Wide Open Spaces- Room to Spread Out
Food
We lived on a winding back road with 10 acres that I never really explored but I loved stepping out the back steps and seeing nothing but hills and open plains knowing that this was a place I was allowed to be, where I was wanted, invited, welcomed.
She introduced me to corned beef hash and mushrooms. What had I been missing my entire life? It was a favorite breakfast in the house before I got there, and that certainly continued. I was really open to different foods, and had always found food a good way of connecting with people.
Most of my best memories of time spent with my mom were of time spent cooking. Somehow, food had always carried the potential for a truce, even if only during meal prep. In that time, you help each other, anticipate what the other needs, joke around and create something together. It’s a special kind of magic.
The kitchen is a place of healing, connection, approval, belonging, nourishment, order, and chaos. It’s my favorite room in any house.
Most of the food they consumed was frozen, or boxed, or canned. Living in Daniel, there weren’t a lot of places for fresh groceries, and provisioning had to be planned. The nearest grocery store was Faler’s in Pinedale. We could get some convenience items at Daniel’s Junction, but they DEFINITELY had convenience prices, and that was not our style.
They stocked their food supply with twice-yearly trips to Idaho Falls, where they would buy most of what they needed for the next 6 months.
In addition, it took a long time to learn my way around the kitchen because she wouldn’t let me do dishes (or laundry), so I didn’t feel like I could just go jump in on my own.
Unfortunately, this left a minimal amount of space for creation, but there were occasional opportunities. She never really wanted to cook with me, and it felt like she was disappointed when food that I made tasted really good.
SEE
One morning, when we were eating breakfast at the table, talking about local events and goings-on, they told me that the community college in Rock Springs was offering a sign language course through outreach, and asked me if I wanted to take the course with them.
I was ecstatic.
The idea of learning something fun and new with other people who also want to learn it, and we could use it together? I was 100% in, and they said that they would pay for it, they just wanted me there with them. I was not going to let them down.
I love languages so much. One of the most heartbreaking parts of leaving school was saying goodbye to opportunities like this. I had let go of the expectation. Before I realized that college would be out of reach for me I had dreamed of learning every language they offer. I desperately wanted to learn Sign, and Russian, and Italian, and Latin, and the click language of the !Kung.
They already had a book, and we could just share it. Bonus.
The class was held in a basement room in the same strip mall that the Baptist church was in. There were maybe 12 of us in the class altogether. We took our seats and fidgeted in nervous excitement.
The instructor came in late, with a different book, and she was confused about which book had been assigned for the course. She decided they were both fine, since she didn’t know sign language anyhow.
I had a blast.
It was a lot of vocabulary and quizzing.
I love recall games, but I’ve always struggled to find situations with them. I didn’t even mind that she told us the version of sign language that we were learning, Signing Exact English (SEE) was becoming obsolete, and that American Sign Language (ASL) was considered the standard. (I do still retain questions about why my beloved W2C2 chose to set up this course this way, but that was beyond my control.)
They required us to cover certain basic vocabulary, learn how to sign “Home on the Range,” and our “Final” was to learn how to sign any song we wanted and teach that song to the class.
I was eager to work on it, but after the first class there was a friction that seemed to form when I brought up the class. I was so stinkin’ confused! These were intellectuals who talked about their time in college.
I wanted to have fun, she became defensive, and he shut down. WTAF?
I decided to tread very lightly about it, but it took most of the fun out of it.
We tried practicing together, but she got frustrated and instead of focusing and pushing through it, she got mad and embarrassed and nurtured those feelings.
If I did well it made her mad.
If I offered to help her, genuinely, with gentleness and compassion, it made it way worse. I really thought we’d just go home and practice until we all got it. She didn’t want to need help, and my attempts just hurt her.
It started to feel less safe to be authentic with her. I had to calculate my words and interactions. It was no longer the free-to-be-me retreat I had thought it would be. All of a sudden, there were little stingy phrases that would punctuate the end of a conversation. She felt colder and less approachable. She would say things to him under her breath that made him feel small. I know because I watched him shrink himself in response.
He stopped making eye contact with me.
So, I did my homework by myself, and none of us got much practice. I didn’t dare try to practice with just him, and what I might have needed or wanted from the experience wasn’t even a second thought.
Admittedly, I did try to ask him about it on his own. He acknowledged that she was hurt, but other than that he just deflected everything. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to let it feel like we were having private conversations about her. I very clearly couldn’t talk to her about any of it, and was effectively silenced.
I chose to teach the class “Home and the Heartland” from Riverdance, because I fell in love with the song in my teens and felt an almost spiritual connection to it. I also loved the way my voice sounded in this particular song, and the words weren’t impossible.
I don’t remember what their songs were. She was pretty flustered every class period, and if I showed my enjoyment it got worse, so I kept it to a minimum. I went from friendly and engaged with the other students, to barely participatory. I didn’t dare answer questions, volunteer, or laugh.
The shift was noticed and that made it worse.
We all got As anyhow. Whatever. We never used any version of sign language with each other after that.
I tried to find ways of contributing more. Acts of service is a big component in my expression of love, especially because I’ve been in so many situations where talking about feelings isn’t possible, so acts of service enable me to show what I can’t say.
She wasn’t having it. She found ways of pushing me further and further out of the mechanics of the home: cooking, cleaning, planning, etc.
They continually said that they didn’t care if I worked, but they also frequently alluded to financial difficulties and I couldn’t be a leech there just to suck them dry.
I needed to find another job.
Survivor Literacy 
What do you think?