October 2015, I last modified the import of my blog into Scrivener thinking I’d massage my writing into a book. The next month, my mother had a stroke. Never got back to the book or to figuring out Scrivener. Just finished the tutorial.
My first Scrivener project contains my outdated blog dump. Sometimes I edit old posts and pages, so I need to figure out how to import my current version of this site. Haven’t had luck so far today. I did create a blank new project into which I plan to organize my writing under four categories:
Kate — fictionalized autobiography, starting at the beginning…
In the early 60s on a pleasant August morning in San Francisco, Kate entered this world as the first daughter of her parents, Brandan and Ruby O’Brien, both firstborns in their respective families. They, all three of them, were members of the firstborn club — the club of overachievers, of type A personalities. Three type A’s in a four person family — perhaps a bit much for that fourth person, Kate’s younger sister (affectionately still thought of as her “baby” sister).
After Kate was born, Ruby stopped working in public relations and personnel at McCormick-Shilling to stay home with her daughter. Brandan worked for Standard Oil as a chemical engineer. When Kate was two, her father had an opportunity to move to Saudi Arabia to work for Aramco — then Arabian American Oil Company (now Saudi Aramco or Saudi Arabian Oil Company). The three O’Briens moved to Saudi Arabia where Kate lived for five years, from the ages of two to seven.
When Kate was almost three, her mother Ruby gave her a baby sister. Yep. That baby was hers. Kate considered the baby the best birthday present ever. Her sister was far superior to any of her lifeless boring dolls. She moved of her own volition, cried, laughed, peed, and had her very own personality.
When Kate’s mother Ruby was pregnant and after she gave birth to her baby sister, Kate would inform everyone within listening distance that she had itsy bitsy teeny weeny babies inside her and that once she grew up she’d go to the hospital and have them cut out, just like her mom did. Clearly, she didn’t understand the fine points of reproduction or birth. She just reasoned that her sister grew inside her mom’s belly until her mom had to the hospital to get her out. To her, going to the hospital meant getting surgery. How else would they get her sister out of her mother’s belly?
About this time, Kate developed her skills as a surgeon by operating on her stuffed animals. She’d cut them open to remove unwanted parts — usually pesky noise-makers — and then would sew them back up. Perhaps, she operated on her toys when she was older than three. Well, she knows that she did it when she lived in Dhahran. That much she remembers clearly.
As for that adorable baby sister, Ruby and Brandan considered naming the baby Jamila, which means beautiful in Arabic, for she was born in Saudi Arabia. Though they didn’t name her Jamila, in this story she’s named Jamie, with a nod to Jamila, as she was and still is quite beautiful. Kate will do her best to leave her far more private sister out of this story, except to boast from time to time. As a proud big sister, she has bragging rights. Plus, remember, this is fiction.
The O’Briens lived in modest 2-bedroom garden apartments within company compounds in Dhahran, Abqaiq, and Ras Tanura. Kate remembers going to the compound fence while her mother played tennis, looking out and seeing unending desert and nomadic Bedhouins traveling with their camel caravans.
Saudi Arabia was really hot and sandy. Kate doesn’t miss extreme heat or sandstorms. To this day, she can’t stand heat, be it dry or humid. She was made for foggy boggy places, like the climates of her Irish and Germanic ancestors. In company compounds, they dressed as Americans did in the 60s. So when Kate got stuck in a sandstorm, wearing a sleeveless minidress that left her face, arms and legs unprotected, the sand blinded her and felt like millions of needles cutting into her exposed skin. Robes are functional in the desert. You need to cover your face, too, during a sandstorm.
Kate attended preschool, kindergarten and first grade in Dhahran. In the private Dhahran American school within the compound, Kate had both Arab and American friends and classmates. They were taught an advanced American curriculum, plus the English-speakers learned Arabic (and the Arabic-speakers, English). Even though she did learn some Arabic in school, she no longer remembers it. To go to high school, kids had to go to boarding school outside the country or their families moved. Many families moved rather than send their teens to boarding schools.
What she misses most from her years in Saudi Arabia is Abduh, their Yemeni domestic worker. The term used in the mid-60s among Americans in Arabia was “house boy” — clearly offensive. Abduh was not a boy. He was a dignified man, a husband and a father. Though we all lived in modest apartments, everyone had help. The men lived in dormitories on the compound and sent their earnings back home to their families.
Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien taught their daughters to show Abduh respect. They explained that he had a wife and daughter Jamie’s age back in Yemen and had come to Saudi Arabia to support his family and save money to open a shop one day. Kate loved Abduh. When he babysat, he brought 6 oz bottles of Coca Cola and Juicy Fruit gum. He let them watch TV. Her favorite program was Daktari about a veterinarian in East Africa. Kate loved the antics of the chimp named Judy and lion named Clarence.
Back in the 60s, most American Aramco employees and their spouses didn’t bother to learn Arabic. Kate’s parents did. When her mother was in the hospital having her sister removed (in labor), the Bedouins were fascinated by her mother, as she was the first white woman they had met. The nursing staff intervened and tried to separate them from her mother. Ruby refused to let the nurses keep them apart. She spoke to the Bedouin women in Arabic, for she was just as interested in them as they were in her.
Once when Ruby brought Kate and Jamie to visited their grandparents in Seattle, she knew something was wrong with Brandon. She frantically called Aramco and demanded that she be told what was wrong with her husband. At that exact moment, there was a poisonous gas leak where Brandon was working. He didn’t want any of his workers to climb the ladder to close the valve, for inhaling the gas stopped all body functions immediately. Brandan took a deep breath, climbed the ladder, closed the valve, but on his way down gasped, inhaled the gas and fell to the ground. He was not breathing and his heart had stopped. His workers carried him to safety and resuscitated him. Kate’s parents believed that the workers saved his life because he had taken the time to learn Arabic and speak to them in Arabic (plus he risked his life to save theirs).
Kate’s proud of her parents. Both Brandan and Ruby were pretty kick ass.
Third Culture Kid
As Kate spent the formative years of her life outside her parents’ culture, she is what is called a “third culture kid.”
A third culture kid is a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside their parents’ culture. The third culture kid builds relationships to all the cultures, while not having full ownership in any. Although elements from each culture are assimilated into the third culture kid’s life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of the same background, other TCKs.
Common characteristics of Third Culture experience (for adults as well as kids)
Often a “system identity” with sponsoring organization/business (e.g. military, missionary, corporate, foreign service)
Common personal characteristics of TCKs (children who grow up in this world)
Large world view
Can be cultural bridges
Rootlessness—“Home” is everywhere and nowhere
Sense of belonging is often in relationship to others of similar background rather than shared race or ethnicity alone
“ Cultural marginality ”
“Cultural marginality” describes an experience in which people don’t tend to fit perfectly into any one of the cultures to which they have been exposed or with which they have interacted, but may fit comfortably on the edge, in the margins, of each. (For how that relates to TCKs see http://www.worldweave.com/BSidentity.html)
Many of their losses are not visible or recognized by others. With no language or understanding to process these losses, many TCKs never learned how to deal with them as they happened and the grief comes out in other ways (e.g. denial, anger, depression, extreme busyness, etc.).
Her true and legal name is Kitt Kathleen O’Malley. She loves her name and is grateful her parents came up with it — a great stage name if there ever was one. Her first name is typically a nickname for Katherine or Kathleen, so her name is redundant.
She had thought that Katherine meant catharsis, or purification through emotional release, a meaning she’s always identified with. Now that she researches her name, the etymology is unclear, perhaps originating with the goddess Hecate.
Hecate (Hekate) is a goddess of Greek mythology who was capable of both good and evil. [Metaphor for bipolar diagnosis?] She was especially associated with witchcraft, magic, the Moon, doorways, and creatures of the night such as hell-hounds and ghosts. [Who knew?] She is often depicted carrying a torch to remind of her connection with the night and in sculpture with three faces, representing her role as the guardian of crossroads. [Interesting…]
Anyway, yes, she openly expresses strong emotions, perhaps less so now that she’s medicated for bipolar disorder. She remains theatrical, loving attention and being on stage. She’s also a Leo, so add that to the mixture.
For this piece of flash fiction, she’ll go by Kate. Why? Because she named this piece Kate before she started writing and because it ties into the “Kiss me, Kate?” poem which ensues. Is she a shrew, a woman of violent temper and speech? At times she has been, but she hasn’t overthrown a table in over a year or two (she just did that once). She has been known to throw adult temper tantrums. Something she’s not proud of. Luckily her meds and psychotherapy help her keep an even keel.
Kiss me, Kate?
You cannot tame this shrew
This woman of sometimes
Violent temper and speech
She remains wild and free
At heart a non-conformist
Pugnacious and proud
Writing in third person, as true or as outlandish as she pleases, taking liberties with the facts, perhaps this will grow into an autobiographical novel. More likely than not, these words will remain here as a flash and then die the death of so many other blog posts, lost over a relatively short time period to the archives.
All around her books, binders, and training manuals piled. She had an article to finish and submit, blog posts to write, book reviews to complete once she finished reading the books, and multiple social media presences to maintain. “Shit,” she thought, “how the hell am I going to get out from under all this?” Why, oh, why had she made so many friends who wrote books and blogs she now felt obligated to read? Actually, she really wanted to read those books and blog posts. Really she did. But there were only so many hours in the day, so many days in the week, so many week in the month, and she could not procrastinate indefinitely – actually, she could and she did.
Why now had she decided to volunteer in her community? Volunteer work that required her to study densely written manuals before her actual training even began. Volunteer work in which she would bare her soul, expose her vulnerabilities – her struggles living with mental illness, with bipolar disorder – in public, in person, in front of classrooms of high school students, in front of mental health professionals. Yes, she would share her triumphs, too, but she didn’t feel particularly triumphant in the midst of the chaos that surrounded her. Her anxiety grew. She neglected herself, her family, her dogs, her home, even her roses.
Like she didn’t have enough to do already. Everywhere she looked on every horizontal surface – every counter, table, desk, chest of drawers – she saw clutter. In the corners of the master bedroom, under the stairs, on the living room and dining room floors – clutter. Stuff and more stuff. The clutter needed sorting, needed decisions made. Keep or toss? Where would she put it anyway? The clutter overwhelmed her – buried her.
Then there were those unfinished walls – a patchwork of dreary earth tones the previous owner preferred, fresh new paint, and raw drywall texture covering up wounds from temper tantrums thrown. Turns out not only toddlers throw temper tantrums. Her child had no way of knowing that if he kicked the wall it would break. Lesson learned. Walls are only sheetrock, son. They are not strong. They are not invincible. They are not all that solid. She felt just as fragile. Maybe she looked rock solid, but she was so easily broken.