I know why I can't write

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I just watched the American Masterpiece episode on Judy Garland.

With a great deal of ambivilance, she was one of my life time heros.

Like a fool, when I reached young adulthood, I turned against her. I thought her weak. I thought her a coward. I thought her a victim. I thought her a bad example.

Well, I didn't know her biography then. I only knew press rumors and folk myths.

Every time I see a documentary about her, I realize how wrong I was about her.

She is one of the fiercest women ever. She kept her family together, no matter what.

I still have the "Judy at Carnegie Hall" album. It's one of my favorite recordings.

I haven't listened to any of my music in a very, very long time. I have all the vinyl records. I have most of my dad's 78 rpm recordings.

My last turn table broke about five years ago: shortly after losing my daughter and, more recently, my home. I never replaced it.

I was so distracted by survival, I couldn't make it a priority.

Add to that the need to repress, suppress, the traumas I'd experienced, in order to survive.

I couldn't listen to Judy Garland, Gershwin, Beethoven, Joni Mitchell, Billie Holiday, Stevie Wonder or any of the others and keep the lid on.

I couldn't afford to feel. I would have lost my mind. I had nobody to take care of me but me. The best I could do was mark my days as an emotional cripple, keeping a roof over my head.

Well, I've done some very brave things recently.

I started these blogs, for one thing. I see the counter; I know I've got regular readers, who've been watching me go through daily life. I don't know who most of them even are. There aren't many, but they keep coming back. I know I'm being watched.

But I try to be honest. I do try. I leave some things out, yes. There are people I feel I need to protect. And I need to protect myself. But I'm a hell of a lot more honest than most bloggers I see.

But I started these blogs in my vulnerability. I felt inadequate, deranged, confused, useless, ashamed of my failure...blah, blah.

But I started feeling stronger, as I began writing every day.

I even, about a month ago, stopped by a thrift store, looking for a turn table. The clerk followed me around the store to see if I were going to shop lift. She said, "ma'am, ma'am," but I pretended I didn't know she was talking to me.

I was pushing my collapsable stroller, the one I use on the bus, full of heavy groceries.

I heard her tell two guys, "she doesn't have a baby in that stroller." I must be crazy, right? Trying to get my groceries home without hurting my arms and back.

So, I ignored her.

I asked one of the guys when they might get in more electronics equipment, as I headed for the door. He answered, but with such contempt on his face.

As I opened the door and pushed my stroller out ahead of me, I said, "I'm disabled, and I'm on foot. That's why I have the stroller for my groceries. You can stop staring at me now."

I heard the woman start to protest, or defend herself, or tell me where to go. I don't know; I turned my back, walked away, and let the closing door silence her.

Ironically, she was a Black woman, and ought to know better.

The second truly brave thing I've done is to walk into that radio station, to volunteer. I have no idea what will happen.

But I learned how to edit .wav sound files yesterday. It's so much easier to edit sound on a computer than with raw tape! But I want you to know, I was SO GOOD at editing on tape, I could get the most minute flaws out of a recording! And splice the tape perfectly, using a razor blade and adhesive tape! The tiniest sound, I could find it.

My dad was a sound engineer.

I grew up around fabulous music. Both my parents loved it.

I started playing classical flute at the age of six.

I can barely play my flute now, it's in such bad shape. But I can't afford to get it repaired. I still struggle with it, on special occasions, like the concerts on tv after 9/11, holiday performances, and, occasionally, the radio.

I miss music. It's part of who I am.

And, until I get the money for a stereo, I'm stranded.

Until I can dig deep and get back to who I really am, my writing will be adequate, but not real.

I'll find a way. I don't know how.

But I have to do this. There's no way to get around it. Anything else is coasting.

My writing now is like a clever child or a trained chimp.

But I have something profound in me.

To let it die with me would be cheating.

I'm still not safe. I'm broke as hell. I'm sick. I'm still all alone. I'm very vulnerable.

But I watched that abused, tortured, addicted, terrified, powerful, poignant, wicked, snarling beauty on my tv tonight.

And I recognized myself.

"I'll be by your side...smiling...through the years...smiling...through your tears...I'll always be by your side," sung with a look of grieving determination.

Judy died a year younger than I am now. Suicide or over dose doesn't matter.

They murdered her.

I know what it's like when they silence you; it's what they do to powerful women. We're inconvenient. We're frightening, because we're honest. We're a threat, because we know the truth.

I can't speak for Judy; I can only speak for myself.

But I know she'd understand and egg me on, one hero to another.