“Yes, of course. The chapters I made up in my imagination. They were the best.”
~CHAPTER 55~
2005
A CUP OF TEA nestles between my hands—the most soothing cup of tea in the universe. Its warmth seeps into my fingers and up my arms while I breathe in the smell of peppermint and chamomile. Irene rocks in the chair, diagonally across from the couch. This is possibly my last visit. I gaze over at her and smile, but sadly. Perhaps this is how I felt so many years ago when Mrs. Zinc read the last chapter of my favorite book—sadness even with a happy ending. I’d had no idea these sessions would lead me here.
I can’t help but glance out the window. It’s a pattern of mine, a mini-refuge when intense feelings arise.
My mind drifts back to recent discoveries. Something Irene had said prompted me to notice the stout twenty-four-inch square box sealed in packing tape in the back corner of my closet, which I used as a raised shelf for another layer of shoes. A fixture so permanent, I had long forgotten that as a box, its primary function was to hold and store.
“Where are you?” Irene’s question draws me back to the couch and tea.
I give a shrug. “I was thinking,” I say, “about how I had unwittingly buried the most important book of my life in my own closet. And how odd that I would so completely forget that I had the book. That thinking about Grace, and reconnecting with Maddie, I would suddenly remember. It’s all so mysteriously amazing.”
“You buried not only an important book but an important chapter in your life.”
“Truly.” I sigh and again look out the window. “It’s funny. I worked so hard at erasing the memory of repeating third grade, I ended up erasing the best part of it—Mrs. Zinc giving me the book when I finally moved on.” In the recesses of my mind, I hear the voice of Maddie: If I hadn’t stolen it, she wouldn’t have made me repeat. Yet I now recall, when she gave it to me, I knew it was a gift. I turn toward Irene and say, “She must have liked me after all. I was never sure.”
“Repeating third grade was a bitterly painful experience.”
“And it made little difference with my reading, but I survived. I’m sure it has everything to do with the dream catcher Yram created for me.” I smile at her, half-jokingly. My dream of flying with Yram and seeing the dream catcher she made for me is as vivid today as it was thirty-seven years ago. I never forgot that dream.
Irene understands. “You’ve done an admirable job of keeping your dream catcher alive and working. Ethan would approve. Look at all you’ve accomplished.”
“I had no choice but to be a special education teacher. And now, a school psychologist. Maybe it was a dream caught, inviting me in, but it felt more like a calling, a resolution of sorts.” I shoot another look out the window. What I say next won’t surprise Irene, but I still struggle to voice the desire so dear and precious to my heart.
“I’m now aware of a dream that’s been on hold.” I pause, make eye contact with Irene, and can’t resist. “It’s my dream to be a nun and advance into sainthood.” My smile completely gives this away, and we both end up giggling. Then she grows quiet. I love the time she allows for me to express myself. It’s almost as good as Vespers.
“The dream that’s been waiting for me, that I’m ready to claim, and want more than anything, is to be a writer.”
“And you are a writer.”
She responds so quickly, I stiffen, not at all used to hearing these words. In the course of therapy, I must have shared well over a hundred typed pages of personal insights.
“Yes, I want to think of myself as a writer.”
“Be my guest. Writers are, after all, self-ordained.” Her voice, velvety light, like water gently rushing nearby, speaks with the authority to carve out all kinds of new terrain.
“I’m going to write a book,” I say, welcoming the determined voice of Maddie. She may have struggled years with learning to read and spell, but she was never afraid to acknowledge her dreams. “It may take a very long time, but that’s my dream. I want to write Maddie’s story. Complete with a wise and beautiful fairy, a dream catcher, and . . .” I gaze upward, trying to find the right words. Oh God, am I the material of a writer? “It’ll be a story about the dynamics of hope and disappointment. About the importance of imagination. But most of all, I want others to know about Maddie’s experience.”
A blush burns across my face, and the skeletal voice of Mrs. Zinc intones, “If you can’t read, you can’t write.” I shudder and turn toward the window, casting my eyes far into the distance. Dare I consider myself a writer? I focus upon the farthest horizon, darkly clouded, with an aching awareness of my dream’s vulnerability.
There is a parting of clouds and a sliver of blue that expands to a patch of brilliance. As I focus upon the nascent clearing, my mother’s ebullient voice comes to me: “I’ve always believed in you.” I choke down a lump in my throat, turn toward Irene, and, even though tears are brimming, manage a smile to let her know these are good tears.
Once again the window calls to me. I squint beyond the parting of clouds, where my tear-drenched eyes see a mottled blending of color. And movement. My heart races, because all at once I swear I glimpse, fleetingly, a flock of sparrows flying high.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The introduction of Once Upon a Time a Sparrow into the public world will forever represent a significant transformation for me. I pined to write stories at a time in my life when mastering reading seemed impossible. By the time I finally did learn to read, I had internalized an insidious message: if you can’t read, you can’t write. In adulthood, an incredibly skilled and sensitive therapist gave me the opportunity to reexamine the limited belief system I had adopted. Thank you, Ruth Hooper, for insisting I make contact with my nine-year-old self. Reaching out to her began a journey I had long ago abandoned.
My dear sweet wife, Janis Avery, endured the brunt of my unbridled nine-year-old self finally engaged in what she wanted to do—write stories. Meanwhile, the schooled PhD psychologist in me stood by mesmerized that she was finally writing fiction (instead of research papers). Thank you, Anne Lamott, for coining “shitty first draft,” making it an official rite of passage. I lingered long in this phase, and Janis did her best to put on a good face while I was under the hypnotic influence of my elated nine-year-old self. Janis never gave up on me. And when I finally turned out a draft that won her approval, it meant the world. Thank you, Janis, for holding the standard high while never wavering in your belief in me.
My first “break” came when my still-shitty first draft was accepted into a writer/editor workshop, and Kyra Freestar was assigned to me. What I received thereafter was what I had missed out on in failing English 101. Kyra did more than edit; she taught me how to write, comment by comment. She called out what wasn’t working and then gave examples. To this day, I can hear her voice as I take a closer look at each paragraph and sentence. I hit the jackpot when Kyra was assigned to my very messy draft of a story.
Without my faithful writing buddies, Dorothy Van Soest and Roger Rothman, there would have been no meaningful progress with my revisions. They took their job seriously, and despite my difficulty in receiving feedback (the nine-year-old protested), they persisted. And changes were made, improving the storytelling. We have critiqued one another’s writing for more than a decade. Dorothy is on to publishing her third book and Roger his second. I am blessed to have landed with two incredibly gifted writers who take the craft of writing seriously.
An additional benefit of meeting Dorothy was the introduction to Max Regan. If you are an aspiring writer, I encourage you to check out his website: www.hollowdeckpress.com. Max has a keen sense of what works and what doesn’t. He’s a master of all brands of narrative. Thank you, Max, for your exquisite skill in delivering substantive feedback. You provided a path for me to move forward, dramatically altering my manuscript for the better.
Early in the revision process, upon making the needed changes, I asked a few friends to read and re
spond. Lynn LaRiviere, Jennell Martin, and Pauline Erera, who also happen to be well-respected, highly accomplished professionals in the fields of special education, child welfare, and sociology, generously took time to read. I received from each of them the precious gift of affirmations. Their resounding applause gave me buoyancy to forge ahead and not give up. This is a gift of wings. When doubts have arisen, I have brought myself back to their endorsements.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge and thank two additional editors, Alice Peck and Erin Cusick, for contributing further substantive changes, making it possibly for Once Upon a Time a Sparrow to enjoy runner-up status in the international novel competition at A Woman’s Write. I have a special place in my heart for each of them as they not only upgraded my writing with their editing skills, but also openly shared praise and enthusiasm for the story itself.
AUTHOR DOROTHY VAN SOEST TALKS
WITH MARY AVERY KABRICH
DOROTHY VAN SOEST is a writer, social worker, and political and community activist, as well as professor emerita and former university dean who holds an undergraduate degree in English literature and a Masters and Ph.D. in Social Work. She has a research-based publication record of ten books and over fifty journal articles, essays and book chapters that tackle complex and controversial issues related to violence, oppression, and injustice. Her novels, Just Mercy and At The Center, were published by Apprentice House.
DVS: You chose to use your own first name for the protagonist, and at least one reviewer questions whether “there is a measure of biography in this touching novel.” To what extent is the story in Once Upon a Time a Sparrow based upon your own life?
MAK: I never questioned the use of my first name as the protagonist, even as I veered from specific facts of my life. On some level I knew writing this story was an act of redemption. I drew heavily from memory, which of course we know is imperfect, and then allowed myself to dip into my creative reservoir to express metaphorically a truth about myself that I grew into much later in life.
I was indeed severely dyslexic. And, like Maddie, I considered myself a devout Catholic, and sometime late in elementary school, I aspired to be a nun. I prayed to saints and managed my stress through “cleaning rooms.” Unlike my protagonist, though, I fortunately was not held back a year.
Looking back, I notice a difference in how I “showed up” as a school psychologist before and after receiving therapy. I went to therapy for different reasons than Dr. Meyers, who was beset by grief upon losing her mother. Therapy was my attempt to address depression. Like Dr. Meyers, I unexpectedly found myself ruminating over my past reading failure. While still in therapy, I had a series of encounters with a girl similar to Grace. I felt a strong yearning to share my story with her, yet I couldn’t. Revealing my past with the girl felt too risky. She would share with her mother and I (irrationally) believed other teachers may find out the secret I had carefully hidden. My sense of shame was too great to risk this. The school year ended, and I had missed my opportunity.
This particular event—my longing to tell a child about myself yet being unable to do so—represents a turning point. Since ending therapy, I have shared my story many times with children and occasionally parents in the same vein as Dr. Meyer would share: in an effort to instill hope.
There are also a couple unanticipated parallels between my own life and the book. When my mother read an early draft of my story, she loved it and claimed that I actually did have a black hooded coat I continuously wore. I have no memory of this. As I moved toward completion, my mother abruptly passed away. She died in her sleep. And, as in the novel, “this is precisely how she had hoped to die.”
DVS: Your work as an educational psychologist in elementary schools involves identifying and diagnosing learning and reading disabilities. How does your past experience as a child with dyslexia compare with the experiences of children today?
MAK: Children with dyslexia continue to have the same initial experience I had. Confusion over why friends and classmates so easily learn letter names and sounds, launching them into the magical realm of reading words. Today, many parents and teachers are as puzzled as my parents and teachers were as to why their child is progressing slowly. It’s not uncommon for them to initially assume the delay is due to immaturity, a lack of paying attention, or not working hard enough. After all, these children are generally recognized as bright.
Sixth grade was the first year I received special education services. The service came in the package of twice-weekly thirty- or forty-minute sessions alone with a teacher, who used the time to help catch me up on assignments—which meant reading the worksheets to me so I could do the assignments. For someone who was as severely reading disabled as I was would receive help much sooner today, which is good news.
Unfortunately, the range in skill level among special education teachers continues to be wide. Teachers graduating with degrees to teach special education are generalists instead of specialists. They are expected to understand the needs of children with autism, behavior disorders, attention deficit disorders, and specific learning disabilities (a larger category that subsumes dyslexia). Compounding the lack of specialty is a lack of resources. All teachers are stretched thin.Special education teachers in particular. Children with dyslexia who live in school districts with fewer resources and families that can’t afford private tutoring may very well have educational experiences similar to mine. It has been pointed out to me that I am an exception. That is, an exception in achieving success in a career that relies heavily upon literacy skills.
DVS: What would you say was most challenging for you when writing Once Upon a Time a Sparrow?
MAK: My writing résumé consisted of research papers and a master’s and doctoral thesis. In other words, I had no formal preparation for writing this novel other than the rekindling of a desire I had long ago abandoned. This is a difficult question. Part of me wants to yell out that what was most challenging was not knowing—that is, no one told me (until late in the game)—that novels we read have been revised and edited and revised many times over. And yet, had I known this early on, it may have killed the kindling desire that was sparked. Sort of like if we, as parents, had any idea how incredibly challenging it is to raise a child, our earthly population would dwindle. So, ignorance can be bliss.
In the end, I suspect what was challenging for me is what is challenging for all writers. Writing is not that different from solving a Rubik’s Cube. For me, it starts with a vision of what the end product will feel like, and getting there is like a puzzle, with a lot of trial and error until “it works.” Tuning oneself into knowing and sensing when it works is part of the process. From my reading, I gather that all writers have self-doubt. It is not unusual that I would as well. My self-doubt comes in the form of “I never passed English 101.” I struggle with a profound sense of inadequacy each time I misspell a word such as despite or come to a halt because my spell checker can’t find the right spelling for a word I want to use but have no idea how to spell. These, of course, are simple mechanical errors that can easily be fixed. Nonetheless, I have yet to heal all the baggage that comes with misspelling simple words.
DVS: What are your hopes for this book?
MAK: This is an easy question. My life expanded when I took the painful step of acknowledging who I am. By doing so, I’ve embraced what my younger self wanted all along: to tell stories. I am so grateful for the life events that brought me to this place of sharing that which I’d kept hidden for so long. My hope is that Once Upon a Time a Sparrow will be a source of inspiration and understanding for others. If I, who so miserably failed at writing, could learn to write a novel, then others with histories of writing failure can do so as well. I have heard from parents that reading my novel opened a greater understanding in them of their children with reading challenges. Hearing this brings endless satisfaction.
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