communication – Page 3 – The View from a Drawbridge

Bruxing

True confession: I am a bruxist. When I’m feeling stress, I tend to clench my jaw and/or grind my teeth. I don’t even realize I’m doing it much of the time. I even do it in my sleep. I know I’m going through a rough patch when I wake up in the morning and my jaw aches.

Once, I had a dream that I was deep within the bowels of an old, creaking wooden ship. I woke up and could still hear the creaking. It was me, grinding my teeth so hard that they were groaning in protest. Needless to say, I got a night guard to wear right after that. I’d kind of like to keep my teeth.

But for the past week I’ve had to wear my night guard even in the daytime. I had a filling replaced, and my constant grinding was not allowing the area to heal. I had to go back to the dentist 3 times for bite adjustments, and in the meantime my clenching and grinding caused the ligaments under the tooth root to get bruised. So here I am, wearing the adult version of a pacifier, feeling really grateful that I work alone, and looking forward to the day when I’m not in pain anymore.

My subconscious does its best to send me signals when all is not right in my world. Unfortunately, I’m quite adept at ignoring them. So then the signals get louder or more persistent, until I get with the program. I think I need to pay closer attention to what I’m trying to say to myself.

Our bodies have a language all their own. Since they cannot speak, they act out in other ways. Panic attacks. Back spasms. Stomach upsets. Reduced immunity. Heart attacks. It’s best to listen to these messages while they’re still “whispers” instead of “shouts”.

Bruxism

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Becoming Forgetful

When I was young and I’d hear an older person say they were getting old and forgetful, I used to smile and say I couldn’t wait to have that excuse for my absentmindedness. I’ve always been easily distracted. Flaky, even.

But now I’m starting to get it. As I age, it’s getting much, much worse. And that’s terrifying. It is no fun, no fun at all, to know you can no longer rely on your own brain. Especially when you live alone.

Today I accidentally left my to-do list at home, and I’m a bit freaked out. I’m fairly certain that I’m forgetting to do something that’s time-sensitive and important, but for the life of me, I can’t recall what it is. That’s a helpless feeling. I don’t like it. That’s why I created the to-do list in the first place.

And I’m starting to forget words. I know what I want to say conceptually. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I just can’t always verbalize it. “Please pass me the… the… you know. That thing.”

Do you have any idea how scary it is for a writer not to be able to come up with a word? And since I’m not currently in a nice comfortable relationship where the other person can finish my sentences for me, odds are that the person I’m talking to doesn’t know what thing I’m referring to.

The older I get, the more I feel like I’m traveling in a land where I don’t speak the language and I don’t have a map or an itinerary. And while I do love to travel, I love to be able to communicate even more. This is a confusing place. I’d like to go home now.

Forgetful

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How to Piss Off a Bridgetender

I have spent a great deal of time writing about how much I love my job. I really do. I swear I do. Just… not today.

Perhaps it’s because we are marinating in the last, bitter dregs of the holiday season, and everyone is getting cranky. Perhaps I’m the bitter one, because everyone is out on the water, celebrating in their Christmas light bedecked boats, and I’m stuck in this poorly insulated tower, alone, and will never own a boat. Perhaps my nerves are on edge due to political dread, or because I haven’t really seen the sun in weeks. I don’t know. But I’m in a foul mood.

I think everyone should be allowed to vent once in a while, even those of us who realize that in the overall scheme of things, we have a great deal to be grateful for. So fasten your seat belts. I’m about to rant all over you.

After 15 years as a bridgetender, I think I’ve pretty much seen it all. But here are some of the more annoying things that come up time and time and freakin’ time again. It’s enough to make me turn into a bridge troll.

I shall divide my rants up into the various forms of stupidity involved, just for clarity’s sake.

Boater Stupidity

You wouldn’t buy a very expensive car and hop into it without knowing the rules of the road, would you? Well, a distressing number of boaters seem to do this. If you have achieved enough financial success to own a vessel, kindly take the time to know what the hell you are doing. The life you save could be mine, or that of someone else.
If you can afford a boat, you can afford to invest in a working marine radio and learn how to use it. First of all, this isn’t a convoy. We don’t use “10-4” or any of the other 10 codes. And if you call me and have your own volume turned down, I can respond all day long and you’re not going to hear me. Don’t blame me for that.
My voice isn’t that deep. Why do you assume I’m a “sir”?
Do not call me on the phone. This isn’t a date. Contact me via the CORRECT horn signals (which you’d know if you read the Coastguard regulations), or call me on the radio.
Be polite. I’m not your servant or your minion. If you “demand” an opening “immediately upon” your arrival, there is nothing on earth that will be more apt to tempt me to make you paddle in circles for a while. As in all other parts of your life, you’ll be amazed at how far a simple “please” and “thank you” will get you.
Don’t tie up the radio with unimportant chatter. Someone could be sinking out there.
Know your mast height. A shocking number of boats don’t actually require a bridge opening. Operating a bridge costs the taxpayer money. And slowing down street traffic for no good reason is never appreciated.
Know where the hell you are. You should get charts, but even a Rand McNally map is better than nothing. The other day, I had boats calling me the Ravenna Drawbridge and the Washington Drawbridge, neither of which exists in Seattle.
And just calling me “drawbridge” doesn’t work, either. There are often several drawbridges within the sound of your radio. And no bridgetender, to my knowledge, can read your mind.
All drawbridges are bound by the Coastguard Federal Regulations. This means that many of us have time periods in which we cannot open for most boaters. Don’t argue with me about it. That won’t change anything. And don’t take it personally. I was not put on this earth to make you late for your golf game.
And by the way, if you’re on a sailboat, why on earth are you so impatient? You. Are. On. A. Sailboat.
This isn’t my first rodeo. If you ask for an opening and I tell you that I’ll start it upon your approach, continue your approach. I’m timing it based on your rate of speed. If you come to a dead halt before I’ve opened the bridge, that will just make the time the bridge has to stay open for you that much longer. Your lack of consideration backs up traffic for miles. Surprise! The world does not revolve around you.
Don’t call me for an opening when you’re still 10 minutes away. I can think of a million things I’d rather do than stand at the operating console, idly waiting for you to show up.
Don’t assume I’m asleep. It’s insulting. I’m never asleep. I’m a professional.
It is every bit as illegal to operate a boat while intoxicated as it is to operate a car in that condition. When you are drunk, I cannot effectively communicate with you. Ineffective communication on the water can be deadly.

Automotive Stupidity

The average drawbridge opening is only 4 ½ minutes long. And you knew you were taking a route that took you over a drawbridge. So there’s no reason to throw a tantrum when you have to wait while a drawbridge opens.
There’s also no reason to do a u-turn. By the time you take your detour, that 4 ½ minutes will have passed. It’d be far more pleasant for you to just step out of your car for a minute and enjoy the scenery. Life’s too short.
Turn off your engine. Why pollute the atmosphere, when it’s been proven that idling more than 30 seconds is much less fuel efficient than turning your car off and restarting it again?
You can honk at me all you want. It’s not going to make the bridge opening go any faster.
Rude gestures just make you look like a jerk.
When the bridge closes and there’s a pause before the traffic gates go up, it’s not that I’m up here picking my nose. The bridge locks are being driven beneath the street. Just because you don’t see anything happening doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Hold your freakin’ horses.

Bicycle and/or Pedestrian Stupidity

If you see lights flashing and/or hear gongs, that means STOP. Don’t cross the drawbridge. It does NOT mean stop halfway across the bridge to take a selfie. It doesn’t mean stand there and take in the view. It doesn’t mean slow down. And it certainly doesn’t mean that you should crawl under the gates. The rules apply to everyone, including you, and they’re there for your safety.
Barges can’t slam on the brakes. You need to get out of the way.
Cursing at me won’t speed up the opening any more than honking at me does.
Projectiles are not appreciated. People in Seattle don’t throw as many eggs and rocks and beer bottles and tomatoes as the people in Florida did. But I’ve never been in a bridge tower anywhere in the country that hasn’t been shot at at least once. What have I ever done to you that merits my death or injury?
Please don’t vandalize the bridge. We are proud of it. And many of your fellow citizens are, too. Also, please don’t vandalize my car. I’ve done nothing to you except work hard to ensure that you are safe.
Climbing over an opening drawbridge might look cool in the movies, but it can get you killed. And I’ll be the one who has to carry that for the rest of my life. Be a daredevil someplace else.
There is nothing more terrifying than being all alone, and going into one of the machinery rooms below the street only to find that someone has broken in and is still there. And it happens just enough to make me jumpy. Can you just… not? If you’re curious, ask for a tour.

Hoooo! I feel cleansed! Now, back to work.

But don’t get me wrong. The vast majority of the boaters, drivers, bicyclists and pedestrians are polite, friendly and easy to deal with. I only wish the rest were as cooperative and pleasant. Bridgetenders really do care about all of you. That’s why we’re here, doing what we do. So you’ll have to forgive me if I sometimes get irritated that there are a few out there who don’t care as much as we do.

Oh, and did I mention? It’s my birthday.

Mixed Signals

When I was seven years old, I was walking into school with my best friend when a boy grabbed her arm and started dragging her down the sidewalk. I didn’t know this boy (I didn’t know any boys, really), so it scared me quite a bit. Loyal friend that I am, I started beating him in the head with my Scooby Doo lunchbox (complete with full thermos), while screaming, “LET HER GO!!!!”

Needless to say, he let her go and ran away. What I didn’t expect was my friend’s angry reaction to my rescue. Apparently I had interrupted some sort of prepubescent mating ritual. I hadn’t gotten the memo. My lunch was crushed and so was I.

This wouldn’t be the last time I misinterpreted the subtle nuances of life. Just the other day I was at a party with a friend, and she said something to me and I responded. We carried on that conversation for the rest of the event. It wasn’t until we were walking to my car afterward that I discovered we had been having two entirely different conversations the whole time!

I always find it to be quite disconcerting when I find out that my reality is completely distinct from the reality of those around me. It’s as if the universal translator in my head is set to the wrong frequency and I’m speaking a different language. I’m out of tune, out of touch. That’s an awful feeling, because my entire ego is built firmly upon a foundation of intelligence. When I realize I’m on a different page than the rest of the readers of the world, I feel kind of dumb.

It also doesn’t help that I’m prone to daydreaming quite a bit. I enjoy the garden of my mind. There is just so much to see and do there. But that doesn’t serve me well when interacting with others. Lack of focus is putting it mildly.

Let’s just say that I am forever grateful to my loved ones for their abiding patience. Thanks everybody!

garden_of_my_mind_by_aishatheweirdo-d8qm4m0 — Garden of my mind by AishaTheWeirdo

Where are All the Bridgetenders?

Bridge operators are a quirky group. We like our privacy. We tend to be slow to trust. We like to be kings of our castles, so to speak. Plus some of us (not me, not anymore) work under some draconian rules and have to fear for our livelihood. That’s probably why there isn’t a widespread network of us out there. We aren’t communicating.

I think this lack of community is a pity. Not only would we benefit from sharing our best practices and telling each other about job openings, but it would be fun to exchange our crazy stories. I would dearly love to hear about and see other views from other drawbridges! So if you know anyone who knows anyone who knows anyone who opens a drawbridge for a living, please share this post with them, and also invite them to join my Facebook group The View from a Drawbridge, and my other group, Drawbridge Lovers. (Of course, the rest of you can join, too!)

Lets hope this whole 6 degrees of separation thing works, because I’m looking forward to meeting some fellow travelers! Anyone can be a part of Drawbridge Nation! You just have to open up! (Sorry. I couldn’t resist.)

09012015-drawbridge01 — The Fremont bridge opens for a sailboat and a pontoon for the 520 bridge. (Ellen M. Banner / The Seattle Times)

It’s Okay to Talk About Death

During the most profound parts of my grief over the loss of my boyfriend, I remember thinking, “I wonder how long it will be before I can talk about Chuck without making people uncomfortable.” I wanted to talk about him. I really did. Both good stuff and bad stuff. I wanted to process what I was feeling and why. But I found it really hard to discuss it with people because I felt as if I were making them squirm, and they didn’t know what to say.

How could I explain to them that it was okay to talk about Chuck? How could I tactfully make the point that death, as a general rule, is not contagious after the fact? How could I reassure them that they couldn’t possibly cause me any more pain than I was already in, and that, by talking about him, they were actually helping me? My energy was at an all-time low, so I wasn’t in the mood to school people.

Then the other day I came across the following in a book by Barbara Kingsolver, and as per usual, she really knows what to say:

“People who are grieving walk with death, every waking moment. When the rest of us dread that we’ll somehow remind them of death’s existence, we are missing their reality.”

This couldn’t be more true! It’s not like we’re taking a vacation from grief and by bringing the subject up you’re thrusting us back into that awful place. You’re not reminding us of something we’ve forgotten. We’re already there, people. And it’s okay. We’re going to survive. It’s just that it would be so comforting to talk about it, so nice to feel less isolated. So make the effort, even if it’s just to ask if we’d like to talk. It would mean more than you know.

I’m happy to say I’ve gotten past the worst of my grief (although it will never go away completely), but if anything could have made the experience easier, it would have been the general sense that I didn’t have to censor myself to avoid making everyone feel awkward. Please try to give that gift to the people you love who are grieving.

death — [Image credit: nhfaithfusion.com]

Little Brother is Watching You

While social media may be sucking the life force out of us in many ways, it also has its advantages. I am convinced the holocaust could never have happened in 2016. Those of us who legitimately didn’t know what was going on back then would know now, and those of us who were pretending not to know would have no excuse. And holocaust deniers would look even more idiotic than they already look, if that’s possible.

Everyone who has a cell phone or any internet device is now a potential reporter. That’s why the bad cops among the good ones are getting so much attention. Like cockroaches, they don’t do well in the light.

The Arab Spring would not have spread to so many countries a half century ago. There was no easy way to pass the word. There was no way to let others know that you felt the same way about things as they did.

Before police jurisdictions could share information about unsolved cases, it was easier to be a serial criminal. And while the rich and powerful still seem to be able to do their dirty deeds with impunity, the power of public opinion gets stronger with time. Little Brother is watching you.

The thing that countries that like to censor their citizens don’t seem to realize is that sharing information is always a good idea. Unless, of course, your motives aren’t pure. But censorship is a lot harder when the number of avenues of communication are increasing by the day.

I genuinely believe that the reason we as a society seem more cynical and dissatisfied and put upon than ever isn’t that things have gotten worse. It’s that it’s more obvious now. Even if it has been forever thus, one of the things we’re more readily able to share these days is that we’re pissed off.

RecordingPhone — [Image credit: swtnlaw.com]

The Thirty Million Words Initiative

If I haven’t said it recently (but I’m fairly sure I have), I absolutely love National Public Radio. I learn so much from NPR that I probably would never know otherwise. Case in point: the Thirty Million Words Initiative.

One of my all time pet peeves is parents who do not read to or communicate with their children. I’ve entered many a house where there are no books to be found, and the TV is tuned to soap operas instead of Sesame Street, and it makes me want to scream, “You are setting your child up for failure!”

Now, finally, vindication. The Thirty Million Words Initiative was started by Dana Suskind, a surgeon who wrote the book Thirty Million Words: Building a Child’s Brain. In an interview with NPR, Suskind said, “The 30 million word gap comes from a very famous study that was done probably about 30 years ago by Betty Hart and Todd Risley, where they followed a group of children between 0 and 3 years old from all socioeconomic backgrounds. And basically what they found, by the end of age 3, children from low-socioeconomic backgrounds will have heard 30 million fewer words than their more affluent peers. And this number itself was correlated not just with differences in vocabulary but also differences in IQ and test scores in the third grade.”

This gap comes from a combination of familial/cultural differences and the stressors of poverty. The words you use with your child have an impact as well. Some children hear as much as 6 times as many positive affirmations as other children do. Being belittled affects your development.

The Thirty Million Words Initiative is a program that encourages parents to tune in, talk more, and take turns with their children. To learn more about this, read the book, visit the website and support it. Set your child up for success.

On Being a Storyteller

Throughout human history, storytellers have been a very important part of most cultures. Before the written word, they were our only link to our ancestry, our current events, and our life lessons. They provided a sense of continuity and connection. These stories allowed people to expand their worldview, even in times when it was much harder to travel. They caused communities to gather together and encouraged communication. To this day (perhaps all the more so because it’s less frequent), when people gather around the campfire and tell stories, it’s a special and exciting experience.

Nowadays we tend to separate ourselves from each other by plunging into the vastness of cyberspace. Yes, we can get information that way, but something is missing. It takes a storyteller to add humanity to the tale. Body language and facial expression and tone add so much to the narrative. And audience reaction does a great deal to bolster the accounting.

As more of us feel the lack of that storytelling experience, more and more local groups are being formed so that we may come together and share our stories with one another. I am a part of one such group, Fresh Ground Stories, here in Seattle. I look forward to this gathering every month.

The beauty of a storytelling group is you never know what people are going to share, or who is going to speak. It’s very exciting. And if you keep coming back, you make more and more friends and learn so much about them that you wouldn’t in any other forum. Some people desperately need to tell their story, and getting the support of the audience can be life changing. It can give you an enormous boost in confidence. The feedback from the crowd afterward often becomes every bit as important as the recounting of your life experience.

Take the time to thank and encourage the storytellers in your life. Let them know you appreciate all that they have to teach and share with you. This is a tradition that should be nurtured by all of us, for the greater good.

storytelling1 — [Image credit: launikari.eu]

Untapped Depths

Every day we walk or drive past countless numbers of people without communicating with them in any meaningful way. That’s perfectly natural. It would be impossible to get anything done if we stopped to have intense conversations with everyone we encountered.

But lately I have been viewing all these strangers with fresh eyes. That’s because I’ve participated in a few storytelling events by a meet up group here in Seattle called Fresh Ground Stories. The stories that are told at this event have to be true and personal, and boy, are they ever.

We all look at a people without speaking to them and tend to make certain assumptions, but this group demonstrates loudly and clearly that there is much more to people than meets the eye. Whether it’s the petite young girl who had been abused by her father all her life and then finally confronted him as an adult, or the guy who made a documentary about a quirky homeless man, or the transgender woman who had struggled to feel accepted all her life, or the man who lost 100 pounds and overcame social anxiety, every person has a story, and often it’s a fascinating one.

Now when I see strangers on the street, I kind of have regrets. I may be passing over someone who has an amazing history that would enrich my life in its very telling. That guy might have been in the crowd when President Kennedy was assassinated. That lady might be the daughter of a suffragette. I’ll never know.

As I go about my daily business these days, people seem to have more density, more substance to them. I often think, “What’s your story?” I wish I had time to hear them all.