creativenachos.com Blog

Last year, despite the fact that I came down with the flu right before Christmas, I considered flogging myself when I realized my Christmas cards would not make it out. It’s not as though I thought there were hoards of people sitting by their mailboxes waiting for a card from my little family. Nor did I have some hidden desire to see how many people I could infect with the flu by sending my card and licked envelope. I just think cards are a nice thing but that doesn’t explain why I was having such an incredibly hard time with it. This year, I was working, prepping for the holidays and, right before Christmas, dealing with a sick two and a half year old. Ok, so everyone was busy right? I’m not the only person who was stressed by the holidays so screw the excuses, what was my deal?

Well two things were at work. Amid all the other things that I had going on, I simply didn’t plan my time well enough to write cards. I would leave them to the end of the day after my little Doodle had gone to bed and that was not the wisest move because when she goes to sleep I’m toast.

The second thing is I realize that I don’t like to write cards out when I’m in a bad, tired or stressed mood. I have this thing – and now you are about to think I’m nuts or is it already too late for that?  – that I just don’t want to send that feeling, energy, out there. I know like there is some way my feelings can be communicated through the ink on the card – crazy but I wait to be jolly…yes, like Santa. (I know …you are now convinced I’m nuts and I’m ok with that.) Guess what though the jolly didn’t happen till the presents were under the tree which is why folks will be receiving Christmas – or should I call it New Years – cards soon.

All of this got me to thinking. So much of the stress that we feel is self-imposed, especially when it comes to time. Is there anyone holding a gun to my head telling me that my cards need to be out before midnight on Christmas Eve? No. It’s me. I beat on myself because I have set time limits in my brain and despite anything that may happen – fire, snowstorm, frogs falling from the sky – I beat myself into submission to get them done. It’s unhealthy. There are immovable time limits for things like getting the flu shot, showing up to meet people and how long you can leave a brownie in the fridge before you MUST eat it. But for the most part there is a little wiggle room for us all we just need to allow ourselves to find it.

I planned to have a project up and running by today. Well, as often happens while in mid-flight, I realized I needed to add something to it to give it a little more flavor, if you will. That has caused a slight delay and the moment I realized it would, I felt that urge to hang myself upside down by my own toenails. Now, I think this is pretty funny given the fact that the ONLY human being on the planet who knew about my start date was me; it was completely self-imposed. So, why was I being so harsh?

We all have inner clocks that we set but sometimes we need to snooze or reset them for a few minutes more.  It’s ok if those projects that you are working on are adjusted from time to time. Life happens and sometimes we need to make that modification to our plans in order to help someone, give ourselves more time to create or even just take a mental breather.

What’s your relationship like with time? Are you friends? Do you have that love/hate thing going on?

Behind these shades you will find an avid people watcher and, sometimes, listener. (By the way, I hijacked the shades from my friend, Theresa. Shhh, don’t tell her. She’ll get a ransom note soon demanding a large bag of M&M’s in exchange for their safe return.)

When I want to jumpstart a character that seems stuck, I listen for inspiration. I head out into the city and instead of tuning in to my iPod, I tune into everything and everyone around me.  I’m not eavesdropping on conversations because I’m not stopping and lingering to listen to people. I simply snatch the few words left dangling in the air by those in mid-conversation as I stroll past. Armed with those words, I begin to play. 

For awhile, I turn the words over in my mind. Sometimes a character will grab hold and spin them into part of a story and other times I just play with what I’ve heard in an effort to entertain myself.

Yesterday, I was in play mode. As I walked past a tall man, his arms folded over his chest, talking with a shorter man who wore an incredibly long mustache, I overheard the tall man say: 

“I’m not sure where he went. We just got back but I bet he’s off looking for hot sp…..”

That’s all I heard; I didn’t even get the last word.

Now, I play.  I imagine what the end of that conversation might have sounded like. I picture the tall man saying:

“I bet he’s off looking for hot, spicy tamales again. I swear he believes everything he hears on TV. Some chain restaurant has a new dish and that’s it, he has to have one. Doesn’t matter what we have planned he just takes off. You know last week, he left at 5am. 5am! Do you know where he went?? Do you? Dunkin’ Donuts to get the fresh, new donut before anyone else. I’ve had it with his food obsession!”

That’s only one way it would go. How do you think the conversation ended? Come on, your turn. You finish it!

Or tell me, what’s the funniest, strangest, silliest thing you’ve recently overheard?
 

I just opened a box of Crayola Crayons. You know, that huge 96 crayon box with the sharpener? I love cracking it open and inhaling the crayon aroma. It’s like delicious colors and childhood all wrapped into one. Those crayons got me thinking about smells. Here are some that I love:

-my daughter’s hair after a bath
-fresh strawberries
-Christmas trees
-newly cut grass
-the smell of the Earth after a summer rain
-roasted peanuts
-root beer lipstick (When I was a kid, I had these little lipsticks that smelled of various
 flavors – cotton candy, bubble gum and root beer. Did you have those??)
-the smell of your skin after a day at the beach
-mango scented candles
-Orchard Blossom Lady Speed Stick Invisible Dry deodorant (what? Too much information?)
-a bakery – but I’m not really a fan of the smell of fresh bread. Instead, I LOVE the smell
 of cookies and cakes and cupcakes, oh my!
-laundry that’s been hanging in the sun all day
-newborn babies
-pizza at the end of a drinking evening
-garlic knots (I can’t help myself)
-Moonlight Path shower gel from Bath & Body Works
-the crisp, clean air after a snowfall
-a crackling fire on a winter afternoon
-a cup of hot cocoa

It’s amazing that I can tie a memory to each one of these smells. I could use these aromas and memories as a springboard for creating a new story. Try it. What smells do you love? Write down the first things that come to mind. Then look at your list. Does each smell have a story? Use it as inspiration to take that new photo, write that story, paint that picture or any other creative endeavor.

So tell me, what smells do you love? 

The Nacho playground has a whole new look. The banner drawing was taken from a card I created; it’s been revised for this site.

As I was putting it into place, it felt as though I was giving myself a little present. That feeling got me thinking about cheerleading again. We’ve talked about assembling a cheerleading team of positive people with constructive criticism and removing the Debbie/Donald Downers from your life but what about being your own cheerleader? What does that mean?

There have been times when my enthusiasm or dislike for a project hung on another’s enthusiasm or dislike for my project. If their level of excitement exceeded my own about a particular idea, I would think to myself, “Hmm, maybe you should pursue it.” Later, if their excitement was not at the same level, I would take it as a sign that they no longer thought it was good or they were no longer interested and shelve my plan. Is that crazy or what? I based everything I was doing on the opinions of those I loved. While I valued the advice given by my cheerleading team, I realized that I needed to trust my creative instincts or I would never be able to find and live my passion.

Everything I’ve read says that you need to be an inspiration to yourself first and that is 100% true. If you let your life revolve around what other people like or dislike, you’ll not only go insane but you’ll miss out on that feeling, the one were you feel like you swallowed a million stars, when you are doing something you love.

Remember when you colored tree trunks purple and made the leaves pink? Remember when you made mud pies and served them to friends? Remember when you danced in puddles and sang off key while twirling your umbrella? Remember when you flipped things over and banged on them pretending that they were bongos? Remember when you pretended that you couldn’t step on the floor because it was covered with alligators? Remember when you finger painted …with your toes??? I do!

I did those things because they not only felt good but they were the perfect expression of what I was thinking and feeling. When you are creating something and you feel all lit up inside and lose hours to it, thank the Universe because you’ve found your passion. Regardless of what other’s think, you need to travel that road and put everything you’ve got into that project. Inspiration is contagious. When you are your own biggest cheerleader, when you are an inspiration to yourself, you have no idea who else you might motivate. 

For a long while, I focused so hard on one area of writing; I didn’t leave room for anything else. I love writing and drawing. The two things together bring peace, happiness and fun to my life. More importantly, when I create something with color and words and then share it, well, I feel like a flower blooming.

So, I’ve started to share here. The new “About” section on this site is a little window into my warped mind. The banner drawing represents what is to come.  I hope you enjoy!
 

My husband likes to call me, Bo, after one of the characters in M. Night Shyamalan’s movie, Signs. He has bestowed this nickname upon me as a result of the numerous, unfinished glasses of water I leave all over the house just as Bo did in the film.

Once upon a time, I worked for a newspaper where my co-workers were entertained by the unfinished Pepsi cans I would leave behind me.  They would laugh as they followed can after can, with maybe a sip left, knowing that I would be at the end of that trail.

In the past, I was strictly a novel reading woman but lately, I’ve taken to reading essays and short stories. In fact, I’m currently in the middle of reading about three different books of essays. In doing so, I’ve broken my cardinal rule of reading one book all the way through to the end before beginning another one. What is all this?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I have a fear of finishing things due to my fear of failure which is equally as big as my fear of success. Time to call the Dr., this Mama’s got a big, ole bag o’ issues.

Don’t get me wrong there are things that I was happy to see come to an end like labor, root canal surgery and the last episode of Seinfeld. Despite my reluctance to see the things I enjoy come to an end, I do understand that most experiences have an expiration date so that new opportunities for growth can happen. I even get my fear of failure and believe most of you can relate. However, my fear of success has been quite puzzling.

For while, I believed that I did not deserve to be successful; that has changed.  Now, I think the fear is born from a worry that when I get to the end of a project, it won’t turn out the way I wanted. Or, to take it to the next level, it will turn out exactly the way I wanted and I will realize that it was not what I wanted at all. Does this make sense to you? Do you ever feel this way?

Regardless of my feelings about success or failure, I know I absolutely have to continue moving forward with all the things I am working on. There have been times when I’ve let fear stop me from accomplishing my goals. I would freeze and my indecision would lead to the decision not to follow through on what I had started.

So, I am going to start to change my behavior. Today, I will finish what I am drinking before I pour a new glass or open a new bottle, especially if it’s alcohol. Hahahaha…I love entertaining myself!

In addition, I will color another section and write another line and keep going. Hopefully I’ll know the end when it approaches and when it does, I’ll cross the finish line.

Photo by Danielle

The other day my daughter sat on the floor looking defeated. She was mourning the loss of her pretzel which had been pulverized, its fragments driven deep into our carpet by either her father or I as we rushed around trying to do four things at once, our normal routine these days. I understood her pain. I knew she felt as though she were sitting in the middle of a disaster area.

That same day, I dressed in a pair of pants that finally fit, as Goldie Locks would say, “just right”, threw on a T-shirt and a pair of cute sandals and headed out. I was feeling good and then my husband pointed out the dried boogers on my shoulder, a gift bestowed by my congested daughter when I lifted her into her stroller.

The day before I blew the circuits in my apartment when an extension cord disintegrated in my hands – the shock was minimal thank Heaven – and the day after I showed up to a work event with dried pretzel on my skirt.

Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I am a giant walking disaster dropping things, spilling things, feeling far from put together. These are the times when I believe I should have a sign around my neck, like the ones you see on the highway that warn of falling rocks, and caution tape all around the perimeter of my body. I have to ask, does this ever happen to you??

I sent an email to a several friends asking this question and three, hilarious mothers were the first to reply. Patricia, a mother of two, adorable children, shared the litany of questions she asks herself after getting her and her children out the door in the morning which included, “Am I fully dressed?” Annie, a mother of four, beautiful, young children, responded that she was feeling that way right at that moment and then ran off to juggle her children, a fundraiser and life. Faith, a mother of one, handsome son, said that “becoming a mom is a slow ongoing process of letting go.” I agree with this line of thinking but don’t think this idea of release applies solely to motherhood.  I would say that every creative endeavor we undertake, anything we pour our heart, body and mind into, requires a level of letting go. Things change, ideas change and mature as do children thus we cannot hold on too tightly to anything. We must be ready to let things, moments, rules go so that new ideas can settle in their place and challenge us to grow.

In my case, I think it’s a letting go of my sanity …wait that might already be gone. Seriously, it’s a letting go of my need to control how every little thing is going to turn out. It’s letting go of that evil thing I have written about but still struggle with – perfection. In doing so, I am again beginning to embrace my “disaster area” status. Hell, I’m even starting to enjoy it.  I think that new perspectives, openness and true beauty (the wonderful kind that far outweighs the importance of outward appearances) are born from chaos. Every single day, I am reminded that there is a freedom and lots of laughter in being imperfect. Now, if I could only remember that….

As for my daughter and her pretzel, she is just learning about the disaster area thing but I have a feeling she’s going to enjoy it.

Have you ever felt like a walking disaster? I need more members to join this growing club. It makes me feel more human.
 

Recently, I have had a handful of people in my life talk to me about “not talking.” They have spoken of spouses, friends, children, and parents who do not talk or are shutting them out.

I am not an exceptionally good verbal communicator. Strike that. I’m not an exceptionally good verbal communicator when I have to admit that I feel vulnerable or give voice to intense emotions. I was a teenager when a long held secret was revealed to me. My father was not my biological father. It rocked my world. It was a secret kept out of love; a love to protect me till I was old enough to understand the complications that life is famous for. In the end, I grew to love my parents more for the struggle they faced in raising me. And this man who had bandaged my childhood wounds, counted the distance between lightning strikes in order to quell my fears and loved me unconditionally was the man I considered and called father. I still do. I think he’s extraordinary but initially, I didn’t talk about it much; which, as I look back, is surprising given the many issues to be dealt with after this revelation.

At the time, I felt I only had a few words, if any, to share and frankly I didn’t want to burden people with my problems. I wanted to be happy-go-lucky or at least, seem that way. My silence ate away at my insides. And yet there were times when I wanted to say to family members or friends, “I feel horribly alone. I worry that if you turn away from me, I might disappear.” I wanted to say, “Sometimes I ache inside so badly and I need you to hold me even if I say I don’t want a hug and I need you to say I love you even if I behave in a manner that doesn’t deserve it and I need you to tell me that I’ll always be a special part of your life even if you are leaving and I won’t ever see you again.” But I said none of this. Not one word. Instead, I acted out of anger. I would be silent or turn away or lash out at the wrong person because I hadn’t a clue as to how to speak about my feelings. It was actually work to open my mouth and it got to the point that it physically hurt to try to speak when it came to feelings. I would hold everything in and it would build and build and then all people would see were these blow-ups that didn’t appear to make sense. If I’d shared along the way, it would have been clear but instead I acted like things were fine, even when people told me they could see my hurt, until I blew.

As a society obsessed with being “happy”, there are times when people enjoy seeing others screw up. Some folks don’t want to hear a person talk about their pain, they simply want to exploit it. Tabloids talk about this one on drugs or that one getting caught stealing and make fun of, make money off of or pass judgment on these people, forgetting that sometimes people screw up because they hurt. Sometimes people act out because they need someone to throw them a life preserver and don’t know how to ask for it. They continue being self-destructive because they hate a part of themselves so much that they can’t stop from hurting themselves. I firmly believe that a lot of the pain we see in the world comes from a lack of communication. An inability to be who are when we hurt combined with a lack of people around who truly want to hear what we have to say causes resentment, hatred of self and of others. It can cause people to develop a distorted view of those they love and then pull away.

I’m lucky in the sense that I have people in my life who have stuck by me even when I know it hurt to do so, people who have loved me when I could not love myself. Those same people have helped me to learn how to communicate my feelings. Granted, I am much better at writing down my thoughts. That was how I started to give voice to what was inside of me. I started to write in my journals or in letters to people. Writing provides one place where I can be truly free. I am better at sharing through written words but I work hard at saying the things that are tough. Now, I can say, “Today everything went wrong and I felt like a failure,” and my ability to speak those words to another allows that person to help me to work through my day, find comfort and forgiveness for myself and remember that I’m simply human.

The knack for putting words together in an effort to communicate with another is a gift as clearly illustrated by my daughter who rails against her inability to speak. She’s working so hard and often gets to frustrated. I used to get frustrated when I could not explain myself the way I wanted. My frustration would come from people not understanding what I was saying but they couldn’t.  I wasn’t saying what I wanted to, what I felt. I was saying, “It’s raining and I’m angry,” or “The guy at the deli forgot to put mustard on my sandwich and I’m pissed,” instead of, “I feel like I haven’t a soul in the world to trust anymore.” I was saying, “I have to go” in the middle of phone conversations instead of, “Can you come over?  I need a shoulder. I’m really feeling blue.”

We all have things that we are holding inside. Why not take just one of those things and share it? Just one. It doesn’t have to be something good or bad, it just has to be something meaningful to you. In sharing with someone, you never know what will happen. The person you speak with may be waiting to hear your words or you may invite someone to say something that they have been holding within. Or that person may have no reaction at all. The reaction is not the point. The point is that you challenged yourself to open up, therefore allowing the possibility for creative joy to enter your life.

Whatever it is that challenges you – writing or speaking – choose one form to share with one person. There have been more than a few times when people have commented here and then written an email to explain that they are not writers but still wanted to share. It always amazes me when this happens because all the comments here are funny, smart, down-to-Earth insights that make me think. Whether through the written or spoken word, creativity and life thrive on the sharing of our ideas and feelings.

Like anything else, becoming a better communicator takes practice. I work at both the written and verbal on a daily basis. For me, this post is another step in trying to improve my communication skills. Thanks for “listening”.

Please feel free to challenge yourself to share here as well. My hope is that this will always be a safe playground for all.

Photo by Bernard Reilly

When I gave birth to my daughter, people said that the moment I saw her, my heart would expand and I would feel a love like I had never felt before. I imagined it would be the same way for me as it had been for the Grinch when his heart grew two sizes too big. The moment when I cracked open the first book in the Harry Potter series, people commented that I would be hooked and seek to devour each book in order to quench my desire to know the fate of Harry, Ron and Hermione. John Grisham’s book turned film, The Firm, hit the big screen and many insisted that I would be riveted as the filmmakers stayed true to the book for at least three quarters of the film.

None of these things happened or felt the way people said they would, at least not right away. I remember wanting so badly to feel that instant love for my daughter that I tried to make myself feel what others had described. When I saw her, I was in such awe that I can’t recall any specific emotion; in fact, I would spend the better part of the first year of her life sorting through all of those incredible sensations and thoughts. I would also spend time wondering if there was something wrong with me because things had not played out exactly as others I trusted and loved had said they would. After spending one entire year with her, I can say to you, I’ve never felt any kind of comparable love. Sometimes, it fills me to a point that I ache and I wonder if the human heart can sustain such tremendous emotion. I believe we can all feel this level of love for those closest to us if we let ourselves. The trick is to be insanely vulnerable. Giving myself permission to be that vulnerable has allowed my daughter to single-handedly change the way I live, love and experience the world, all for the better.

As for the Harry Potter series, I was not instantly crazy about the characters or the story line. It took reading a couple of books to want to know more. When The Firm came out I enjoyed it until the end and have hated it ever since. These are just a few random examples of things that took time to digest. Trying to wear the descriptions of other’s experiences was like trying to wear their clothing, it simply didn’t fit. I needed to drape myself in the beauty of my own experiences and trust that how I interpreted the world was right for me.  My understanding of my life experiences is not instantaneous; it is something precious that grows over time, much like a flower.

A former yoga/mediation teacher once said to me that we rely too much on what we see with our eyes. We don’t trust our other senses to provide us with the information we need. I firmly believe that when it comes to experiencing things in life whether it is a movie, book, art exhibit, show, concert, childbirth, or anything else, we need to close our eyes and experience it for ourselves. We need to eat up all the tasty bits of our experiences and savor them.

Although we are a society that prides itself on individuality, we all have a need to connect with one another. Unfortunately that need, can blind us from trusting our own truth. We listen to critics, politicians and artists and sometimes adopt their description of life as our own. While we grow in sharing experiences with one another, we need to know where one person’s experience ends and ours begins. We need to care for, value and love the unique way we perceive the world.

The way we take in all around us and then share it is vital to our creative endeavors and to society as a whole. If we only look to mimic other’s experiences we shortchange ourselves and our society. 

Whatever it is that you are working on right now, take a moment, close your eyes and spend a little time with it. Remember that whether you are brushing your teeth, painting a mural or learning to appreciate the necessity of coral living in the ocean, everything takes its own time. Some people have immediate reactions to things and for others the time it takes to process information may take weeks, months or years.

For just one moment, erase your mind of everything you know, close your eyes and picture your project or your child and try to capture your own experience. How would you describe your personal experience to someone else?

Listen when others share; let their words guide or inspire you but in the end, let yourself fully experience everything in life as it applies to you.
 

My daughter, Dana, wants to be friends with everyone we meet on the playground which is great; I love her social nature. So, why as her Mom, do I always end up feeling like a dirty old man in a bar trying to pick people up? Whether we are in a restaurant or on the playground, if she spots someone, it doesn’t matter if it is a baby, a six-year old, a boy, a girl, or an adult, she walks right up, looks them directly in the eye and smiles. It’s her direct eye contact that gets me. In this city of more than 8 million people, direct eye contact with strangers only happens when individuals approach you bearing pamphlets filled with information on how to save your soul from eternal damnation. Or you are on the playground.

As a Native New Yorker, I love everything about this city from the ability to run out for milk and Oreos at 4am to the garbage trucks, fire engines and drunken people singing my city lullaby. I even love the “faces” I’ve acquired, an essential city survival tool. I have my “subway” face, my “elevator” face, my “grocery store line” face and more. These are vital elements of the street rules of engagement as the faces you make determine your level of interaction with fellow city dwellers.

However on the playground, children negate faces and all rules thereby forcing adults to communicate with one another. Now, there are ways around engaging with others. For instance, look for the parents clutching their cell phone between their ear and shoulder talking business while helping their young bucks to climb on the monkey bar contraption. Even if your child interacts with theirs, they won’t get off the phone to make small talk. Or seek out the nannies who glance up from the pages of their tabloid paper to check on the children from time to time. They don’t want to have to talk to the kids let alone interact with you so, plant yourself near them. You can even hover around the parents who cluster together to talk real estate. They’re so interested in comparing numbers that they don’t notice their own children beating the hell out of one another so they certainly won’t notice you.

However, you can’t avoid them all. Sometimes you look up and catch the eye of a Mom and you know the look. It says, “I’ve been doing this for hours and I need some adult conversation.” Sometimes I’ve even felt myself give that look to some unsuspecting parent. Despite my own shyness, I try to encourage my daughter to make friends by reaching out; it’s just that I occasionally end up feeling like a weirdo.

There are some folks I’m sorry my daughter ever stumbled across like the woman with the dog so big it could have eaten her as a snack or the woman who would not stop talking about how her 14-month-old climbs on the table every time she turns her back and she’s afraid he’ll fall. “I mean really, real fear, on the table, on the table you know,” over and over again.

Yet there are times when my daughter leads me down a good road. Recently, she walked over to a little girl, smiled and reached for her hand; clearly she wanted to run away with her to a place where they could climb and slide down the slide without Mommies hovering over them. The little girl’s Mom and I looked at each other, smiled and then looked away. We focused on our kids.

“Say hi,” I said to Dana, wanting to fill the awkward silence.

Dana and I followed the girl and her Mom to a small, bouncy bridge. This time it was the mother’s turn to fill the silent spaces. As her little girl looked up at her, she said, “I’m sorry but I can’t make the bridge bounce the way Daddy’s does.” Then she looked at me and we both started to laugh; that uneasy, what-do-we-say now kind of laugh.

“I’d help you but I’m afraid if I jump on this thing I’ll send my daughter flying through the air,” I commented.

As we laughed again, I felt the way I used to at a bar when that guy I’d been sharing glances with finally talked to me. I felt funny inside and yet, I realized that this was exactly what I had been looking for without knowing it. I wanted someone to share quick tidbits with, someone who got it, someone who understood this parenting thing that I am curently learning before I had to set off after Dana again.

A moment later our girls took off in different directions. We spent the next half hour running past one another; bits of phrases would fly through the air.

“Never knew I’d worry this much..”

“Just starting to let her go down the slide by herself.”

“…new game where I try to get her to run after me but she runs in the other direction.”

Her young daughter even demonstrated an elephant sound for Dana that was hilarious.

The long fingers of the evening began to stretch across the playground indicating it was time to head home. As I loaded her up in the stroller and started to walk out, I waved to the other woman.

“See you,” we both said, awkwardly hesitating for a moment. I wanted to say, “Hey what’s your name?” or “Can I get your number?” Or “Want to meet here again some time?” But I felt like an old man with stale pickup lines, so I simply walked away.

Regardless of whether or not you have kids, we have all faced similar situations and met people like this that we need in our lives. Whether we are standing on the playground or working on creative projects, we need to be talking with other creative folks if only to feel that we are not alone on our journey. We need to share ideas, thoughts, experiences, etc., with people who are in the same fields or working on comparable projects in order to learn and grow. Our diehard friends will always be by our side to listen and share with us but they won’t always be in the same place or in the same field so we need to reach out to others and make friends and/or business connections.

There are times I wish I could walk up to people the way Dana does with that openness and eagerness, minus my insecurities. As I thought about it on my way home from the playground, I reminded myself that we all feel awkward from time to time and that thought helped me to feel less alone and more eager to try to overcome it.

In a city where straphangers are smashed up against one another daily, yet don’t talk or if they do, it’s a only to share a quick word and then go back to the paper or look in another direction, making friends can seem like a daunting prospect. However when it comes down to it, inside each of us lives the child who once played on that playground.  Sometimes we want to play together in the sandbox and other times we just want to quietly swing.

That’s why this city works for me. It’s got my kind of balance. I like the fact that there are times I can get lost and times, when I can be found. As for the woman and her little girl, I’m sure I’ll see her again. I believe that and I when I do I’ll have the balls and the right words to ask her name and hopefully, I won’t feel like such a weirdo.

I am a huge fan of Judy Blume’s work; I think I made that clear in my recent blog, Wanted: Creative Ways to Engage America’s Youth in Reading. I don’t remember the first time I learned that her books had fallen victim to censorship where, in some cases, they were placed on restricted shelves in libraries and, in others, they were banned altogether, but I was appalled. 

Many of her books deal with topics that I was interested in as a teenager ranging from menstruation and masturbation to death and sex. However, it was precisely these themes that caused the censors to get their panties in a bunch.

In the introduction of Places I Never Meant to Be, Ms. Blume cites examples of censorship in relation to her books and those of other authors. The cases range from “the mother who admitted she’d cut two pages out of Then Again, Maybe I Won’t rather than allow her almost thirteen-year-old son to read about wet dreams,” to Florida, junior high school teacher Gloria Pipkin who faced censorship of books such as To Kill A Mockingbird and The Great Gatsby, among others, and “fought a five-year battle, jeopardizing her job and personal safety (she and the reporter covering the story received death threats) to help reinstate books.”

When she completed Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, Ms. Blume gave copies to her children’s school. However, she writes “…the books never reached the shelves. The male principal decided on his own that they were inappropriate for elementary school readers because of the discussion of menstruation (never mind how many fifth – and sixth – grade girls already had their periods.)”

Does censorship serve any purpose? Is it just wrong? Or is it good for works to be censored? Does it make them more intriguing and thereby, more sought after or does it seriously limit the potential reach of the works? 

I vividly remember reading Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret and although some of the menstruation techniques were out-dated, the book made me feel a sense of connection that went beyond my menstruation curiosity. I was simply elated that there was someone out there who finally understood what it meant to be a teenage girl and wasn’t afraid to talk frankly about it.

What if all the authors you loved were suddenly banned? What would you do?

Censorship limits art, creativity and growth. It is angel of death to ideas. Don’t get me wrong, there have been radio reporter comments, artwork, books, magazine articles, newspaper op-eds and more that I have objected to because I did not agree with the opinions put forth. I may have even uttered the sentence, “That person shouldn’t be allowed to spew that crap.” I’ve worried about the impact of words or images, especially those of hate, on people, particularly on young people, but I can honestly say that I’ve still never agreed with censorship.

Our country was founded on the belief that we should be free to speak our mind although the recent climate in America hasn’t always fostered or upheld that idea. This is apparent in the media where key pieces of information have been edited from our news coverage or in cases where people lost jobs over comments made when their behavior warranted discussion and serious debate prior to such action. These factors have contributed to the rise in popularity of blogging and other forms of Internet communication.

To my mind, we are a society at-risk of losing basic conversational and valuable debate skills. So often there is a jump to the extreme – censorship – instead of a questioning and debating of the issues on the page, on the television, on the radio, or on our dinner tables. Differing opinions and controversial issues are cause for inquiry; shouldn’t we be allowed to question? The things that we read, see, and hear that give us pause and invite us to examine our own beliefs help us to grow.  Shouldn’t we be encouraging younger generations to engage in questioning and debate of that which stands in opposition to their ideas? 

I recently wrote an article for a magazine which will appear later this year and as I wrote it, I was forced to question my understanding of racial issues, including stereotypes, as I scrutinized some of my personal experiences. Without trying to pander to any particular group of people, I struggled to find a way to tell my truth in a manner that would not be considered offensive. As I write this, I stop for a moment to consider whether or not I ever worried that if I did not chose the right word or string of words, I would be edited or censored. However, after much thought, I do not think that entered into my writing process. Instead, I think it had to do with tone. An angry or overly aggressive tone can sometimes turn people off thereby causing them to lose the meat or main message of the piece. I wanted my message and thoughts on the racial tensions and prejudices that I have faced to be heard with open minds and then, hopefully, discussed. Without discussions, without a sharing of opinions we agree with and those that we don’t, those that support us and those that challenge us, we are like plants without water. We won’t grow and eventually we will sink into a rut and slip away.

Whether it is a revolutionary business idea or a new art concept, we need people’s unique takes on life. If we don’t want to hear, see, or read it, we have the freedom to make the choice not to and, if we have young children, we can restrict them from seeing it until we know they are old enough to understand. My daughter in incredibly young so there is much that she may not understand now but when she is older I will share as many works as I can with her, including controversial ones, and it is my hope that at that time we will be able to have discussions where I teach her and she teaches me. I sincerely hope I remain open-minded as I grow older.

If we continue to censor people, we will end up with a society that speaks about nothing of interest. Younger generations will be unable to compete on a global stage as they will lack the ability to comprehend and debate challenging views. Organizations such as the National Coalition Against Censorship are working hard to make sure people’s voices are not silenced. Should we all be helping to do that in our homes, classrooms, board rooms, playgrounds and various other gathering places?

When have you worried about what you said, did or created? Did you overcome it? Do you agree with censorship in any form? Do you think there are certain places where censorship is acceptable? Or do you think it should be unacceptable across the board?