Tag Archives: People

If there is light in the soul…

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Only a few words for today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, but – oh – they say so much.

If there is light in the soul,
There will be beauty in the person.
If there is beauty in the person,
There will be harmony in the house.
If there is harmony in the house,
There will be order in the nation.
If there is order in the nation,
There will be peace in the world.

-Chinese Proverb

If you would like to join ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, contact me via Twitter, the Contact Janine page on this blog, or via email at janine.ripper@gmail.com.

Snapshot of The Beauty of Difference series

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Today I thought I’d provide you a snapshot of some of the heart-felt and inspirational posts that have been shared as part of ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series right here on Reflections From a Red Head.

In case you missed the meaning behind the series, I started it as an attempt to share with the greater world the stories of some of the amazing people I know from all over the world who are ‘different’ for some way or another.  So far people have shared their personal experiences with depression, bullying, racism, finding their identity, chasing their passions and learning to love themselves for who they are.

I had hopes to at least help a few people ‘see’.  I have been blown out of the water by each and every person who has shared their story with me, the stories themselves as well as those that have stepped by, read the posts and those that have taken the time to leave comments.

So here is a selection for you to sink your teeth into:

Inner Beauty Shining Bright: The first post in the series is special to me as, well, it was the first one, and after all it was a piece about a beautiful friend of mine – Afifah Mohd Salehan.

Stained, written by beautiful blogger Marie Loerzel from Rock the Kasbah. When I received this post via email from Marie my breath was taken away by how beautifully written it was.

The Beauty of Difference is…a stunning poem contributed by Calisha Bennet, from Diamonds of Islam.

The post that has received the most visits so far is Its About Damn Time I Like Me by the awesome Lalia Voce from Skank Rattle and Roll.

And the latest – The Beauty of Difference – by Abdul Mateen, of which one reader referred to as ‘absolute poetry’.

I hope you enjoy the selection, and please feel free to leave comments!

Also, if you are interested in participating, do not hesitate to contact me directly.

Janine

x

EVERYTHING HAS ITS BEAUTY BUT NOT EVERYONE SEES IT - CONFUCIUS

 

The beauty of difference

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Today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’series comes to you from Abdul Mateen, a 26 year old hajji (title given to a Muslim person who has successfully completed the pilgrimage to Mecca) who currently resides in Melbourne, Australia. Abdul has a business degree in Marketing & Management and is certified in the field of Islam da’awah.  Abdul currently delivers lectures and works closely with the AMSSA (Australian Muslim Social Service Agency).  I you would like to contact Abdul he can be contacted at back2thesunnah@gmail.com

Since the fallout of 9/11 ‘beauty’ is a noun rarely, if ever, associated with religious difference. As a Muslim residing in the West, debunking fallacious arguments and sweeping generalisations under the prayer rug has become a full time – regrettably unpaid – second job. Extinguishing the fire of prejudice and dismantling stereotypes can be an exhausting task but is one of paramount importance in such a polarised world. At times I feel thrust under the microscope of suspicion; presumed guilty until proven innocent.

“Satan rejoiced when Adam (pbuh) came out of Paradise, but he did not know that when a diver sinks into the sea, he collects pearls and then rises again.”

– Ibn Qayyim (famous Islamic scholar)

I am a fundamentally different, radically unique, and extremely sincere individual who loves to smile in the face of adversity; however the media would tell you otherwise. Whether I like it or not I am commonly perceived as ‘the Other’. I have a long conspicuous beard – the kind that attracts a myriad of curious and leering eyes on the subway. My fuzzy appearance becomes a topic of conversation so I take the opportunity to remind people that 5 o’clock shadows have embellished many prominent Western figures throughout time. Did Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address fall on deaf ears? The inauguration of Obama would suggest not; but the notion, all men are created equal, is not nearly manifested enough in my experience. Some 14 centuries ago, Muhammad (pbuh) informed us that our Lord is one, our father (Adam) is one, and no individual – irrespective of race – has superiority over another, except by way of piety.

The frequently discussed but seldom understood topic of women in Islam has become an indirect assault on the Muslim male; that is to say, every word of commentary on the so-called oppression of my wife, whether general or specific, implies a significant degree of wrongdoing on my behalf, and is ultimately attributed to a religion perceived as inherently misogynistic. Refuting baseless claims is the simple part; upholding good manners and adhering to Islamic etiquette is the real test.

“Invite (people) to the way of your Lord with wisdom and good counsel. And argue with them in the best of manners.” 

[Noble Qur’an 16:125]

I am a firm believer in connecting with people at a grass-roots level; earlier today I went to the city with the intention of providing clarity on common misconceptions enshrouding my religion. I assembled a small table and displayed a placard which poses the question, “what do you really know about Islam?” I spent the afternoon engaging with numerous individuals and enjoyed some fruitful discussions. I was approached by a young lady who was keen to learn more about the treatment of women in Islam. After citing copious examples including renowned British journalist Yvonne Ridley – a Taliban prisoner who converted to Islam after the kind treatment she received in captivity – the young lady smiled and conveyed her gratitude.

In an authentic hadith narrated by al-Tirmidhi, the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) said,

“The best of you is the one who is best to his wife.”

It deeply saddens me to discover there are some people who are genuinely surprised when they meet a Muslim man capable of holding a constructive and civil discourse; almost as tho they anticipate an aggressive medieval figure wielding a sabre. I can assure you that the closest I have come to blood-thirsty behaviour was vehemently opposing those who describing the Twilight series as a literary phenomenon.

In an authentic hadith reported in Sahih Al-Bukhari, the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) said,

“The strong is not the one who overcomes the people by his strength, but the strong is the one who controls himself while in anger.”

This is not a thinly-veiled attack on the Western world;

this is not academic penmanship grounded in objectivity;

this is not an excusatory or apologetic piece on behalf of the ummah;

this is, simply put, the modest expression of one Muslim man influenced by a unique set of circumstances and experiences;

this is the beauty of difference.

It’s about damn time that I like me!

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Today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series comes to you from the awesomeness that is Lalia Voce – the blogger behind ‘Skank, Rattle and Roll‘.  Lalia is part of an amazing bloggers group I’m a member of called ‘Personal Bloggers Are Us’, and immediately struck a chord with me as she shared the grief and pain of losing her Grandma, whom she had a close relationship with, a few years ago (similar to myself).

Lalia has graciously agreed to share her experiences ‘on being different’ with us. Thank you Lalia.

Thank you Janine for including me in your series. Ever since you asked me to participate I have been thinking “what on earth can I contribute to this amazing series?” The stories I’ve read have been so moving and thought-provoking. I don’t feel in the same league with those who have already written here. I guess maybe that’s the point. After all, the series is about differences.

My story starts with a defining moment. It was in 1980 when, at age 14, everything started to change for me. It was literally a moment, sometime before 1:00 am, when I saw the B 52′s for the first time on Saturday Night Live. They were so weird, so different from anything my friends liked listening to, looked so strange and I knew. I knew right then that my life would never be the same. I knew this was something I had to see more of, know more of, hear more of. 

At that age, it’s hard to go against everything your friends are doing. But I couldn’t get that music out of my mind. And over the span of a few months there was no going back for me. I slowly went deeper and deeper into the world of new wave and punk rock. I changed my appearance as much as my school would allow. And one by one, my friends dropped me. They didn’t understand the music I was listening to. They didn’t want to understand it or hear it. They didn’t like the look I was starting to have. They were content with being mirror images of each other. Reading the same books, listening to the same music, dressing the same way. I couldn’t do it. I tried, but I couldn’t. I found me. I found me that night trying to stay awake to watch Saturday Night Live.

Before too long I found a whole different group of friends, amazing lifelong friends. We were the freaks. Back in the early 80′s that is what we were known as. Not so much by other kids in school, at least not that I’m aware of, but by other people when we were out. Looking back it seems so silly. But people fear what they don’t know. They judge by what they saw and didn’t care to know the person. We were stared at a lot then, judged and looked down on.

Bela, Photo by Lalia

Unfortunate things happened because of those judgments. Small things like name calling or people clutching their children as we walked by like we like we were going to eat them or something. To being seated in the back of restaurants by management so other patrons wouldn’t have to see us. To really horrible things like being chased by 3 cars loads of teenage boys who managed to get my car stopped and then bashed it with baseball bats, breaking out the back window and potentially really hurting my passengers. We were lucky no one was hurt that night. We did nothing but walk into a McDonald’s that night.

People fear what they don’t know. Whether it’s race, sexual orientation, or my stupid ass purple hair and tattoo’s. Yes, it’s 31 years later. But like I said, there was no going back for me. I will always be this person. When you do find yourself, why would you ever go backwards?

Grandma Tat

Nowadays I don’t get as much stink-eye as I did back then. Some – yes. And there are still people who judge and look down on me even though they don’t know or want to know me. If they bothered to get to know me and not make snap judgements they would know I went to Catholic school for 12 years. That I started working at age 16 and paid my way through almost everything I ever did. That I had an amazingly close relationship with my Grandmother up until she passed away 3 years ago. That I took a year out of my life to care for my ailing father. That I love animals, zebras in particular. That I have my own business. None of that matters. What mattered then and matters now is that my hair is purple. I have tattoo’s. I listen to punk rock music. So what! At this point in my life I’m pretty secure in who I am and I like her. I like her a lot. At 45 years old, I think it’s about damn time that I like me!

 

Pushing Through the Fear

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When I first met Marisa Wikramanayake in 2010 I knew she was ‘different’.  She wasn’t like any other person I had met. She held herself differently, she had her own style, she told you how it was, and she was doing exactly what she was passionate about in life…writing.

I was impressed, terrified and slightly intimidated sitting in that coffee shop during that first meeting, watching as she poured over a collection of my writing, waiting for some kind of ‘critique’. And she gave it to me honestly, openly, and most of all constructively. That could have been the end of it – our ‘friendship’ and my attempt at getting back into writing.  If she was any other person, and if I was any other person, it would’ve been, as the feedback wasn’t all positive – it was real. But I took it, and look where I am now.

I’d like to introduce you to my friend, and mentor, Marisa.

Growing up

Marisa was born in Sri Lanka. When talking about her birth country, she tells how they have gone through a lot as a nation, a culture and people, and that it is ironic that as a tropical paradise they are always in some state of war, whether it’s fighting for identity, for pure principle, or against marginalisation.

She started to write at the age of 9, from what she now believes was loneliness and boredom. Born in a country in constant civil war, Marisa found herself limited in things to do – she couldn’t just ride a bike or run around the streets like many of us were able to do when we were little. Growing up in the 80′s and 90′s, and with no interest in dolls like other girls of her age, she took to entertaining herself by reading everything she could get her hands on.  She also took to creating her own stories – feeling the need to recreate the reality around her. It was at the age of 11 that she had the idea for her first character.

[In describing the character creation process, Marisa likens it to schizophrenia, for once you create the character, they stay with you. It wasnt until she met another writer a few years back that she realised that this was typical in writers].

I’m a ‘Writer’

As a girl Marisa didn’t know what she wanted to be ‘when she grew up’ and questioned why she didn’t know – especially when others around her were certain about becoming doctors, teachers, and so forth. The one thing she did know was that she could write well – in her own country at least. She didn’t know if her writing would be up to standard outside of Sri Lanka though, and it took a long time to acknowledge that it was.

It wasn’t until people started telling Marisa she was a writer that she started considering it as an option, and it wasn’t until 2008 that she actually recognised and called herself a ‘writer’ – this was after she had come up with an idea for a book, and she just couldn’t ignore her calling anymore.

Choices

Marisa is thankful that she didn’t grow up in any other family, for she may not have had the support she has had in order to pursue her passion. Her parents have a high appreciation for the arts and have been very supportive, and her mother was the one who pushed her to publish her first book at the age of 17.  Her family would rather her get a stable job one day and have writing as a hobby ‘on the side’, but they also read what she has written and understand that the best way for her to write is to devote her time and attention to writing her book (plus they want to see her book finished!).  Her parents are also stubborn in nature – which has been passed down to Marisa and her sister (who dabbles with being a circus performer). In the wise words of her mother

‘We can tell you what to do but you will just go off and do your own thing anyway’.

Deep down Marisa worries that her choice of career path rebounds on her family.  Still living in Sri Lanka, her mother has had to explainin Marisa’s career choice to people, as well as fend off questions as to when she would be getting a real job and how she planned to survive and earn money. People have at times also attempted to draw her mother into complaining about her children who aren’t living the ‘atypical’ life.

It does make Marisa feel bad as she never intended for her family to be placed under pressure, but thankfully her mother believes that it would be a shame to waste the talent her daughter has of putting words together (and she would know as she is an English Teacher).

In the end:

‘It all comes down to your personal definition of success’.

And her gut instinct tells her it is right.

The Business of Writing

Marisa perceives her profession as that of ‘running a business’ rather then of ‘being a writer’.  Time – well time is a commodity, and this is what she finds that people – generally, do not understand as they tend to forget how long things take.

The greatest advice Marisa provides to budding writers is that you cannot get by without experiencing life.

‘You need to see what the world is like. You can’t just be a tourist going through life.’

In order to write one needs to observe detail, dialogue, mannerisms.  If you don’t how will your characters be believable?

Marisa also admits that to this day she is still scared, and that she will never stop being scared, but every year she is still ‘in the business’ she gets a thrill.

‘You can never escape the fear – but nothing worth having is ever easy. Yes, things will scare you, but if you push through the fear your life will become richer for it, and you will get through the obstacles – no matter how hard it is. If the obstacles stop you then its preventing you from wasting time on it so you can go in your true direction’.

Marisa reiterates that it’s important to remember that the path you travelled up until that point was always the path you were meant to be on as it made you who you are.

Marisa glows with pride when telling me that doing what she does has helped to start others off, and that if she hadn’t pursued her path then maybe they wouldn’t have. In a way, she sees it as helping to give people a voice, and likens it to a trickle down effect – one should never underestimate the impact they have on others, and as a bonus to helping others it drives you to become better.

‘Savour the thrills and learn to live with the fear, as everyone has to start somewhere. It never hurts to dream big BUT take baby steps’.

 And I will do just that. Will you?

Marisa Wikramanayake

Marisa plays with words for a living as a writer, editor and journalist. Science Network WA pays her to talk to fascinating scientists, prior to which she penned a four year long weekly column about politics, popular culture and life in Perth for The Sunday Leader newspaper. She has also written about gaming for Specusphere and about the latest independent music.

She cannot seem to stop blogging either: continuing Perth Diary on Saturdays, cross posting her Emergen “How to write a book” posts on Wednesdays and discussing general freelancing on Fridays. She also plays around with a camera and writes about books she has read, hoarded or hated. When she isn’t working, she’s – well – working: on her novel Sedition.  As an editor, her clients have included Diabetes WA, the Centre for Policy Development and Dorian Gray Pictures.

If you want to know more about Marisa, you can find her on LinkedIn,  Facebook,  Twitter or look at her portfolio.

The Beauty of Difference is…

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The following poem comes to you from Calisha Bennett - a Muslim woman, mother, friend and fellow Young Women’s Leadership Program graduate (2010).  Calisha amazes me with her heart, knowledge, integrity, sense of peace and wisdom.  I’m honoured to be able to share this with you as part of ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series.   

The beauty of difference is that we were not all created the same,

We are different in our looks, cultures, personality and name.

If we were all alike, what a boring world it would be,

I would be like you and you would be just like me.

When we are all different, we can learn many things about each other,

And with the insight gained we can respect one another.

God made us all unique, we are original on our own,

Our individual beauty is found within us alone.

From the specks of colour in our eyes,

to the curves of our nose,

to our one and only fingerprint

And shape and size of our toes.

We all have may differences, but it really shouldn’t matter,

We should be protecting each other’s hearts rather than causing them to shatter.

God made us into many nations, races and tribes*

So that we’d get to know each other all throughout our lives.

Not one human being in existence ever chose their looks or race,

What we have was decreed by God, who is indeed so full of Grace.

You see everything we are and were born to be is all with thanks to Him,

We’ve got to resist pressures from society and dissatisfaction from within.

The same thing goes for anyone you know who might be different from you,

Whilst they may look, act or speak very foreign, remember they are human beings too.

God doesn’t judge your outer appearances, rather He judges what’s in your heart.**

Don’t worry about looks, focus on character and you’re off to a great start.

The truest of beauty is the goodness that resides within us all,

And if we put aside all of our differences, this goodness will unite us all.

When you next look in the mirror and ask yourself, “What do you see?”

Say, “Indeed I see someone truly beautiful, I can see goodness residing in me.” 

* Quran 49:13 – “Oh Mankind! We have created you all male and female and have made you nations and tribes so that you would recognize each other. The most honorable among you in the sight of God is the most pious of you. God is All-knowing and All-aware.”

** The Prophet Muhammad peace be upon him said, “Allah looks not at your figures, nor at your outward appearance but He looks at your hearts and deeds.”(Muslim)

 

For more from Calisha, delve into her blog ‘Diamonds of Islam‘.

If you would like to be a part of ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, please contact me at janine.ripper@gmail.com.

I would love to share your story. 

 

 

Stained

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Today’s stunning post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series comes to you from Marie Loerzel. Maria is an American living and travelling in Morocco for 2 years with her husband and 4 children.  She writes humorous tales of the trials, tribulations and adventures of raising kids in a foreign land at Rock The Kasbah.
Please do check out Marie’s blog – it is inspirational, but I do warn that it may cause a recurrence of the travel bug.

 

She is waiting for us. Her face is seasoned with wrinkles from years of the unforgiving Moroccan sun. A powder blue djellaba drapes over her sturdy body. She offers no formalities when she pulls out her needle. She simply points at its destination and I nod in approval. She she readies her instrument and I see it, the stain.

The paste is thick and the times she’s mixed the henna, untold. But the stain it has made on her hands details the story. When she was a young, girls went to school until age 11. By that time she’d learned all a Moroccan girl needed to know. A woman’s education began at home. That’s where they learned their craft, from the generations of women who came before them. Tradition was their tutelage.

Henna, Photo by Marie Nikodem Loerzel

Her back crouched as her deft and nimble hands festooned my daughter’s arm. Flowers and leaves bloom from her syringe. Her art is effortless and organic. My oldest daughter, age 10, sits transfixed. In another time she might have been her apprentice, destined to be marked by what society has chosen for her. Instead, she’s a customer and henna is a evanescent beauty that she will try on like a party dress.

Henna Hands, Photo by Marie Nikodem Loerzel

When the henna woman is finished, I give her a donation. She is too humble to put a price on her work. She accepts it with a silent grace. The paste must sit on the skin untouched for up to two hours. The longer the henna penetrates, the deeper the color and the longer the tatoo will remain. My daughter must be mindful not to smear the delicate design. As it dries her skin begins to itch and the henna delivers a subtle sting. She flakes it off anxiously, happy to see that some of the orange arabesque remains, however faint.

Ember Hands, Photo by Marie Nikodem Loerzel

I wonder what the henna woman dreamed of when she was 10. Did she want to be a dentist or a veterinarian? If she had the choice, would she have chosen to be the henna woman? As I look at my two girls who have the world before them I can’t help but think. What will they choose? Who will they become? I’m grateful to the generations of women who have come before who laid the foundation for my daughters to live their life unstained by society’s expectations of who or what they can be.

If you would like to help girls in the remote High Atlas Mountains of Morocco get an education please visit: http://www.educationforallmorocco.org/

 

This is Me and I’m Not Ashamed

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Today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series comes to you from Piriye Altraide, whom I had the pleasure of meeting in 2010. We connected over a common love for writing and the dream of one day doing what we love for a living. I will let Piri tell you the rest.

Piriye

Piriye Altraide is an African-born Aussie, who was mostly raised in Perth but classifies herself as ‘a child of the world.’

In Piri’s words:

‘I love to travel, write and experience culture and the arts. Currently occupying my days is accountancy, but I’m hoping to eventually write full-time. Rotaract and volunteering are also a huge part of my life. Not so secretly, I’m toying with the idea of the ‘great move’ to Melbourne, lured by the suggestion of greater culture and passion.

There’s only one way to find out!Finally I believe you only live once, so one must ‘Carpe Diem’!”

When at first I took out my hair extensions… The long ones I had in before the beginning of this year, well, I expected to feel this sudden sense of freedom. Like “Yes, go civil rights! Time for a return to the *natural* woman.” That kind of thing you know, rah di rah. Instead I felt strangely the opposite. So burdened. A slave-like person reflected back at me from the mirror.

It was like I was weighted down and encumbered by this hair. This hair that seemed to hold us back. Back to this imposed position of “lower than thou”. Not beautiful enough, says the Western world. So meagre. So plain. So “slave”.

I tried to then think how to focus on the face. The eyes, the lips… to be brought to focus. So that people wouldn’t notice the hair. A challenge for me. Something a little different for me. Which was good. It was forcing me to think outside the box.

For those who haven’t had the dilemma of “good hair” this may seem… strange. “What would help is understanding…” Because then it wouldn’t be awkward or weird to try and describe it. Because then there would simply be an understanding. Without the need for any words…

And yet, from this single moment I felt more words pouring out of me. Forming within me. Something I always wanted to say, and express. As the new year dawned on me, as again I attempted to tackle this recurring demon of ‘identity’. Discovering who I needed to be. And so as usual I let the thoughts flow. Tamed, for your convenience, but not fully unrestrained…

“I want to be an interpreter of diversity,
An investigator of human psychology,
Philosophy.
I want to document the “ways”, and “why’s” and “how’s”.
The “if’s”, the “buts”, the “now’s”.
Why people think the way they do,
The mysteries of the human view.

To BE

To SEE

To DO.”

“No, I don’t want to do anything more. Go anywhere.
I just want to sit down and write… Write about expectations.
Write about what people expect of me.
Write about what should and shouldn’t be.”

 I truly believe you should see a person for who they are, hold them accountable for who they are, before you even see what colour you are. Expect from me based on the person I am, and not based on any background. Any creed. Any race. Or, not expect at all.

Whether I should be expected to like African guys, or not like African guys?
Whether I should like hip hop, or not like hip hop?
Whether I follow more post rock,
Indie,
Punk,
Jazz,
Blues,
Pop,
Soul…
Or any other genre.

Or whether I don’t.

Whether I dress classy,

Or whether I chuck on some high-top sneakers.
Or punk chains.
Whether I do or not… 
(I finally realised)
Is up to me.
It’s up to… me!
So whosoever would try, stop putting me in a box.

Whether I bounce to Raggamuffin,
Or rock out to Big Day Out.
Just because you see my skin
There is suddenly a list of expectations
Of what I should do,
Or be?
Instead I’m sorry- I’m just me.
And whatever I choose to be, I be!
And so accept that… Accept that that is me!

Finally, I stop feeling guilty about it. I don’t have to be static in one genre, taste or image. I can be whoever I like, whenever I like, and that’s it. And that’s me. If one day I want to put on the African hat – fine. That should be accepted. Another day I become European, then fine. No crap about it. No qualms. Only be broad-minded.

To accept that people are influenced by so many cultures in all. That really, we are children of the world. Not one race or another, but a wonderful fusion of whatever we choose to accept and grasp and love as our own. And let each one be to whatever part of that he or she so-ever chooses. Leave them be. And let them take. And let them love. For their own.

***

Then, well, it was at that point – I had to look in the mirror and accept what I saw. I had to look in the mirror and say: “This is me… and I’m not ashamed.”

We all need to do that, every once in the while. To look in the mirror, and accept you. To look in the mirror and finally say, with overwhelming relief: “This is me… And I’m not ashamed.”

 

You Inspire Me

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Whilst I was at University in 1997 I dated a Chinese boy. To me, he was just a guy who had the same interest in creative writing as me, and was studying Radio Broadcasting with a good friend of mine. We hit it off. He made me laugh. He also wanted to read my writing. No one had ever wanted to read my writing before. It was terrifying. And then he asked me out. That was even more terrifying, as I’d never had a boyfriend before. I decided to take the plunge and said yes.

For our first date he took me to dinner at a quaint little restaurant. I think it was Italian, as back then Italian was my favourite food, and it was all about me : ) I don’t remember much else, apart from one thing – the looks we were getting, from most people. A pale red-head girl and a tall, lanky Chinese boy sitting at the same table in a romantic restaurant – how so?

Those looks continued throughout our brief relationship, and I couldn’t quite understand it back then, as to me we are all people. Even when I met his mother and she called me an ‘evil Western girl’ who would ‘corrupt’ her son – well, I couldn’t understand that either.

We didn’t last, but it wasn’t because of those ‘against’ us. It was because I wasn’t ready for a relationship, and had issues to deal with (plus I preferred him as a friend, minus the complications of intimacy and all that guff).

So it was a surprise when, whilst out at lunch with Denis on Monday (in the year 2011) – enjoying my first official day of unemployment at a cafe on the coast – we got looks. Denis had gone up to the counter to order, and I was sitting in the sun, soaking it and my new-found freedom up. I looked over to Denis, glowing with this strange feeling (happiness?), and there was a woman looking from me, to Denis, back to me, to Denis, back to me, to Denis. She had a look of confusion combined with slight distaste on her face. I caught her eye and gave her a look that hinted at the following: ‘Yes – a pale, red-head woman AND an Anglo-Indian man TOGETHER at lunch…’ Now I’m not usually a smart-ass, and that wasn’t the ‘look’ I was going for, but in this day and age, in the world we live in – especially in Australia which is as multi-cultural as they come – you would think we wouldn’t get these looks still.

I could think about it this way though, which is what Denis tells me to think on occassion – we are just one good-looking couple… 

 

Denis & Janine

Yes, that’s it! 

On a serious note though, it is moments like these that have spawned me onto starting ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series. And so, to all of those onlookers, I say thank you. You are my inspiration.

Have you experienced anything like this? Why? How did you feel?

If you would like to be a part of ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, please contact me at janine.ripper@gmail.com.

I would love to share your story. 

 

Undifference

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Today’s post, as part of ‘The Beauty Of Difference‘ series, comes to you courtesy of fellow blogger, friend and an all-round amazing person Thom Brown.  To quote the directly from the profile on Thom’s blog ’To Gyre and Gambol: Reflections of Life, Limpidity, and Perches for Happiness‘, Thom Brown is ‘originally from Virginia Beach and has been a Professor of Psychology since 1975. JT told him the secret of life is enjoying the passage of time, and it made sense. That and a good book. And good friends. Music. Family. Oh … wine, cheese, olives, bread’. 

My journey with disability has probably not been typical, but at the same time, it’s probably just like everyone else’s. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, … it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, … .” It’s whatever you want it to be.

I’m musing again, of course, about my Neglected Left. Twenty-five years ago I could still hold a nail with my left hand as I hit it with the hammer in my right. That is how most of the home in which I am presently sitting came to be. Even then, though, there was motor and sensory weakness, but the atrophy was not yet significant. It wasn’t really noticeable to those who were not already aware of it.

The vicious circle was whirling though. Because my left was weaker, I used it less and less, and because I used it less and less, it further weakened. As the atrophy advanced, it became increasingly obvious to others, and I was becoming increasingly different. Special. A close colleague who is legally blind knows me from afar by the way my left arm is different.

My disability developed so gradually that I don’t think I was ever really aware that I was losing something. That’s not to say I wasn’t disappointed that there were things I could no longer do that I once enjoyed, but I was already successful in life. If this were to become a stigma of some kind, it wasn’t going to be an obstacle in my life. I was unlikely to experience the discrimination or challenges that so many others have confronted.

Then a couple of weeks ago, a colleague told a joke that had a one arm aspect to it. It didn’t bother me a bit, but he was worried that he had insulted me. In fact, the one arm aspect of the joke had not even registered with me. Subsequent to that, I began to wonder how I would, in fact, feel if I learned that someone, students for example, were making fun of me and my Neglected Left.

Although I hope individuals with disabilities are always treated with respect, I have concluded that this wouldn’t bother me. I know who I am. I know what I have achieved. I know what I else I shall have accomplished before I retire in a few years. What these ignoramuses think or say or do is irrelevant to my quality of life. All that will result is that they will have embarrassed themselves, and I shall think less of them.

Yet … there is something in me wanting to know that I am still all that I once was. A close friend wondered if the more important question is why I might think that I am not, and I have no answer for that. I suppose I am not even certain that I do think that way, but if I do, I’m not sure I want to know. It would suggest that I have somehow let “them” get to me.

Most of those with whom I interact did not know me before I became different – a period to which I sometimes refer as the BeforeTime. They know me only as I am today. Whatever the case may be, if those who are close tell me I am whole (and they do), I shall know it is so, and other than my own, theirs is the only opinion that really matters to me.

Although still a work-in-progress, I’m almost there. I like me. I’m quite content with being different. It’s certainly much more interesting than not being different, and I feel for those folks who aren’t.

In fact, it seems to me that individuals without difference are the ones who are missing something. They’re difference challenged. They’re so … well … undifferent. Nevertheless, I’ll try not to patronize them, nor do I want to be indifferent to their undifference. Count on me to do all that I can to be supportive. – TGB

You can find more though-provoking and inspiring posts from Thom Brown at his blog ‘To Gyre and Gambol: Reflections of Life, Limpidity, and Perches for Happiness’.

If you would like to be a part of ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, please contact me at janine.ripper@gmail.com.

I would love to share your story.