(This blog was originally published under the headline "Raring To Go To Tacoma's "ART AT WORK" at a internet website at The News Tribune, a daily newspaper in Tacoma, WA on 10/29/07 in a reader-generated section entitled "In Your Neighborhood."
I have to confess; my favorite Tacoma event - actually month of events - is imminently at hand. You may have seen posters, flyers or programs for November's sixth anniversary of ART AT WORK month sponsored by your truly good and great City of Tacoma Arts Commission!
But since I live in shhhhh.... Federal Way, across the unpatrolled borders in South King County, I am forced to depend upon being on a mailing list to get any news of all the wonderful slate of events including my personal pick of all the creative platters offered up - which is the "Art at Work Studio Tours", a fantastic annual opportunity to meet and chat briefly with some of Tacoma's most interesting, exciting practioners of the visual arts in their natural elements, from seasoned veterans to up-and-coming newcomers.
See with your own eyes and possibly be inspired by how each artist approaches the needs of their evolving talents in regards to creative space and storage needs with the demands of their alternative careers, families, relatives, vehicles, pets and whatever in rental studios downtown to homes, garages. freestanding buildings in backyards not unlike our own. Gain further appreciation of the rich environment Tacoma now offers - a virtual canvas for those dreaming of a place of their own in the arts.
As I am not a native of Tacoma, I do not know now many years back the coalitions that must certainly form a part of the organization that has made this special month of celebration of the arts possible, but the people and hard work put into making those early connections a reality should be certainly a part of any salute of today's delightful and still growing reality.
It would appear the generosity and willingness of International glass artist and hometown-son Dale Chihuly's to give something back to the city of roots has certainly paying off and put Tacoma on the international arts map. Combined with the equally valuable and often parallel efforts of his fellow artisans in the theatre, dance, spoken, visual, literary and performance arts and strength of city historians, museum curators, arts organization boards, committees and administrative personnel has vaulted the city to the top of national and regional lists as well. Add to this a willingness to cultivate and encourage other less-known emerging cultural organizations and fledgling centers the end result is a climate for creativity of which the entire city can take personal pride and a resource the larger growing regional audience will gratefully acknowledge for quite possibly decades to come.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Families Struggling With ADHD Issues - Some Needed Relief
As informed citizens and of many parents of pre-school and school-aged children are aware, the subject of ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) has been fiercely debated, more fervently in recent years with regard to whether a diagnosis should be followed up by rigorous medication. However, irregardless of where you stand on medication, extended treatment for this now agreed on frequently inherited, physiological condition* which may persist through adulthood does not stop with a doctor's prescription.
So where does a parent of a child with ADHD (or fully grown adults) go to connect with resources, to evaluate and make decisions appropriate for themselves or their particular young person. Where can they network with other families who have similar stories to share, a few that you'd be reluctant even in today's world of full disclosure, you might hesitate to share with the nice elderly woman at church, the do-it-all mom across the street and your cousin the Martha Stewart wanna-be?
Beyond Prescription Drugs - Where Does The ADHD Family Go?
Depending upon your time and financial resources national magazines like ADDitude (a bi-monthly publication by New Hope Media LLC.,$19.99 per year, www.additudemagazine.com.) share the latest news on research and developments in regards to ADHD, specialized information on private schools and even colleges designed especially for young people with ADHD.
The magazine also contains a wealth of interesting features about people whose ADHD has not prevented them from pursuing their dreams and tips for parents how to prepare your ADHD youngster for school, summer camp, college and getting a job in the workwold.
Tips for ADHD adults on how to avoid clutter from an ADHD perspective, balancing your checkbook, avoiding credit card debit and planning a hassle-free vacation with all of those special quirks the condition offers. ADHD adults in particular have frequently been completely without this kind of personalized information and even a sample can be a godsend!
Other less costly resources for parents of ADHD children include: counseling, behavior modification, biofeedback, personal coaches, books and the aforementioined magazines. Experienced parents may already know a check of the local phone book doesn't necessarily connect your family with the resources you need when you may need them. That's a bonus of networking with others in the ADHD universe.
ADDResources of Tacoma a Gem For Parents, Adults with ADHD
When it comes to a personal human connection there is nothing possibly with the same immediate impact and lasting satisfaction as having the resouces of a local support group. And thanks to a local woman, Cynthia Hammer, MSW, a professional social worker and surgeon's wife, who was diagnosed with the condition a number of years along with two of her three sons, went on to found Tacoma's ADD Resources a non-profit (501(c)(3) ) established in 1993 a virtual lighthouse in the darkness.
So where does a parent of a child with ADHD (or fully grown adults) go to connect with resources, to evaluate and make decisions appropriate for themselves or their particular young person. Where can they network with other families who have similar stories to share, a few that you'd be reluctant even in today's world of full disclosure, you might hesitate to share with the nice elderly woman at church, the do-it-all mom across the street and your cousin the Martha Stewart wanna-be?
Beyond Prescription Drugs - Where Does The ADHD Family Go?
Depending upon your time and financial resources national magazines like ADDitude (a bi-monthly publication by New Hope Media LLC.,$19.99 per year, www.additudemagazine.com.) share the latest news on research and developments in regards to ADHD, specialized information on private schools and even colleges designed especially for young people with ADHD.
The magazine also contains a wealth of interesting features about people whose ADHD has not prevented them from pursuing their dreams and tips for parents how to prepare your ADHD youngster for school, summer camp, college and getting a job in the workwold.
Tips for ADHD adults on how to avoid clutter from an ADHD perspective, balancing your checkbook, avoiding credit card debit and planning a hassle-free vacation with all of those special quirks the condition offers. ADHD adults in particular have frequently been completely without this kind of personalized information and even a sample can be a godsend!
Other less costly resources for parents of ADHD children include: counseling, behavior modification, biofeedback, personal coaches, books and the aforementioined magazines. Experienced parents may already know a check of the local phone book doesn't necessarily connect your family with the resources you need when you may need them. That's a bonus of networking with others in the ADHD universe.
ADDResources of Tacoma a Gem For Parents, Adults with ADHD
When it comes to a personal human connection there is nothing possibly with the same immediate impact and lasting satisfaction as having the resouces of a local support group. And thanks to a local woman, Cynthia Hammer, MSW, a professional social worker and surgeon's wife, who was diagnosed with the condition a number of years along with two of her three sons, went on to found Tacoma's ADD Resources a non-profit (501(c)(3) ) established in 1993 a virtual lighthouse in the darkness.
Courage of Convictions - World War II Internment Camp Draft Resisters
(This blog was originally published under the headline of "Another Legacy of World War II in Today's Japanese-American Community" at the internet website of The News Tribune, a daily newspaper in Tacoma, WA on 11/11/07 at a reader-generated website entitled "In Your Neighborhood." )
A few brave souls - and I believe it took incredible courage for men raised as they were in the old days in our duty-bound ethnic subculture, to challenge induction into the U.S. military from World War II's government sponsored interment camps. It's a little known fact that there actually were were a handful of Nikkei internees in the camps who resisted induction into the military in principle and risked additional punishment from the law.
A Seattle author, John Okada, wrote about the plight of these men in his pioneering 1957 novel novel "No No Boy". It has been republished several times since, most recently in 1980 by the University of Washington Press. It has become increasingly accepted as not only a classic in the Japanese-American community but has increasingly earned mention on important lists of books of significance to our entire nation. Eric Mueller's "Free To Die For Their County: The Story of Japanese-American Draft Resisters during World War II" (C. 2001, University of Chicago Press) is a factual account of the same events and features a forward by highly decorated Japanese-American World War II veteran and celebrated U.S. Senator Daniel K. Inouye of Hawaii.
For merely tackling the topic at the time, Okada took in many ways some of the same kinds of hits that befell those interned resident who fought induction. Additonally, the spate of angry words and broken relationships between them, members of their Japanese-American families, fellow Nikkei internees, Nikkei community organizations and even some of our own military veterans continued extended in some cases, past the time principals died and their remains long placed in cold grounds. The stigma has only in recent history been publically addressed in a widespread manner.
According to a current article in the International Examiner titled "In search of No No Boy" explores John Okada's Life (by Ken Mochizuki, November 7-20, 2007) a local film produced by Frank Abe, also communications director for King County, provides excellent light on the still hotly debated. Abe, a talented man who has also worn many other hats as a pioneering actor, former community activist, local journalist and television reporter is not only no stranger to difficult and controversial topics, but in the past has thrived at then providing audiences with a deep thorough and thoughtful analysis.
For myself while I might academically understand this bitterness in the contest of history, as much as I take pride at the incomparable sacrifices and accomplishments of our own World War II veterans (as well as veterans from the larger community including Hawaii in other wars including World War I) as community member who'd prefer wholeness for all, reading about these long-standing breaches was a source of considerable emotional angst. So I take special comfort that so many people like Frank Abe are willing to help the rest of us reassess them in the present day.
For more information on John Okada's book go to: http://www.washington.edu/uwpress/search/books/OKANON.html. Details about Frank Abe's documentary film in the International Examiner are available at: http://www.iexaminer.org/archives/?p=663. A website with details on Eric Mueller's book "Free To Die For Their Country" can be located at: http://www.press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/548228.html.
A few brave souls - and I believe it took incredible courage for men raised as they were in the old days in our duty-bound ethnic subculture, to challenge induction into the U.S. military from World War II's government sponsored interment camps. It's a little known fact that there actually were were a handful of Nikkei internees in the camps who resisted induction into the military in principle and risked additional punishment from the law.
A Seattle author, John Okada, wrote about the plight of these men in his pioneering 1957 novel novel "No No Boy". It has been republished several times since, most recently in 1980 by the University of Washington Press. It has become increasingly accepted as not only a classic in the Japanese-American community but has increasingly earned mention on important lists of books of significance to our entire nation. Eric Mueller's "Free To Die For Their County: The Story of Japanese-American Draft Resisters during World War II" (C. 2001, University of Chicago Press) is a factual account of the same events and features a forward by highly decorated Japanese-American World War II veteran and celebrated U.S. Senator Daniel K. Inouye of Hawaii.
For merely tackling the topic at the time, Okada took in many ways some of the same kinds of hits that befell those interned resident who fought induction. Additonally, the spate of angry words and broken relationships between them, members of their Japanese-American families, fellow Nikkei internees, Nikkei community organizations and even some of our own military veterans continued extended in some cases, past the time principals died and their remains long placed in cold grounds. The stigma has only in recent history been publically addressed in a widespread manner.
According to a current article in the International Examiner titled "In search of No No Boy" explores John Okada's Life (by Ken Mochizuki, November 7-20, 2007) a local film produced by Frank Abe, also communications director for King County, provides excellent light on the still hotly debated. Abe, a talented man who has also worn many other hats as a pioneering actor, former community activist, local journalist and television reporter is not only no stranger to difficult and controversial topics, but in the past has thrived at then providing audiences with a deep thorough and thoughtful analysis.
For myself while I might academically understand this bitterness in the contest of history, as much as I take pride at the incomparable sacrifices and accomplishments of our own World War II veterans (as well as veterans from the larger community including Hawaii in other wars including World War I) as community member who'd prefer wholeness for all, reading about these long-standing breaches was a source of considerable emotional angst. So I take special comfort that so many people like Frank Abe are willing to help the rest of us reassess them in the present day.
For more information on John Okada's book go to: http://www.washington.edu/uwpress/search/books/OKANON.html. Details about Frank Abe's documentary film in the International Examiner are available at: http://www.iexaminer.org/archives/?p=663. A website with details on Eric Mueller's book "Free To Die For Their Country" can be located at: http://www.press.uchicago.edu/Misc/Chicago/548228.html.
Puyallup Fairgrounds Called Home For World War II Era Japanese-American Family
(This blog was originally published under the headline "When Dad Lived At The Puyallup Fair" at a internet website at The News Tribune, a daily newspaper in Tacoma, WA on 9/20/07 at a reader-generated site entitled "In Your Neighborhood."
As most of us area residents who spent formative years in the greater Puget Sound basin, the advent of fall and the annual opening of the Western Washington State Fair in Puyallup was a welcome event on the family calendar.
Back in the sixties, most every kid had been to the fair in Puyallup at one time or another. During September, we’d talk of it constantly up and down the block. It was almost your duty as a kid, and not going was well - unpatriotic. Thankfully my folks made sure that my younger brother and I were not deprived of this classic Northwest experience.
Our trips to the fair were much the same as our neighbors, with one unique twist. At some point during these semi-annual pilgrimages my Dad would never fail to recall he had lived at the fairgrounds for a few months back in World War II.
I had occasion to travel with my husband on the second day of this year's celebration (September 7 - 23) at the Puyallup Fair to celebrate the fact a mixed media collage I created exploring memory loss issues such as Alzheimers disease called: “Hanging by Plaques” was accepted into this year’s fine arts show.
This happy occasion gave me a chance to simultaneously reflecting on my personal good fortune at landing a spot in the show, Dad's temporary wartime residency and the contributions that his family has made in my life when I was growing up.
Dad was born in Seattle in 1927. He was the youngest of four children born to a upper-middle class father with several years of secondary education under his belt who immigrated from Shizuoka Prefecture. Dad's mom was from Tokyo. Her dad was a Chinese scholar who'd taught two of Dad's uncles. The scholar was also personally acquainted with the family of the great twentieth century writer of Japanese literature Natsume Soseki.
Dad's family shared two rooms in a two-story rental house in a neighborhood above the present International District . This area is known today as Yesler Terrace. His mom and dad slept one room. Dad and his three siblings shared the second room. Dad attended Bailey Gatzert Elementary and Washington Middle School. Before World War II broke out, he had just started ninth grade at Franklin High School.
His parents worked hard to put food on the table. Grandpa worked for a grocer at Pike Place Market. Grandma was on the housekeeping staff at two local hotels. Dad's boyhood was fairly ordinary. When Dad and his friends were little they played kick the can and other games. When they were bigger at least once, he recalls they tried to sneak into the local movie theater, but they were quickly noticed and had to make a hasty exit. On occasions, he met his mom at the Pike market and helped her carry several bags of groceries home on the streetcar. Dad delivered newspapers on two routes which helped him earn enough money to buy a bicycle and small radio.
Everything in his world came to a stunning halt when the forces of Imperial Japan bombed our Naval Base at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Dad and his family were only six in a group about 2,500 Americans of Japanese ancestry from Seattle - men, women and children all, who were rounded up by military personnel on orders from the Western Defense Command to leave their homes, schools, jobs and businesses and report to temporary quarters which were hastily built for them on the grounds of the annual Western Washington State Fair.
When my younger brother and I were kids, no one in our neighborhood could brag that their relative actually lived at the Puyallup Fair, but we didn't even try to boast of this connection. Dad didn't share the details. In fact, all we were told was that he had lived at the fairgrounds for a while before he went to "camp". Now you might ask what was camp? We didn't exactly know then ourselves, but we knew not to ask. It was one of those topics that had a hush about it, like asking your teacher how old she was back then.
Despite that fact, "camp" was a code word widely used by my parents, aunts and uncles and basically everyone we knew in the Japanese-American (Nikkei) community at the time. So desu ne? (Isn't it so?) I eventually gathered everyone in those circles had all been there. If you didn't know another Japanese-American from your childhood, there was a good chance you met them in camp. If they were in another camp, chances are someone you knew was there as well, so everyone eventually knew almost everybody.
In these conversations, our folks and their friends particularly referred to themselves as Nihon-jin (of Japanese ancestry "literally Japanese people") as opposed to Haku-jin (mainstream population, literally "white people") as a way of comparing and contrasting their different upbringing and wartime experiences. But the details of this story were not forthcoming. I didn't learn more until I was junior high age and saw something in the local library about government internment camps on the West Coast during World War II and pursued it then with a more forthcoming aunt.
To this very day, I don't know the full details of my Dad and his families experiences at Puyallup or at the Minadoka Relocation Center in Hunt, Idaho where he would continue his high school education. When he was alive, Dad used to claim that with the exception of a handful of memories, he couldn’t remember.
In hindsight, Dad and other members of Japanese-American communities up and down the West Coast were targeted for this kind of treatment because they looked too much like the enemy to a frightened mainstream community who were led by our leaders to believe a grave threat existed and extraordinary measures were required.
Understandably, at the time Japanese-Americans even older and more experienced in life than Dad had no prior experience as individuals or a whole group for that matter, on just how to pick up the pieces of their lives after having been singled out and branded by their own government as possible terrorists and saboteurs, not trustworthy enough to be allowed to live and work among decent people.
While it can be argued by some in present times the fears of their fellow citizens and blowing of political winds that led to their imprisonment can be easily understood on an intellectual basis, in truth accepting the fact your life has been ripped to shreds because of an image reflected in the mirror is and was far more problematic. And my family history will be irrevocably intertwined with Area A, Block 10, an address at the Puyallup Assembly Center during World War II on the grounds of the Western Washington State Fair.
(Note: Information for this article pertaining to the Puyallup Assembly Center and its Japanese-American residents was gleaned from the excellent on-line exhibit on "Camp Harmony" at University of Washington Libraries at the following web address: http://www.lib.washington.edu/exhibits/harmony/exhibit/index.html)
As most of us area residents who spent formative years in the greater Puget Sound basin, the advent of fall and the annual opening of the Western Washington State Fair in Puyallup was a welcome event on the family calendar.
Back in the sixties, most every kid had been to the fair in Puyallup at one time or another. During September, we’d talk of it constantly up and down the block. It was almost your duty as a kid, and not going was well - unpatriotic. Thankfully my folks made sure that my younger brother and I were not deprived of this classic Northwest experience.
Our trips to the fair were much the same as our neighbors, with one unique twist. At some point during these semi-annual pilgrimages my Dad would never fail to recall he had lived at the fairgrounds for a few months back in World War II.
A picture of my Dad (right) about nine or ten years of age with his slightly older sister (left) from the family album when they were growing up in Seattle, WA prior to the outbreak of World War II.
I had occasion to travel with my husband on the second day of this year's celebration (September 7 - 23) at the Puyallup Fair to celebrate the fact a mixed media collage I created exploring memory loss issues such as Alzheimers disease called: “Hanging by Plaques” was accepted into this year’s fine arts show.
This happy occasion gave me a chance to simultaneously reflecting on my personal good fortune at landing a spot in the show, Dad's temporary wartime residency and the contributions that his family has made in my life when I was growing up.
Dad was born in Seattle in 1927. He was the youngest of four children born to a upper-middle class father with several years of secondary education under his belt who immigrated from Shizuoka Prefecture. Dad's mom was from Tokyo. Her dad was a Chinese scholar who'd taught two of Dad's uncles. The scholar was also personally acquainted with the family of the great twentieth century writer of Japanese literature Natsume Soseki.
Dad's family shared two rooms in a two-story rental house in a neighborhood above the present International District . This area is known today as Yesler Terrace. His mom and dad slept one room. Dad and his three siblings shared the second room. Dad attended Bailey Gatzert Elementary and Washington Middle School. Before World War II broke out, he had just started ninth grade at Franklin High School.
His parents worked hard to put food on the table. Grandpa worked for a grocer at Pike Place Market. Grandma was on the housekeeping staff at two local hotels. Dad's boyhood was fairly ordinary. When Dad and his friends were little they played kick the can and other games. When they were bigger at least once, he recalls they tried to sneak into the local movie theater, but they were quickly noticed and had to make a hasty exit. On occasions, he met his mom at the Pike market and helped her carry several bags of groceries home on the streetcar. Dad delivered newspapers on two routes which helped him earn enough money to buy a bicycle and small radio.
Everything in his world came to a stunning halt when the forces of Imperial Japan bombed our Naval Base at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Dad and his family were only six in a group about 2,500 Americans of Japanese ancestry from Seattle - men, women and children all, who were rounded up by military personnel on orders from the Western Defense Command to leave their homes, schools, jobs and businesses and report to temporary quarters which were hastily built for them on the grounds of the annual Western Washington State Fair.
When my younger brother and I were kids, no one in our neighborhood could brag that their relative actually lived at the Puyallup Fair, but we didn't even try to boast of this connection. Dad didn't share the details. In fact, all we were told was that he had lived at the fairgrounds for a while before he went to "camp". Now you might ask what was camp? We didn't exactly know then ourselves, but we knew not to ask. It was one of those topics that had a hush about it, like asking your teacher how old she was back then.
Despite that fact, "camp" was a code word widely used by my parents, aunts and uncles and basically everyone we knew in the Japanese-American (Nikkei) community at the time. So desu ne? (Isn't it so?) I eventually gathered everyone in those circles had all been there. If you didn't know another Japanese-American from your childhood, there was a good chance you met them in camp. If they were in another camp, chances are someone you knew was there as well, so everyone eventually knew almost everybody.
In these conversations, our folks and their friends particularly referred to themselves as Nihon-jin (of Japanese ancestry "literally Japanese people") as opposed to Haku-jin (mainstream population, literally "white people") as a way of comparing and contrasting their different upbringing and wartime experiences. But the details of this story were not forthcoming. I didn't learn more until I was junior high age and saw something in the local library about government internment camps on the West Coast during World War II and pursued it then with a more forthcoming aunt.
To this very day, I don't know the full details of my Dad and his families experiences at Puyallup or at the Minadoka Relocation Center in Hunt, Idaho where he would continue his high school education. When he was alive, Dad used to claim that with the exception of a handful of memories, he couldn’t remember.
In hindsight, Dad and other members of Japanese-American communities up and down the West Coast were targeted for this kind of treatment because they looked too much like the enemy to a frightened mainstream community who were led by our leaders to believe a grave threat existed and extraordinary measures were required.
Understandably, at the time Japanese-Americans even older and more experienced in life than Dad had no prior experience as individuals or a whole group for that matter, on just how to pick up the pieces of their lives after having been singled out and branded by their own government as possible terrorists and saboteurs, not trustworthy enough to be allowed to live and work among decent people.
While it can be argued by some in present times the fears of their fellow citizens and blowing of political winds that led to their imprisonment can be easily understood on an intellectual basis, in truth accepting the fact your life has been ripped to shreds because of an image reflected in the mirror is and was far more problematic. And my family history will be irrevocably intertwined with Area A, Block 10, an address at the Puyallup Assembly Center during World War II on the grounds of the Western Washington State Fair.
(Note: Information for this article pertaining to the Puyallup Assembly Center and its Japanese-American residents was gleaned from the excellent on-line exhibit on "Camp Harmony" at University of Washington Libraries at the following web address: http://www.lib.washington.edu/exhibits/harmony/exhibit/index.html)
Asian-American Woman Looks At Life Through Lens Of Art
(This blog was originally published under the headline of "Art Lessons: Hello From Federal Way" at a website at the News Tribune, a daily newspaper in Tacoma, WA on 9/21/07 as part of a reader generated section entitled "In Your Neighborhood".
From time to time I’ll be blogging for you under the banner of Art Lessons as a continuing correspondent from the South King County's emerging metropolis of Federal Way, Washington where I'll attempt to follow as a long-time resident the advice of our current city slogan which exhorts "It's All Within Reach..."
Since my childhood, art is the magnifying glass which looking back from the vantage point of my now middle years, comes as naturally as if it was pre-wired into my brain as apparently reading a circuit board was to my little brother at the same age.
In a family widely overloaded with engineers who enjoyed the challenge of playing with numbers and collecting data , my brother is the more standard model. When our Dad, one of the Boeing companies then many Asian-American electrical engineers showed the two of us one of those do-it-yourself home educational kits from 60’s where you learned how to make a radio or whatever, I noticed to my absolute horror as I glanced over at little brother that both guys shared a bright gleam in their eyes.
I saw absolutely nothing. They saw possibilities. When they looked at what to me was a rather non-descript though orderly collection of odd-shaped components mounted on a rather ugly but serviceable piece of composition board, a light bulb went on inside their brains because a connection had been made.
To this day if you showed me the same board, I still can't see a thing. The mental distance between us all had just become a vast mental crevasse that I could recognize even at such a tender age, would separate us in small and fundamental ways the course of our entire lifetimes in fully predictable ways.
The benefit of this early rude shock was that I was given an early introduction to the topic of perspective. Heretofore, if I had thought about it at all I would have been quite comfortable as few people claim to think that what I saw was what everyone else in the world saw when looking at the world because it is plain to see if something is in front of your eyes.
Today I’m a older person who finds myself frequently throwing up my hands observing the continuing tendency for topics of the day being discussed by people who know better, for ease of argument as if everything in the world can be eventually reduced to only two sides and opposing ones at that.
In the multi-dimensional universe we live in, isn’t it frustrating to think that we might inadvertently as a society delude ourselves because it is too easy or too hard to keep in mind that seeing (even in two dimensions) is quite different from the value or lack of value that you put on it?
Fortunately, the early lesson in perspective with my Dad and brother allowed me since to factor that my view of the world is just one of many. Art as a looking glass it possible to note there are often several choices of entry into any subject as there are certainly much more than two points of exit!
This kind of exercise in thinking is a major reason it is a tragedy that arts education has fallen into third place status or even dropped entirely by legislative economists on all levels and frustrated local taxpayers in my lifetime alone as regrettably expendable frill or a subject given other pressing considerations like preparing our youth for college and a career at Microsoft that a financially strapped and responsible society just cannot afford.
Imagine what Western art would be like if our great artists were held to this limiting standard that everything can be reduced to only two sides? Come to think of what the world would look like if all the trees, hillsides and wildlife we see came in only one and two dimensions? Consider a world in only black and white or featuring only two textures, smooth or rough?
As some enjoy folks in our midst (ABC Sports comes to mind circa the era of the late Roone Arledge) have told us that they look at life in frames of an athletic contest while peppering their conversation with sports analogies to describe their personal approach to the issues and challenges that come in life, I often find in art a similar platform and hope to have the opportunity to share some of my observations in the near future with you!
From time to time I’ll be blogging for you under the banner of Art Lessons as a continuing correspondent from the South King County's emerging metropolis of Federal Way, Washington where I'll attempt to follow as a long-time resident the advice of our current city slogan which exhorts "It's All Within Reach..."
Since my childhood, art is the magnifying glass which looking back from the vantage point of my now middle years, comes as naturally as if it was pre-wired into my brain as apparently reading a circuit board was to my little brother at the same age.
In a family widely overloaded with engineers who enjoyed the challenge of playing with numbers and collecting data , my brother is the more standard model. When our Dad, one of the Boeing companies then many Asian-American electrical engineers showed the two of us one of those do-it-yourself home educational kits from 60’s where you learned how to make a radio or whatever, I noticed to my absolute horror as I glanced over at little brother that both guys shared a bright gleam in their eyes.
I saw absolutely nothing. They saw possibilities. When they looked at what to me was a rather non-descript though orderly collection of odd-shaped components mounted on a rather ugly but serviceable piece of composition board, a light bulb went on inside their brains because a connection had been made.
To this day if you showed me the same board, I still can't see a thing. The mental distance between us all had just become a vast mental crevasse that I could recognize even at such a tender age, would separate us in small and fundamental ways the course of our entire lifetimes in fully predictable ways.
The benefit of this early rude shock was that I was given an early introduction to the topic of perspective. Heretofore, if I had thought about it at all I would have been quite comfortable as few people claim to think that what I saw was what everyone else in the world saw when looking at the world because it is plain to see if something is in front of your eyes.
Today I’m a older person who finds myself frequently throwing up my hands observing the continuing tendency for topics of the day being discussed by people who know better, for ease of argument as if everything in the world can be eventually reduced to only two sides and opposing ones at that.
In the multi-dimensional universe we live in, isn’t it frustrating to think that we might inadvertently as a society delude ourselves because it is too easy or too hard to keep in mind that seeing (even in two dimensions) is quite different from the value or lack of value that you put on it?
Fortunately, the early lesson in perspective with my Dad and brother allowed me since to factor that my view of the world is just one of many. Art as a looking glass it possible to note there are often several choices of entry into any subject as there are certainly much more than two points of exit!
This kind of exercise in thinking is a major reason it is a tragedy that arts education has fallen into third place status or even dropped entirely by legislative economists on all levels and frustrated local taxpayers in my lifetime alone as regrettably expendable frill or a subject given other pressing considerations like preparing our youth for college and a career at Microsoft that a financially strapped and responsible society just cannot afford.
Imagine what Western art would be like if our great artists were held to this limiting standard that everything can be reduced to only two sides? Come to think of what the world would look like if all the trees, hillsides and wildlife we see came in only one and two dimensions? Consider a world in only black and white or featuring only two textures, smooth or rough?
As some enjoy folks in our midst (ABC Sports comes to mind circa the era of the late Roone Arledge) have told us that they look at life in frames of an athletic contest while peppering their conversation with sports analogies to describe their personal approach to the issues and challenges that come in life, I often find in art a similar platform and hope to have the opportunity to share some of my observations in the near future with you!
After Baby, Asian-American Mother Has Osteoporosis (Continued)
(This blog was originally published in a reader-generated section on a website at The News Tribune, a daily newspaper in Tacoma, WA on 10/09/07. On account of the subject matter, it has been edited and enhanced for sharper clarity.)
In totally honesty, what fame there may be from being part of such a small and unusual medical minority is minimal. No important medical reference is likely to list my actual name or even a quick sketch of my actual case. However, my assumed diagnosis most definitely sets me apart from the main herd.
In this blessed respect I am truly and delightfully unique. As a kid being unique all I wanted. Like so many children at some point in their childhood, I’d convinced myself I was special. However, this kind of special is not exactly what I had in mind. But for the past twenty years this is the unique that I have.
The isolation I felt back then as a member of such a miniscule patient care group was magnified with a failure to be able to connect with a more informed medical community, a peer group to share with, and teamwork philosophy between agencies and organizations with respect to breast cancer, ovarian cancer, etc.
This is because for practical purposes none existed. If any focus had been given, it was directed primarily at elderly women, with whom at the time this condition was generally associated. One option, perusing the pages of actual medical studies and journals at the University of Washington Library was available, should I be able to interpret what was in them.
Interestingly enough, I recall that my doctors were not comfortable at the time my fractures presented themselves to write in the blank space provided for a diagnosis because they lacked the necessary data to definitively state that the fractures I had suffered were positively associated with my pregnancy, so this section was left empty.
The medical care folks and I have generally proceeded since then to behave as if I am a person who has the kind of osteoporosis associated with pregnancy, but the certainty they would hope to have to write some actual words down is not there, so officially – technically I don’t even have a diagnosis.
I've been living since in this state of ambiguity. It’s one of those weird places to be, which is why a quick visit before writing this blog with some friendly folks at the website MedicineNet.com – “We bring the doctors' knowledge to you” for a general definition for the word “diagnosis” was a nice refresher for me.
MedcineNet.com says that in it’s original Greek; the word for diagnosis was used to suggest “a discrimination, a discerning between two possibilities.”
It appears that in more current times the usage of the word has been defined more tightly. The website states now diagnosis is “the nature of a disease: the identification of an illness.” Skimming this material, an old light bulb in my head goes off. This sheds a lamp once more on the reasons why the space where the official diagnosis would be written remains blank to this very day
Once my bone calcium decline was stable, I was basically sent home with the instructions to take calcium supplements such as the kind included in over-the-counter antacids, engage in some kind - no details described other than walking - of weight bearing exercise, and possibly show myself back at the clinic when I hit my menopausal years.
Menopause, it was explained to me over twenty-one years ago would be a critical time because most every woman at that age shows a significant decline in calcium density. For a person like myself who had already done so up to two decades earlier, there is no reason to expect that I will not show this (second decline as well. So what level of bone density is in my future?
This question is no more ambiguous than the original question of "Just how did this happen?" However, as with most unknowns, some of the possible scenarios are upsetting, even frightening in their possible implications. And those are just the ones in my mind! Meanwhile I was angry and depressed about the topic for years.
Compounding all of this, I have been relatively unsuccessful in organizing what little care I might have within my power. This includes developing a regular program of exercise and crusading in public for increased monetary and social support for osteoporosis research. I've frittered far too much time being distracted with other matters, which ironically include a diagnosis of adult ADHD at the end of my late forties.
While this last development ultimately shed the most convincing light on how one condition has impacted the self-care of another, it has also been a hurdle. Up to a dozen years earlier I had been examining the possibility of ADHD at a time when the same medical community as a whole was not yet convinced that it existed. So my local attempts to address this second question had been turned away. And I a prospective patient was frustrated and upset once more at being hung out to dry.
Ultimately, as many others have done before me, I've had to accept who I am, the period of history in which I live, and the fact all that is within my power is to endeavor to live in these times as best as I am able. In my case, more recently it's occurred to me that I can create a space of my own. How long it remains is unknown. No doubt it could change, but then no matter.
The plan is to create a picture on paper that goes back to the day the radiologist’s report on my spine came in. Then, I’ll file through my memories and redraw the entire scene as to allow that younger version of me to reach inside my brain and return the image of an upside-down woman to one whose standing all right.
***
For a general introduction on osteoporosis go to the National Osteoporosis Foundation's excellent website at: http://www.nof.org/. Since my trip in the mid-eighties to University of Washington Medical School in Seattle, WA these two excellent resources have been subsequently developed: http://osteoed.org/;http://courses.washington.edu/bonephys/.
In totally honesty, what fame there may be from being part of such a small and unusual medical minority is minimal. No important medical reference is likely to list my actual name or even a quick sketch of my actual case. However, my assumed diagnosis most definitely sets me apart from the main herd.
In this blessed respect I am truly and delightfully unique. As a kid being unique all I wanted. Like so many children at some point in their childhood, I’d convinced myself I was special. However, this kind of special is not exactly what I had in mind. But for the past twenty years this is the unique that I have.
The isolation I felt back then as a member of such a miniscule patient care group was magnified with a failure to be able to connect with a more informed medical community, a peer group to share with, and teamwork philosophy between agencies and organizations with respect to breast cancer, ovarian cancer, etc.
This is because for practical purposes none existed. If any focus had been given, it was directed primarily at elderly women, with whom at the time this condition was generally associated. One option, perusing the pages of actual medical studies and journals at the University of Washington Library was available, should I be able to interpret what was in them.
"OSTEOPORATIC fractures lower a patient’s quality of life and is responsible for more than 1.5 million fractures annually, including:over 300,000 hip fractures; and approximately 700,000 vertebral fractures; 250,000 wrist fractures; and 300,000 fractures at other sites."
- National Osteoporosis Foundation
Interestingly enough, I recall that my doctors were not comfortable at the time my fractures presented themselves to write in the blank space provided for a diagnosis because they lacked the necessary data to definitively state that the fractures I had suffered were positively associated with my pregnancy, so this section was left empty.
The medical care folks and I have generally proceeded since then to behave as if I am a person who has the kind of osteoporosis associated with pregnancy, but the certainty they would hope to have to write some actual words down is not there, so officially – technically I don’t even have a diagnosis.
I've been living since in this state of ambiguity. It’s one of those weird places to be, which is why a quick visit before writing this blog with some friendly folks at the website MedicineNet.com – “We bring the doctors' knowledge to you” for a general definition for the word “diagnosis” was a nice refresher for me.
MedcineNet.com says that in it’s original Greek; the word for diagnosis was used to suggest “a discrimination, a discerning between two possibilities.”
It appears that in more current times the usage of the word has been defined more tightly. The website states now diagnosis is “the nature of a disease: the identification of an illness.” Skimming this material, an old light bulb in my head goes off. This sheds a lamp once more on the reasons why the space where the official diagnosis would be written remains blank to this very day
"WOMEN can lose up to 20 percent of their bone mass in the five to seven years following menopause, making them more susceptible to osteoporosis. Specialized tests called bone mineral density (BMD) tests can measure bone density in various sites of the body."
- National Osteoporosis Foundation
Once my bone calcium decline was stable, I was basically sent home with the instructions to take calcium supplements such as the kind included in over-the-counter antacids, engage in some kind - no details described other than walking - of weight bearing exercise, and possibly show myself back at the clinic when I hit my menopausal years.
Menopause, it was explained to me over twenty-one years ago would be a critical time because most every woman at that age shows a significant decline in calcium density. For a person like myself who had already done so up to two decades earlier, there is no reason to expect that I will not show this (second decline as well. So what level of bone density is in my future?
This question is no more ambiguous than the original question of "Just how did this happen?" However, as with most unknowns, some of the possible scenarios are upsetting, even frightening in their possible implications. And those are just the ones in my mind! Meanwhile I was angry and depressed about the topic for years.
Compounding all of this, I have been relatively unsuccessful in organizing what little care I might have within my power. This includes developing a regular program of exercise and crusading in public for increased monetary and social support for osteoporosis research. I've frittered far too much time being distracted with other matters, which ironically include a diagnosis of adult ADHD at the end of my late forties.
While this last development ultimately shed the most convincing light on how one condition has impacted the self-care of another, it has also been a hurdle. Up to a dozen years earlier I had been examining the possibility of ADHD at a time when the same medical community as a whole was not yet convinced that it existed. So my local attempts to address this second question had been turned away. And I a prospective patient was frustrated and upset once more at being hung out to dry.
Ultimately, as many others have done before me, I've had to accept who I am, the period of history in which I live, and the fact all that is within my power is to endeavor to live in these times as best as I am able. In my case, more recently it's occurred to me that I can create a space of my own. How long it remains is unknown. No doubt it could change, but then no matter.
The plan is to create a picture on paper that goes back to the day the radiologist’s report on my spine came in. Then, I’ll file through my memories and redraw the entire scene as to allow that younger version of me to reach inside my brain and return the image of an upside-down woman to one whose standing all right.
***
For a general introduction on osteoporosis go to the National Osteoporosis Foundation's excellent website at: http://www.nof.org/. Since my trip in the mid-eighties to University of Washington Medical School in Seattle, WA these two excellent resources have been subsequently developed: http://osteoed.org/;http://courses.washington.edu/bonephys/.
After Baby, Asian-American Mother Told She Had Osteoporosis
( This blog originally appeared at the internet website of The News Tribune, a daily newspapers in Tacoma, WA on 10/09/07. On account of the subject matter, it has been edited and enhanced for clarity.)
Next month on the 18th of November, I will quietly and silently mark the twenty-first anniversary of the day when the whole picture I had in my head of my own body turned completely upside down!
Short of four months before, my body considerably altered while carrying our first child. Birth and delivery of a baby boy brought a second transformation. I was deeply engrossed in the task of learning now to be a mom and fielding unexpected competition from my live-in, not merely visiting old-fashioned Japanese mother-in-law.
Despite prior preparations, I was busy enough as most parents of new babies can tell you, you can never plan for everything. The handful of new baby and new parent handbooks I'd waded through during my pregnancy were reassuring. I never felt completely without some foundation.
When my own health - uneventfully stable for years - began to crumble as early as a month and a half after my son was born. As it turned out there was really nothing in any bookstore that could have adequately prepared me for what was to come next.
It began at the onset with a mild but unexplained tender spot in my lower back. Days went by and the tender spot felt more like a knot in my back which made little sense to myself or the family practitioner serving as both my own and the new babies doctor. My physician speculated that pain in this area might indicate weak stomach muscles. Exercises were prescribed.
The “knot” for lack of better description which registered by touch as a small bump on my spine, began to radiate further and increasingly stronger sensations of pain, which began to multiply daily. I hurt all day and then all night. Meanwhile I began having difficulty holding heavy objects. Most alarmingly that my definition of “heavy” changed weekly. The exercises were of no help. And I felt as the first months of my baby's life went by, I was literally watching myself fall apart.
This last symptom drove me to my doctor to insist I be allowed to have an x-ray. According to the interpretation generated by the consulting radiologist the x-ray I took showed ” radiographic suggestion of osteoporosis by plain film technique with concave deformity of L-3 which may be analogous to a compression fracture….”
The radiologist's report started a long chair reaction of appointments to local medical professionals up the chain leading specialist at the University of Washington School of Medicine and my soaring ascent to the ranks of a relative handful of new moms in the entire area, region, and the United States of America who have been beneficiaries of news such as this.
My upward climb finally ended in May 1987 with a tentative diagnosis of significant osteopenia, a confirmation of three compression fractures of the lower spine and residual activity which all took place at my ripe old age of 31 years less than four months after presenting my husband with our first child.
(to be continued)
Next month on the 18th of November, I will quietly and silently mark the twenty-first anniversary of the day when the whole picture I had in my head of my own body turned completely upside down!
Short of four months before, my body considerably altered while carrying our first child. Birth and delivery of a baby boy brought a second transformation. I was deeply engrossed in the task of learning now to be a mom and fielding unexpected competition from my live-in, not merely visiting old-fashioned Japanese mother-in-law.
"OSTEOPOROSIS, or porous bone, is a disease characterized by low bone mass and structural deterioration of bone tissue, leading to bone fragility and an increased susceptibility to fractures, especially of the hip, spine and wrist, although any bone can be affected."
- National Osteoporosis Foundation website
Despite prior preparations, I was busy enough as most parents of new babies can tell you, you can never plan for everything. The handful of new baby and new parent handbooks I'd waded through during my pregnancy were reassuring. I never felt completely without some foundation.
When my own health - uneventfully stable for years - began to crumble as early as a month and a half after my son was born. As it turned out there was really nothing in any bookstore that could have adequately prepared me for what was to come next.
Mizu Sugimura, 31, during the mid 80's, models a sweatshirt of her own design worn only on medical visits. The shirt was created to provide a bit of mental cheer that was not otherwise present at the time. (Photo by Yaz Yambe, copyright 1987.)
It began at the onset with a mild but unexplained tender spot in my lower back. Days went by and the tender spot felt more like a knot in my back which made little sense to myself or the family practitioner serving as both my own and the new babies doctor. My physician speculated that pain in this area might indicate weak stomach muscles. Exercises were prescribed.
The “knot” for lack of better description which registered by touch as a small bump on my spine, began to radiate further and increasingly stronger sensations of pain, which began to multiply daily. I hurt all day and then all night. Meanwhile I began having difficulty holding heavy objects. Most alarmingly that my definition of “heavy” changed weekly. The exercises were of no help. And I felt as the first months of my baby's life went by, I was literally watching myself fall apart.
This last symptom drove me to my doctor to insist I be allowed to have an x-ray. According to the interpretation generated by the consulting radiologist the x-ray I took showed ” radiographic suggestion of osteoporosis by plain film technique with concave deformity of L-3 which may be analogous to a compression fracture….”
The radiologist's report started a long chair reaction of appointments to local medical professionals up the chain leading specialist at the University of Washington School of Medicine and my soaring ascent to the ranks of a relative handful of new moms in the entire area, region, and the United States of America who have been beneficiaries of news such as this.
"TEN MILLION Americans presently suffer from osteoporosis today, according to the National Osteoporosis Foundation. Of this number, 8 million are women and 2 million are men. It is estimated that fifty-five percent of people over the age of fifty are at risk to develop the condition which although associated with older adults can strike at any age."
- National Osteoporosis Foundation website
My upward climb finally ended in May 1987 with a tentative diagnosis of significant osteopenia, a confirmation of three compression fractures of the lower spine and residual activity which all took place at my ripe old age of 31 years less than four months after presenting my husband with our first child.
(to be continued)
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