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April 2006
About the Authors
Bringing authentic voices of city in their most honest form
By Kathy Holwadel
When InkTank ventures out into the world bearing gifts of pens and writing prompts, not everyone is happy to see us. Often participants are required to attend and don’t want to be there. They never liked English class or they worry about spelling errors. Maybe they have trouble reading or haven’t tried to write for years. That’s normal. We expect it. But nothing prepared us for the reception we got at the Cerebral Palsy Center of Cincinnati on Victory Parkway .
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As soon as I walk into the room, I am obviously out of my element. With the exception of Diana, all the participants in the writing group arrive around the table in a wheel chair. There are five in all, Diana, D.J., Robbie, Sarai and Gina, accompanied by staff members, interns and instructors. Cerebral Palsy is a group of conditions that affects body movement and muscle coordination, in the most extreme cases rendering limbs completely useless, locking hands in cumbersome contortions that refuse to cooperate with intent or desire. Heads need to be propped straight between padded stays, bodies belted-in. Speech is difficult, punctuated by grunts, slow and hard to understand.
But this group has gathered because they love to write. Most of them cannot hold a pen or turn a page. But they write. They string words together, one at a time. They tell funny stories and deliver speeches. It can take weeks, a little every day, to complete a paragraph. But they write and they can’t wait to have me hear. |
My role on this visit is to learn. Embarrassingly ignorant of their world, the writers have to teach me everything. They do not judge my lack of sophistication or consider me useless, drawing on reserves of patience accrued through the years of acceptance of their own physical limitations. “How do you read?” I ask. They tell me about books on tape and a group from the library that reads stories out loud. Diana explains the plot of a book they’ve read recently, an autobiography of a married couple with disabilities who adopt a child. Her disabilities are less severe than the other writing group participants and she gladly assumes the role of interpreter between two worlds, repeating others phrases in a gentle way, boasting about the accomplishments of those who are unable to brag in their own right.
In The InkTank
Update May 2006
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Then I ask, “How do you write? Do you use a computer?” One of the staff members explains the screen hooked onto Robbie’s wheelchair so that it sits in front of him at eye level. It’s called a Dynawrite and can be activated by blinking the eyes or a red laser light that is attached to a band worn around the forehead. The screen indicates letters, words or frequently used phrases and the writer taps out the story letter by letter. Later, pages can be printed or read out loud by a computerized, male voice – the same mechanized sound whether it’s Sarai talking or D.J. Later it is hard to remember exactly who said what without the distinctions of individual intonation, although D.J. has the most experience with the device and often interjects recorded phrases into the general conversation. “You got that right,” he nods in agreement with something I’ve said, smiling enthusiastically.
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Then several members of the group volunteer to read pieces they have written. Everything slows down. We wait as sentences are feed into devices. They take turns, everybody listening attentively to the others. Diana reads a poem she takes down from the bulletin board in the hall. Sarai’s device delivers the speech she gave at her graduation. It tells about her condition and what it’s like to live with it. D.J. is the comedian of the group and entertains us with a long, humorous serenade to a local female celebrity.
This is the moment when they are most alive, part of a community, when they break through the barrier of social isolation and find new audiences for the essence of themselves. This is the power of words in its purest form, no matter the manner of our disabilities - and we all have them, though they may differ in degree. Helen Keller, blind and deaf from birth, discovered the same joy after she found language. The students in the cerebral palsy writing group will not be stopped by mere muscle weakness. You can see it in their eyes, the spirit and intelligence trapped inside waiting to burst forth in the form of syllables.
Most of us can take for granted the ability to share what’s in our hearts and minds with the rest of the world at will. But when you can’t, when the act of connection, of reaching out to others is so difficult on every single level, writing becomes a precious act, one not to be denied. You love to write and never worry about perfect spelling. Communication is life itself, a treasure to be claimed, a daily devotion to which one dedicates oneself, this exchange of ideas which can never happen parked in front of a television set or a computer game.
As I get ready to leave, I talk to the staff about trying to find the funds for an InkTank facilitated writing program at the Center. For the writing group participants, this is an amazing place where they find the support to learn new skills and stretch abilities. Just as I reach the door, one of the devices intones with deadpan authority, “I love this place.” It doesn’t matter who blinked an eye or nodded a head. Everybody clearly feels the same way. Writing is both privilege and necessity.
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