Oooh, lovely lovely. Returned to the batch (is that the right term..?) of photos from Saturday’s wander and found these two that were overlooked on the first cut…
Confidence street revisited
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Author Archives: sarasiobhan
Boundaries
It’s a tough gig bringing up a disabled child. Yep. It shouldn’t be, I know. Appropriate, timely and sufficient support would make a huge difference. And a seismic shift in public attitudes. Of course these things overlap and I ain’t optimistic for all sorts of reasons that they will ever happen. But if they did, there would still be trickiness.
Take this morning. We’re in the midst of pretty dodgy times with LB and he’s booked into Parasol for four days for half term activities. A charity organising and supporting young disabled people’s access to, er, fun. Yep, it’s as simple as that.
But…
“IDON’TWANTOGOTOPARASOLMUM! I’MEIGHTEENMUM! YOUCAN’TMAKEMEGO.I’MGOINGBACKTOBEDMUM!”
Like his two younger brothers who will probably sleep/doze till lunchtime. Sigh.
All sorts of thoughts and considerations….
You’re kind of right…
We don’t want another major kick off….
You can’t watch youtube all day….
We’re both working today….
“You’ve got to go.” I said. Some ranting and raging. But at a low level. And he’s off to the Kassam Stadium for a day of bowling and cinema.
Now Parasol is an enigma to me. They organise a range of activities in and around Oxford. You drop your child off at stated destinations; outside the Playhouse in the town centre, or in the ice rink car park. Or at a local community hall. Believe me. This is seriously weird to a parent subjected to years of constrained, heavily policed and overly organised out of school child care for the ‘special needs child’.
Eh? Leaving LB at a community centre with the doors wide open, kids in the car park, and helpers running around having a laugh in squirrel onesies? Hello? These kids are runners, you know?! They’ve got no sense of stranger danger or road safety???? Hey, the door is open!!! Anything could happen. Anything! You hear me???
The organisation of Parasol appears chaotic and random.
But it isn’t. It’s run by and staffed by exceptional people who enjoy the kids, understand difference and get out there and get on with it. With impeccable leadership. And, in doing so, they allow some freedom, independence and fun for this group of young people.
Anyone who takes LB, and ten or more other young dudes, to watch Les Miserables (at an ‘ordinary’ showing) is cracking on in the right direction in my book. We all just need need to catch up with them.
Confidence street
Back out with my camera in Oxford today. I remembered another thing I learned from Antonio Olmos; travel light. Just the camera (no lens) and money/keys in my pocket. This was very liberating, and I got much closer to people. Quicker getaway without a lot of baggage. Cough cough*.
There was a lot going on for a rainy February afternoon. I broke the no animal rule, but rules are meant to be broken. And learned that it helps to have a good relationship with the local Big Issue seller.
*took a fab pic of a mother and baby watching an owl. Can’t bring myself to share it.
The dishwasher. Again
“Mum. I’ve got a dodgy stomach Mum.”
“You’re going to school LB.”
“Dodgy stomach Mum.”
“School LB.”
“I don’t like you Mum.”
“Eh? How can you say that? I grew you.”
“No you didn’t Mum.”
“Where did you come from then.”
[points to the dishwasher] “There Mum.”
The streets of Oxford
Eek. Determined to take photos today for the first time since the masterclass. A few sneaky numbers on the walk from the bus to the office. And then home again. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Get close. Shoot and deal with fall out after. Breathe….
The Stranger
I stopped LB happily mending the downstairs toilet this morning, once it started leaking. He went apeshit. With a spanner in his hand. The language was dripping with expletives and the toilet seat took a hammering. With his head. He stormed passed me and went upstairs. I hung up some shirts in the wardrobe and the rail fell down. The rage continued upstairs, directed at me. I put my keys in my pocket and hovered near the front door. Billy Joel’s The Stranger came on the radio.
Yep, I thought. That just about sums it up.
The blue onesie
“Hey LB, how was Trax?”
“Good Mum.”
“What did you do?”
“Looked around Mum.”
“Wow. What did you see?”
“Car workshops Mum.”
“Cool. What else?”
“Many many more Mum.”
“Many many more what?”
“Car workshops Mum.”
“Very cool. When are you going to start there?”
“Wednesday Mum. I’ll wear my blue onesie.”
“Maybe call it an overall there, eh LB?”
Whose story is it anyway?
Got my first negative blog comment (on the ‘about’ page) this week. From someone from the masterclass of all places. Anyway, it raises the issue of should I be writing about LB on this blog? What right do I have to do that? And shouldn’t he be telling his own story?
Well the latter is easy to answer. Yes, of course he should. If he wants to.
The other questions are less straightforward. I had a long chat about this recently with a colleague who has a long term condition. She said she felt a bit irritated by her mum always telling her story over the years. And still.
Tricky.
I don’t think people have their own, exclusive, story. Disconnected from those around them. There are multiple stories that overlap with other stories. On this blog, I’m not telling LB’s ‘story’. I’m recounting the experience of being LB’s mum.
I think it’s important to share these experiences not least to raise awareness of the lack of support for learning disabled children/adults but also because LB’s ways of being and doing makes visible mainstream practices that are taken for granted and unquestioned (see The Unlikely Ethnographer).
It has also had (the unanticipated) consequence of providing other people with a way of chatting to him and about him, and asking after him or about him. It’s given him a space to be known. I kind of knew (but being immersed in the everyday chaos that comes with a less straightforward life didn’t really do anything about) how difficult it is for people without experience of difference to engage with it. This meant that LB was often not a part of my interactions with the wider world. Now he is. In an ordinary way. As a funny dude who loves lorries.
Chewy stuff.
A Camden masterclass
Spent the weekend at a street photography Guardian Masterclass run by Antonio Olmos. Well what can I say, other than a complete pleasure. Great teacher, classmates, setting and food. I learned a lot (see below).
Top things I learned;
- Always shoot raw (I knew this but I now understand why).
- Don’t delete photos on the camera; you don’t know till you start to edit, whether they are any good.
- Don’t zoom, get close (use a 50mm fixed lens).
- Travel light and NO lens cap.
- Take first, worry about the consequences after (i.e. don’t get overly hung up on ethics or you’ll miss a good pic).
- People generally are happy to be asked to pose for street photography.
- There is no problem with taking candid shots of people in the street without their permission.
- ‘Work a scene’… don’t just snap and walk off in search of ‘another good pic’, hang around and keep taking photos.
- Anticipate events and get into position.
- Expect only one or two good photos on average (brilliant photographers take crap pics too).
The bath and the bell
One of my birthday presents was a bell so I could ring for ‘service’ (wine, newspaper, clean towel, etc) when in the bath. I know. It’s a laugh riot in our gaff. On Sunday, LB was about to get in the bath when I realised the full potential of the new, shiny bell. LB loves baths but has quite a way to go to mastering effective tap control (heat and quantity). We run it for him and leave him to soak. Trouble is, it’s tricky to decipher general chatter from a help request (or outright alarm). This means he doesn’t get much privacy. Dinging the bell could resolve this.
“So LB, if you want anything ding the bell. Like this…” DING!
“Yes Mum.”
“Ok? If the water gets too cold or you need anything, just ding.”
“Yes Mum.”
“Ok, I’m going in the other room.”
“Yes Mum.”
DING!
“Wow. That was quick. What do you want?”
“I love Irish lorries Mum.”
