Tag: Massachusetts

Mental Health and Family: New Essay at Narratively

Last week I had my essay, “How to Get Your Paranoid Mother into the Poisonous Ambulance,” published at Narratively — considered a top 50 website by Time Magazine. Besides having the capability to tell my story on such an incredible platform, I was lucky enough to have the piece accompanied by illustrations from Danielle Chenette, an animator, illustrator, and printmaker originally from Millbury, Massachusetts, living and working in Chicago. I love her illustrations, and it really helped capture the theme of Mommy Dearest, which was the editorial focus of Narratively for the week leading up to Mother’s Day.

This publication was special for many reasons, but it ultimately marked a completion of a difficult journey within my writing. If you haven’t read the piece, then let me fill you in a bit. It’s the story of when I hard to return home when my mother was off her medicine and missing in Massachusetts. She has bipolar, and for most of my life, our family has had to handle the ups and downs of the disorder. It was November, 2013, and I flew home to try to convince my mother (with the of my brother) to voluntarily head into a hospital with a higher level of care to help her find equilibrium.

Illustration by Danielle Chenette
Illustration by Danielle Chenette

Well, writing this essay — and even that above paragraph — is truly monumental for me, because it marks a major transition artistically and personally. For most of my life, I’ve kept my mother’s illness a secret, but I have often felt the need to write about it. In fact, it’s almost been a compulsion, and I’ve told versions of this story before, but I’ve never told it in the memoir form and put the stamp of truth upon the pages…until now. The story of dealing with mental illness is so important because most people keep it a secret. But why is it such a secret? Why are we so embarrassed with the imbalance of the mind? How do we tell the stories we so desperately need to tell?

But even a harder question: How do we tell those stories without hurting the people we love? That question has always stopped me from truly writing the way I needed to write. I always felt that I was going to hurt someone when I told these stories, but in the piece, I didn’t hold back. I had a wonderful editor during this process who pushed me to tell the truth in a way that was authentic and real.

In the end, I wasn’t just afraid of what my mother would think about the stories — or other members of my family — and I wasn’t afraid that people would judge my mother and think of her in a negative way. To provide a bit more insight, here is what I wrote on Facebook when I shared the story:

I almost didn’t share my essay that was published on Narratively yesterday to my personal Facebook page, because it’s a personal story and ultimately people will recognize the individuals involved…potentially judging them negatively. So I asked my brother what he thought (since he is in the story), and he pointed out that hopefully more good will come from sharing it than bad. Well, I hope that’s the case. Mental health shouldn’t be something we hide and ignore. I hope it’s something we can embrace while learning to empathize with the individuals who are suffering.

Illustration by Danielle Chenette
Illustration by Danielle Chenette

Only one person (at least that I’m aware of) criticized me for sharing this story, and this person was actual a member of my family. I don’t really talk to her anymore because of her attitude toward mental health, but she wrote on the Facebook post with the intention of shaming me for sharing a story about my family that she deemed personal. But there were so many other people who wrote to me either on the Facebook post or through a private message expressing how much they valued my courage in sharing the story. In fact, someone I greatly respect wrote: “Silence killed my mom. Thanks for sharing, Joseph Lapin.” So I just wanted to say thank you to all the people who read the piece without judgement and with compassion. It means the world.

Why is mental illness still such a stigma? Why are we scared to share that our minds can become just as sick as our lungs or our cells? I’m not entirely sure yet, but I’m suddenly more confident than ever to tell my stories. Hopefully I’ll find a way to answer some of the above questions along the way.

Thoughts on the Zeigeist: Deflategate and Balls, Balls, Balls

Deflategate

It’s been a week since the news that 11 out of the 12 footballs the Patriots used in their game against the Indianapolis Colts were reported to be under inflated. The New England Patriots’ footballs were allegedly filled to 10.5 PSI — two pounds below the league minimum. An uproar ensued and America demanded football justice. Bill Belichik and Tom Brady were seen awkwardly answering questions in front of a media that were firing off probing questions as if they were interviewing Obama after he announced that America was planning to invade Canada for their maple syrup. Now the Patriots legacy is under question, and the evidence seems to suggest the Patriots are a bunch of freaking cheaters.

So, yeah, I’m a Patriots fan. I’m almost an obsessed Patriots fan. I read more articles on the Patriots in a given day than any man should, and I study formations, bench players, and strategy as if I thought any day the hoodie would call me up on the phone after a key injury and ask me if I wanted to suit up. “I’m ready coach.” As my brother-in-law says, I’m almost as much of a homer as the guy in the Saturday Night Live skit below, Dougie Spoons. “You think you can do what Brady does?”

Here is why I’m a Patriots fan. I’m from Massachusetts, and while I can’t stand the winters or the short days and the cold, I love my home. I love where I’m from, but I haven’t lived there in almost ten years. I have friends there, and I am aware that I am who I am today because of Clinton, Massachusetts. It built me. So I root for the Patriots, because I’m cheering for my roots. The Patriots represent something about my hometown that sports teams like the Packers and Steelers accomplish for their respected cities. We’re a bunch of wicked hard-working people who battle awful weather. People in Massachusetts are rugged, strong, grumpy; we work jobs that put callouses on our hands; we drink Dunkin Donuts coffee instead of that Seattle crap; and we never quit. We never quit believing that life is about hard work, family, and showing up every day as if it’s our last. We are underdogs. (Of course, this isn’t all Massholes, but these are the ones I love.)

Enter Tom Brady. He’s a quarterback that was benched at Michigan. He was a player who showed up at the NFL combine who looked like he was actually about to be examined for scoliosis.  He is an athlete who no one ever thought would be successful. He was a sixth round draft pick. Now, he is on his way to be the greatest quarterback of all time. He renegotiated his contract to give his team a discount in an era where free agents try to acquire the most money. He never quits. Every year, he leads a team with people like Julian Edelman, Alan Branch, Jermaine Wiggins, Shane Vereen, James Develin — football players who played different positions in college or couldn’t find a spot on any other team. He leads a team of people who were unwanted, undesired…cast off. And they play like a team. They preach team first. They are Massachusetts.

I consider myself an underdog. In high school, I couldn’t even spell, and I had no idea what a comma splice was. I received a D minus my freshmen year in English; I was told that being a writer is like trying to find a way to travel to the moon with a go-kart; and I’m trying to prove everyone wrong. I have a chip on my shoulder. I’m hungry, angry. So how do you think I took the news of deflategate?

It hurt. To think that the team I believe in is using a competitive advantage, one as bush league as deflating footballs, it was like someone just told me my best friend was spitting in my beer every time I went to the bathroom for four years. I wanted to believe that it wasn’t true. It had to be the weather. There had to be an explanation. I’m still a bit torn about this; Bill Nye the Science guy even came out and said Belichik was full of shit:

<iframe width=”853″ height=”480″ src=”//www.youtube.com/embed/dZFiYxI3DFM” frameborder=”0″ allowfullscreen>

It’s a bit suspicious though that Bill Nye is a Seahawks fan. There are so many questions surrounding deflategate (Did the hoodie give the order? Did Brady instruct one of his ball boys to deflate the balls? Didn’t Brady look like he was hiding something in his press conference?) that led anyone with common sense to think that the Patriots are, in fact, a bunch of cheaters. The way that the evidence stands, right now, seems to me that someone in my beloved organization is cheating.

The worst statistic that I have found was a graph on fumbles. People are talking about how Brady was the one deflating the balls to ensure a better grip and a better quality ball, but if the Patriots are deflating balls, then it’s not for the aerial attack; it’s more for the running game and yards after the catch. Look at this graph on fumbles from Slate:

150123_SNUT_Fumble-01.png.CROP.original-original

As you can see in the graph, the Patriots had far more offensive plays per fumble than the second best team in the NFL. It’s almost not even comparable. How could they be that much better at ball security. Granted, the hoodie does preach and practice ball security in innovated ways, and he even had a runner, BenJarvus Green-Ellis, who went an entire year without a fumble. While this seems like a great stat, someone actually looked at his fumbles with the Patriots compared to his fumbles with his next team, the Bengals. From 2008 to 2011, Green-Ellis didn’t have a fumble once with the Patriots. In two seasons with the Bengals, he fumbled a total of five times.

When I look at whether or not the Patriots are guilty, I see a lot of data that suggests that they are, but it’s still not proven.

On the way home today, I heard Boomer Esiason on the radio talking about the Patriots and whether or not they were cheaters. He made an excellent point. In the game against the Colts, Tom Brady under threw Shan Vereen by about five yards. He threw an under thrown interception, where he had Gronk open over the middle. He wasn’t performing well, so if he did deflate the ball the technique wasn’t working. Also, why would Belichik call a second press conference and emphatically state that there was no wrong doing from the Patriots after his first press conference. He knows his legacy is on the line, and he knows that people are suspicious: would he really double down on his teams’ innocence, publicly and emphatically, if we was still cheating? Think about Barry Bonds: he ducked the media on the steroid question.

The answer could be yes, but we don’t really know.

I read another theory from the Boston Globe that was intriguing. Chuck Pagano was the defensive coordinator of the Baltimore Ravens with John Harbaugh, who was pissed that the Patriots used “trick” plays with ineligible receivers  in the divisional championship round. People are starting to get suspicious of a revenge plot from Harbaugh. What I’m reading is that perhaps Pagano and Harbaugh were scheming together to make it look like the Patriots were deflating their balls.

Yes I know that I’m making some paranoid, Homeland type conspiracy theories here, but Harbaugh is pissed. Could it be possible that the Colts inflated their balls outside in the cold temperature, knowing that the balls would lose air if the balls were inflated inside, in order to make it seem like the Patriots were cheating? Could the Patriots actually be innocent? Well, in the words of the great Boston Celtic Kevin Garnett, anything is possible…Let’s go Patriots! Your comments are always appreciated. Hopefully we can start talking about the game this week.

 

Want to Hear a New Poem? Plus Two New Pieces Published

When I was at FIU completing my MFA, I was taking a poetry class, and we were studying “The Masters” of modern poetry.  Our professor hand selected each one of the masters, which included Theodore Roethke, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Bishop, Frank O’Hara, and a couple of contemporaries influenced by these poets.  Well, I learned a lot from this class, but what I got most out of the class was our exercises on imitation.  I saw the process the same as repainting a famous image.  Also, in the class, I found out that Bishop and O’Hara are both from Worcester County — my hometown.

So one of the poems I chose to imitate was Elizabeth Bishop’s, “In the Waiting Room.”  Well, the first line goes, “In Worcester, Massachusetts.”  When I read that, I nearly lost my mind.  I grew up in Worcester County.  And the poem was beautiful.  It was about a moment of awareness, of understanding the complexities of normalcy and horror, and I knew I wanted to try to imitate Bishop.  So I wrote, “In World History Class” — my tribute to Elizabeth Bishop.  That’s the poem above.  Hope you’ll like it.  I’ve been working on it for a couple years, and now I’m looking to try and publish it.

Also, yesterday I had two new pieces come out at the OC Weekly.  Here they are: Flying Lotus Concert Review and Zombies Take Over Long Beach.

One more thing: I saw this hilarious video from the Florida/Georgia game this weekend.  It’s of Coach Muschamp freaking out on his tight end.  He’s such a spaz.  Dan Le Batard called him “The World’s Angriest Ventriloquist.”  Check it out.

Concussion, The Tuck Rule, and Man, I was bad at football.

This morning, I was exchanging emails with my dad about concussions in football, and he wanted to remind me that he never let me play football.  True, I wasn’t allowed to play football as a kid.  And my dad wasn’t allowed to play football either.  And he wanted to make sure that, one day, I kept the tradition alive.

Well, honestly, I’m not sure if I will or will not let my son play football.  I know that I won’t let my son play football before the age of 14.  The research shows that under 14, kids brains are still developing and their necks aren’t strong enough to support their oversized head.  But when it comes to beyond 14, I might just let my son make his own choice.

Honestly, football is one of my favorite games to watch.  I’m the biggest Patriots fan in the world.  The reason the Patriots lost against the Seahawks was because I wasn’t watching the game or wearing my jersey.  I cursed the team.  (I had to conduct an interview.)

I’ll never forget the game when Tom Brady came back against the Oakland Raiders.  I was still in high school, and I was watching the game at my grandparents’ house.  It was pitch black outside, and the snow was stacked high.  Cumulonimbus clouds were dumping down a wicked lot of snow.  I remember feeling that the game was over, and the miraculous Patriots run was finally finished.

That’s when Tom Brady started connecting to Jermaine Wiggins and Troy Brown in the second half.  That’s when Brady started to spike the ball into the snow so hard that he fell over with joy.  That’s when the tuck rule bailed out our team.  That’s when a sixth round draft pick — from out of no where — became a hero.

My grandmother, Mimi, was going crazy.  She was sitting right next to my brother and me, holding our hands and screaming out every play.  She didn’t like football — in fact she called it foosball and the Patriots the Pat ri awts.  I wish I could spell it out phonetically, but I can’t.  And she was right there with us, cheering at every play.  It was almost like we were cheering for ourselves, too.

Man, when I look back at this video, an intense memory comes back.  I watched the game back in my hometown, Clinton, Massachusetts.  I was still in high school.  I was lost and confused.  And I remember, while watching Tom Brady bring life to a somewhat miserable franchise, I felt that anything was possible.  Of course, when I write that everyone from Boston is going to be reminded of Kevin Garnett.  That felt forced when he screamed, “Anything is possible.”  But when Tom Brady marched down the field, in the snow, and Vinateri kicked that field goal, the snow didn’t seem so thick and the night didn’t seem so black.

Well, back to my original point.  I tried to play football when I was younger, and my dad wanted me to make sure I remembered how miserable I was at football.  Just in case I had any thoughts of letting my son play.  My dad hated watching me play.  He was so worried about me.  This is what he wrote: “I remember that one play the running back got easily outside the tackle and you were the only DB in the area.  You intentionally faked yourself out so you wouldn’t have to take him head on.”

I try to remember that season I played football differently.  He was right though: I was pretty terrible.