like wearing someone else's medal,
but enough to make her think of that,
enough to hesitate.
Still she can't help thinking about him,
the pilot who owned it before,
the probably-veteran who has gone
where he doesn't need a cane anymore.
Dale thinks they might have had
something in common, two strangers
who never met but through the touch
of their fingers on the same cane,
the policevet with a limp
and the pilot with clipped wings
stubbornly learning to live again.
The cool metal warms in her hands,
feeling almost alive, and no,
manners be damned,
Dale doesn't want to put it back.
Kelly twists the cane in Dale's grip,
rubbing a thumb over the ends of the handle.
These are flat, not rounded, she signs.
You could get your badge etched on here.
Dale looks, and yes, Kelly is right.
An image of her old badge would fit,
and that would leave room for
someone else to add their own mark later,
the way people sometimes autographed
hand-me-down books from one owner to the next.
So Dale buys the titanium cane
and leaves her aluminium one behind
without looking back.
The local locksmith has all kinds of equipment
for cutting and etching metal -- he makes
Christmas tree ornaments as a hobby.
It's no hardship for him to copy Dale's badge
onto the forward end of the handle.
When she walks, Dale can feel
the ghostly imprint of wings
underneath her fingers, roll her thumb
over the memory of her badge.
The titanium cane is light and strong,
and before long it feels as natural
as the gun she used to wear on her hip.
They are walking past the synagogue
when Rivka looks at them with a note of recognition,
not just for Dale and Kelly but for the cane.
"That was my husband's," Rivka explains.
"I'm glad to see someone making use of it."
Then she spies the engraving on the end.
"That's new, though."
"We had the locksmith put it on," Dale says,
feeling a little self-conscious
but determined to own it all the same.
"This is part of who I am."
She means the badge and the cane
and her place in history and so much more.
"Nu," says Rivka, "I'm happy to hear that."
She tells stories of her husband and his adventures --
who had indeed been a pilot and a veteran --
and Dale listens with all the attention
that she once gave to witness reports,
memorizing the details so that she
will be able to retell these stories later
along with her own.
This is Dale, now:
two arms, two legs,
wings and shield and cane
of sky-bright metal belonging to her
as much as her flesh-and-blood limbs.
Something lost and something gained.
"This is me," Dale says
when she tells the stories,
when she stands up to people
who think a little less of her for the limp
or a little more of her if they know how she got it.
"This is part of who I am."
* * *
Notes:
Kelly uses a low-pressure tactic of friendly persuasion known as foot-in-the-door. A small request (look at some canes) opens the way for a larger one (buy a new cane). For personal growth applications like this, you want to work it right at the edge of someone's comfort zone. Expanding your comfort zone is a crucial life skill.
The human brain tends to treat tools and prosthetic devices as part of the body. For this reason, adaptive equipment needs to be a good fit for the mind as well as the body so that it can integrate into body image. Otherwise the risk of rejection is much higher, for practical and/or aesthetic reasons. A recent trend toward highly personalized gear improves adaptation. This helps disabled people get back in action. While the details vary, the underlying concepts apply both to major equipment like a prosthetic limb and minor equipment such as a cane or eyeglasses.
There are instructions for choosing and using a cane. However, side preference varies. Some people favor the off-hand approach described in the tipsheet, taking advantage of human locomotion mechanics. Other people find it more effective to hold the cane on the impaired side and keep the ferrule very close to the foot, moving the cane almost as if it is part of the leg. Do what works for you.
Runes are the letters of an ancient Germanic alphabet used for writing, magic, and other purposes. They're aren't really "New Age" symbols, but just look that way Dale and Kelly who don't know much about such things. See further resources on runes.
Titanium is a lightweight metal often used in aircraft and medical equipment.
A fabrication facility may make various products from raw materials, such as this titanium cane that inspired the one Dale likes.
Pilot wings appear in the insignia of the U.S. Air Force. Besides official use, similar imagery appears on many items used by pilots, such as t-shirts.
This microfunded poem is being posted one verse at a time, as donations come in to cover them. The rate is $.50/line, so $5 will reveal 10 new lines, and so forth. There is a permanent donation button on my profile page, or you can contact me for other arrangements. You can also ask me about the number of lines per verse, if you want to fund a certain number of verses.
So far sponsors include: amaebi, Anonymous gift to tigerbright, mdlbear, baaing_tree, technoshaman
FULLY FUNDED
158 lines, Buy It Now = $79
Amount donated = $49.50
Verses posted = 22 of 34
Amount remaining to fund fully = $29.50
Amount needed to fund next verse = $.50
Amount needed to fund the verse after that = $2
Part of Who I Am
The first cane is plain aluminum,
the one the hospital sent Dale home with,
and she uses it because she needs it
but it never quite feels like her.
Kelly knows this,
and when Dale becomes
sufficiently accustomed to the limp
to take up neighborhood walking,
suggests that they shop for a replacement.
Just look,
Kelly signs to her
when they approach
an antique store or import shop.
You don't have to buy.
For a long time, it is Kelly
who lifts the canes from umbrella stands
or white plastic pipes or cardboard boxes
where the shop owners have displayed them.
There are wooden ones
twisted like walking sticks
or carved with New Age symbols
that make Dale grimace and shake her head.
Nothing flaky, she signs,
so Kelly puts the rune cane back.
There's one of pale smooth oak
that Kelly taps smartly against the sidewalk,
but something in the vibration of the wood
makes her frown and set it down.
Metal canes are common too,
but there is no point replacing Dale's
with another much the same.
Both women agree
that the acrylic ones look ridiculous.
Some of the composite canes are tempting,
dark wood with animal heads of silver or brass.
Once Kelly finds a sword cane and
draws the blade shimmering from its sheath.
Dale laughs and declines.
I'm not Sherlock Holmes, she signs.
I could be your Watson, signs Kelly,
and she is, they are, in their own way
but this isn't the cane for Dale
and back it goes.
They're sorting through the contents
of a fake elephant foot rack
when Dale hears a richer note
than the flat clatter of aluminum.
One of these is different,
she signs to Kelly.
Help me find it.
It comes up in Kelly's hand,
the metal darker than aluminum,
a beautiful blue-gray like a stormy sky.
Its canted handle has the graceful curve
of a ski pole, its shaft straight and true.
Kelly raps it on the ground and smiles.
This one is strong, she signs.
Strong enough to trip someone,
she means, or block a blow if needed.
There are reasons beyond
not wanting to look like a fool
that Dale won't take a fashion cane.
Dale takes it from Kelly.
It's a little heavier than the one
now leaning against her hip, but
she can feel the soundness of the shaft
promising to make up for what
her leg can no longer provide.
Her fingertips skim over the handle
and find irregularities there.
Looking closer, she sees something
etched silver-bright along the side:
a pair of wings bracketing a shield.
I'm not a pilot, Dale signs.
I should probably put this back.
Do you really want to? Kelly asks.
This feels like titanium.
I think it's a custom model,
not mass-produced; we aren't likely
to find another one like it if we pass it up.
Dale doesn't want to, no,
just thinks it's a bit presumptuous --
not quite like wearing someone else's medal,
but enough to make her think of that,
enough to hesitate.
Still she can't help thinking about him,
the pilot who owned it before,
the probably-veteran who has gone
where he doesn't need a cane anymore.
Dale thinks they might have had
something in common, two strangers
who never met but through the touch
of their fingers on the same cane,
the policevet with a limp
and the pilot with clipped wings
stubbornly learning to live again.
The cool metal warms in her hands,
feeling almost alive, and no,
manners be damned,
Dale doesn't want to put it back.
Kelly twists the cane in Dale's grip,
rubbing a thumb over the ends of the handle.
These are flat, not rounded, she signs.
You could get your badge etched on here.
Dale looks, and yes, Kelly is right.
An image of her old badge would fit,
and that would leave room for
someone else to add their own mark later,
the way people sometimes autographed
hand-me-down books from one owner to the next.
So Dale buys the titanium cane
and leaves her aluminium one behind
without looking back.
The local locksmith has all kinds of equipment
for cutting and etching metal -- he makes
Christmas tree ornaments as a hobby.
It's no hardship for him to copy Dale's badge
onto the forward end of the handle.
When she walks, Dale can feel
the ghostly imprint of wings
underneath her fingers, roll her thumb
over the memory of her badge.
The titanium cane is light and strong,
and before long it feels as natural
as the gun she used to wear on her hip.
They are walking past the synagogue
when Rivka looks at them with a note of recognition,
not just for Dale and Kelly but for the cane.
"That was my husband's," Rivka explains.
"I'm glad to see someone making use of it."
Then she spies the engraving on the end.
"That's new, though."
"We had the locksmith put it on," Dale says,
feeling a little self-conscious
but determined to own it all the same.
"This is part of who I am."
She means the badge and the cane
and her place in history and so much more.
"Nu," says Rivka, "I'm happy to hear that."
She tells stories of her husband and his adventures --
who had indeed been a pilot and a veteran --
and Dale listens with all the attention
that she once gave to witness reports,
memorizing the details so that she
will be able to retell these stories later
along with her own.
This is Dale, now:
two arms, two legs,
wings and shield and cane
of sky-bright metal belonging to her
as much as her flesh-and-blood limbs.
Something lost and something gained.
"This is me," Dale says
when she tells the stories,
when she stands up to people
who think a little less of her for the limp
or a little more of her if they know how she got it.
"This is part of who I am."
* * *
Notes:
Kelly uses a low-pressure tactic of friendly persuasion known as foot-in-the-door. A small request (look at some canes) opens the way for a larger one (buy a new cane). For personal growth applications like this, you want to work it right at the edge of someone's comfort zone. Expanding your comfort zone is a crucial life skill.
The human brain tends to treat tools and prosthetic devices as part of the body. For this reason, adaptive equipment needs to be a good fit for the mind as well as the body so that it can integrate into body image. Otherwise the risk of rejection is much higher, for practical and/or aesthetic reasons. A recent trend toward highly personalized gear improves adaptation. This helps disabled people get back in action. While the details vary, the underlying concepts apply both to major equipment like a prosthetic limb and minor equipment such as a cane or eyeglasses.
There are instructions for choosing and using a cane. However, side preference varies. Some people favor the off-hand approach described in the tipsheet, taking advantage of human locomotion mechanics. Other people find it more effective to hold the cane on the impaired side and keep the ferrule very close to the foot, moving the cane almost as if it is part of the leg. Do what works for you.
Runes are the letters of an ancient Germanic alphabet used for writing, magic, and other purposes. They're aren't really "New Age" symbols, but just look that way Dale and Kelly who don't know much about such things. See further resources on runes.
Titanium is a lightweight metal often used in aircraft and medical equipment.
A fabrication facility may make various products from raw materials, such as this titanium cane that inspired the one Dale likes.
Pilot wings appear in the insignia of the U.S. Air Force. Besides official use, similar imagery appears on many items used by pilots, such as t-shirts.