Irritating behavior

Have you ever made a phone call, full of righteous fire, ready to tell someone how their …incompetence, tardiness, error, etc., ruined your life (read – was an inconvenience) only to discover that actually, that person was doing their very best and really hard things had happened to them, making your inconvenience seem… ludicrous?

No, me neither.

Just kidding. To be completely clear, it doesn’t happen often to me, because generally I’m pretty good at asking “what might have happened that makes this behavior make sense?” but not always. And when I’m more stressed, it’s much more likely to happen.

Well, I did it today, picked up the phone and called someone to express my irritation, only to find that someone had had a serious medical problem that impacted their work. Which led to my inconvenience.

Now, to be fair to myself, I’ve had a lot of small irritations lately. Nothing life threatening or anything like that, but even small irritations have a cumulative load. And when that happens, any one of us might find ourselves expressing that irritation, perhaps unfairly.

What do I do when that happens? I try to own my own irritation, which hopefully provides some safety for the person on the other end – I’m not here to ruin their lives. Something like, “I have been having a tough week so it really surprised/upset me to learn…”

I express concern as honestly as I can – “oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that” which hopefully allows for some connection, in the “I see you and what you are going through” kind of way.

And finally I try to find a way to create a sense of agency…for me, for them, for whomever I can manage. In my life, usually these things happen with people who are providing a service to me (calling comcast for my mother-in-law, calling insurance companies about benefits) so there isn’t always a way for me to offer that person agency, but I can try. Sometimes I say, “I understand and just wondering if there is a better way for me to (fill in the blank – to get what I need)?”

Maybe I offer one of these:

Should I email?

Is there a better email address?

Is it better if I call?

Is there a better person to contact about issues like this?

I think this also increases a sense of safety for the other person, maybe it helps them understand I am not irritated at them personally and I am looking for solutions. AND it gives me a little bit of agency, because it might give me other options if it happens again.

What do y’all do if you discover there is a really good reason behind someone else’s “irritating” behavior?

My ARFID, Explained

After I mentioned my ARFID diagnosis in my Leader Dog posts, a few folks asked for more info. Here’s a piece I wrote about (all caps) MY OWN, PERSONAL, INDIVIDUAL EXPERIENCE with ARFID. Mileage may vary. I never managed to find the below “article” a home with a publisher, so I’m stashing it here. I may do a follow-up later, as this article is now a little dated and I’m learning more about myself and ARFID as I truck along. Enjoy!

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A Spoonful Of Sugar: Arguing and Arbitrating With ARFID

By Caitlin Hernandez

Misery constricted my chest as I sat, rigid with dread, the fiberglass bench gouging my legs. Sunshine pulsed enticingly against my back as the whoops and screeches of unadulterated kindergarten joy filled my ears. Our richly deserved, twenty-minute recess was dwindling down the drain. I longed to run, to play on the structure, to practice jump-roping, hula-hooping, or dribbling a ball. But here I was, cloistered in the corner. “Hurry up, Caitlin,” one of the grown-ups prompted, not unkindly. “Finish eating and then you can play.” My friend Sammy joined the conversation, her chocolate-scented breath clashing obscenely with the orange slice on the napkin in front of me. “Just eat it,” she encouraged. “It’s no big deal.” Tears threatened. My nemesis had a thick, unchewable peel, and wet, stringy flesh that would stick between my teeth. Its acidic juice would be eye-wateringly bitter. I couldn’t bear to touch it, much less put it in my mouth.

Well-intentioned admonitions like Sammy’s would plague me forever … but at five years old, I had no way of knowing that. By five years old, I’d accepted, even appropriated, the traits adults ascribed to my eating behaviors. I was “picky.” “Fussy.” “Stubborn.” At five years old, I believed I’d “grow out of this”; that, perhaps, my sensitivities to certain tastes and textures were simply related to my congenital, total blindness; that, one day, the allure of bribes and blending in might make eating an orange slice … well, a piece of cake.

Hindsight—ironically, re: my aforementioned blindness—is twenty/twenty. My trials with eating are rooted, not in blindness—at least, not in blindness alone—but in a condition called ARFID: avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder. The National Eating Disorders’ web site explains that adults and children with ARFID have difficulty meeting nutritional needs, due to sensory issues, low appetite, fears of aversive consequences during or after meals, or combinations of all three.

Unlike better-known eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia, ARFID is rarely tied to concerns about body shape or size; however, like other eating disorders, ARFID’S manifestations (a narrow list of safe foods; omissions of certain groups, colors, or textures of food; and failure to consume balanced nutrients) yield medical consequences (GI complaints, weight loss and/or gain, fatigue, poor immunity, etc.), which, in turn, impact social functioning. The teasing and criticism of peers, haranguing from concerned loved ones, and inaccurate or nonexistent advice from medical professionals can cause or increase depression and anxiety. Self-consciousness, about both eating “differently” and people’s comments and perceptions, can make shared meals miserable at best and impossible at worst.

I’ve heard ARFID described as terror of eating unsafe foods. For me, though, ARFID’S main ingredient is disgust, combined with daily doses of trepidation, mixed well with embarrassment, topped with a generous garnish of dismay. Imagine being asked to eat a bowl of mud, or a handful of plastic, or a slab of rotten meat. You’d probably feel horrified. Scared. Unable. Those “foods” feel dangerous, inedible. They are certainly not, and never could be, anything close to appetizing.

I love tacos … hard-shelled, with beef and cheese ONLY. NOTHING ELSE. PLAIN. After years of trial and error, I’ve learned the precise language necessary to order successfully at Taco Bell: “Two crispy tacos with no lettuce.” However, with or without the magic words, ordering tacos is always a gamble. Hard shells aren’t always available, meaning that I either have to chew through a leathery soft shell or scoop taco guts with a spoon, which usually consternates me enough to deplete my appetite. Often, I’ll be revolted by the gritty scrape of unwanted lettuce against my tongue, its ominous crunch filling my ears. The mushy consistency of beans or the eerie crawl of vegetables mingling with the meat and cheese will put me off a plate entirely. Even if some kind soul removes offending items, their taint has usually sullied the dish beyond repair. And if a main course oozes into a preferred side dish, I often won’t be able to eat that, either. Sometimes I can gag down a few bites, but by then, my roiling stomach and anxiety will be competing to terminate the meal.

Taking a bite is often a leap of faith. Have these crackers gone stale and changed from pleasantly crumbly to startlingly dry and dusty? Have these noodles begun to harden because I’m eating too slowly? Is my “plain meat” truly plain? Did this restaurant change its brand of beef, type of cheese, cooking technique, or seasoning since my last visit? Even water can taste metallic, plasticky, unfiltered, or unclean. Some of a food’s qualities can be assessed by touch, certainly … but handling food is so taboo in American culture, even and especially among the blind, that I rarely rely on this. Asking sighted people for help can lead to scoffing: “Parsley doesn’t taste like anything!” “You won’t even notice a difference!” And because I present as both disabled and younger than my years, my ordering a small, simple meal off the kids’ menu often causes people to infantalize me more than they already might.

As a child, I drank copious milk and ate enough meat and carbs to maintain what the doctors deemed “age-appropriate weight.” Besides having slightly high cholesterol, which was hereditary, my lab results were acceptable. The lunches I ate at school—pepperoni pizza, hot dogs (no bun), chicken nuggets (no sauce), cheese burgers (plain), and peanut butter sandwiches (sweet French bread only, and no jelly)—were typical enough among my peers that my eating quirks slipped under the radar.

In my teens, my appetite, weight, and iron levels dropped slightly, delaying puberty and negatively affecting my sleep. I was still unable to eat any fruits or vegetables beyond potatoes, french fries (no ketchup), and Motts applesauce (plain and unsweetened only), which adults always discounted.

During college, tasked with feeding myself independently for the first time in my life, I went through terrifying periods of little to no appetite. I often had horrible stomachaches, whether or not I managed to eat. Clumps of my hair fell out on the shower floor, and my blood tests revealed anemia.

When I graduated college after a particularly difficult senior year, a disturbing, pins-and-needles sensation permanently prickled every inch of my skin. My braille display felt painfully scratchy beneath my fingertips, and the peculiar numbness caused me to fumble and drop objects. Doctors cited anxiety and advised me to “relax.” I was able to navigate these obstacles reasonably well until the COVID-19 pandemic. My decrease in physical activity led to a diminished appetite. I was always cold, even in warm weather, and felt constantly exhausted, even when I rested. My headaches multiplied in frequency and intensity. Most distressing, I would routinely dissolve into tears, devastated by my lack of enthusiasm about even my favorite foods.

My (then) doctor, concerned by my unintentional and severe weight loss, cautioned that, due to my eating habits, I was at risk for everything from heart failure to a skull fracture. Alarm and guilt over my inability to eat “well” caused my desire for food to decline still further. If not for my partner’s gentle and ever-present support, the downward spiral would surely have continued.

Even after attending partial hospitalization and intensive outpatient eating disorder programs, in which I received one-to-one therapy and psychiatric support, it has proven impossible to disentangle ARFID, blindness, and anxiety: to know where one ends and the next begins. However, my original therapist and I continue to research ARFID together, and I find immense relief in naming and unpacking my lifelong struggles with food. As I work to resolve my shame and discomfort around eating, I strive to unlearn many ingrained convictions. All food — ice cream, boxed macaroni and cheese, McDonald’s — is good food, regardless of the time of day it’s ingested. Eating whatever I can manage is preferable to eating nothing at all. Fidgets and audiobooks are helpful distractions during mealtimes. Supplements can fill in gaps when a full meal feels overwhelming.

Even if I don’t feel hungry, simply sitting in front of a plate of pleasantly-aromatic safe foods can sometimes encourage hunger. Prepping food for the week and making lists of easy-to-eat safe foods provides structure and choice, especially when my partner is out of town. I don’t have to try new foods unless or until I’m ready. On some days, no spoonful of sugar will make the proverbial medicine go down. But on other days, I only need half a spoonful of sugar. The support of those who accept my experiences with ARFID can make even a sour day seem sweet.

Relationships are Complicated

Since being diagnosed with breast cancer, I’ve had a hard time trusting my body. To be clear, it’s not as though before I was diagnosed I loved my body deeply. Like all relationships, my relationship with my body is complicated. There’s a whole mix of love, despair, admiration, frustration, caring and neglect.

I generally feel – or felt – that I understood my body, that I knew what it needed even if I didn’t always manage to give it what I needed. I trusted that if I gave it what it needed, it would give me what I needed.

I had a motorcycle accident years ago that the doctors said would leave me with a limp and constant pain. I walked out of the hospital after just 9 days, against doctor’s orders and “treated” myself with the things I believed my body needed. And guess what? No limp. No persistent pain (except that I started having migraines after that accident – but even those have diminished to just one or maybe 2 a month).

Even the migraines responded to my personal regimen of massages and CBD and regular hot tubbing!

Then I went in for my first mammogram (on my way to top surgery) and they discovered cancer.

Here I was, doing all the right things, working out in ways I enjoyed, eating food I liked, working at something that really mattered to me, giving back to the community and being in a flourishing, loving relationship. How could I have cancer? Even a little one?!

I know, I know. Anyone can get sick. There’s no way to protect ourselves completely from cancer or any host of body ailments. And yet I could not shake the feeling that my body had betrayed me. That I had taken care of it, and it had forsaken me.

I have been running for literal decades. When I was training for a marathon, I would feel a little nervous before the long run on the weekend, but otherwise I feel good and strong when I run. In fact it’s been a go-to method for improving my mood for a long time. But these days, every time I set out, I feel a little more than just nervous. These days I’m not sure I can trust my body to do even this simple thing, putting one foot in front of the other, over and over. While my body feels more like me than ever before (remember all this started with potential top surgery), it also feels less like my own, somehow. It feels like I don’t know my body. Like I’m not sure how it will respond, or what it will do.

I’m glad to be recovered from surgery and revisions (just so you know, I had a TERRIBLE experience with multiple surgeons at UCSF – I’ll tell you the story if you ask). I’m glad I had health insurance and a partner who loved me through all of that. And I’m glad to be cancer free. And at the same time, I’m worried every time I go to run or work out.

Relationships are complicated. Guess I will have to make peace with that.

Leader Dogs, Day 6: Final Day

Shout-out to my dad for reading my blog, even though he doesn’t like to read! He was like, “Wow, you really like to write!” Heh … he knows this, but must have forgotten the extent to which I can ramble.

I’m writing this as I fly home. One of my cohort is on the same flight, so we braved the airport together. More about that in a bit.

So Friday was our last day. Hannah and Jeffrey, doubtless not wanting me to worry (which I tooootally would have, so good job on their part), explained that I’d basically be doing a scaffolded dropoff. Hannah would pretend to be a clueless Uber driver. She would give me SOME useful information to locate where I was, but not a full route. Jeffrey would be with me the whole time if I needed help; I’d just need to put up a hand. Hannah would park the car and then join us.

Of course, I IMMEDIATELY started to panic. I hate hate HATE dropoffs. They are my entire worst nightmare.

Now, Jeffrey did say, at the beginning of this week, that we might do a dropoff, IF I was ready. I assume that scaffolding the dropoff was their way of acknowledging my absolute terror and hatred of the activity. But I think, in my head, I assumed they’d do more of a, “Remember that route we did once or twice? Yeah, do that by yourself.”

But, in hindsight, I also think they wanted the route to go well, so I’d feel more confident going home. I could have told them that that was unlikely to happen.

Still, when they proposed the dropoff, I thought to myself, “Well, I’m here, and they’ll be there the whole time … the worst thing that happens is that I panic in the middle and fail.”

They also impressed upon me, in the car, that they wanted me to do my best and push through the discomfort, as much as I could. In just a few days, they don’t know me well enough to know that I rarely give up in the middle, even with things I hate. I mean, okay, with certain people, I’ll just give up and let them help me. But with other things, my pride gets involved, and I don’t want to be seen asking for help, no matter what.

Anyway, my destination was a pharmacy. I had the address. Hannah The Uber Driver gave me some pretendedly-vague directions re: what street she “thought” we’d just passed (“So pharmacy might be behind us”), what street we were on now, and what was around (“There’s an alleyway to the left, and a sidewalk to the right”), etc.

But when I asked, “So when I get out of the car, which direction should I go?” or “Do you have any idea where X street is?”, she demurred.

I hissed to Jeffrey, “What else can I ask her?”

He kind of chuckled and was like, “She just gave you a lot of good information there.”

Well, probably she had … if I was the sort of person who could, you know, hold that in my head and mental-map … while panicking.

So I was kind of upset right from the get-go and was like, “Well, okay, I’ll just … do my best.”

What a horrible feeling (for me) this kind of situation is. I seriously can’t even begin to describe it. At least here, in Michigan, it was nice and quiet, without all the hustle and bustle and terrible racket of San Francisco. But still, my throat and mouth go all dry, I feel like I’m going to cry, and all I want to do is grab the nearest person and just ask them to either guide me to where I need to be or put me in front of a destination so I can get an Uber there.

Again, I’m not ashamed to admit it … but I totally am. And I feel completely compelled to all capitalistically be like, “Whatever, I spent the last ten years of my life fighting tooth and nail to get and keep the job I wanted … what have YOU done with your life?” Which, I know, isn’t even helpful. But I still want to make all kinds of justifications about how mobility never felt accessible or relevant to me, and how can people expect me to do something that makes me feel so fundamentally terrible and unsafe, etc. etc.

Anyway, back to the moment. I don’t even remember all the things that happened. I think first, I just … walked. Now, even as I did that, I knew — I totally knew! — that the right thing to do would have been to stop, think, and try to plan. But I was just like, “How am I supposed to plan when I literally have no idea what to do?”

Now, we were on familiar streets, let me name that. There’s a grid system, and then there are numbered streets, streets with tree names, etc. So all of that was familiar to me. We’d worked with those things. And I quote “should” have been able to do something with that information. But I just … could not. I couldn’t at all take the information Hannah had given me, apply it to what I already knew, and then extrapolate from there to figure out where I ought to head. So I was, quite literally, just “walking blind.”

I think my first plan was to ask someone for directions … but, of course, no one was around. I hit a couple of driveways, didn’t know if they were streets or not, and pulled out SIRI for walking directions. She, of course, was only moderately helpful, but did indicate (sort of) that I was going in the right direction. So I kept going.

Jeffrey, I might add, was right behind me, thank God. And he did talk to me, double thank God. If he’d done the whole, “I’m silently walking ten feet behind you … or am I?” thing, I would have lost my entire shit right there. But he didn’t, because I’d already told them, at the beginning of the week, how I cannot abide that.

Next, I think, was when I ran into (or rather aggressively pursued) some construction workers. This took me off my line of travel, but I didn’t care. As it turned out, they were clueless and didn’t know where the place was, but gave me their best guess. I turned around and went their way (which, thankfully, wound up being correct).

Jeffrey also let me know, at that point, that I was walking in the street.

Me (frustrated): They should have told me that! … Although I guess that’s not what I asked, but still!

They had also told me to cross at the next corner. SIRI told me something different, but I ignored her because (a) I wasn’t convinced she was giving good or particularly accessible walking directions anyway, (b) she said something like “turn right on X street,” and I didn’t know if that was the street I was on, and (c) again, it just seemed more … safe to just keep going and act like I knew what I was doing, even though I knew in my head that that was the opposite of helpful.

I know everyone always says to slow down, stand still, and think … but in the city, you CANNOT do that without everyone swooping down on you, pushing and pulling, and offering help, whether or not you need it.

People are ALSO always saying, “Look confident! Look like you know what you’re doing! Don’t hesitate, or people will mess with you!” I knew Jeffrey was right there and nothing was going to happen to me, but I just felt like I was in total Fight And Flight mode and couldn’t just stop and think.

Anyway, I had no idea what to do. So it wasn’t like I had anything I could pause and think about.

So, I crossed that street and was like, “Ooh, maybe they made this REALLY easy for me and the pharmacy’s right here!”

I blazed up the first staircase I found, which had one of those cloth things hanging at knee-height over its doorway, indicating it was closed. So, undaunted and still hopeful (and ridiculous), I blazed back down the steps and was about ready to ask at the NEXT building when Jeffrey was like, his… I’m gonna pause you right here, friend.”

He and Hannah very kindly talked me through what had happened so far, praised my good arc and my crossings, and whatever other kind things they could think of. They also gave me a couple hints. I was SUPER close to tears by then, but (of course, because I’m me), I acted like I wasn’t and just kept going.

I think I crossed a few more streets (nothing big, just all-quiet all-clears), then ran into some people who were eating outside. They knew where the pharmacy was and confirmed that I was going in the right direction, which amped me up a little.

I kind of forget how everything ended. I seem to recall that I had to cross a bigger street (like, with a stop sign or light), and was appalled that they’d make me do that for a dropoff, haha. But now that I think about it, I seriously don’t remember lining up for and crossing it. Oh, well, whatever, you got the highlights of the thing.

The point is, I got to the pharmacy, with their help.
Again, I was still mega-tearful. Jeffrey, perhaps deducing this, didn’t talk about the dropoff at all but, instead, answered one of my questions from earlier by teaching me an abbreviated cane technique to use in crowded stores. I’ve always just choked waaaay up on my cane, but Jeffrey advised using a pencil-grip. I asked if there was an alternative, because pencil-grip has always been really hard for me to maintain; it feels really unsustainable and makes my fingers hurt almost immediately. Hannah showed me that, instead, I can tuck the top of the cane under my arm, or farther back, more like against my ribs, and then use my standard grip along the shaft, below the handle. That worked really well.

Jeffrey showed me all around the store and had me follow him using this technique. This meant that he was able to steer me around pharmacy junk. He was also telling me all about random things in the store, and I was thinking to myself, “Wait, is this being videoed for his portfolio?” Because he’d also told me, earlier, he still needed videos for his class, and would I mind helping, and I’d said sure. But he’d said we’d do that AFTER the dropoff. So now, in hindsight, I think he was randomly going into vivid detail about the store so I could pull myself together and get my bearings.

Back outside, they had me cross the street again so we could get back to the van. (Again, mind-blowing to me that they don’t just default to, “You’ve just been through a tremendous ordeal; do you want human guide?” But I liked that! I rose to the occasion! Because I COULD do it, with their guidance, and it felt like it gave me some of my confidence back.

Jeffrey did help me a little, although now I can’t remember how … I think just because I was still a little flustered.

At the van, I was just blithely like, “Okay, now we’re going to do sidewalkless technique and your video, right!?” Again, classic Caitlin, to the tune of, “Can we please not talk about this!?”

Jeffrey was like, “One thing first,” and then gave such a sweet little speech about how much he appreciated my courage in doing something I hated, and something I hadn’t done in twenty years. Again, he praised my arc, and said my crossings were great. Hannah echoed him, adding that, even though I’d thought I didn’t know anything useful, there were a few clues I could have used. For example, since we’d been there multiple times this week, I knew that the street the pharmacy was on would be very loud. So, in a few places, I could have listened for a loud street, figured out where the noise was coming from, and made more correct, timely turns than I did. (She said it WAY more kindly than I’m writing it.)

They also did tell me, as I’d known they would, that it behooves us to slow down and make a plan, not just run amuck and not listen to SIRI (again, they said it much more kindly). They also named that my focus seemed to be to hop from one person to another, rather than listening to my own internal sense of direction, or even to SIRI which, they said, did give me correct directions that one time. They said they could tell, a few times, by my body language, that I wanted to go with Option A, but then I second-guessed and went with Option B, when Option A was right.

I think this was actually two conversations: one was IN the Pharmacy, and then Jeffrey stopped me before getting into the van to give me more of the Pump-Up Version, re: “There were many positives you can take away from this experience — many things you did well — and you have a lot to be proud of. I don’t want you to go home and beat yourself up over how this went.”

Of course, again, when anyone is kind to me and I feel fragile and upset, I’m just … a wreck, so I just kind of nodded along. I wasn’t about to beat myself up over how this had gone because, in my mind, there was no way it would have gone any differently than how it did, even with the scaffolding of them nearby and an easy, immediate out, if I’d needed it.

This isn’t to say that I don’t think I could EVER do a dropoff. But I know myself and my skills right now, and unless I know the route, or at least a piece of it, I’m not going to figure it out. Even given street names in a familiar area, I just have such a hard time being able to piece things together and put them into a map. I’ve never had anything even resembling a mental map in my head. The best I can do is write and follow a list of detailed directions: my own, non-image-based map. So unless it’s on my proverbial map — unless I’m familiar with enough elements of it to figure out where a thing lands on my “list-map” — I’m not going to find it. At least, not at this stage.

Still, I appreciated that Hannah and Jeffrey were being so kind, and that they’d had enough faith in me to try this. I truly know and believe that they were doing their best to set me up for success, and that, after only four days of working with me, it would have been impossible to gauge if I was just being self-deprecating when I said I could not do dropoffs. I can understand how some of the things I’m able to do might make me seem like more of a capable, competent traveler than I am … and that’s not me putting myself down. I think I have good spatial sense, and that I got a lot better at crossings and technique this week. But a “structured discovery model,” as many folks call it, just has not worked well for me. And because it was always forced on me, I think being thrust back into that (to me) horrible scenario, even with guardrails and kindness, was really activating.

For Jeffrey’s video, we did some work in an area without sidewalks. I vaguely remembered this from guide dog school; you do a thing called “indenting,” where you follow the sidewalk as it turns, then gauge when it has straightened out and then flag and cross.

Knowing how I always love when my kids do something epic while I’m videoing for evaluation, I asked Jeffrey a bunch of questions, like a nerdy, attentive student (which, in many ways, I am). They were questions I genuinely wanted to know the answers to, but I also knew they’d give him extra time to shine in his video, haha. The benefits of having a student who’s also a teacher in your video!

Also, though not on his video, Jeffrey told me the mnemonic for sidewalkless crossings is, “Ass in the grass,” which made me laugh. (As in, you square off with the grass behind you in order to cross, so, you know, ass in the grass.)

I also cited, for the record, as I had a couple of times before, that I still get completely confused after multiple street-crossings or cross-overs and lose total track of the direction in which I ought to be traveling. Jeffrey reminded me about using the sun as a marker when available, plus listening to parallel traffic and other clues, to get back to my line of travel.

We went back to the main building for our outtake (opposite of intake) interview.

First, I rated myself on various mobility skills, like I did at the beginning of the week; then Jeffrey added up the total. I was shocked that my score had gone from 13 out of 30 at the beginning of the week, to 21 out of 30 now. Jeffrey even said he would have given me more points on a couple items than I gave myself, and Hannah agreed that I’m more critical of my skills than she might have been, if asked to rate me. So that was genuinely nice and uplifting. If nothing else, I think I’ve gained a lot of confidence moving through space solo, and really, truly polished my cane techniques.

We also went through my list of goals; it turned out that we’d worked on almost all of them. Jeffrey definitely talked about stop signs versus stop lights versus controls; that’s always been something difficult for me to analyze by sound at an unfamiliar intersection, and because we were working on so many other things, I didn’t think to ask more clarifying questions and be more intentional about learning it.

Around about this time, Jeffrey mentioned the dropoff again, citing that it had been such a long time since I’d done something like that. For whatever reason, I started trying to remember precisely how long it had been since I’d jaunted off somewhere by myself without family, friends, a driver, or someone immediately to hand, even if it was a stranger, who could help me. That got me remembering when I first got to college at UCSC.

Even though I was terrified to be away from home, with no one I knew, I was also bold. I went off to events, not knowing where they (, who’d be there, or, sometimes, even how I’d get home. I went to the dining hall, where I depended on the staff to help me get food (which was awful because … feeding Caitlin is an art form), and sat either alone, hoping someone would come sit with me, or with randoms.

I had Lannie for some of that, but I was also realizing that the cane might serve me better, and because he had to go home sometimes for a cappella things I didn’t want to bring him to, I did do a lot of that with my cane.

CONTENT WARNING: Non-graphic mention of assault below. Skip to the next three stars, or use Find for the word “somehow,” if you need to skip.

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I was thinking about all that and realized the inevitable: that when I was sexually assaulted (though not violently) in November of my freshman year of college, by someone I thought I was a friend, my mobility confidence took a big hit. Not that the assault happened while I was out and about — it happened in my room — but I became so much more sensitive to being grabbed, pulled, and just SEEN, after that. I relied SO MUCH on Acquire and classmates to be my buffers, to keep me insulated from strangers and their unsolicited grabbing and “help.”

I couldn’t tolerate the risk that someone would grab or touch me unexpectedly, and it happened SO MUCH. It still does. People are often surprised, because I was and am such a touchy-feely person, but when I was raw and mentally frightened like that, I would lash out at people, sometimes even hit them, when they put hands on me unexpectedly. And I know that people who grab blind folks without consent DESERVE to get hit. But I don’t like feeling volatile like that. And I hate who I became after that even more: a person who, when alone, walks around tense and on-guard, and is much more likely to freeze and just let people haul me around.

It truly can feel like being constantly retraumatized, constantly reminded that my body isn’t mine, that I have little to no control over what happens to it. The most foolproof solution, then, was never to put myself in the position where I’d be overwhelmed with all those feelings, and reminded of the vulnerability that often runs hand-in-hand with blindness. That meant not taking chances, not doing mobility solo, not moving through space alone without someone to run block.

Somehow, all of this was running through one side of my brain while I was still keeping up with Jeffrey and Hannah and genuinely absorbing what we were talking about re: mobility this week. But at some point, all the thoughts just became really overwhelming.

The only words I could get out were, “I know a lot of it is all in my head.”

What I meant by that is that so many people have told me that, actually, I’m good at mobility. I have the skills. I even have the confidence, to some degree.

I know they’re right, that my fear and dread are in my head, that I CAN do it. I just don’t WANT to do it. At times, I feel like I can’t do it, like it’s just too raw and scary to be in the world alone especially presenting as I do: young, female, and disabled. Because, if two people who I thought were friends took physical advantage of my trust and vulnerability — and they did — then how am I supposed to have faith that the rest of the world will be kind?

Some days, I can, and I do. But on other days, and in some situations, especially when I feel powerless and like I don’t know what to do, I just … can’t. And maybe, if I wanted to work and work and work on it, I could force myself to do better and feel better. But I just don’t know if I want to.

This is why I get so mad when people, blind and sighted, say things like, “If you don’t have all the skills, you won’t get anywhere in life as a blind person.”

First of all, being successful can look like a million different things. And so can mobility. I’ve gone to conferences by myself, without knowing anyone. I’ve flown by myself countless times. I’ve taken the bus from San Francisco to LA. I get to my job every day, sometimes with Martha and sometimes on Para-Stranded. When I need to get there, I make it happen.

I can find my way just about anywhere I want to go. And I’ve done all that while doing my best to keep myself feeling secure and comfortable. Even if it means extra time on Para-Transit, extra planning, extra creative thinking, I’ve done it … and I don’t mind doing it, because that works best for me. And I think innovation and ingenuity ought to be worth just as much as always doing mobility, quote, “independently.”

My choices are respected to some people, but many others can (and do, often to my face) scoff, shake their heads, and tell me I’m not doing blindness right, or respectably, and that I’ll essentially grow up someday and “see” the error of my ways. But truly, now, I don’t care about that … at least, most of the time, I don’t.

My number one job in life is to preserve my own sanity. That doesn’t mean I won’t ever push myself, try new things. Clearly, I’m willing to push myself. If I weren’t, I never would have done this program. Even five years ago, I never would have done this program.

I wanted to be better, to do better, and I did. But I think I also still need to make peace with the fact that mobility is tangled up in a lot of really upsetting things for me: things I never really worked on, or brought to therapy, because there always seems to be so much else going on … and, yes, probably just because I don’t want to talk about them.

Anyway, since all I could get out was, “I know it’s all in my head,” Jeffrey and Hannah did what they could to speak to that. I think they thought I meant that I let other people’s voices influence me, and that people discourage me or don’t believe I can do things. Which is funny, because, actually, it’s completely the opposite. People are always telling me (some kindly, and some in a Blind Police-like way), that I have the skills to be better, and that it’s just will, not skill, holding me back. I can’t, off the top of my head, think of anyone of note, who knows me well, who doubts my capabilities. And I know I’m lucky to have that. I am. But it also means that, often, I worry that I’m falling short, that I’m disappointing people.

So yeah, it was heavy, and a few tears sneaked out … but of course I wasn’t about to go into all of this and open up a whole therapy session nobody signed up for.

Okay, on to the lighter stuff.

We worked together to set three goals for the next thirty days, at which point Hannah will call me to check in. Jeffrey The Best Intern Ever will be off on his next adventure, but Hannah did say she’d share my progress with him.

CAITLIN’S THIRTY-DAY GOALS

1: Plan a route with at least one crossing.

I know myself; if I could get away with it, I’d do a route without a crossing. But I’m challenging myself. SEE!?

My hope is, perhaps, to Para-Strand or cab to Destination A, hang there, then learn a route to another high-interest place, Destination B, that’s technically walkable from A, but which I’d typically take another cab to get to, if I were by myself, to avoid a solo route. Like, say I go to a restaurant I like, and then want to pop across the street to a Walgreens to get something. That would be perfect, and would avoid a one-minute Uber ride.

I’m crossing my fingers that Martha can think of a reasonable, high-interest scenario that doesn’t have too many terrifying street crossings between the two destinations. If I get really used to it, I do think that’s one thing I could do by myself, with a ride on each end. But I’d want to run it a time or two first.

2: Go to the beach or on a short hike, using my new Dakota disc and Jumbo Roller-Ball tip, to see which works best when.

I’m hoping Martha will be excited for this, because she loves to hike, and I’ve hitherto been whining that it’s boring. But I’ll have more fun if I can play with my new tips and do some solo walking to practice my skillzzzz!

3: Use Para-Transit to get to the mall; then, plan and perform a route to two stores.

— I seem to recall that Para-Transit usually has a designated entrance and pickup spot for our malls, which will actually be helpful as a home base for planning a route.

Martha’s allowed to help me with this one. Actually, I assume she’s allowed to help me with all of them. But I quibbled this one a bit, because I think it will take me longer to learn routes in the mall, with all its hustle and bustle and ruckus. Jeffrey said that planning and performing the route can happen at the same time, with or without any type of guidance. I’m down with that.

After outtake, I got a Leader Dog sticker for my cane (Hannah said it was the best job she’s ever done re: sticking it onto a skinny cane without getting bubbles in it), and Jeffrey gave me my own Dakota disk. Yay!

Then I went back to my room, had a good little cry to Martha and our friend Amy on Signal, and went to our last lunch. It was bittersweet because one of our cohort lives in Michigan, so was being picked up right after the graduation ceremony. So it was our last time partying down as a fivesome.

The graduation event was very sweet. They had it in the Banquet Room, with fancy tablecloths and those cool scallop-edged paper placemats I was obsessed with as a kid (okay, I still think scallop-edged paper is cool). One of our cohort pointed out to me that they were gilt-edged; you could feel the shiny goldness at the edges of the scallops, too!

The ceremony itself was quick. Lots of accolades from the instructor who ran it re: our bravery for coming so far, for pushing ourselves, and for being dedicated to making our mobility skills better. Most of us said a few words, and a couple of our cohort cutely cried (yay for feeling emotions in public! I need to learn from those folks.)

All our names were announced, and we each got a Leader Dog pin on a graduation card.

I vividly remember how pathetic my speech was when I graduated with Lanniekins (I was too overwhelmed with feels to speak eloquently), so I fully intended not to give a speech this time. But since we were all sitting at a table, and I wouldn’t have to get up and be awkward, I did give a little speech (we all did), expressing how proud I was of our cohort, how neat it was to hear everyone’s stories, and how I’ll definitely be telling all of blindkind about this program, its top-notch instructors, and the way this program truly treats us as individuals and enables us to work on our own unique goals, rather than some cookie-cutter model of what we “should” learn and “should” be doing.

Craig from the kitchen made me another chocolate-syrup-with-a-dash-of-vanilla sundae, and I’d brought my dark Oreos to crumble into it, much to everyone’s amusement. Everyone else had Italian sodas and various other snackies, and we took a group picture. I took a pic with Hannah and Jeffrey, too, and gave them each a big old squeezy Caitlin-hug before they left. I couldn’t believe how much I’d come to like and trust them over the week. I mean, they’re mobility teachers! (Kidding, kidding.) But seriously, it was very hard to say goodbye to them without breaking down.

Then we had delicious pork for dinner (it was soooo tender and juicy, and had little fat pockets throughout, plus yummy seasoning and crispy edges … I think it was my favorite meal there … even better than the sirloin steak, which tasted too smoky for me). Then I talked to my mom and Martha and, you know, did my Finch app before going to bed at 8:30, because I and my buddy Bill had to leave at 5:15 to catch our 8:45 flight.

Even though I gave my leftover snacks to the college kid in our cohort, I still had a job squeezing everything into my huge backpack. I’m not a good packer, especially when I’m impatient and can’t be bothered, so I’m sure I didn’t do myself any favors. But I got it all in. We had a driver and a driver-in-training from a contract company, so not a Leader Dog volunteer, but they were both lovely and so kind. I’d just been decrying my hatred of airport people’s insistence on putting blind folks in wheelchairs when we don’t need them, but I conceded to do it this time, because it would help Bill and me stick to together.

Remember the annoying guy who walked me off the plane when I got here? The one who was complaining about how heavy my backpack was (even though I offered to carry it) and whined about not getting any tips all day? I even tried to be funny and be like, “You should get a FitBit and give yourself a daily challenge! That might make it more fun!” and he was like, “No, I just want someone to buy me a FitBit as a tip.” Weak.

Well, the people Bill and I had were even worse! There were two of them, each pushing a chair, and they were sooo rude and ableist. They were complaining to each other about how much they hated their jobs, how to cheat the system so you can get sick days when you really just don’t feel like coming to work, how they want more tips, how their bosses were all trash, etc. They were even saying how much they hate having to help people with aisle chairs, which is SO unkind! Like, did they just think we couldn’t hear? And, again, I’m at their mercy, so I didn’t feel like I could confront them. The guy kept saying, “I’m not even trying to be offensive …” But bro, you ARE offensive! This whole conversation is offensive! I was just glad Bill and I have been dealing with this stuff forever, so we weren’t hurt or upset by their asshattery, but a person newer to blindness might really have been impacted, especially because it’s such a rude awakening coming from Leader to the airport and coming back to the real-world.

Oh, also, there was this gem:

Me: Could you all please keep an eye out for a family bathroom?

Girl (to Guy): Does she have to go to the bathroom?

What the heck?

Anyway, we shook them off at the gate (or, rather, they ditched out immediately as soon as we didn’t tip them), and we got great directions from some other guy (with a clockface! he knew his stuff!) to the security desk, and got seats together.

Now, Bill is very patiently sitting here while I frantically blog, and in between, we’re chatting about odds and ends. Also, Bill says to add that I forgot the peanut-butter sandwich Leader packed for me. I totally did forget it; it wouldn’t fit in my backpack. I was gonna carry it along, but then I forgot to snag it!

But now, I’ll go be a good neighbor and chat with Bill some more.

Squeeee, I will be reunited with my Martha and my Maíte soooo sooooon! I may never un-hug them! This was the longest I’VE left home, abandoning them behind me.

Thank you all SO MUCH for following along my journey. Here’s hoping I can continue blogging and don’t fall off the wagon again!

Remember to subscriiiiibe if you haven’t!

Image shows Caitlin and her O&M cohort – from about the knees down. In the front row are three pairs of tennis shoes, black, blue and purple and three white canes. In the back row are two more pairs of tennis shoes and two more white canes. The back left cane has a spherical tip, the back right has a marshmellow tip. Although the image doesn’t show their faces, I’m certain they all look proud and accomplished. :)

Leader Dogs, Day 5

Shout-out to my therapist for exhaustively reading this entire blog and making notes on all the reasons she’s proud of me, all the times she laughed, all the things she took the time to search up, and all the things we could talk about in future. She is truly the best, and I adore her and appreciate her beyond words.

Today for breakfast, I got a choco-chip muffin, and Jeffrey encouraged me (kindly) to try quinoa chocolate bark. Apparently, I tried this before, with Martha, on airplanes! But this one was homemade by the chef, and it was way tastier. It was a similar taste and texture to those chocolate / espresso coffee beans I used to snarf from Trader Joe’s: chocolatey and bitter and kinda … gritty. Shocking that I liked it, but I did!

Hannah had meetings, so Jeffrey and I did a quick route-plan, then reviewed and practiced a lot of the key take-aways from yesterday.

* I think I forgot to write yesterday that I’d somehow never really computed that we line ourselves up to cross along the inner curb because the traffic is closer to the outer curb. I mean, I guess I knew that … but not in those exact words. Necessarily. So you just listen to which side your traffic’s on, and then focus on the inner curb accordingly. MAGIC HACKS!

* This one took Jeffrey a couple tries to explain. When and if I veer while crossing a street, and my cane bumps a full curb on a left angle, that most likely means that, when I Go Go Gadget, the up-curb will be on my right, and vice versa. This may not always be true, but is a good place to start. We also talked about doing Go Go Gadget arm minimally at first, then extending farther on each side if I don’t immediately find something. If I go big first, I might miss the domes, since they’re often much closer than I think (IE, the veer is often not that big).

* Again, we practiced not moving my feet when I find the domes and using the traffic to check alignment on more simple crossing. For more complex crossings, I first line up with my shoulder lined up to the APS pole (we went from forearm to hand to shoulder because I am me and need Caitlin-specific choreography). Then, once I’m lined up with the pole, I use the traffic to confirm. This freaked me out a little because I’m usually not on the domes! I just have to trust the surge to guide me! I could also edge forward a LITTLE toward the domes, but carefully, so I don’t lose the magical position!

* Jeffrey reminded me again that it’s okay to wait until I get a parallel surge that I like. It’s okay to wait, take my time, and listen to one or more cycles to ascertain what’s going on and to make sure I’m lined up right.

* We also practiced using the traffic to get back on, or maintain, our line of travel. I always knew about this, but didn’t think as much about it in terms of avoiding sidewalk junk. Jeffrey pointed out that, typically, you get around sidewalk junk most safely by moving AWAY from the traffic. Maybe that should have been obvious, but, again, I just never thought about it that way.

* In terms of parallel surges, we talked about “The Golden Goose” surge, where the cars aren’t just tearing up to the intersection and passing through, but have been waiting for their turn, and are accelerating. This is complicated by the fact that (a) a lot of new cars idle very quietly, causing me to think no one is waiting and that they might be a new arrival, rather than an accelerator, and (b) in busy intersections or areas with lots of noise, it can be hard (for me, anyway) to differentiate.

* Funny moment:

Me: This car’s waiting for me, huh? But I want my all-quiet, all-clear.

Jeffrey: Right. What can you do to encourage him to move on? (Without thinking, I whirled around and pulled up my cane, acting like I was going to leave.)

Jeffrey: Ahh, don’t move those feet!

Me: Ahhh, I forgot!

Jeffrey: Look down or look away, but don’t move those feet.

Me: Should I look, you know, in the opposite direction? Or in their direction, so they know that I know they’re there?

Jeffrey: I think “nose to ground” is a good reminder.

After our water break back at the downtown lounge, we spent some more time with the Wheatley boards. Those are the big felt-covered boards with plastic strips for streets, blocks for intersections, little squares with bumps for truncated domes, little cars and people, etc. These can be velcroed in whatever place you want, to build intersections, simulate crossings and movement of pedestrians and cars, etc. It really seems like an art form to me when these instructors just built complex intersections in a trice.

We did a review of complex lighted intersections. Like with yesterday, Jeffrey took the time to explain things like lanes, different scenarios, being careful about cars that might turn unexpectedly and what can be done, etc.

We then did a quick walk to a complex intersection. It sounded SO wild, but Jeffrey made it clear that we were just going to listen, not cross. He wanted me to be able to hear it in person after we’d simulated and discussed it with the board. Hannah was also able to join us on this leg of the journey, which was great, because she and Jeffrey often tag-team and riff off each other with extra tips, ideas, suggestions, and noticings.

After lunch, we went to the mall, because I’d asked for techniques for the mall, stores, etc.

Best line:

Jeffrey (as Hannah cranks some music): Is this that song y’all were singing earlier? “Lifestyle Of Evan Williams?”

Me: Ahahahahahaha!

Jeffrey: Something about … Dean Williams?

Hannah: “Dear Evan Hansen.”

Jeffrey: Oh, is that what it was?

Me: My dad calls it “Dear Evan Handsome,” if that helps.

In the mall, we talked about using sounds as markers, which sounds like a good idea until you think about all the competing sounds in malls: fountains, mall music, people talking, echoes, music coming from individual stores, etc. Now that I look at it, that list actually doesn’t seem that intense, but it all adds up and becomes a lot. We practiced escalators and went up to Nordstroms. I was going to try soliciting verbal directions to the bathroom from a salesperson, but some customer who reminded me uncannily of my mom was taking forever and a day at the counter.

Me: Can you just pretend to be a stranger and I’ll practice with you?

Jeffrey (turning into his alter-ego, Joffrey The Boy King from Game of Thrones, which he’d told me about): Helloooo, madam, can I … (sketchily) help you?

Hannah (amused): Oh, no …

Me (trying to stay in Caitlin character): Can you please give me verbal directions to the women’s bathroom?

Joffrey (sinisterly): Yes. I’d loooove to. (breaking character) Okay, no, that got creepy.

Me: Ahahaha it was great.

Jeffrey: Okay, Joffrey’s gone, I’m back.

Hannah and I also practiced bathroom tips, but their Nordstroms bathroom was waaaay more straightforward and chill than ours. Still, good notes: try to stick with one wall at a time (not just flail around and go in wild circles, like I frequently do, in search of the stalls); trail the walls with the back of a hand; be mindful that sinks may stick out; etc.

Jeffrey also showed me one of those enormous marbles that rolls around and around in water. I can’t explain it now, but Martha showed me one at the county fair. They’re so wild!

We also talked about how malls seem totally, ridiculously insurmountable to me, but I could pick out a couple of stores and plan a route beforehand. And because they are cool, Hannah and Jeffry reiterated that human guide is a tool in my toolbox! So if I want to do that — if that makes the most sense, like if I just want to browse a mall and not get hung up on every single piece of mall junk — that’s an option.

Hannah also noted that many malls open before the actual stores open, and that would be an ideal time to practice, map out routes, etc., like when I used to practice my routes for school in the summer, or after school. Much easier to learn the route without people swarming everywhere.

On the drives to and from, we talked about odds and ends, from why I became a SpEd teacher, to my attempts to find something noise-canceling that doesn’t make my hearing feel weirdly occluded, to their experiences doing extensive training under blindfold. One of the ladies in our cohort also did a route with a blindfold and poignantly said to me, “I have so much respect for you, Caitlin, because my blindfold comes off, and yours doesn’t.” My “best straight guy friend,” Mitch, from college, said something similar after he did a Dining In The Dark-type simulation, and it really just warms my heart when people empathize in that way. I know people have big feelings about simulations, but when they’re paired with training, education, and-or exposure, as in these cases, I really do think they have their place, teaching empathy but not pity.

I was going to take a nap, but one of our crew texted our thread and told us there was ice cream in the piano lounge, and another told me there was an Oreo-type thing that I’d probably like … and she was right! At dinner, Jeffrey delivered my mail: a brailled letter from Martha (and Maite). Soooo cuuuute! I may or may not have gushed and bragged a bit about how sweet and brilliant she is. Everyone was properly touched.

We had fun chats about favorite desserts and adventures of the day, and I told the group that I, very suddenly, felt a huge influx of big feelings about leaving. I was a wreck after leaving guide dog school because I’d bonded so much with the cohort. And when I left LA after the “Dreaming In Color” summer, I was more sad than I think I’ve ever been in my life. For weeks! I cited that it’s not just about leaving the people and the, like, vibes, which is hard enough; it’s also about leaving a world that feels built for us, where blindness and visual impairment is normal, where we’re understood, respected, and treated well. It can feel very hard to leave that, especially when there are stressors at home, and when you feel some anxiety about preserving and keeping up what you’ve learned, as with guide dog school, but this time on your own (until you teach your people the things you learned, so they can support). The crew, of course, got this.

I forgot to mention that I tried the jumbo roller cane tip today and liked it as a lighter option. It doesn’t hop over cracks like the Pathfinder and Sensaball, but it does pretty well and is much lighter. I bought one at the RA office so I have it as an option.

I also did my best to take pics of the braille rails, wall of snacks (with its braille labels), and fridge (with the braille labels on its shelves) for my therapist. We’ll see how I did.

And, as ever, I’m zonking out! Only one more day … nooooo! I feel like I’ve been here forever!

Image shows a bird’s eye view of a white painted hand rail with a “bump dot” screwed into it. Underneath it, on the floor, is a dark blue line running parallel to the wall, very visible against the white floor. Presumably for folks with some vision can use it. Unless it’s for the guide dogs? Next in the picture are Caitlin’s two feet, in their special, ankle-saving shoes and pride socks. Next to her right foot is her cane – the bottom section is red and it has a cane tip I don’t recognize on it. It’s red and white but I don’t think it’s the Sensaball. I’m doing my best, people. Caitlin is long abed and I’m posting this after choir practice. Which was awesome.

words from home

I don’t know about y’all, but I love reading these posts. Many of you probably know that in the very beginning of our friendship, Caitlin and I did a LOT of writing together. We met at a school we were both working at and as summer began, we decided to start our own writing group, just the two of us. We agreed we would write for 10 minutes every day, and send that writing via email to one another. I looked forward to reading her words every day. Sometimes we’d exchange emails beyond that, usually related to what one of us had written. After a while I asked, “Do you do texting?” which now seems hilarious to me, knowing how very much Caitlin texts, and also because it NOW feels like, doesn’t everyone text?

And of course she said, “Yes, absolutely,” and the texting began. We texted so many, many times a day. I used to use an app that allowed me to download my texts and seriously there were thousands of texts before we even began officially “dating” or whatever you want to call it. Speaking for myself, all those words were a real part of falling in love.

We moved in together when the shelter-in-place started in California (thinking it was going to be ‘just a few weeks’) and the texting mostly stopped. I mean, we did still sometimes text each other from the other room when we were each online, working. Sometimes texts were like, What is going on in there?! or Would you please get the dog out of my area?

Fast forward to today and living together means that most of our communication these days is spoken (unless I’m out of town). There are still SO MANY WORDS. We talk a lot! We both have things to say and of course, Maite has plenty she wants to say, too.

And we still write together, although nowadays at the end of a writing sprint, I usually read what I wrote aloud and Caitlin usually makes me wait till the piece she is working on is done. Which means I get to read a lot fewer words on a regular basis, so reading these along with y’all is a real treat for me. I love her turn of phrase and have laughed out loud for real with each of these posts. I love to read what’s going on in her mind in conversations. (I miss those FB posts about things her students said to her!) And I am glad to read about how it’s going out there as she does her thing in a completely unknown place. Bonus points to the person who added those Oreos to her ice cream.

Leader Dogs, Day 2

Let me just say right now what a fantabulous job the kitchen is doing with my ARFID. Like, seriously, I have never been catered to (pun intended) so thoroughly (a) without either someone else or myself having to do a boat-load of extraneous advocacy, and-or (b) without feeling like I’m a huge, babyish burden.

Between the jet-lag, nerve-citedness, and my inability to sleep on any pillow ever besides my own (I really should invest in a travel pillow, but I bet that wouldn’t work right either), I wasn’t too hungry for breakfast. The sausages were delicious, though, and I already requested milk and water for every meal. It just so happens that I’ve felt a little sluggish in my body of late, and because soda is an easy scapegoat, I have blamed him and am divorcing him forthwith, at least for the time being. Just when there’s a shelf literally Braille-labeled “Pepsi” in the RA’s office, calling to me. Anyway, the kitchen staff also checked in with me, knew all about my safe foods (I sent them a list, but I often do that and people just willfully disregard it or think I’m exaggerating), and basically said they’d give me Caitlin-food substitutions (IE, plain chicken, burgers, peanut-butter-no-jelly sandwiches, etc.) in place of the fancy things I won’t eat, which is pretty much every meal here, because guide dog schools, like I said, are basically akin to resorts … and are also way better than the literal cruise I went on last year, which had me subsisting on milk, salami and cheese slices, and soft-serve from one floor and Oreo crumbs Martha spirited from a whole different place on the ship.

I also continue to love the Braille Rails, as I call them. Just having those bump-dots and all the Braille labels as reference points is so cool.

After breakfast, we got buddied up with our 1:1 instructors, but because I am a lucky duck, I get TWO instructors: Jeffrey, who’s an intern (he’s almost done!) and Hannah, who my friend, Alexis told me was awesome! They were both incredibly sweet, understanding, and hilarious from the get-go, which quickly put me at ease. I mentioned my anxiety around mobility, and all of my “anti-goals,” as I call them: dropoffs, instructors following you silently, etc. Jeffrey was very clear that I’ll have a say in everything we do, AND he added that a dropoff at the end of the week might be a good confidence-builder IF I decide I want to do it. That thought, of course, is beyond horrifying right now, but I shall not pass judgment until I get to Friday … or I guess Thursday.

I also talked about my general feeling, whenever I do solo mobility, that I’m in the way, slowing people down, appearing clumsy and incompetent, etc., and that I struggle with advocating for my own bodily autonomy in the face of a stranger or a frenetic situation. It was really nice to air these grievances and feel truly understood and respected.

I also mentioned that I have no idea if my cane technique is ideal, or even if my cane’s length was ideal, so we started out using a few different canes. We settled on one that, I think, is slightly longer than the one I brought, which I remembered later is my shortest one. I got a shorter one to accommodate my love for the Pathfinder and Sensaball tips, which are free-wheeling and, as I once said to a friend, “bounce over cracks with tremendous alacrity.” I love these tips, but they increase both the weight and length of the cane. AND, as it develops, I’m very tense in the way I hold my cane. Hannah had me laughing when she called it a “dinosaur arm,” and Jeffrey cited “Go, go, gadget.” This is why we all vibed.

Some fun news is that I nailed stairs, and that, actually, aside from my needing to choke up less on the cane handle and work on narrowing my arc, my cane technique is not rusty enough to give me tetanus. Considering that I haven’t had consistent O&M (I literally just wrote M&M, oops) since I was eighteen, and from sixteen to eighteen was with a guide dog, not a cane, I’m actually surprised I don’t have more egregiously bad habits than I do.

My arc has been an issue ever since I can remember. Teachers used to tease that it looked like I was clearing the way for ten people. I’ve gotten better at keeping it within my shoulders, but it still sometimes goes a little far to the side. This is a problem because, for example, if your cane’s way off to the left and straggling its way back to the right, something might hit me on my right side while the cane’s trying to catch up. So if the arc’s narrower, it has less ground to cover and will keep me safer in my little bubble.

The tricky part is that, between narrowing the arc, needing to relax my wrist and elbow while holding the cane closer to my body, and holding the cane closer to its top rather than further down the handle, my arm and wrist were complaining a bit. Hopefully, it’s just a new sensation, and as it becomes muscle memory, it will be easier on my weak little spindly wrists.

Another thing I asked about, because I literally promised someone I would (although now I forget who I promised!), was how to instruct a panicked, untrained sightie in guiding me through a doorway. Because doors open so many different ways, people are rushing, they’re often crowded areas, etc., I find that this is a place where many guides just freak out, flail, grab, push, pull, abandon, etc. It turns out that the life hack is to encourage the guide to do the narrow-passage technique and continue guiding as normal. I’m excited to see if instructing in this way will stop people from feeling awful about how doorways inevitably go.

I cited some other things I want to work on, but I imagine we WILL work on them and they’ll come up then, so I won’t go on and on. We walked the practice course twice to cement the relaxed shoulder, all-in-the-wrist technique, and reviewed the dorm one more time.

I then had a delicious peanut butter sandwich for lunch, which honestly was just so … calming and predictable, haha. I also discovered that the braille schedule on the bulletin board in the hallway had been tacked up upside-down, which caused some hilarity.

For the afternoon session, we went to the downtown to the training center there. The mobility stuff gets a little more technical here, but I’ll share some cool stuff we worked on:

* Anchoring: I somehow had never heard of this or been taught it. Essentially, when your cane touches a doorway, you keep its tip flush with the doorway while lifting the cane so that it’s pressed vertically against the door. You can then use the cane, not your hands and fingers, to feel for a doorhandle. This could prevent some nasty bites from hinges or hasps or whatever all else doors are made of, although I suppose you also have to still be careful not to get hit in the face.

Similarly, you can use anchoring at curbs. I was always taught, when hitting a curb, to do a big, side to side sweep before stepping up. The anchoring technique involves bringing your feet close to your cane tip as it anchors to the step, then lifting your cane to gauge the step’s height, as well as the area just at the top of the step, enough for you to step up safely. Then, and only then, can you go on your merry way. This gives you a better sense of how high up the step is, and also prevents you from blazing up curbs while swinging your cane wildly in a sweep as you chase after it, the way I was doing.

* Cut-backs: Another thing I never heard about! Basically, cut-backs confirm that you’re maintaining your intended line of travel after crossing a street, rather than veering off into a sidewalk or alley. I’m still kinda figuring these out, but essentially, this gets you away from the street, and involves shorelining until you find the “opening” back to the sidewalk.

* I was introduced to the genius term “sidewalk junk” to refer to things like trash cans, parking meters, and random signs, which I loved. In turn, I kept unintentionally using ostentatious words like, well, ostentatious. And circuitous. And lackadaisical. Which amused Jeffrey … who promptly also started punning.

* I told Jeffrey that I was going to write about this experience in my blog, and he rallied that he needed to video-tape part of our lesson for his mobility exam portfolio thing. Seems only fair.

* Apparently, in quieter areas, if you cross crookedly, you don’t need to leap up onto the sidewalk like a scalded cat and start springing around trying to find the curb-cut. You can stay in the street, as long as you’re safe, and feel around with your cane to see if you’re close to the curb. Who knew?

* The Three Rules Of Street Crossing:

1. Plant your feet, as though they’re in cement. Jeffrey said “see-ment,” which Martha also says, which made me grin and emulate him.

2. Extend your cane across your body. This is called a diagonal, which does make sense, but for some reason, I literally forgot about five times what this step was called. It was unclear. My brain was probably shorting out from having had more mobility than I’ve seen (pun) in years.

3. Flagging: I just learned this one when I had a couple O&M lessons last year. This asks you to get drivers’ attention by decisively extending your cane and indicating that you’re beginning to walk. Both in high school and last year, I was taught to go really big with this, and when I’m asked to go big, I go big. I think I almost hit Jeffrey with my wild flagging … which is not surprising, because I smacked someone’s car roof last year when I learned this. Jeffrey told me that, like with my arc, I can go smaller and that, if I start on the right, I , which is where my cane seems to like to be when I start to cross a street.

4. Take a big first step, and then pick up that pace!

* I practiced soliciting assistance across a street from Hannah, who pretended to be a wrist-grabbing newb with no experience of blind-kind. We had a good little talk about bodily autonomy and not being afraid of inconveniencing sighted people in general, whether they’re guiding or getting in my way, as I travel. True, but hard for me to internalize.

Those were the highlights! Tomorrow, we’ll do some route-planning and intersections, maybe lighted ones. We just did “all quiet, all clear” crossings today, to practice the mechanics. Other folks did way more complex stuff, but I’m internalizing what Hannah and Jeffrey impressed upon me: that, literally, we’re all on our own path, and that building confidence and skills that feel helpful to me is all that matters.

Can I also just say that it’s super weird to me not being guided everywhere the instant I struggle? I mean, I fully own that I am extremely guilty of letting myself be guided even when I don’t need it … again, mostly because, the second I take a wrong turn, it feels like sighties everywhere have a whole fit and scurry over to save me, which often involves touching and grabbing. So it’s become so easy for me to just … avoid all that and let myself be guided. But there’s no grabbing here! People give verbal directions when asked, and I feel simultaneously looked after and more independent for having taken on that extra ten seconds of fumbling … because it’s not really fumbling, it’s just finding my way there, and who cares what it looks like? It’s wild to me how I can and do totally believe this for other people, but have such a hard time with it for my own self.

I appreciate Jeffrey and Hannah for making mobility fun again, and told them so. There was so much laughter, talking, and silliness, and yet, we got a ton done. They were so kind, encouraging, and complimentary, and I feel so hopeful in light of that. As I told them, I do want to learn, and I do want to be better at mobility than I am. It just never felt particularly relevant to me, nor did I feel like I was able to understand it. They talked some about how the approaches to mobility are changing, and taking into account that a one-size-fits-all approach isn’t ideal in many cases.

In closing, we had a fun, tasty dinner … I ate a whole chicken breast and garlic bread, which is a lot for me in what has the potential to be a high-stress, intense week, without anyone here I know. At guide dog school, they literally called my mom to make sure I wasn’t going to die because I was eating so little and running myself so ragged. Granted, I wasn’t diagnosed with ARFID yet, so didn’t get any food accommodations, and it was a whole month, and I was a nervous wreck, but still! I love not having to worry about food on top of everything else. AND they gave me a cup of milk to-go for my room. So kind.

And now I have written these blogs while intermittently getting up to dance and sing to everything from “Dear Evan Hansen” to Disney jams, and it’s definitely time to get to bed. Sweet dreams and more tomorrow, assuming I still have the strength, haha. But I feel great, and am so, so happy that I took this plunge and that I’m being supported and taught in a way which feels fun, consensual, and accessible to me.

Stay tuned!

Leader Dogs, Day 1

This was my travel day, but a lot still happened at Leader, so it gets its own post.

First of all, y’all’s friend Caitlin’s alarm-setting math went like this:

Me (to self): Okay, my flight leaves at 8:35 AM. That means I should be at the airport by, like, 6:45. So I’ll set my alarm for 5:45 AM, be showered and dressed by 6:15, check my packing list one more time, and I’ll be good!

In case you, like me, aren’t a math person, I’ll make this very clear: I apparently assumed that I was going to magically fly to the airport in about ten minutes.

Luckily, we actually did get to the airport around 6:30, because I was faster than expected, and Martha is always ready for action at a moment’s notice, so she was set way before I was.

Just for funzies, the person at the airport wanted to give us a hard time about gate passes, KTN numbers, etc., and kept doing the, “Will she need a meet-and-assist? Will she need a wheelchair?” Shockingly, even though I’m often infantalized in scores of other ways, this isn’t one that happens to me often. Martha, and most of my people, always ignore, I answer, and the asshattery stops there. But this time, even though Martha had stepped back to literally put herself out-of-frame, and even though I was answering very pointedly, the “Does she” questions kept coming. It was too early to duel about it, but between that, my BrailleSense getting kidnapped for literally ten minutes at security until I blind-card whined, “That’s my braille notetaker and I need to get on my flight,” and the flight attendants and my seatmates not responding helpfully to my bids for access, I was pretty ready to be in a blindie space and take a break from sighted nonsense. Oh, and there was also the employee who tried to force my hand onto her shoulder for sighted guide, the flight attendant who tried to haul me down the airplane aisle by the wrist, and the so-called meet-and-assist who insisted on carrying my backpack even though I told him I’d do it, then panted exaggeratedly like he was going to die, and whined about how no one had tipped him all day and his job was so hard. Bro, let me carry my brick of a backpack like I asked and your job will be less hard, I promise.

Luckily, my volunteer driver from Leader Dogs, Doug, was lovely. He gave me the lowdown on all the things Leader Dogs and, because he told me he and his wife are avid cruisers, I regaled him with the horror story that was Martha trying to keep me from starving to death on Royal Caribbean’s Star Trek cruise last year (I should really do a blog post about that, but TLDR, their food was appalling … like, seriously, summer camp food and college dining hall food were way better).

I was the last of the O&M crew to arrive, and because I jumped from San Fran to Michigan and there was a three-hour time difference, it was already dinnertime. I’m not a great traveler at the best of times, and my nerv-citedness just exacerbates that. Luckily, the first RA I met, Diane, took my mini-flip-out about “What? How is it dinner?” right in stride by telling me I could have a half-portion and spiriting me into the dining hall.

In my experience, being in blindness-centered spaces is kind of a double-edged sword, triple if parents are factored in.

Edge 1: It’s so nice to be among people who know the struggle.

Edge 2: It also kind of magnifies blindness, because along with the presumed competence comes more flailing and productive struggle, which can feel awkward to someone like me, who tends to allow others to help as a means of avoiding looking like a doofus.

Edge 3: If parents, or blindness professionals, or high partials are around, I sometimes feel this low-key pressure to impress, to be competent, to not fumble, to not need help … because it can feel like the other blindies around me don’t need as much as I do.

Sure enough, right away, I managed to displace the cups in the cup dispenser in the RA’S office when I washed my hands, follow Diane into the dining room awkwardly with my “Oh no I’m in a blind space and don’t want to trip anyone” panic, and then not being able to stow my cane in the nifty little broom-holder apparatuses they use on the backs of the chairs here. Rose, one of the kitchen staff who’s also a Leader Dog client, stepped in so kindly to help me and was like, “It’s because all your bling makes your cane so much thicker. Have you been watching Molly Burke?”

This both amused me and horrified me because … no shade, but I’m not a fan. And I never thought my bling would make me seem like one? I mean, not to brag, but I’ve been rocking a cane since 2013. I started a revolution (no pun intended … Revolution is a cane company)! But, no, it was funny, and she did manage to show me a hack to get my cane to comply.

It developed that the O&M crew have our own table, and that we have two retired teachers, one person who lives in Santa Cruz, and one who’s going to college to become an elementary-aged teacher. So, you know, the group was basically constructed just for me, clearly. Everyone was super kind and friendly, and filled me in on the info they’d gleaned by arriving way before me.

After dinner, Diane acclimated me to the dorm. The raddest thing is that there’s a railing system along the hallway with bump dots … so, as you’re trailing, you feel a bump dot, which cues you to read the braille and raised large print above it, which tells you what’s ACROSS the hallway, which, of course, also serves as a landmark for your side of the hall, too. I’ve never seen any system like this before and I was so into it!

The whole experience was also giving me the warmest, fuzziest Guide Dogs For The Blind feels, since I went there in 2006 … which I was horrified to realize, for the first time, was twenty freaking years ago. TWENTY! I am thirty-six! What even is life? I had Lannie twenty years ago. Twenty! Okay, I’ll stop.

But anyway,

Like many guide dog schools, this one feels like a legit resort: Alexa in your room will read your daily schedule and meals to you ahead of time, as will the old-school phone turned new-school; outlets, drawers, hooks, and counter space everywhere; a freaking ginormous desk and chair; a recliner; you name it. And don’t even get me started on the freaking Snack Wall. Anyone who knows me knows that I subsist largely on goldfish crackers, chips, and store-bought treats. If you’ve ever seen Martha’s and my snack wall, just know that the Leader Dogs one puts ours to shame, mostly because mine is, of course, restricted to Caitlin-foods only. This one has, like, ever candy, chip, or bar you could ever want … except, strangely, not Fritos, but this can totes be forgiven.

They also left a surprise Leader Dogs backpack and water bottle on a hook for each of us … and offered to put a Braille-on “CAITLIN” label on mine. So cuuute! These little touches never fail to melt my soul, like when the Braille Challenge people gave us labeled shampoo, conditioner, and shaving gel bottles that one year.

My phone was janked up, so I wound up going back to the RA office after unpacking, and they not only fixed my phone but gave me the WiFi and a yellow Gatorade, because the braille label just said “Gatorade Assorted” and I cannot. Only yellow forever, please and thank you … and it’s great because normies tend not to like yellow, so I bet I’ll be helping everyone out.

And then I talked to my mom, texted my dad (who just moved to Kentucky and was subsequently in my time zone), and had a good-night chat with Martha and my precious giant baby Rock Wilder, Maíte the Magnificent, whom I miss desperately. Seriously, if I don’t get to hug a dog sometime this week, we may have a problem. I have gotten so attached to my dogter that it’s probz not ideal. And Martha keeps sending me adorable clips of her snorfling and toe-tapping and snoring. So much better than weak pictures, right!?

Also, just saying, I’m still loving the Finch app, and I’m getting to check off all my exercise goals while I’m here! So if you have Finch and wanna be friends, come join myself and “The Mouth,” named after the famous YouTuber (ahahahaha YouTuBird!) who is basically a ventriloquist genius. Search him up if you have not.

Stay tuned for Day 2; if I can keep up my writing flow, I’ll catch up tonight.

Also, in case anyone cares, Alexa is playing me the Dream Street album, and it is two-thousands-bubblegum-tastic and I have no shame.

Okay, more laterz. Huggles if wanted.

Into the maelstrom

Y’all. This world is…something else. I am still moved to tears on a regular basis about what we (the US as well as other countries) are doing in the name of…what? Capitalism? I don’t understand, honestly, how people can continue to act as if nothing is happening. I am doing all the things I know how to do in terms of boycotting and avoiding companies. I am speaking up whenever and where ever I can. And yet I still feel…hopeless. And ridiculous as I try to make videos and write stories for children.

This week I read One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This, by Omar El Akkad. It’s a deeply personal look at the ongoing crisis in Gaza and the way we, as part of Western civilization are managing – whether we are complicit, witnessing or actively looking away. It was a tough read.

And yet, it’s not all dark. He writes about things people are doing, boycotting and walking away from jobs, students denouncing their universities and others refusing to participate with their dollars in other ways. He writes about the responses of those in power – their shock and dismissiveness. Here’s a quote:

“The idea that walking away is childish and unproductive is predicated on the inability to imagine anything but a walking away from, never a walking away toward—never that there might exist another destination. The walking away is not nihilism, it’s not cynicism, it’s not doing nothing—it’s a form of engagement more honest, more soul-affirming, than anything the system was ever prepared to offer.”

Even as I continue to participate in the ways I have been, I am going to shift my own language away from the things I’m resisting. From now on I want to focus on the things I’m turning towards, smaller businesses, local community and building stronger interpersonal networks. I’m turning towards the arts and whatever joy and understanding I can muster. What are the ideas you are turning towards in this maelstrom?

Image is of a lightning storm at night – it’s dark and cloudy and the lightning looks pink.

NAME GAME

HINT: Skip to the end if you're wondering why Martha calls me "TJ."

For as long as I can remember, I wanted a nickname. For whatever reason, I've always connected nicknames with words like "blindie," blind jokes, and the right to (with consent) guide me in an unconventional way. All these things have to be earned.
In the same way I despise outer-circle folks going around pontificating about "blindies," teasing me for a "blawkward" (blind plus awkward) moment, or steering me by the shoulders, I have always chafed at people's insistence on calling me "Cait," "CJ," or, God forbid, "Caity," unless they've expressly been told that I liked it.

I wonder if I connected these ideas because, in the same way people project false familiarity around blindness, I feel that people have attached nicknames to me as a means of declaring friendship, connection, or even ownership that isn't really there. Or maybe it's just because, as a blind kid trying to cut it in a sighted world, with extracurriculars, blind stuff, and (then unidentified) ARFID sprinkled over a typical childhood, I felt like I had so little autonomy.

As a kid, I was Caitlin to just about everyone. Very early on, my dad nicknamed me Trouble, or its derivatives, Troub and Troublemaker ... but that was very much his nickname alone. No one else used it until, years later, entirely unaware of my dad's nickname for me, my seventh-grade science teacher also awarded me the same label.

"Cait" and "Caity" were exclusively family names, with only my grandparents and Aunt Linda allowed to use "Caity." My grandpa, with his affinity for Spanglish mixed with the occasional German from my grandma, called me "Diablito," or "little devil." In hindsight, I found it interesting that he didn't use "Diablita"; perhaps this was a nod to my wild-child, tomboyish behavior. I wish I'd thought to ask him before he passed away in 2012.

By fourth grade, I was taking nicknaming into my own hands. My infamous Deraitland bestie, Derek, myself, and some other friends sometimes invented languages. In one, "Caitlin" backwards became "Niltiac," pronounced sort of like "Nil-shyack." In another, "Caitlin" in braille, upside-down, became "Itincoma," which I loathed and Derek, subsequently, used often in an attempt to rankle me.

The nickname I lusted after constantly was CJ, for my first and middle initials. Derek, happily, was DJ, a nickname which I used a lot. CJ never really took, but for a time, we became "Coodge" and "Doodge," with the double Os in "book." But these were very much Deraitland names, and perhaps with good reason. I could be misremembering, but they may have been a nod to our constant fixation with imitating the speech synthesizers of the time. Though CJ and DJ would not have been read as "coodge" and "doodge," those names were reasonable approximations of how a screenreader might have misread them.
By fifth grade, I was going totally rogue. I brailled and typed "Cat Hernandez" on all my papers, as though it was my given name. When some grown-ups would obligingly write "Cat" but never call me that, I tried Kit, Kit-Cat, and, in a final, desperate attempt, C. Nothing worked.

"Cait" and "Caity" remained staples with the family; my dad added "It" and "Little It" to Troub and Trouble; and my sister, for reasons I now can't remember, called me Poopsy. My mom, when I was being particularly cute, would call me her "Little Lamb Chop," which I liked only because I loved both lamb chops and the show Lambchop's Playalong. But such a nickname was too sappy for public consumption.

This seems like a logical time to pause and state that I have no problem with the name "Caitlin." It fits me. I'm especially grateful my parents picked the spelling they did, not only because I prefer the way my spelling looks in braille to that of all the others, but also because it enables me to make my albeit somewhat confusing crack, "Caitlin: remember, two Is but cannot C. Get it? Two EYES but cannot SEE," which, if you don't think about it so hard that you wonder whether the "cannot" means you ought to use a K and not, in fact, the correct C, helps people spell my name correctly.

No ... in spite of the fact that there's no good story behind my name, other than that it went well with Courtney, my older sister's name, and that my dad had heard the name and thought it was, quote, "nice," I like my name. I think, though, that I did sometimes come to associate it with being in trouble. Maybe it was because people couldn't wave, make eye contact, or get to me visually, but often, even today, when I hear my name called, even in a casual way, I immediately panic and think that I'm in trouble. Sad, but perhaps true ... and possibly a reason why I always longed for a nickname that wasn't restricted to a certain crew of friends.

In college, I tried to start out as CJ with my a cappella group. A few people used it somewhat, but in more of a tongue-in-cheek way, not as a true nickname. Amusingly, a label which did stick was "Cajherna," derived from my collegiate e-mail address, which I had not chosen. Apparently, there were so many C Hernandezs that the system spat out the second letter of my name, my middle initial, and the first part of Hernandez. I had to dictate my school e-mail address so many times when signing in at events that my a cappella group, claiming it sounded like a sneeze, began to call me that every so often. Another of the Acquire contingent, Andrea, also took to teasingly calling me Button, which came to light because of a random guy who, upon seeing us in Safeway and recognizing us from busking, said, "I remember you all singing, and I had to stop and tell you ... you're just as cute as a button." Some casual ableism there, as he must have known we were both college students and still insisted on treating me like a disabled child. However, as with "blindies," we took the comment and turned it into something fun.

Some other in-group names:
* Dez: short for Hernandez, from a later Acquire member, Caroline, and later adopted by the CRE Outreach (now Arts Up LA) boys.
* MC, PC, LC: standing for "Poor Child," "My Child," and "Little Caitlin," respectively: all nicknames my dad came up with in the era of texting, again poking fun at people's insistence on feeling sorry for me or infantalizing me, even when nothing is wrong.
* Little: What my sister started calling me, after getting me a braille bracelet which read "little sis." (She, of course, is Big, which appalls my mom, because some people are still laboring under the delusion that being big is bad. I might add that, though she's taller than me, Courtney is actually more delicate / small-presenting.)
* Ti-Ti: What my niece has called me every since she could talk ... technically from the Spanish Tia, although no one in our family speaks Spanish meaningfully, and I doubt the kid even knows that ... I was just always Ti-Ti. It would be so weird if she ever called me Caitlin.

The thing with nicknames, though, is that, beyond lamenting frequently that you want one, you can't force people to come up with the perfect, awesome, organic encapsulation of you. And then, once they find one, you can't coerce other people into using it ... and even if you could, it might seem weird, or nonsensical, depending on the origin of the nickname.

Which brings us to Martha, and TJ.
So you all know our adorable eight-year-old Rock Wilder (Rottweiler), Maite. Mighty Maite. Big MaÃte. Fubu (For Us, By Us). Big Rock. Ruccoon (after Rocky Raccoon). And on and on.

Since Maite was already Martha's "dogter" before I came on the scene, I became "Stepmom" to her. If you've heard any of our videos or recordings, or read transcripts, Maite has a very distinct way of speaking, a little like a kid with some speech quirks, sound additions and deletions, and some unexpected ways of mixing and garbling words and terms. So Stepmom became "Tep Mom" ... and, because I, of course, had told Martha about my quest to be "CJ," CJ, in Maite-speak, became "TJ." And because Martha is Martha, TJ stuck more than CJ did, because MaÃte is such a talkative fixture in our house.

Now, because I'm a rule-following people-pleaser, I did object, "But TJ has to stand for something. It's too confusing to explain, otherwise. How about Trouble Junior? Trouble has always stuck, and Maite is clearly the biggest troublemaker in our house."
To which Maite, of course, responded, "That is not no true story, Tepmom, GAH!"

But TJ stuck ... and now you all know the story. And while I would prefer for you to just call me Caitlin, I'm always open to new nickname ideas, should they arise. Just make sure you've earned it, and that I've approved, before you go shouting it all over the place.