{"id":10234,"date":"2022-12-07T09:57:02","date_gmt":"2022-12-07T08:57:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/budrich.de\/en\/?p=10234"},"modified":"2022-11-02T17:01:10","modified_gmt":"2022-11-02T16:01:10","slug":"part-iii-essay-series-ninette-rothmuller","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/budrich.de\/en\/news\/part-iii-essay-series-ninette-rothmuller\/","title":{"rendered":"Time to fly: Part III of the essay series by Ninette Rothm\u00fcller"},"content":{"rendered":"

This essay by our author Ninette Rothm\u00fcller has been published in the journal Expos\u00e9<\/a> 2022-2.
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

Part I of the essay series is available her<\/a><\/em>e<\/em>,<\/a> part 2 is available here<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Preface<\/h3>\n

This essay is written from a location that has been, and continuously is, subject to colonializing practices. The land on which the author\u2019s office sits, is Nonotuck land, with the Nipmuc and the Wampanoag to the east, the Mohegan and Pequot to the south, the Mohican to the west and the Abenaki to the north.<\/em><\/p>\n

This is the third and last essay in a series of autobiographical, ethnographic comedies published in this journal.[1]<\/a> Here we are again \u2013 grand finale this time \u2013 excuse my appearance, I have lost the ground under my feet. Under one foot to be honest; the right one that is. Yeah, that\u2019s right, good that I have a second one.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Time to fly<\/h3>\n

Before you ask \u201cWhat happened?\u201d let\u2019s just agree to fly high today, not just because changing ones\u2019 perspective is a healthy, yet rarely practiced, exercise. No, I know, we are trying to understand others\u2019 perspectives from time to time, but I am talking about practicing it. Over and over again, let\u2019s say from 7:00 to 8:00 every morning. That\u2019s right, when you try to get the kids ready for school, your mom calls with questions about a recipe, the coffee jar is empty and the love of your life can\u2019t find their charging cable \u2013 primetime for practicing taking another perspective. Sounds good? Well, I am proud of you.<\/p>\n

Back to our task, as I suggested, let\u2019s fly high, not only to change our perspectives on things, but because if ya don\u2019t fly, I ain\u2019t comin\u2019 \u2013 not because I am stubborn, but because I can\u2019t. Period.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Paving the Path<\/h3>\n

As I write these lines, road workers are paving the road in front of our house. It is loud, the walls vibrate from the steamroller and the workers recommend that we carry the dogs across the street, so that they don\u2019t get stuck in the hot asphalt. Ehm, yes thank you, this sounds like a plausible request, except that I can\u2019t carry anyone reliably, not even myself. Thus therefore, let\u2019s get our wings out. Yes, I know, you might not have used them for a while, who knows where they are and when you finally find them, they are dusty and wrinkled. Not my fault! I can\u2019t help you here, keep your stuff in order, I mean at least the essentials, wings, dreams, mirrored sunglasses, and such.<\/p>\n

Anyhow, the road work is loud, yet the workers are paving the road only for me, my husband assures me, reminding me that I had complained about the bumps in the road whenever we bike over it; if you want to call it biking that is; we will get to that later. My husband is a single child, every fiber of himself is, things either happen for him and only for him or for the sake of one of his loved ones. Never for any other reason. So, that\u2019s why the road is paved for my convenience only. Sounds lovely in a chilling way. I can\u2019t write when its noisy, I think, as the smell of the asphalt hits my forehead. I am a sensitive writer, I am, let\u2019s just face it, it\u2019s hard enough to write comedy when one is in pain. But that\u2019s the score, that\u2019s the condition we are in, so are you coming or not?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Come on in \u2013 wobble along<\/h3>\n

Come on in \u2013 close your eyes (and yes, continue reading) and imagine that your right foot is on fire, it is burning, yet, at the same time it feels like you are wearing a tight wet sock that is plugged into a socket, waves of electricity are crawling up your leg, making every light touch unbearable. To add some fun, your foot changes colors like a disco ball (age check: are you with me? If yes, you are, just as much as I am: old). The foot is shiny and recently it grows hair where hair has never grown before. Disgusting, I think \u2013 \u201coh, yes\u201d, my neurologist palpitates with satisfaction rubbing his palms in delight, \u201cthat\u2019s exactly the thing damaged nerves do.\u201d Well, I am glad to hear that the damaged nerves in my foot do exactly what they are supposed to do: going berserk.<\/p>\n

What happened, your wrinkled forehead still asks with polite insistence. Well, for those of us who are linear time lovers, let\u2019s start from the beginning. Meaning, let\u2019s start from where we left it last time. Remember, when we last met, I got against all odds, married, with a cast on my right foot, after breaking the navicular bone two days prior to my wedding slipping in the kitchen. At urgent care, a doctor\u2019s assistant read the x-ray, explaining that it is unusual to break this bone, and that part of the bone broke off completely and is hovering a respectable distance from the rest of the bone. The nurse who we get to see next, has muscular, fantastically colorful tattooed arms and explains in a monotonous voice, as he puts on a tight air cast, that this will hurt for a while, that we should come back in seven weeks and \u2026 bye.<\/p>\n

Fast forward, during the weeks after the fracture my foot burns at night as if on fire. I have never broken a bone before and think that this might be normal. One week into wearing the cast, I share with my husband that some movement practitioners believe that taking casts off after a week and introducing movement is best. Something deep inside of me tells me that I should do just that. I don\u2019t. After five years, I am finally health insured, I feel obliged and bow my head passively to the medical instructions imparted on me. Great, guess what I got out of it? A semi-chronic disability; the nerves in my foot are damaged.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Soaring<\/h3>\n

Let\u2019s pause. Or even better, let\u2019s look at it all from high above. Are you soaring yet; wings all unwrinkled? Now draw tight circles in the air, and look at the scenario from some distance. I broke my foot in a place that has a long history of limiting women\u2019s mobility. A women\u2019s place is in the kitchen I can still hear my grandmother sigh. Next, as if what happened had no feminist learning effect on me, I oblige to the male doctor\u2019s assistant treatment plan: squeeze this foot (including the calf \u2013 for no reason) into a tight plastic cast and suck it up. Then, I do not follow my instinct to take the cast off and throw it into a corner. Yep, you might think, I didn\u2019t deserve any better \u2013 how could I have been so stupid? I mean, I hold a degree in Gender Studies, so really one should think that I should have known better. But nope, regardless of how well I have published in Gender Studies, it turns out that I am totally nonsense at applying what I am writing about in my everyday life. Same with you?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Cowards to the left of me \u2013 Jokers to the right[2]<\/a><\/h3>\n

Six weeks after breaking my foot, I finally buy into one of my mother-in-law\u2019s emoji-fueled texts, forcing me to see a famous pediatrist one state over, whose father is a friend of the family and who, at the age of eight or so, once went skiing with my husband during a joint family vacation \u2013 so really, he is qualified.<\/p>\n

The pediatrist looks tired, pretends to be in denial of a joint family vacation forty years ago, and with eyes wide open, he stares at my shiny, black-yellow, swollen, stiff foot. \u201cThe fracture is not your problem. You have complex regional pain syndrome[3]<\/a>\u201d, he says and leaves the room hastily, reassuring us that he will be right back. We never see him again. Instead a nurse appears, reassuring us that there is nothing Doctor S. can do for us.<\/p>\n

On the drive home, I check the Internet for complex regional pain syndrome \u2013 CRPS. The first page that opens informs the reader that one of the nick names for this rare condition is suicide disease. Now, take a guess why. Yeah, it\u2019s getting chilly here, isn\u2019t it? Doesn\u2019t that make us feel good, first the doctor runs away, then we learn the telling nickname that my new companion goes by. From here nothing is the same and that\u2019s why, just in case you haven\u2019t done so yet, I urge you to get your wings out. NOW! Did you hear me!?!<\/p>\n

The morning after the diagnosis, I call a physiotherapist \u2013 PT. My condition is rare, she has no idea what I am talking about, and since that is so, she puts a smile into her voice and declares with confidence, \u201cyou will get through this, I can see you at 2 today\u201d. As if getting out one of the yellow UHU Alleskleber tubes of adhesive that my mother sends in likewise yellow DHL packages from time to time, I glue myself to her sentence: \u201cYou will get through this.\u201d Ok, I think, I am on it. She\u2019s my joker. You can guess who the coward is, can you?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

How to speed-wobble<\/h3>\n

I call specialists for a month. No one is as brave as my PT, no one wants to see me. Makes ya feel good, doesn\u2019t it? I, for my part, do every exercise assigned from my PT. With a mirror between my legs, starring at the mirrored image of my left foot moving back and forth, I speak to myself \u201cI am moving my right foot forward and I am moving my right foot back.\u201d Just kidding myself, I can neither move nor feel my right foot, but my brain is liking the joy ride and rolls right with it. And don\u2019t we forget this all the time \u2013 our brains get fooled so easily, willing to believe almost everything we, a politician or salesman tells it. Scary, right?<\/p>\n

My daughter, a very solution oriented 9-year-old, suggests that I don\u2019t bother with all this limping, but use wings instead. Would love to, except that I am a grown-up and like most grown-ups, I can\u2019t fly (anymore). Sighing at my inability to fly, she sets up movement parcours for us. I am supposed to pick up pencils and feathers with my foot. VERY FUNNY, I think, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, hands clenching into fists.<\/p>\n

I want to walk. It\u2019s hell.<\/p>\n

Weeks later, my husband can\u2019t drive me to one of my physio appointments. I decide to walk instead. The ground is icy, the road next to me busy \u2013 perfect conditions to fail. I am wearing sexy orthopedic boots and Google maps promises that I\u2019ll make it in 17 minutes to the physio office. It takes me close to 2 hours. I can\u2019t walk; I speed-wobble. My hurting foot can\u2019t sense the ground. I decide that my only chance to make it is to not walk with my foot, but with my will. I am walking; I am will-walking. Just in case you hadn\u2019t fathomed yet, I come from a long line of stubborn women.<\/p>\n

Did you ever realize that the word born is in stub-born \u2013 as in the ability to create new beginnings? And what about stub, I hear you say. Stub originates from middle English and means tree stump \u2013 a stump that\u2019s cut off. Very telling! My foot is certainly cut off from any conversations with my central nervous system. Like Major Tom (if you are still with me, you are not only old, but have doubtful taste when it comes to which music to dance to under our disco balls \u2013 just like me) we can think of my foot as perhaps, I mean just maybe, still hovering somewhere out there on the outskirts of my body-system. \u201cBack at ground control, there is a problem.\u201d[4]<\/a> Grounding through my foot is impossible. I finally agree with my daughter – time to fly.<\/p>\n

Next, a 35-year-old wish comes true. WOW! First, I don\u2019t even realize, that my wish was granted. Hobble-speeding over the icy side-walk towards the PT office, eyes fixed to the ground, one step, one more, swaying left and right, dangerously out of control like a ship in a storm, I suddenly realize that not a single car had honked at me from behind and no man had yelled at me, uninvited, \u201cand how are we doing today, honey?\u201d There we go, are you done with chauvinistic remarks yelled at you from the cabin of a truck? Don\u2019t spend your life waiting for a change. Be the change, start wobbling down the road and I promise, no-one will bother to honk. Because wobbling ain\u2019t sexy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ain\u2019t no mountain high enough[5]<\/a><\/h3>\n

Today my diagnosis is 6 months, dozens of specialist visits, mounting medical bills and hundreds of miles of driving in the passenger seat next to my husband old. Stairs I best take on all fours side by side with our dog, who is wagging her tail into my face with excitement. Walking is easiest holding someone\u2019s hand, and mobility beyond the edge of our yard, let alone driving, a dream. The nerves in my foot are injured. Nerves heal slowly, if at all. I am in a hurry. Never mind, pack up your wings and get your bike helmet out, will you?<\/p>\n

Generally speaking, my husband and I have little in common. Sounds familiar? I recommend you roll with it. At least I do, rolling with my husband that is; on the tandem bike \u2013 only recently of course, since I can\u2019t bike by myself anymore. My gaze fixed to my husband\u2019s duck-butt (he is wearing padded bike pants), I am trying to love and laugh, as pain rages in my foot. And so, we pedal, I sit up straight, as I can\u2019t lean forward to grip the handlebar. Like with walking, I balance through my will, free handling, like an acrobat. Got your tutu out? I also can\u2019t push the pedals, but I am moving my foot up and down with them.<\/p>\n

My husband is good at running away \u2013 now, finally, who would have thought, this feature comes in handy. He is pedaling as if our life depends on it. However, much he pedals on the tandem, I am keeping up with him. Yeah man, go, go, go. Ain\u2019t escape this woman.<\/p>\n

In February, every edge of a carpet was a canyon, my foot could not cope with any uneven surface, now my husband and I are climbing up washed out trails on a tandem that isn\u2019t built for such adventures.<\/p>\n

Turns out that what we have in common, is that we are movers and doers. Not a bad combination when hit with a condition that has the potential to make you stop moving altogether because it is too painful to do otherwise. What did I learn from this? To never stop looking for what we might have in common with others. I know you didn\u2019t ask me my opinion, never mind.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Landing somewhere on lost land<\/h3>\n

What\u2019s next? I don\u2019t know. What I do know, is that I am an expert at being in limbo. My immigration status is not yet finalized, I have no travel card and thus the option to travel to Germany to see my family, from which my daughter and I have been separated for many years now, is suspended, last month my latest employment project ended, I am married (which seems to just be another word for hovering in the sense that the path we chose to walk together is subject to daily negotiations), and I have lost the ground under my feet; hanging above it on bouncy suspenders so it feels. How does one live like that?<\/p>\n

To be able to control one\u2019s life by making informed choices as an individual or as a community is a privilege. It is a concept taken for granted. However, isn\u2019t it that the majority of people in this world, this includes children, elders, people with various abilities and immigration statuses, imprisoned persons and so on, live without the chance to control their lives and make informed decisions for themselves. And here I am, after years during which I experienced food insecurity, I am now ordering baked goods from a local, artisanal bakery, complaining about the wait time of the phone loop. Have I lost my mind? Is that what I actually lost? Do you know where yours is? Stored away with your wings? Get your mind out of the closet!<\/p>\n

Two weeks ago, I was listening to a talk presented by a citizen of the Nipmuk nation, Andre Strongbearheart Gaines Jr.[6]<\/a>. No land under his feet. The land under his nations\u2019 citizens feet, not lost, but taken. The land under his neighboring tribes\u2019 feet: taken; stolen. Thousands betrayed. The house I currently live in was built in approximately 1760. Who was the land taken from and how? I am immigrating. Andre invites all audience members, who are predominately white, to dance with him. I can hardly walk, but there are invitations to dance one cannot decline. I dance and my pain is just a splinter of a fraction of the pain the world is in. Who do you decide to dance with? What are you dancing for? Finally found your mind?<\/p>\n

What\u2019s next? Perhaps, I will never be able to drive again, never play soccer with my child again, never… So what? I mean, really! So what!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Stand Firm<\/h3>\n

One week ago, I listened to a yoga teacher of mine. Like my daughter\u2019s grandparents on Skype, my yoga teacher has shrunk to the size of my laptop screen. She reads poetry by Kabir:<\/p>\n

Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet. Think about it carefully! Don’t go off somewhere else! Kabir says this: just throw away all thoughts of imaginary things, and stand firm in that which you are.<\/em><\/p>\n

That\u2019s next. Stand firm in that which you are. Not in solitude, not for your own cause. The world needs you. Find your place. Stand up. Invite others. Reach out.<\/p>\n

Sounds cheesy? I hope you laughed reading the trilogy I promised to write, not knowing what I got myself into. I hope you laughed reading about my pain and giggled at my daughter\u2019s phantasy. During these three essays I lend you my life. I invited you to crack up laughing about it. In the first essay I promised that I will harvest stories from my life in the form of anecdotal comedy as a means of developing socially critical questions from the \u2018place\u2019 of self-reflective humor. In this and in the last two essays I have asked undisciplined questions. How will you answer them? Will you?<\/p>\n

Now, it\u2019s time to look up from these pages. Take any keyword this trilogy served you with: immobility, forced separation, immigration, colonialization, or love. Take any, I don\u2019t care \u2013 and do something with it that has the potential to better the world around you. I really don\u2019t care what. I am done \u2013 my word count is over succeeded. I may be dismissed. You are on your own now \u2013 or not, if you decide to be with others, how ever inconvenient it may be.<\/p>\n

I am deeply grateful to my family.\u00a0I thank Brett J. Butler for copyediting this article.<\/em><\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bibliography<\/h3>\n

The Kabir Book: Forty-Four of the Ecstatic Poems of Kabir. Translation by Robert Bly (1993). Boston: Beacon Press.<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The author<\/h3>\n

Dr. Phil. Ninette Rothm\u00fcller is currently based at the Orfalea Center for Global and International Studies at the University of California in Santa Barbara, USA. With a background in Cultural Studies, Social Work and Arts, her work is concerned with who humans are to, and with, each other under various circumstances, such as severe crises. Her work applies a gender perspective to the thematic areas of trauma, fear, and social solidarity. In 2021, Ninette Rothm\u00fcller published her book \u201cWomen, Biomedical Research and Art<\/a>\u201d (Verlag Barbara Budrich).<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[1]<\/a> The first two essays, which include further information on the writing approach can be accessed here https:\/\/budrich.de\/en\/news\/part-i-essay-series-ninette-rothmuller\/ and https:\/\/budrich.de\/en\/news\/part-ii-essay-series-ninette-rothmuller\/.<\/p>\n

[2]<\/a> This is a paraphrasing of lyrics from the song \u201cStuck in the Middle with You\u201d written by Gerry Rafferty and Joe Egan (1972).<\/p>\n

[3]<\/a> For information on complex regional pain syndrome please visit https:\/\/med.stanford.edu\/pain\/about\/chronic-pain\/crps.html.<\/p>\n

[4]<\/a> See: \u201cMajor Tom, v\u00f6llig losgel\u00f6st\u201d by Peter Schilling (1983).<\/p>\n

[5]<\/a> See: \u201cAin’t No Mountain High Enough\u201d by Nickolas Ashford and Valerie Simpson (1966).<\/p>\n

[6]<\/a> For more information about Andre\u2019s work please visit https:\/\/www.andrestrongbearheart.com\/<\/a> and https:\/\/www.ohketeau.org\/about-us<\/a>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Header image: unsplash.com \/ Gauravdeep Singh Bansal<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This essay by our author Ninette Rothm\u00fcller has been published in the journal Expos\u00e9 2022-2. 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