The Wind Beneath My Wings

If we’re lucky, we have a few people in our lives to provide the wind to carry us. Fourteen months older and two years ahead of me in school, Lori showed up early in my life as a neighbor across the street who became a best friend, an encourager, and a partner in exploring my physical boundaries. I don’t remember my life when Lori wasn’t in it.

Her sparkling blue eyes and wispy blonde hair always stood out to me, because she was always in front. I felt lucky to be in her shadow. Growing up together on Seneca Place, me in a beige house with black trim and her in a mustard-colored house across the street, meant constant back-and-forth. Our picturesque cul-de-sac with neatly trimmed lawns served as our giant playground. Perfectly manicured lawns, wide sidewalks, and little car traffic made a perfect play space. There we rode bikes with training wheels all the way to unicycles. Well, one of us rode a unicycle. In the summer, we’d gather the other 8-10 kids for a rousing game of hide-and-go-seek. Each front yard was perfect for gymnastics, horseplay, and later for intimate teenage talks on warm summer nights.

A typical day with Lori usually involved pushing my physical body in one way or another. She had a competitive streak on bikes and in the pool. Her family built a swimming pool in their backyard at about the time we had outgrown my pool. Between tanning sessions slathered in baby oil, we’d practice jumping off the board, diving for rings, and racing freestyle up and down the length of her large pool. This usually resulted in a win for her and a loss for me. I never minded coming in second. Well, let’s be honest, sometimes I did. Recently when reflecting back with Lori about our active youth, her comment was, “You never minded falling down or coming in last. You just wanted to be there.”

She’s right, and this is probably one reason why yoga has become a sacred element of my life. There is no coming in last. It’s about the feeling in your body and simply showing up.

Newport Beach, and other beaches near Orange County were our other aquatic playgrounds. Lori and I, along with our moms, trekked our boogie boards to the shore. When you crave the seashore and grow up in Southern California, driving an hour or more each way does not seem like a sacrifice. Especially when you're the child and not the parent.

Boogie board ownership was a “rite of passage" into pre-teen hood back in the 1970s. Tom Morey, the inventor of this polyethylene arched-at-the-top rectangle got it right when perfecting the ideal wave vehicle. After arriving at the beach with chairs, towels, and boogie boards, we’d plop everything down momentarily and prepare to "hit the waves.” Our mothers would settle into their low reclining beach chairs, nag us about sunscreen, and wish us well.  We'd sling our boogie boards under one arm as we trudged through the sand to where the ocean water began tickling our toes. My awkward walking gait made sand walking challenging, but once I was submerged in water up to my knees, I found stability by plopping my tummy on the board. From there it was easy to push my feet forward while steering the nose of the board over the breaking waves. Lori’s boogie board had a leash attached to the middle and to her wrist. This made for easier retrieval of your board when you fell off or an unsuspecting wave swept your board away. I did not have a leash on my board because we were afraid my increased instability would make it more dangerous to hold onto the board in the event of a whirlwind. This was the correct approach. Many, many times, especially at Newport, I got tossed around and around the waves like I as in a washing machine. I swallowed gulps of water, but most of the time came up smiling, with a large load of sand in my bathing suit.

The way to "get a good ride" is by perfectly timing your connection to the wave.  Just like in surfing, patience is a must, and the thrill is exhilarating.

Only one time did we require a lifeguard’s assistance. We were out a bit farther than usual when we got caught in a riptide and were unable to break free. Most likely Lori could easily have untangled herself and swum back to shore. Saving me as well would have been too much. Our mothers stood up from their beach recliners and spent frantic moments watching the lifeguard swim out with his floaty to rescue us

Did this stop us from going back in? Perhaps our boogie boarding was done for that day, but the next week we were right back in action. Again, I loved using my body to make fun. I gained so much confidence during those excursions on my boogie board.  

Just like during those first days of elementary school when I would wait for Lori’s 6th grade class to come out for lunch, I always felt special that she wanted me along on adventures. By my freshman year of high school, we’d meet in the early morning to ride our bikes to school. Granted, I was late to Spanish about half the time because I always waited for Lori to be ready. However, arriving at school with an upperclassman who was popular felt like a feather in my cap.

European Adventure

Two weeks after graduation, my friend Karyn and I flew off on our 10-week European excursion. We had been friends since 7th grade. With a solid build, at 5'10", she stood majestically. Her short, perfectly styled wavy brown hair created a picture of sturdiness I always craved. We spent over a year planning, dreaming, and realizing this epic adventure. As new college graduates, we brought along travelers' checks, limited clothing, and open hearts ready to explore. Back then, I wore a plastic leg brace, which stabilized my foot drop. I felt quite sturdy.

           I promised my older brother Mark, who had loaned me $2,000 for the trip, that we’d be travelers and not tourists. Travelers take more time in places and are more interested in the people and customs than just racing around to every famous location for the predictable photo op. I’m sure he never thought he’d see his $2,000, but it showed up in his hands five years later at Christmas in a rolled-up map.

Our adventure began gently in England where we had booked our first three nights in a hotel. Our parents were worried about our lack of exact itinerary, so we compromised, and after two weeks in England, we  joined an organized tour and visited Spain, Portugal, and France. The rest of the six weeks, we activated our Eurail passes and scooted around Belgium, Germany, Austria, Italy, and Switzerland.

Landing in London and hearing the British accent was such fun. We learned by the second day that our duffel bags needed wheels if we were going to last ten weeks. Luggage wheels were the thing back then. We could strap our duffel bags onto the wheels and were good to go. We loved the way the British said the 'Spot'.  We soon named our traveling equipment Spot and Spotty.

A week into our time in London, we waited in line at the Hard Rock Cafe. As the hostess showed us to our table, she said, “would you mind sitting on the same side of the booth? We need to sit another twosome here. “OK,” we agreed. When in England, do as the English do. Boris Becker, the blonde 18-year-old Wimbledon champ was soon seated at our table. Tongue tied, not knowing what to say, and through the loud blaring music, I leaned across the table,

“You’re Boris Becker, aren’t you?” He nodded in the affirmative. Suddenly I felt a sharp nudge to my right.

“What a stupid thing to say,” Karyn shared.

“Then you say something,” I snickered back. A few moments later while nibbling on French fries drizzled in ketchup, I accidentally flung one onto Karyn’s light pink pants.

“Oh! Sorry,” I said with remorse.

“This stain will be here for the next nine weeks," Karyn said.

I countered with, “Well you’ve eaten with me before. And besides, who brings pink and white clothes on a 10-week shoestring budget trip to Europe?”

A few days later, fish-and-chips in hand, we walked into my college friend Bob’s dorm room. He was doing an internship for grad school that summer and had invited us to sleep on his dorm room floor for the ten nights we’d spend in London.

“Don’t bring that smelly fish in one more time or you’re out of here,” Bob said.

Of course we didn’t, because the money we were saving on free lodging was astounding and worth the cramped quarters. Besides wearing hats made out of newspaper, we stood at Center Court in the standing room only area as Pat Cash and Mats Wilander slugged out their quarter final match. Later that afternoon, we made our way over to a side court to watch our new friend 

Soon we left the green hills of England behind on a ferry boat headed for Callie, France. There we’d meet up with our two-week tour of France, Spain, and Portugal. We’d have two weeks of being looked after by the tour guide and get our feet wet adjusting to not speaking the language on this foreign continent.

On our last night of the tour, in San Sebastian, Spain, we had a farewell party with our new best friends on the tour, whom we’d never see again. However, I had my straw and made it around to sample many of my fellow travelers' drinks. I was not tracking how much wine I had consumed. Laughing uncontrollably and swaying more than usual we reviled in this departing celebration. Finally, Karyn shut me down and I stumbled to the elevator. Sitting down to enjoy our brief ride up, the doors opened and I crawled to our room. 

“You are never drinking again on this trip,” scrorned Karyn.

The next day, the harrowing bus ride to Paris was long. The drive itself was not so bad, but the aftereffects of the night before with my straw were excruciating.

Arriving in Paris reminded me of the cover of the Madeline books I had loved as a child. The Eiffel Tower looming above us felt like a fairytale. After the bus dropped us off near the train station and kiosk, our real adventure began. We had no reservations to stay anywhere for the next six weeks. Our only plan was to eventually end up in Munich, where our return flight to the US would take off.

After lugging Spot and Spotty down the steep bus steps, I heard Karyn exclaim,

“You’re in charge of finding our hotel for these five nights in Paris.”

I gasped. “What!? You’re the one who took a semester of French in college.”

“I’ve done everything so far. Reading the maps, asking directions, arranging your food array. It’s your turn.”

She was correct. I spent extra energy getting from point A to point B, she took charge and always got us to the next destination. Somehow, we secured five nights in a cheap hotel on the third floor. I felt vindicated. Granted our room was on the third floor and the bathroom was on the first, but we were in Paris!

After our five nights of visiting the Arc de Triumph, sampling a dozen baguettes and of course viewing Mona Lisa, I don’t get all the fuss, we set off to explore more of the continent. We initiated our monthlong Eurail passes and frolicked through he last leg of our trip was Switzerland.

On a day trip to Lucerne, we had our first real argument. This was week nine, and we were tired. Nearly all our meals were fast food we ate on the fly. Finally agreeing to splurge a little, we sat down at a "real restaurant." I perused the menu that was written in French and concluded that I’d like the salad bar.

“No, you are not having the salad bar,” Karyn scoffed. "We are going to sit here and be served.”

“But I can’t tell what anything is. It’s written in French.”

No one ever said no before. But her reasoning was valid.

Karyn had walked slowly, waited patiently, and arranged my foods for over two months. What a terrific friend. For my part, I had made several personal contacts, which led to wonderful contacts in Germany. This was a perfect trip!

I
 

Magical Moment Amongst Chaos
             I knew that whatever happened with the school district, I was certainly not done working with children. During the first week of my post-classroom life, I went online to sniff around for interesting jobs. I responded to and secured a job at Linda-Mood Bell, a reading intervention clinic. I’d vaguely heard about their sensory imaging techniques with struggling readers, and was curious. I was intrigued to learn the company had learning centers. Granted, $20 an hour seemed hardly worth it, but I had a plenty of sick days accrued to get me through the end of the school year and would still be collecting a paycheck. Always disappointed with the language arts curriculum I had been forced to teach, I welcomed learning something new. I soon learned that this approach to reading was what I had yearned for in my classroom for two decades.
While my new employment at Linda-Mood Bell was being finalized, the district called me in for a meeting. They had received a medical note from my doctor stating a need for reduced work hours. I had visited my doctor two days after my departure from the classroom. She was familiar with my long history of work stress and the district’s refusal to provide a fair work environment. At the time, I knew that taking a complete medical leave would make my return to the classroom unlikely. My unprecedented situation could no longer be ignored by the district, and they’d be forced into some kind of action. This was scary but necessary. I left the medical exam room with a referral to see a physical therapist.
A week later, I met with a physical therapist. He asked,
“Tell me about a typical day in your classroom.”
“Well, first I do yard duty, then I see a group of eight students. While instructing them, another group of four come in, and I get them started. So on and so on."
He nodded. He watched me walk, moving my arms and observing my tremors. “If you continue this type of daily stress on your body, the consequences could be grave. The amount of exertion you need to control your movements can limit your mobility down the road.” He explained how much tension this built up in my spine and recommended I receive support from a chiropractor. Two days later, I did. Monthly adjustments of my spine have been part of my regular self-care plan ever since.

Arriving in the side conference room in the district office, my mouth was dry. I looked down during our conversation and with a tightness in my chest felt completely betrayed. The teachers’ union rep who accompanied me into the room was supportive but made no indication of how grave this situation had become for me.  He’d been a special ed teacher for as long as I had and was now a program specialist. His job was to assure that students with disabilities got the accommodations they were entitled to. The irony was pathetic.
.The HR director announced,
“We’re putting you on paid administrative leave while we conduct our own medical exam to find out what accommodations you need.”
With sunken shoulders and a sense of helplessness and disbelief, I turned  and asked  “What kind of exam is this?” 
He replied, “This is a fitness of duty exam to determine if you’re fit to work.” I had never heard of such a thing... month later, I’d find out.

Meanwhile my former colleagues back at school were completing their mile-long list of end-of-the-year activities. I felt relieved but sad to not be there. Instead, I began a ten-day training at Linda-Mood Bell (LMB) to become a clinician and provide 1-1 instruction using multi-sensory techniques. I was now back on the clock. The last time I had punched in and out was during my days at Miller’s Outpost. 
Nestled into a small nook-like room at the center, our trainer made our learning fun. Yummy snacks of miniature candy bars and chips were offered to keep us awake and lively. We connected with many other LMB training groups all over the country. We connected via Zoom, which I’d never seen before. If I knew then that Zoom would become such an integral part of my next career, I would have flipped. Two twenty-somethings who were very adept with functions of Zoom became my new best friends as we semi-mastered the "tricks of the trade” of this clinician role.

On the ninth day of our training, I was mandated to complete the Fitness for Duty Exam at a nearby Workman's Comp medical office. When I arrived at the facility, I tried really hard to have a positive attitude and remember that the staff at this clinic were not the ones to order this ludicrous exam. After all, I was getting on with my life and having new adventures.
After being tucked into the exam room, I immediately began a yoga sequence to calm my nerves. I did downward dog, rested my arms on the exam table, warrior pose to impart the strength I desperately needed in this moment, and a twist to ease the adrenaline coursing through my body. It wasn’t anything like those days at Danbury when my therapists, teachers and parents had me traipse around in my underwear. Back then, they had all wanted the absolute best for me. This time, strangers who didn’t know me or have any experience with wiggly people, were in charge. Thank goodness, my yoga background gave me a solid foundation for feeling grounded and good in my body.
When the doctor walked in, she immediately expressed, in an almost accusatory voice, 
“How am I supposed to determine if you are fit for the classroom or not? I’ve never examined anyone with cerebral palsy."
I wanted to run out.
She had me walk back-and-forth, and hold out my hands.
“Who treats you for your cerebral palsy?" she asked.
“Nobody. It just is,” I lamented.
“Just like anyone who lives in a body, I make do with what I have.” I began to tremble.
The emotional toll of the previous years’ came crashing down on me like an explosion.
My gut felt like knots being squeezed tighter and tighter. These things she said to me were not meant to be hurtful. Yet, all her questions, in this absurd situation shattered my soul.
“Yes, but who treats you for your illness?”
This reminded me of the driving inspector who had referred to my cerebral palsy as an illness. But this was a medical doctor who was supposedly trained and certified to know the difference. I showed her over a hundred pages of documentation over a decade that described my repeated attempts for the district to follow my doctor's requests for reasonable accommodations (extra time and assistance with fine motor tasks).
The doctor was at a loss for words.
I highlighted a letter I found buried in my personnel file, dated eleven years prior, written by someone with an ergonomics background who had visited my classroom. “Carolyn Bowman requires daily physical support and extra time to complete fine motor tasks and prevent her from falling due to her cerebral palsy.”
I began sobbing and expelling the pent-up physical stress that had been building within my unstable body. Logically, I knew this medical doctor was not an expert on physical disabilities. However, she had taken the “do no harm” oath. I was terrified that my outburst would come to haunt me down the road. It did.
Finally, after the doctor requested all my medical records including a psychological exam, I escaped from the room. I felt as though I’d been assaulted. After alerting the office manager of what had just taken place and letting him know I felt unsafe, I left.
Stumbling to the car, though I had my cane, I pressed my keypad to unlock the driver’s door of my car while my legs were trying to keep upright. Landing in the driver’s seat, I knew I had to make one of two choices. Either fall apart completely tucked here in my car …Who would I call? How would I get home?
OR Take a deep breath like I practice in yoga class, start the ignition, and make my way up Highway 101 to the ninth day of training.
I chose the latter.

When I arrived, four friendly faces greeted me and bore witness to my frayed emotions. Our playful nature throughout the two weeks of training helped me stay strong and hopeful after such a distressing episode.
During the previous day at lunchtime, three of us went to the nearby McDonald’s for Happy Meals. While waiting for our order and anticipating the toy, I delighted in telling my new friends about the time I had taken my preschoolers with autism on a field trip to McDonald's. My students used their words to speak and/or icons to show what they wanted to eat. With support from staff, each student ordered their own meal. This happened twenty years ago, but it felt like yesterday. When my feelings of anger and hurt felt like they were going to swallow me up, sharing tidbits about my long teaching career lessened the sting a little bit. Even before my heart began to heal, I felt proud of my work. I felt fortunate that I had a new workplace and people to share my knowledge with. This was the beginning of that overused but wise phrase, ‘once a door closes, a new one opens.

That entire summer, I worked as a clinician twenty hours a week in the mornings. My afternoons were spent consulting lawyers, the California Teachers' Retirement Association, and filing a charge against the school district with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.  
Arriving each morning at LMB, I’d prepare materials for my first student, sit down at their table area and practice sight words, and sensory imagery exercises, using my little pouch of tricks. My finger puppet, which we had used as the weather person at preschool circle time, was a hit with the little ones. After the 55-minute session ended, I’d move on to my next student. Learning the systematic instruction was challenging but I had built-in mentors, and all my young energetic co-workers were like a breath of fresh air. I used to feel like this every day in the classroom, before my wiggly hands and computers became a hindrance. At the end of the summer staff celebration, I received the "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" award.  This was appropriate because I did indeed have fun. I was learning to cope with a traumatic situation with dignity and grace, all the while enjoying a new work experience. 

Summer turned into fall, and afternoons became my new gig. This light-hearted workplace continued to save my soul amongst the chaos with the school district. In order to heal a wound, new growth needs to occur.
I made some tender connections with many of our students. My favorite aspect of LMB was that even though the activities were quite structured and could be monotonous, with all my knowledge and years of experience in the classroom, I could easily put on my invisible creative hat and create some kind of fun during each session. Sometimes I spoke in an English accent, or used my sparkly wand to focus attention, or stickers as incentives.
Since this was an hourly job, we were required to clock in and out using a touch screen. Back at Miller’s Outpost I had used a punch card to slide under the stamper. Now, the touch-screen contraption required a gentle touch with precision. I had neither one of these skills. My co-workers and I developed a system. If no one was nearby, I’d attempt to clock in and out on my own. This was successful about 10% of the time, depending on how my hands jiggled. The rest of the time, I’d ask whoever was nearby to help, but someone would usually volunteer first. This small act of kindness always felt so supportive.
My favorite aspect of the Linda Mood-Bell culture was the emphasis on positive reinforcement. During each session, when students completed a goal or made some kind of positive intention, the clinician filled out a card with their name and a synopsis of the accomplishment. The child would place the card in a communal bowl, and we’d yell out for all to hear, “_________ Earned a Magical Learning Moment!" Twenty duets of students and their clinicians would whoop and holler. This made for smiles and fun all day long. By being part of this warm and supportive work environment gave me a sense of connection and being ‘rooted’ back into sacred work with children.

When the school year began, I switched to afternoons because I enjoyed assisting students with homework. One particular 5th grader and I really hit it off. I shared snippets from my teaching life and love of yoga. He was very curious about my cerebral palsy. The following June, as a thank-you gift, he presented me with a special yoga towel and words of gratitude. This was my own "Magical Moment." Woohoo!!!  

A year into my employment, the program staff was attempting to find a way to work with a very complicated child whose behavior was erratic. I knew this particular program was not going to meet the child’s needs. However, I agreed to conduct a session and offer my insight. Halfway through the 55-minute session, the child got combative, and a feeling of foreboding ran up my spine. Memories of my most challenging students who weren’t able to get their needs met because they were not in an inappropriate program, came sweeping through my consciousness. I was in Fight or Flight mode.
The flashback to all my years of inequality and being harassed for my wiggly hands enveloped my consciousness. A coworker sensed my unease and took me aside to inquire what was wrong. After we spoke for a few minutes, he gently excused himself. Five minutes later, he came back and encouraged me to go speak with our boss. I did. I had never worked closely with her, but the LMB center was small enough where all the staff pretty much were aware of what was going on with everyone. These kind words flowed from her lips. “Carolyn, I have never seen anyone like you. The way you respond to each child is beautiful and inspiring. We’ve all learned so much from you! You have a rare gift.”
“Thank you so much for noticing! To be honest, the end of my teaching career was traumatic. Sometimes little incidents arise, and I get emotionally triggered,” I admitted.
Working here in this positive environment has saved my soul.”

Looking back over my teaching career, this is why I stayed even through the rocky parts of my career. I was able to use this rare gift of mine every day. I regretted that I would not have the opportunity to use this systematic curriculum in my classroom. My students' reading skills would have blossomed.
“Thank you so much for noticing! To be honest, the end of my teaching career was traumatic. Sometimes little incidents arise, and I get emotionally triggered,” I admitted.
Working here in this positive environment has saved my soul.”
It felt so good to say those words aloud.
She gave me a gentle hug and with tears in both of our eyes, we went back to work.

• Update #6 - website has launched Dec. 1, 2024

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• Update #1 - The Wiggly Warrior Update Aug. 1, 2024

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