Trish is now blogging on the 

                      Huffington Post.

I know what you're going to say when I say the following:  I long for the good ole days when we weren't so dependent on computers.  "Seems we got along just fine without cell phones and email and internet???"  "Young people spend too much time in front of their computer screens and not enough time outdoors."  "No one reads books or newspapers anymore."  You're going to say that I'm showing my age.  Well, maybe I am.  And so what anyway?  I worked damned hard to even be this age.  And I will act it if I want.  Let's get into it.

I wrote a book, Silver Platter Girl, that was published and released recently.  We are now in the first phase of promotion and marketing.  So often I am told that I have to be present on the web in order to go viral and catch the wave.  I have a website that I keep current and fresh.  I write a blog which you are reading right now and post often to keep my readers updated.  I recently had a featured blog on the Huffington Post which blasted me and my book all over the internet.  But that wasn't enough, I was told.  Start tweeting on Twitter.  So I set up a Twitter account (plattergirl) and began to experience what all the fuss was about.  I learned that a lot of people must spend a lot of time tweeting about the most unbelievably mundane things.  Hard to understand who cares if John McCain is about to start his interview on Meet the Press and David what's his name, the new host, is having a pre-show bagel.  I mean, why can't we just watch Meet the Press if we want to?  I admit that some of the postings inform about important issues and direct us to links about global issues that we should know more about.  But if Elizabeth Taylor was so stricken over Michael Jackson's death that she couldn't attend his memorial and speak, then it's hard to imagine her being able to tweet her deepest feelings to her followers including what was on the card of a bouquet of flowers she just received.  Some say that this is a way for celebrities to control their own "press", show the traditional media who's who, and commune directly with their fans.  But isn't it like a kind of voyeurism for those fans.  Experiencing the lives of their favorite stars vicariously through Twitter, convincing themselves that it is a relationship.  What good can come of this for the followers?  Doesn't it entrench them even more in a passive world of worship and envy and discourage development of their own self-esteem and talent?  All I know is that when I log on to Twitter and read how Lance is feeling after his day at the Tour de France, which celebrity (Robin Williams today) is spending time with him on the team bus, and that he refused to speak to the media, I feel like I need to log off and take a shower. 

I have made myself go through this exercise day after day, listening to those who say I must if I want people to find out about my book.  But at some point, we have to ask ourselves who we are and if our own choices reflect that answer.  I get that only 30% of books today are purchased in a book store, the rest on-line.  I get that people need to talk about your message if you want to be heard and everyone is talking on the internet.  But I want to talk to people face to face.  You have to get off the computer to do that.  I want to inspire people to contemplate their own story and what it means because within those thoughts is great power and wisdom.  I personally want to close my eyes and meditate quietly, enjoy the moon on a warm summer evening, play with my puppy, hear about what kind of day my sons are having, and go to the movies without instinctively reaching for my blackberry in a dark theatre so as not to miss anything important during those two hours.  I want to read an article in my hometown newspaper that I haven't already read on the internet.  I want to feel the power of walking past my humming hard drive without stopping to check email or surf a little bit.  I want to have a conversation with someone who is in the same room as me. 

I have been doing radio interviews to talk about Silver Platter Girl.   It is nice using my actual voice to speak, interacting with the host, taking calls from listeners if it is that kind of show. 

Don't get me wrong.  I am obviously writing a blog here that I am about to post on-line.  And I really enjoy working on my website and seeing that people are visiting every day.  And email is a wonderful way to communicate with people who have read the book.  Instantaneous and satisfying.  I'm just saying, balance is a wonderful thing.  Take time off from the computer.  Give yourself a break.  Reconnect to things that are wholesome and human and feel good.  And whatever you do, read a good book.  Nothing like it.

June 25th, 2009

Sometimes there is a day you will always remember for one special reason.  Or maybe you will remember exactly where you were sitting or standing when you heard something unforgettable.  It is rare that more than one memorable thing happens in one single day.  Today was such a day for me.

I was sitting at the breakfast table reading the Huffington Post as I always do.  The blackberry buzzed and I opened a message telling me that my story as depicted in my new book, Silver Platter Girl, was a featured blog on the Huffington Post.  Very excited, I clicked on the link to see the headline "Trish Kinney, Sexual Abuse Takes Toll on Victims" right there on the Huffington Post.  The story quoted Dr. Larry Bergstrom of the Mayo Clinic whom I met recently to discuss his wonderful work on the mind body connection.  He said that my story was in keeping with his own findings and that he would be happy to speak about it publicly.  This provided validation from the medical community which was not only a boost for the book, but for me personally as well.  If you are a survivor of abuse or trauma, validation is a key to recovery.  I know that when I was treated at Mayo for my high risk cancer several years ago, they did not even want to talk about the strong connection I was openly making between my history and my tumor.  And now they are studying it and speaking out on my behalf.  Amazing.  I won't lie to you.  This morning, two days into my national media campaign, it was a big deal to see my story on the Huffington Post.  One step closer to being able to reach more and more people who are seeking the truth and the empowerment that comes with that.  Read the article by clicking on the link below.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/trish-kinney/sexual-abuse-takes-toll-o_b_219801.html

In the midst of my excitement and continued exploration of the site, I came upon the sad news that Farrah Fawcett had died of her cancer this very day.  When her documentary aired a few weeks ago, so many people asked me if I had watched it and what I thought of it.  It reached a lot of people and I would imagine did her a lot of good to tell her own story in that way.  I am very glad she got to see it broadcast so that she knew people would have a chance to share what she was going through.  A friend of mine who is reading the book sent me some emails from a woman she knows who is bravely battling Stage 4 breast cancer right now.  I was very proud of the courage it took for her to write so honestly about her experience but I have to admit that reliving all the details of treatment and the fear of such a terrifying diagnosis put me in a bad place.  There but for the grace of God go I.  It rekindled my desire to speak out as a survivor of both abuse and cancer because I am healthy and able to do so.  A collective voice for all of us, to be heard, to speak truth and healing loudly.  And by the way, Farrah, dying from your cancer does not mean you did not heal or failed in any way.  We learn from you and honor your life.  We will all join you one day.

Late in the day I decided to escape all the action and go to a documentary called "Brothers at War".  Before I left, I heard the report that Michael Jackson had died.  I couldn't help but think of the interview he gave years ago about his difficult and demanding childhood, which he labeled abusive, and living with the ridicule and cruelty of his own father.  He said that his father beat him.  Looking at that early video of a young, gifted Michael, so talented and sensitive, it is hard to imagine how any parent could raise a hand or even a voice to that beautiful child.  But then I could never understand how a father could treat a beautiful little girl in a sexual way.  I even heard today that Michael's family was suing him over his upcoming solo tour saying he was contractually obligated to tour in a family reunion show instead.  This was one of countless meltdowns in the Jackson family played out in the press.  No wonder Michael's heart stopped.  Imagine how much it hurt. 

So I stuck with my plan to go to the movie about three brothers, two in the Army serving in Iraq, and the third who wanted to know what they were experiencing so he picked up a camera and joined them in Iraq to document what it was like.  It was very moving and insightful, the story of this American family who felt compelled to serve their country.  It reminded me so much of the Vietnam combat veterans that I was so lucky to work with over the past twenty years and make a film about.  They were my true inspiration in telling my own story after I did everything in my power to convince them that healing was synonymous with the truth and facing it head on.   These men who fought in Vietnam were more seriously wounded by their homecoming than by anything they saw in the war.  They came home to find that the country they loved and believed in did not love or support them and there was no validation for their service.  Their anguish at being emotionally abandoned is very similar to that of abuse victims. 

I watched LSU win the College Baseball World Series last night.  Their lovely coach in a post-game interview said how lucky he had been to have coached such wonderful kids in his career, not just at LSU but at three other schools before that.  He said that somehow winning this national championship was about all of them, not just the LSU team members, and he brought each of them to the experience with him.  I understood exactly what he meant.  My book is not only for my sister, the primary victim in our family, but for every combat vet whose country let him down, for every child whose parent ever did the unthinkable, for every woman who has been raped, for every Catholic child who trusted the parish priest and was terribly hurt, for every person who has been in a destructive relationship and couldn't find their way out, for every person whose situation has literally made them sick, and for every one of us who has a story to tell and hasn't yet been able to put the words together to begin the journey home to self.  I stand up for each of us, for all of us.  And, by the way, for the many hard working people who have healed themselves. 

What a day it has been.  There is so much to remember.  And so much to tell. 

SPG

                      

June 18, 2009

The daily news can be a devastating read.  The media may or may not reflect the mainstream, hopefully it doesn't.  I sometimes cut out stories that speak to the issues raised in my book, Silver Platter Girl.  As a collection, these stories begin to weave a tapestry of challenges to consider as we work to make our society safer and more conducive to healing. 

A young woman writes to Dear Abby. At age 15, she was raped by a family friend.  She told her parents.  The perpetrator was arrested and DNA tests confirmed his identity.  A few days before the court proceedings, he committed suicide.  His family blames the young girl for his death saying she was trying to ruin his life. People ask her if she is relieved that he killed himself.  She signs her letter, "Blaming Myself".

June 5th, 2009

I knew when I wrote Silver Platter Girl that what appeared in the pages of the book would be controversial and uncomfortable for some people.  What I didn't anticipate was how controversial the cover would be.  But, of course, when you write a book, you aren't really thinking about the cover.  But there comes a time in the process when you have to.  You hear all kinds of things about how important the cover is for marketing and whether it will catch the eye of the book buyer as he is browsing the store because it is so unlikely that your book will be in the front of the store on one of those cardboard stands that features your cover image and all those blurbs about how great it is.  No, that place in the store is reserved for the big boys, such as William Jefferson Clinton, John Grisham, and others who can virtually promise a best seller.  Then you learn that less than 35% of books purchased today are purchased in a book store so that whole cover theory is minimized when you realize that your cover image on Amazon is about one inch square.   Well, yes, you can click on it to zoom in and enlarge it but even then, it's pretty small.  Your book is characterized more by reader reviews than what is on the cover.  So it seemed fair to conclude that the best choice would be a cover that accurately reflects the content of the book.  Simple, right?  Well, not exactly. 

My publisher, a wise and fair man who admittedly didn't totally understand Silver Platter Girl  when he read it because he was a "guy", intuitively knew it was important and truthful.  When he shared the story with a woman he respected, she said she "got it" and that seemed to influence him positively.  It is his job to think about the presentation of the book and he said they would present several cover ideas for me to choose from.  While those options were prettier and more pleasant than what was ultimately chosen, in my opinion they did not accurately reflect the content of the book.  (I swear the fact that my name was misspelled in these original designs and the name of the book was wrong didn't influence me unfairly.  Those little problems were easily fixed.)  I worried that a nice middle-aged breast cancer survivor would see one of these covers featuring my sympathetic cancer image and imagine that I was a fellow survivor who was going to tell my story of triumph over the disease.   She would have no idea as to what was lurking between the front and back cover.  And I didn't think that was fair.  I began to believe that my publisher, bless his heart, would be more comfortable with a more mainstream approach to the cover because that was the part that reflected on him.  What was inside was more my responsibility.   But to his great credit, he realized that just as the blunt honesty of the book was its very heart and soul, the honesty of the cover was every bit as important to me.  So he agreed to allow me to take a stab at the cover image myself.  I turned to my son, who is a professional photographer, and had shot the 10 year recovery photo series for my national cancer exhibit "To the Light".  He knew me better than anyone and would be sensitive to the task at hand.



Cover Options Presented by Publisher



                      
   

We scheduled a cover shoot and began to discuss conceptual ideas.  We had already decided that the cancer image would be shown as a reflection on the platter but that my current "well" self would be the dominant image of empowerment and ultimate survivorship.  It was important that the platter itself would somehow visually be under my control.  So we tried heading off at a brisk walk to the future with platter swinging behind in a pretty dress that flared engagingly when the fan blew on it.

                                                                    

Then we tried what we affectionately refer to as the "crazy" cover, out of focus and frenzied, but rejected it for fear no one would believe anything that woman wrote.



Then the more melancholy, pensive cover which was rejected for fear that I may appear depressed and passive.


Finally I was sitting in my little dress on the black bench with the platter leaning casually against it and I said I wanted to try something else.  Sprawling across the bench on one elbow, both hands on the platter, stockinged legs extended beyond the end of the bench, I waited while he set up for the new shot.  During that short time, I allowed myself to conjure up every feeling, every fear, every insecurity, and finally the audacity and work necessary to overcome all those things to get where I was at that moment.  As I filled myself up completely with the intense emotion of my long journey to wellness as told in my book, he snapped the shutter.  I hardly noticed, having been in my own world at that moment.  He took a look at the image on the back of his camera and said "I think we're done here".  One image.  That was all it took.  To me, it said everything.  It was a true reflection of my story.  I guess I should have known that if my story made some people uncomfortable, a cover that truly reflected that story would also make people uncomfortable.  I just couldn't imagine how uncomfortable. 




The issue of the cover was unfortunately exaggerated when the galleys arrived (the uncorrected not for sale first draft to actually look like a book), and the color on the cover was heavily saturated causing the platter to look green instead of silver and the birthmark on my right arm to be the most prominent color of all.  It was my intention to bear my stain openly as it was an important component of the story and after all, I was letting everything hang out, but it drew the eye with its brilliant reddish purple super saturated appearance.  Some people believed it to be a major mistake, not having read the book, and felt embarassed when it was pointed out that it was a birthmark and part of the story.  My publisher explained that galleys were a short digital run and the cover could not be color corrected.  Not to worry, he said, the first printing of the book would be a perfect color match to the original photo.  But while the birthmark drew a lot of attention, the expression on my face drew even more.

My coach at the gym, a wonderful young 23 year old man, pronounced it "scary", his eyes as big as saucers as he recalled seeing it for the first time.  When asked, he said that there must be quite a story inside that cover and it would definitely encourage him to find out what it was.  A handful of women who had read the book for a focus group unanimously proclaimed the cover to be absolutely perfect.

When I showed the book at my publisher's booth at the LA Times Festival of Books at UCLA in April, I was introduced to another author, an older woman.  I could see the darkness descend over her face when she realized that I was actually "the silver platter girl."  She launched into a ten minute harangue about what a terrible cover it was, how mean it was, how she would never pick it up or ever read it based on the cover.  Her husband who was standing a few feet away, horrified by her behavior, quietly asked her why she didn't just tell me how she really felt.  I was stunned by her outburst and collected every available ounce of composure to resist engaging in a full out battle with her.   With graciousness beyond even my own expectations, I quietly said that perhaps we should just agree that she was simply not a potential reader of my book.  Unexpectedly, that intensified her attack, with her saying "you don't know me" and informing me that I was not the only one with a story.   At that point, I left the booth and made myself scarce for a long while, stinging from her words.  When I returned, she had settled down and said she didn't mean to offend me with her "attack", that it had been about the cover and not about me personally.  It was interesting how she herself referred to it as an attack.  She then proceeded to restate her objections to the cover.  Later in the afternoon, we were seated next to each other for book signings.  It was at that point that she began to share some of her own story with me.  She had been married four times, engaged in an affair with her psychiatrist, was raped, and once slept with five different men in five consecutive nights.  She beamed as she reiterated that I was not the only one with a story as if this was a competition and she was pulling way ahead.  By the end of this long day, she quietly told me that she would definitely read my book.  

On two occasions I was told that the cover design was ok, but I needed a new head with a new face.  One woman said that the look on my face on the cover did not reflect what a warm and vibrant person I was, that it was just not me.  She suggested that through the magic of Photoshop, I simply replace the scary face with a happier, friendlier face.  Then a man at the New York book expo suggested that we just pluck the happy cancer recovery face off the back of our marketing card and plunk it on the cover to replace the bad face.  So out of respect for these two older, upset observers, I offer you the Photoshopped version of the cover image to make me happier and friendlier.



Another woman suggested that it is simply not acceptable to use the author's image on the cover of a memoir unless that author is a recognizable face.  Someone famous.  And what if someone passed on the book because they were turned off by the cover?  The answer, of course, is that the cover, and the book for that matter, cannot possibly appeal to everyone.  Those who need and want to read it and explore its message seem to relate in a strong, positive way to the cover image.  Those who are so upset about it probably aren't ready to read it or have no desire to delve into the subject so deeply.  My opinion is that whatever it is about the look of that image that scares people is probably the same thing that prevents people from talking about the kinds of things that are inside that book.  The fact that a woman has to go to the place depicted by this cover image to overcome the obstacles to wellness with which we are presented in our lives may be intimidating to some.  But this is one of the many things we have to get over in order to reshape how society views the subject, in order to get used to the idea that the only route to wellness is through the "telling" of what we have been through.  We didn't ask for it.  But its what we got.  So as unfair as that is, at least help us admit what it really is and give us a hand as we dare to be strong enough to do more than survive it, but to thrive in that survival.  Let me be the woman I had to be in order to get well, the woman in that photo on the cover of Silver Platter Girl.  Because I had to be her before I had earned the luxury of being that warmer, more vibrant woman that some wish to see on the cover instead.  That cover girl is the warrior.  Without her, I don't exist today. 

I thought a bone marrow transplant was hard.  And it was.  And I thought that releasing my personal, intimate story of survival was also very hard.  And it was.  People say it took courage to do both.  Keeping my tough cover in the face of so much controversy is also hard.  Deep down, don't we all want to be loved and accepted?  Wouldn't I prefer for everyone to say how beautiful the cover is, how beautiful I am, and how beautiful my message is?  Wouldn't I rather have seen my cover on the front of the publisher's catalogue rather than the last image on the back?  Heck, yes.  Wouldn't I like to have had Danny Thomas for a dad who left me St. Jude's Cancer Hospital as a legacy rather than sexual abuse?  Lucky Marlo Thomas, she's "that girl".  But not me.  No, I have to portray the reality of this hand some of us, way too many of us, have been dealt.  It's a bitch, it really is.  But that's my job. 

But the story doesn't end there.  A professional book cover designer stopped by our booth in New York, showing us his beautiful portfolio of impressive work.  We asked him what he thought about our cover but of course he had no way of knowing how important his answer would be to us.  He took time to read the back cover including the reviews and the short summary of the story.  Then he gazed at the cover and said it perfectly depicted the subject matter.  Thumbs up, he gave it a thumbs up.  And there are the many women who have been so drawn to the cover that they want to touch and feel it and hold it close because they know by looking at the cover that there is truth inside its pages.  And we are all, at some level, drawn to that if we truly desire to be well.  I just keep reminding myself to be guided by honesty and the gut feelings that helped me overcome my upbringing and troubled pre-cancer life, that helped me learn to live inside the joy of my remarkable recovery and to stand up to those who would advise me to be a little less of an irritant.  Yes, that sexual abuse can be so irritating. 

So I will leave you with a saying that a lovely woman in Maryland uses as her e-mail sign-off.  She is a hard working advocate for sexual abuse victims in the Jewish community and runs a non-profit called The Awareness Center, Inc. (the International Jewish Coalition Against Sexual Abuse/Assault). 

Every great oak tree was once a nut that stood its ground.




SPG

May 14th, 2009

                                                                                           
                                                                                                



     

May 10th, 2009

Early on this Mother's Day, before rising, I felt the usual twinge.  It is the same one I have felt every year on this May Sunday for just about as far back as I can remember.  Long gone are the times when I made my own mother's gift at school by painting an egg carton gold, gluing beads on top to form the word "mom", and waiting for her inevitable expression that told me it was simply the best gift in the world.  Innocence is still a joyful memory to me in so many ways.  But things tend to get complicated and Mother's Day even more so.  My own right to be honored by my sons on this day has always taken a back seat to the complex feelings the day brings up in me.  That isn't really fair but it is just another small price to pay for truth and healing.  A price I am more than willing to pay.   

On this particular Mother's Day, contemplating the situation one more time, realizing that another year had passed since the last contemplation, it came to me that only one opportunity per year to do this a little better presents itself.  Thus time is of the essence.  There isn't a lot of rehearsal time like in the theatre where you rehearse for weeks, over and over, and ideally feel prepared to give your best, fully thought out performance when the audience is present.  No, Mother's Day sneaks up, I try to avoid thinking about it, and then when it arrives, I haven't made much progress since the year before.  This year, I am determined to apply the principles that I risked everything to put forth in my new book, Silver Platter Girl.  I have decided to teach myself what I am trying to teach others and seem to have forgotten.  Yes, this Mother's Day will be different. 

First there was the dreaded "should I acknowledge Mother's Day" with my own mom.  I long ago gave up the visit to the Hallmark store searching for a benign card that didn't have the terrible undercurrent of our painful situation.  The cards with the gooey sentiment served not only to remind me of what I miss so much each day, but also what others enjoy with their moms.  Then I reminded myself that it was possible that millions of women probably send the card they know their moms want to receive, even if they have to bite the bullet to do so.  It is most important to remember though that there are lots of lucky families out there who have wonderful moms who deserve to be honored on this day and do so willingly, choosing the gooiest of cards with full confidence that those cards reflect their true gratitude to the woman who most likely loves them more than anyone else possibly could.  Hallmark has made a fortune on that belief.  More power to them.  The love of a mother, the protection and sacrifice of a mother on your behalf, are amongst the greatest gifts in life. 

This year I decided, like in most recent years past, to send flowers.  I didn't place the order until yesterday, putting it off as usual, but knew that in this day and age, they would take any order at any time and deliver them in plenty of time.  When the nice lady asked what sentiment I wanted on the card, I responded "Happy Mother's Day, love, Trish".  She paused and then asked if that was the entire message for my card?  Yes, I said, that was it. 

I don't want to be angry on this day.  I still love my mom and don't mind, on this day, giving her state of denial a little artificial validation, so she can say to friends and family that Trish sent beautiful flowers for Mother's Day.  And it will mean a lot to her.  That's ok with me.  Those friends and family don't know exactly why I have stayed away for so many years and never show up when they come to visit.  My mom tells them she has no idea why I would do that.  That's life on the silver platter.  Served up.  I am proud that I have never indulged my natural desire to repair my tarnished image with those friends and family by telling them why I stay away.  No, I tell them they will have to ask my mom.  I know she won't tell but now I have.  As healing as it is to tell, to have now told in my book, it doesn't feel good to do it at anyone's expense.  I have been living on the silver platter for so long that it feels strange to finally step off and just see my reflection in it, as it appears on the cover of my book.  It is hard to accept that I have a right to be happy and tell my own story because for so long I have not exercised that right.  Now I have to work on feeling ok that I did that.  Not just for me, but for so many of us who have trouble with that one thing.  You know, that part where we honor ourselves and decide that we deserve the truth and the wonderful healing that comes with acceptance of what happened to us.  Then and only then can we move on to claim our own truth which is now in our own control.  Often for the very first time. 

I guess I just wrote what my job is on this Mother's Day.  Accept my situation for what it is, and recognize the love and joy that now exists in my life of my own making.  The love I fought for, risked my life for, and have every right to live in the light of.  Don't get stuck in the love that didn't work out, that you wanted and needed so much, but never really materialized.  Or you might miss the love right before you.   Now that would be a terrible way to spend Mother's Day.  Letting all that get away from you.   Today I choose to be present in the love of my own children rather than absent somewhere else.  Hopefully it is not too late to let that love be their Mother's Day story.  And then when they have their kids, any Hallmark card will do. 

SPG

May 5th, 2009

The headline on the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times caught my eye.  "When the Cellphone Teaches Sex Education", it said.  It may be a reflex reaction for people of my generation, proudly claiming the 60's as our credentials, to scoff at yet another example of texting, twittering, and subjects secretly beyond our everyday comprehension (and this after we have finally integrated that damned e-mail into at least our professional lives).  But no one can argue that the texting written about in the Times last weekend is a good thing.  The Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention campaign of North Carolina has launched the Birds and Bees Text Line directed at 14-19 year olds.  Kids can text their questions, no holds barred, to one of the trained responders on duty, and answers are texted back quickly, just like the kids are used to.  Texting, by definition, requires the answers to be short and direct.  Impressed with the success of such a simple and effective idea, I read on approvingly but didn't get emotionally hooked until the end of the article when one of the responders told of receiving a text one evening with the question "If I was raped when I was little and just had sex was it technically my first time when I was raped or when I recently had sex?" 

I recently got together with a dear friend of mine from college theatre days.  He was about to go in for cancer surgery and we had a good talk about my book and my own cancer experience.  It made me wonder how different my bone marrow transplant "transformation" may have been if I could have had a computer in my room with access to e-mail and everyone in my address book.  Instead, I wrote letters in longhand to those closest to me, asked the nurses to assist in finding a stamp and mailing the letters, and waited hopefully each day for the mail to be delivered.  Such old fashioned letters rarely bothered with the minutiae of a typical electronic transmission, such as the weather or where you went for dinner, but instead were more focused on feelings and hopes and things that came straight from the heart.  Those precious declarations of caring, in my situation, were a lifeline to be treasured and held and touched, read and reread.  Many of them are quoted in my book as the perfect reflection of those difficult and emotional times, now a stack of envelopes with faded postmarks, some so precious they are held in my small safe in a zip lock bag.  All this may sound odd coming from someone who just wrote a book, telling absolutely everything, in a quest for the ultimate healing.  But this access to electronic instant communication may or may not inspire the kind of telling I did in my book.  In fact, it may discourage doing so as it is so instantaneous, one wonders just how much thought can go into transmissions that keep coming at lightning speed.  And who has time to do much internal contemplation, the very heart of emotional growth and transformation, when so much time is spent on modern instant communication?  Are we always thinking of connecting with someone else through a device instead of connecting with ourselves?

Justice Souter comes to mind as he announces his retirement.  He sits on the Supreme Court, a lifetime job if he so desires.  But he is retiring to get his life back so to speak, voluntarily giving up the ultimate job.  He has no computer on his desk at work, no television in his old family home in the woods of New England that is filled with books instead, and writes his opinions in longhand with a fountain pen.  There is something about the image of a voracious reader, who shapes our society with his intellect, writing with a beautiful pen rather than clicking away on a keyboard that fills me with confidence.  Maybe that explains why he didn't live up to the conservative expectations of his appointer, the first President Bush.  He actually thought and contemplated and acted on his conscience. 

Kids today have complete and private access to each other.  When I was an adolescent, I lived abroad with my Air Force family in Turkey.  We had no telephone, no television, often no electricity (I remember writing my report on Clara Barton by candlelight during a routine power outage), and radio in Turkish only.  If I wanted to see my best friend, I walked to her house and hoped she would be there.  Our sleepovers afforded the supreme luxury of unlimited access to each other as we spent hours in bed after lights out discussing anything and everything that mattered to twelve year old girls while giving "turns" with a plastic back scratcher deep into the night.  Would there have been anything left to talk about if we had already e-mailed and texted everything?  Would we have spent our evening texting all our friends who weren't there instead of confiding in each other?  Would there be an unexpressed thought still left in our heads?  Would there be the secret intimacy of late night talks that shaped our view of ourselves?  I have no way of knowing.  But just as I wouldn't give up coming of age with the Beatles for anything, I wouldn't give up those late nights in Turkey with my friend, Judy, either.  We were so tender, I can't help but believe that introducing electronic media into the coming of age process may toughen it up a little.  Maybe that is a good thing in this day and age.  But tender was a trust, an intimacy you shared with a friend, not a thought that may end up on the internet someday. 

I also can't help but wonder how my family life may have changed if my sexually obsessed father would have had a computer to satisfy some of his hefty sexual needs.  I do know that in his later years, one of my sons reported that he saw pornography on my father's computer.  But I saw some on my son's computer, too.  Seems it's pretty common.  Facebook has a college degreed Porn Squad that gets paid $50,000 a year each to monitor photographs and postings on the social networking site to insure compliance with company policy regarding appropriateness of material for the site.   Facebook works consistently with law enforcement to help solve crimes because so many clues lie buried in the pages of the site.  It is so addictive that even when on a crime spree, it seems that people can't help but check their Facebook page which can then be tracked to determine whereabouts.  Facebook just welcomed its 200 millionth user.  And there are college courses taught about Facebook.  Buck up, you children of the 60's, and remember how radical we were in our decade of social change.  This is their version of radical.  And who are we to judge?  Remember what we thought of our parents when they did that? 

Look at the bright side.  My oncologist at the Mayo Clinic used the internet to organize a worldwide group of people suffering from a rare disease and communicated with them and brought them together at an international conference.  His nurse beamed when she told me how he was treated like a rock star for what he had done for them.  As a former high risk cancer patient, I can only imagine what it was like for those people to be in touch with each other and have a chance to meet.  And what about the way cell phones give people the opportunity to call for emergency help if they need it or make that one last call to a loved one if they are about to go down in a skyscraper or in a plane.  As for me, I will finish this blog post, shoot the accompanying photo, download it onto my Mac and then the site, and click publish. 

I promise you that this Silver Platter Girl will find her electronic place in the world.  Anywhere a young girl wants to know whether her first time was when she was raped or when she chose to have consensual sex for the first time is where I'll be.  Just in case she needs my story to help tell her own. 

SPG

May 1st, 2009

Even my husband, who most say is the star of my book Silver Platter Girl, agrees that it is far more difficult and complex to be a woman than a man.  He said so just this morning.  That makes it easier to bear the burden of our complexities, knowing that he knows that it is so.  I don't have to fight to prove it every day in my own home, or feel the agitation that comes with a constant sense of knowing that someone close to you is never going to admit something you desperately need that person to admit.  No, it is important that I never get my husband mixed up with my father in that regard.  My husband gets everything and I live in the warm light of that security and confidence. 

We are in discussions with a lovely woman in Orange County, California who owns a beauty salon.  She is interested in the book and is contemplating our offer to have her operators read the book and get together to discuss it.  If they feel it is valuable, they would then discuss it with their clients while cutting hair, or coloring, or perming.  This gets women talking about things they may not otherwise feel they can talk about and the purpose of my book begins to realize itself.   So I was having my hair trimmed yesterday and talking to my stylist, the owner of the salon, about this idea.  In walks a beauty product rep and begins telling her about some events planned to introduce salon owners to new products.  Before she left, she plopped down a sample packet of something called "Trauma Treatment".  I found this absolutely fascinating.  Apparently the concept is that we do all sorts of traumatic things to our hair including the coloring and perming mentioned above.  This relentless pursuit of beautiful hair causes damage and trauma to the hair.  Women, and salon owners, recognize that the trauma must be treated or, God forbid, the secrecy of the damaging treatments may be exposed.  Why else would you have brittle hair, split ends and roots sprouting everywhere if you weren't causing trauma to your hair by chemically changing it somehow?   No, that kind of trauma needs treatment. 

Surely you see where this is going.  If we are that protective about our hair and its care, and are willing to spend a lot of money to insure its health and beauty, then shouldn't we also be at least equally protective about other kinds of trauma as well?   If we have been traumatized as a child, or in an adult relationship, or even by a stranger, shouldn't we use all our resources to heal from that so we can be healthy and beautiful inside?  Isn't that every bit as important as controlling the color and wave in our hair?   Obviously it isn't as easy as buying that tube of Trauma Treatment by L'Anza, and it surely isn't as pretty as that option, but I will go out on a limb and say that the benefits of treating your internal trauma are far more profound than what L'Anza has to offer.  In fact, I will go further and say that you will enjoy your beautiful head of hair even more once your internal life is just as beautiful.

I was lucky enough to witness a focus group of women who had read Silver Platter Girl last week.  So many things stand out in my mind from that wonderful experience, including an instant bond between all of us who barely knew eachother in some cases.  But one comment resonates even today.  A woman said that I had written in the book about things that each of them had thought about, done, wished they could do, or planned to do but could not really speak about.  By reading the detailed and very intimate account of those things in the book, it was almost as if they had spoken about it themselves.   And they felt that perhaps they had received the same benefits.  There are many ways to treat our traumas, big and small.  The reason I wrote Silver Platter Girl is to start the process, figure out where it hurts, and how to make it feel better.  A little healing at a time leads up to a lot of healing. 

So the next time you make an appointment at your favorite salon, to either do a little more damage to your hair, or repair damage already done, remember to take equal care with yourself.  All other parts of you, whether it be your emotional life, your annual exam, or the way you choose to live your life by empowered decision making.  As for me, having lost every bit of my hair more than once during my cancer treatment, I promised that however my hair came back, I would be satisfied and would accept it just as it was.  So far I have done that, not even coloring the small amount of grey that is appearing on my hairline.  If I do decide to color it, I will choose the gentlest product and treat the trauma as well. 

SPG