Girl Called Karen

by Karen McConnell

  Sometimes I might disappoint her, but I knew she would never throw me away. She was there through marriages, divorces, births, and deaths. I think some of my penchant for picking up the odd person or the lonely child was first imprinted by her example. Doris believed that we were here to help our neighbors, and, in her case, that did not mean writing a check to your favorite charity or voting for the best candidate or even being politically involved to effect positive change. For Doris, helping others was a hands-on operation.

  Late one night as we approached closing time at the restaurant, my mom Doris and I talked with our one remaining customer. He was a young sailor hitchhiking home after completing his tour of duty. He was procrastinating because it was a cold winter night in Ohio, and he was reluctant to go back out into the dark and cold alone, so mom and I drove him to his home those last 100 miles.

  Christy came to work at mom’s restaurant when she was just out of high school. Christy was mildly retarded, but had earned a certificate of completion from the local high school. Mom almost lost her job over this one of her waifs. It took phenomenal patience and much longer than usual to teach Christy how to wait on customers, clear tables, write up tickets, make change, and all the other duties of a waitress, but mom wouldn’t give up, and Christy became a very competent and loyal employee. I remember Christy well because she saved her money and got her own place to live.

  One day “Mister Right” walked into the restaurant. He and Christy were married with all of us attending the ceremony. They honeymooned in Michigan and tragically were killed in an automobile accident on their way home. Even as I grieved, I realized that, because of my mom, Christy had far more in her life than she ever would have had without her. And the romantic in me was so grateful that the accident happened after the honeymoon rather than before.

  There is no question in my mind that a child will grow in resiliency when there is at least one caring, supportive adult in that child’s life. I know I could more confidently face challenges knowing that someone thought that I could prevail.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Playfulness

  A good sense of humor is a valuable characteristic contributing to resilience. I would expand it to what I call a sense of playfulness. It is appreciating what is funny, and it is being able to have fun. People who know how to have fun not only enjoy life more, they are better equipped to overcome adversity.

  When I was a kid and my mama was alive, I played; when she died, life became a more serious matter. My ability to have fun reemerged in time.

  It was an interrupted process. That first Easter without my family, when my foster brother had his new pellet gun, took aim, and fired very near me, what had begun as children’s play became something very dark and different. It was very unusual for me to act out or raise my voice, especially with an adult. I think the fact that it started outside and began as play allowed me to be more open and much more vocal. What had been play became, instead, a reality check. My acting out and my foster mother’s no-nonsense approach to giving comfort was the beginning of my accepting my situation. Then I began again to enjoy living. I went back outside and had fun.

  At our homeless and runaway shelter, the youth and the staff were encouraged to have fun. Organized activities were built into the schedule. Staff members who retained the capacity to play always proved to be better suited to working with teenagers. Working with young people who are in crisis is a stressful and demanding job. My shelter director, Shelia Myrick, understood that the stress had to be dealt with, and she routinely incorporated playful activities into our meetings.

  Have you ever noticed how often adults will resist having fun? We who played so artlessly as children decide when we mature that it is not appropriate to act silly or to laugh too loud. Just watch what happens when a group of grownups finally give in to the joy of playing. They come alive.

  I was conducting a foster-parent training program, and I had grave concerns about one couple. Their demeanor was always serious, and they rarely volunteered to contribute to the discussion.

  If I didn’t have a sense of humor, I would never have survived.

  We came to an exercise that requires the participants to get up, move about, and get creative, and they began to have fun. Their whole demeanor changed, and they opened up to me and the rest of the group. It was as if the permission to have fun gave them permission to be themselves. Caregivers, in general, often act as if they must always present an authoritative image. I think it usually means they are afraid they will lose control.

  My three sons were born within a three-year span, and my life became a blur of activity. There was never a dull moment. Very early on, the boys and I learned to have fun. I was and am a bit of a neat freak, but there was many a rainy day when our living room was a labyrinth of tunnels constructed of blankets and overturned furniture.

  We walked long distances and visited every park within twenty-five miles. They’ve grown up liking sports as active participants, as well as dedicated fans. Daniel is totally transported by a satisfying round of golf. David and his wife, Marcie, have a beautiful home in the suburbs, and their living room is a well-appointed pool hall. If you visit Rick and my granddaughters, you’ll end up playing games or jumping on the trampoline. Unfortunately, my boys also appear to be cursed with the extreme competitiveness that seems to surge through my family’s genes. We are a loud, combative bunch, but we know how to have fun.

  Try cultivating the ability to laugh and play just by trying it. Giggles become chortles, and chortles explode into belly laughs. Let yourself indulge in the kind of laughter that gives birth to helpless tears. Learn to dance or act or sing. Don’t be afraid to be foolish. When you slip on your banana, laugh at yourself. You will be a more resilient person, and the child you teach will, too.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Spiritual Connection

  First of all, let’s get something straight from the get-go. I am not pushing religiosity, any particular belief system, any particular denom-ination. What I am talking about is a sense that there is a greater power than oneself. Perhaps it is an all-powerful Being. Perhaps it is a strong connection to the earth and the pull of nature. Whatever that connectedness is, it will contribute greatly to your resiliency.

  For me, the spiritual has more often than not been a traditional view of God and Jesus Christ. I was born and raised Roman Catholic, with all the baggage that can incur. In my young adulthood, I left the church because I got divorced, and, back then, the church of my youth rejected me for this decision. As a child, especially one abandoned by parents and family, my religion was a very sustaining force. I knew God loved me and that my mama was with God in Heaven. It seems like a very simplistic view now that I am an adult, but it was comforting and sustaining. During my estrangement from the church of my youth, I spent years looking for a spiritual home. Not until my mom Doris died did I find a place where I belonged once again.

  Doris died slowly and painfully. Five months prior to her death, her husband fell to the ground and died instantly from a massive heart attack with Doris at his side. His loss was painful for her, but the revelations after his death were yet more devastating. When mom searched his papers and personal effects, she discovered that he had been engaged in a long-term affair with a much younger, singularly unattractive woman. She even found a note from this woman to papa discussing Doris’s poor health and looking forward to her ultimate demise.

  Five months after papa’s death, I got an emergency call and hurried home to the hospital in Toledo. I was with Doris thirty-one days as they did one horrible thing to her after another, all the while telling me that she was not terminal. At the end, I threatened to harm anyone that did another thing to torment her. Her only living biological child refused to come to the hospital all the days she was there because, he said, it was too hard on him. Then he showed up at the end to demand that they continue every effort to keep her alive. Fortunately, her doctor convinced him that there was no more to be done. Sh
e died with us all at her side. Circumstances were such that we had to shut down her house and get rid of all her earthly belongings within the week following her death.

  When I got home to Alabama, I was exhausted physically and emotionally. I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t breathe. Convinced that I was suffering from some sort of bronchial disorder, I went to the doctor, who sent me home with a prescription. I took one pill. After I collapsed on the sofa for hours, scaring my poor husband exceedingly, I looked up the medication in my pill book. The doctor had prescribed a psychotropic medication for anxiety. It might have been helpful if he had explained this to me. I took several of the pills at night over the next few days and got myself back in hand. But there was still an immense void.

  My friend Judy Lincoln said I needed to find a church home, and she called Rita Hayes. Rita invited me to the Episcopal Church. It felt as if I had returned home. I was wrapped in the old-time rituals of my youth without the censure of Catholicism. Russ loved the little church, and he and I joined. Churches are humanity’s creation. Jesus Christ didn’t come down here and start a building-fund drive. We humans need to have a place and rituals and community. My relationship with God didn’t change, but I found the comfort of community.

  Others find comfort outside the mainstream orthodoxy. There is an aged professor whose acquaintance I made through my work activities. He is a warm, sincere human being who draws his strength from a close relationship with the earth and with nature. Church, for him, is a large shade tree, under whose spreading branches he sits and meditates. My Aunt Eileen is one of the strongest advocates for true Christian values that I have ever met, and yet, she does not believe in Christianity in any way. She believes in the humanity of mankind, and she has always fought to better the human condition. Her spirituality is deep and personal.

  Through the years, teens have come to the shelter professing a conviction for the Wiccan principles. I can’t begin to tell you how much these declarations of personal convictions can and often do enrage the adults in the teen’s life.

  We long ago decided to respect the young person’s personal exploration of spiritual beliefs.

  Give your children and yourself the permission to explore. Watch a movie for the entertainment value, and then investigate its underbelly. Visit other religious institutions. Really read and study. Don’t just read the headlines and listen to the inane sound bites that can never accurately capture the essence of any religious ideology. Be open to nature and art. The pure joy of poetry or the sheer beauty of a watercolor can lift and delight the spirit. That is spirituality.

  My cousin, Laura Karasek, is one of those fey spirits that my pragmatic self can never quite understand. But it doesn’t matter because she still moves me in ways that heal even when I don’t understand how.

  Georgia O’Keeffe wrote, “If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment.” Pick a flower and enter that world for a time. Let that world help heal your soul.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Learning and Creativity

  Some years ago, I read that doing a crossword puzzle was like taking a pill to prevent Alzheimer’s disease, and so I began working on a crossword puzzle every night. In all fairness, I have to admit that I enjoy doing the puzzles, so it is not a great chore. There is such a sense of achievement when all the little boxes are filled. Through the years, I have gotten better at filling the boxes. I learn new words, and I have to stretch to find different meanings for the clues. It is a good example of how learning and stretching your intellectual muscles can improve your confidence and faith in yourself.

  An interest in learning and a capacity for creativity are factors associated with more resilient individuals. If we know that learning and creativity are characteristics of resilient people, then it follows that encouraging learning will make it more likely that a child or adult will become more resilient.

  From the time I learned to read, I was a dedicated reader. My foster mother said that the house could burn down around me and I wouldn’t notice until the flames licked my feet. Books have always been a refuge for me, a place to get away. They have meant enjoyment and knowledge. I learned young that knowing what you are talking about can be very powerful.

  I worked with a little boy who came from a family where the written word had no respect. He was placed in a foster family whose members valued reading. They never said that he had to read, but television viewing was limited, and everyone else was reading. The foster mother made sure that there were exciting age-appropriate books available to the youngster. Eventually, he read. In the year that he remained with the foster family, his confidence grew by leaps and bounds. His ability to assess a situation and accept consequences increased significantly.

  The pure joy of intellectual discovery is both rewarding and expanding. The capacity for, and connection to, learning is an endlessly valuable tool for building personal resiliency.

  Creative expression is another powerful means for acquiring personal resilience. When Ginny came into the therapeutic foster care program, she had been diagnosed with multiple problems. Among them was a very low intellectual functioning. She was twelve, loving and affectionate, but unable to grasp the most undemanding tasks or straight-forward concepts. We discovered that she could learn and retain more if we used music and rhythm. Just by tapping into her creative side, she could achieve a great deal more.

  One teen I worked with had a great natural talent for drawing. She used her art in her therapy to help say that which was intolerable. She used her talent to be still and hear. She gave her works to me and to others when she could not express her feelings. This creative outlet made her survival more likely. Regrettably, she was like so many of the young people I worked with – children who had been sexually exploited, raped repeatedly, burned, and battered. Her early years of abuse and neglect were so horrendous that her outlook for the future was very poor, but by tapping into her creative ability, she greatly increased her odds for success.

  Sometimes we think of creativity only in terms of the arts and artistic expression through traditional art forms, but artistic expression can be found in many venues. Casey found an outlet for expressing her individuality through her dress. She was not a follower of the latest fad. She dressed herself from the time she was a little girl in her own unique style. She lived through some pretty tough times with a lot more aplomb than one would expect.

  Donna was the resident who did all the other girls’ hair. She braided my hair and was inordinately proud of how I looked.

  Isaac taught us how to break dance, although perhaps not all that well. It is a lot harder than it looks.

  Benjamin could rap. He was a poet in action. He taught me the beauty of a music style that I had summarily dismissed because of hearing some offensive professional offerings.

  At our shelter, Christmas trees were trimmed, pumpkins carved, rooms decorated, greeting cards designed, kites built, and there were a myriad of other opportunities for young people to explore and grow with creative expression.

  Open the door of creativity for your children. Let them mix the color palette and color outside the box. So much of our youth is spent in conforming to the rules that our creativity gets stifled. If you love to set a beautiful table and prepare a meal with eye appeal, take that extra little time to do so. It frees your creative spirit while modeling creativity in action for your children.

  My Aunt Eileen enjoyed finding unique opportunities for having fun. When the children were young and at that age when they loved repetition, Eileen would tell them to get out their pencils and paper. “Why?” they’d ask. Because they were approaching the sign that said “Draw bridge,” she’d explain. That little joke never failed to entertain them, and they loved having the joke sprung upon friends.

  Parents often find ways of using road signs and advertisements to make travel more fun.

  One sunny summer afternoon, Aunt Eileen took us on one of her famous “adventures.” We went
to O’Leno State Park. It is located on the banks of the scenic and unique Santa Fe River, a tributary of the Suwannee River in central Florida. Within O’Leno State Park, the Santa Fe disappears and flows underground for more than three miles before it again becomes a surface stream at the River Rise. When we entered the park, we crossed the river. We hiked through the park and arrived at the exit. Eileen asked us if we had noticed anything unusual. Intrepid outdoorsmen that we were or were not, we couldn’t identify the mystery without her help. When she pointed out that we crossed the river going in but not going out, we were incredulous. We came up with all manner of preposterous reasons before hitting on the correct one. It was a great adventure, and I remember it forty years later. Eileen often made life more fun with her penchant for adventure.

  I tried to follow her example when I was raising my children. And I have tried to live my life with joy and creativity. I dance in the grocery store aisles because I hear really good music streaming through the store. I wear orange shoes and red hats and pink jackets because they are fun. My granddaughter, Rachel, wore her pink boa and clear plastic slippers to the Cracker Barrel restaurant for lunch because she was a princess. My son Daniel lifts me off my feet and twirls me around every time we meet because it is fun. My granddaughter, Brittany, is one of the few remaining letter writers left in America. She hunts for special stationery and decorates with stickers and pictures because it is fun.

  Don’t be afraid of being different. Encourage your children to respect their own and others’ uniqueness. In that very uniqueness is the creative spirit looking for release.