This afternoon.
Slightly Bemused’s morning was a series of calamities that made him unable to complete this week’s column.
Step forward then, Slightly’s daughter, Little Slightly.
Little Slightly writes:
What inspires you? There are a million and one ways to answer that question. My mom that fights everyday to keep me safe. My sister who still manages to dance even after her brain tumor and the doctors said she may never walk. Even my granddad that won the Ireland National Caregiver Award in 2012- Love Life and Be Gentle – for devoting his life to my grandmother and uncle with Down’s Syndrome. And those are just people in my family. They inspire me every day. But that’s not my answer.
What inspires me most are their stories. Anyone’s stories. I’m addicted. I get grounded for reading too much. In school. At the dinner table. Anywhere. But I can’t stop. If I don’t have my nose in a book, I’m watching a movie or writing or asking people about their lives. Everyone has a story. I want to know them all.
I have an entire book full of quotes. One of my favourites related to this is one by David Nowell: “Every child is a story yet to be told.” That’s not entirely true. Our stories begin before we’re ever even born. What happens in the womb and as an infant is just the prequel.
I mentioned my sister. She’s the youngest of four. She had a tumor and excess fluid in her brain before she was even born. By the time she was a month old, the tumor was gone, but the doctors said she would miss milestones. Nearly four years later, she was in dance (though not very gracefully). And now, 8 years later, she’s constantly running around after our brothers and standing her own, physically and metaphorically. She never stops moving. She’s like any other little girl. Even with that, she still has excess fluid. I can’t ignore how her story started. It’s a part of her, but it doesn’t define her.
It’s not just her. One of my brothers has Autism. The other has a bubble on one of his vertebrae. One of my best friends is Schizophrenic, and his parents won’t help. My fiance is battling depression. I have PTSD. Everyone has a story. If you can get past the pain, you can find the beauty. I read and write because I see those stories. I want to know them all.
Where are you from? A difficult question for me. Think for a minute. For some people it can be as simple as the town they were born in. If that were the case, I’d be from Peoria, Illinois. Where did you first live? I’d be from Nairobi, Kenya. Where did you grow up? The midwest of the US? That’s not very specific. But I’ve been so many places. Where is your family from? Which side? So think… Where are you from? I’m not from anywhere. I’m from curiosity. I loved moving around because it meant I got to meet new people and see more of the world. I don’t have an answer to that question myself, but sometimes that’s the best answer.
I’ve always had this dream. I’d travel the world and find someone willing to give me their time. I’d have them tell me their life stories, and I’d write them. I don’t care if these people are in the first class or have to work two jobs to support their children or are children themselves. Apparently, according to a recent conversation with my father, he had a similar thought.
So that’s what inspires me. Not one person. Not a subject. Stories. In the end, they may be nothing but words on a page, but to me, they’re a doorway to another world.
Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.
