Dozen: The Best of Breath and Shadow

Foreword

By Chris Kuell

Back in 2003, Sharon Wachsler and Norm Meldrum decided to branch off some of the work they were doing at AbilityMaine, a social activist organization, into a new direction. Sharon’s essays on disability and life were getting a lot of attention, and readers wanted more. So in January 2004, Breath and Shadow was born. The idea was to create a literary journal of disability culture, written and edited exclusively by people with disabilities. As an added bonus, the journal would pay their writers—a novelty then, and even less common today.

I joined the team in 2006, and took over as editor–in–chief in late 2007 when Sharon needed to focus her attention on personal health issues. In the ensuing years I’ve read thousands of submissions, and along with the Breath and Shadow editorial team, have shared hundreds of poems, essays and short stories with the public. Pieces that embrace living, inspiration, expiration, mystery, darkness, and imagination. Work that may or may not be about disability, but that is informed by the author’s experience of disability.

Breath and Shadow was very New England centric initially, but it didn’t take long before we were publishing authors from around the globe. Sharon Wachsler’s essay in this anthology addresses community more eloquently than I ever could, so I’ll focus my thoughts on what makes this anthology unique—the concept of difference. America, and the world, is struggling to come to terms with difference. Different races, different cultures, different languages, different religions, different abilities, different viewpoints. Our national reluctance to give credit to the ‘others’ in our midst is both puzzling, and epidemic. America is, after all, a country of mutts.

Looking back at our country’s history, you’d think the most American theme would be the inevitability of difference. The pain, and consolation, that difference infers has been felt by all of us at one time or another. Yet, when you get past the lip service and platitudes, difference—especially when we are talking about disability—is shunned, treated as a glitch in the cosmic scheme. Some decide to ignore this malfunction that sets us apart, while others seem driven to repair or deny it.

However, conformity leads us only to closed minds. Fearing difference leads to closed imaginations. We need to challenge the version of reality corporations and politicians and marketers and advertisers insist we embrace. We all have the power to see differently. The essays, poems and short stories in this anthology all possess the passion and skill to render accessible some glimmer of what our souls experience. Breath and Shadow represents a gathering of minds and ideas. It is a cultural resource.

The writing in this volume will entertain, inform, break your heart and leave you thinking. It is the best of Breath and Shadow’s first dozen years, according to yours truly. Unfortunately, plenty of good writing has been left out. I could have easily made this a 500+ page tome. The simple truth is: these are pieces I like, with voices that are particular and unique, exhibiting craftsmanship, courage, emotional power and commitment to excellence that needed to be written, and even more so, read.

I hope to read even more, different voices in the upcoming years—especially those from black, Latinx and LGBTQIA+ communities. We’re all looking for a place at the table, and Breath and Shadow welcomes everyone.

Finally, I’d like to thank you for purchasing and reading this book. Breath and Shadow is the only literary magazine in the disability community that pays its writers, and all proceeds from this book will support our efforts. We are a 501(c)non–profit organization that relies on, and deeply appreciates, funding from our readers. Please encourage your family and friends to help support our mission. Visit us at www.abilitymaine.org/breath for more information or to sign up for our free quarterly journal.

And now on to the good stuff. Happy reading.

CK

The Wild and Wooly Waccasassa

By Sandra Gail Lambert

Are you in trouble? Do you need any help?

This isn’t the first person to pull out of morning traffic and stop beside us on the grassy center median of Highway 19 just north of Gulf Hammock. Unloading and organizing our kayaks, we assure them we’re fine. We say the river is waiting. They merge back into the flow of work–bound cars shaking their heads.

The next would–be rescuer, a young man, does more than shake his head. He tells us over and over, in an increasingly loud and shrill voice, that we can’t get through this stretch of the river. He says y’all, but stares at me. I try to see his point of view. He’s watching one woman (Jackie) help another (me) back her manual wheelchair down a steep drainage ditch in the middle of a busy divided highway. I consider going another round of explanation with him, but by now he’s screaming orders at me. I ignore him out of existence, and he screeches off in his truck. He yells out the window about how the mosquitoes will get us for sure.

Normally, we might be rattled by a local person’s dire predictions, but last week we paddled a lower stretch of this same river and two kayakers passed us all full of themselves because they’d put in right here, off the highway. We questioned them, and they admitted to a log or two, but it hadn’t stopped them. Right then we decided we had to do it. Jackie and I continue down the hill and remind each other that those kayakers hadn’t been the no body fat, lycra–covered types. They were more like us—middle–aged and hefty. We’d even seen them smoking. I put my boat in the water while Jackie moves the car over to the fruit stand parking lot on the southbound side of the road. I try to explore upstream while I wait, but the river’s strength is too much for me to get far.

At this point, I’ve been kayaking for three years and have taken ninety trips all in Florida or South Georgia. This is the exact length of time that we’ve been having a drought. All my experience is on lazier than usual rivers, and my skills are in pushing and scooching over exposed logs and sandbars. One of my techniques is to lean back in my kayak and push the front end onto a log. Then I scoot to the bow and, sitting in lotus position, use my weight to tip the boat over the other side. I’ve also hugged the edges of rivers turned creek–size looking for that extra half–inch of water that’ll get me by a sandbar—our what water? kayaking. But in the last two months we’ve had rains, loads of it, and the rivers are recharged. This river is faster than I’ve ever paddled, and I know our usual Plan B of simply turning around and coming back if it’s impassible won’t work. I decide not to say anything to Jackie.

Jackie does an expert slide down her paddle into the kayak and we’re off, flying under the bridge, past the lot where the car is parked, which only now we notice has its own rocky ramp where we could have put in without all the public commentary, and quickly we’re in the place we’re always searching for—the middle of nowhere. I slow my boat and lean against the seat to appreciate the excellent back support along with everything else about kayaking. Jackie is fresh from an edible plant workshop and points out the culinary possibilities around us. She picks odd bits of green and waves them in my face. I’m supposed to eat them.

Jackie and I kayak a lot together. It’s how we became friends. We have similar philosophies of ‘go slowly,’ ‘enjoy every flower and bird and odd track in the sand,’ and ‘eat well and frequently.’ We are always trying to top our record for the longest it takes us to go a mile. Our personal best are the seventy–minute miles we did on the Econlockhatchee River—downstream no less. Our personal best in the food category is the strawberry shortcake Jackie made on her teensy backpacking stove in the Okefenokee Swamp. Other contenders are the crab dip she threw together on the bow of her boat floating down the Suwannee, the Chilean sea bass steamed over fire on the St. Mary’s River trip last spring, and cilantro laden salsa that we ate not only on the Chassahowitzka River, but also the Shired, Barnett, Alexander, Demory, and Juniper creeks. With this history of trust guiding me, I grab the assortment of leaves and stems from Jackie as she floats by and put them in my mouth. I’m glad we packed a lunch, although smilax tips are surprisingly tasty.

In the past year we’ve explored the lower, tidal parts of this river. We often launch from the boat ramp at Gulf Hammock and, depending on the tides, go downstream to the Gulf or upstream to the right fork where the Wekiva River joins or the left fork on up the Wacassassa. On the Wacassassa fork it pays to be careful since at low tide the way is blocked by a massive, slimy log that is, for me anyway, impassable. I think about it waiting there near the end of this trip and review the tide chart in my head. Tides, maps, directions, and research are my responsibility.

I’ve added two–and–a–half hours to the tide station low to get the boat ramp low and one more hour for enough water to mostly cover the log and approximately five hours for us to get down to it. If it’s windy everything will escalate. I let the math leave my head. Whatever the time, we are on our way. Besides, I need to pay attention to paddling, which is not something I’m used to. As I stretch backwards to go under a brushy area, the branches sweep over me, scratching at my cheeks. I’m thrilled. This must be a sweeper, or maybe a strainer, just like I’ve read about in books. I keep grinning as I’m jerked sideways by the current and pushed against a log. Seconds later Jackie smacks alongside me. We stare at each other and laugh. This is going to be fun.

I have a fat, short sit–on–top kayak that is perfect for me. It’s stable, turns easily, which is gentle on my elbows, and I can put it in the back of my van and close the doors. It doesn’t cut through the water like Jackie’s sleek sixteen–footer, but with our pokey kayaking style we don’t do much straight–out paddling. Jackie always tells me to go first on these rivers where you have to search out little holes in the brush or twisty paths through crisscrossed, downed palm trees. She tells me I’m the better scout. This may very well be, but she’s using flattery to obscure her true motive. For some reason she doesn’t like that half–snicker, half–chuckling sound I make when I watch her try to maneuver that long kayak around tight corners.

We’re moving along and I’m awkward, but improving, in the unaccustomed current when we arrive at a downed log higher than my head. I explore around the ends, but there’s no getting through. Since we’re not in the tidal part of the river, the log isn’t slippery, and I think I can do it. I move horizontal to the log, smack at it to chase off the five–inch wide furry spiders and any unseen snakes, and then throw my paddle on its paddle leash over to the other side. I teeter onto my knees and my good little tugboat of a kayak holds steady. My elbows can reach over the log, so I make my move. Moves actually, along with scrapes, lurches, and grunts, but soon I’m straddling the log. It’s fun surveying our terrain from on high. Elevation is a relative term in Florida.

I watch Jackie do another smooth transfer along her paddle onto the shore and then walk her kayak around the far end. I look down at my boat, figure out how I could pull it over by myself, and then ask Jackie to do it for me. She joins me on the log, and we sit a while. We lean close to the eighth–of–an–inch high, neon yellow mushrooms and watch a caterpillar ripple between us as we rub our fingers over the patches of moss. I’m also planning my descent.

Sliding down a limb angling off the trunk and then dropping into the kayak works, and our adventure continues. Time after time we push through downed tree tops, and each time I carry away a batch of spiders varying from small quick ones with white spotted backs bordered by orange spikes to even quicker ones with legs the size of twigs. I brush most of them into the water hoping that they can swim. The fifth time I wipe a netting of invisible strands off my face, it occurs to me that there might be another reason Jackie likes me to go first. I share my suspicions, but Jackie swears she has just as many spiders on her boat. We come to another log, negotiate it successfully, and are feeling good about ourselves. We’ll show that guy.

Around the next curve the way is blocked by downed logs laid out like a giant game of pick–up sticks. Poking my kayak between one set of limbs and then another, I find a path. But it requires that I slide into the well of my kayak, lay completely flat and, while the tip of my nose grazes the underside of a log, use my hips to shift directions, allowing the bow to clear a second log by inches. I’m impressed with myself once again and decide to turn around and wait for Jackie. This should be fun to watch. As I clear my throat for the first snicker/chuckle, my paddle catches on a limb. I’m flipped out of the boat. I come back up from underwater holding onto the paddle with its leash still attached to the still upright boat. I do not have on my life jacket. When you’ve spent ninety–nine percent of your time paddling in calm, less than three–foot depths, a life jacket seems silly. Who knew that a fast current meant deep as well? I yell to Jackie that I’m okay, and then start doing things to make this be true. I grab onto the kayak and look for shore. With all the rain, the river has spread through the woods leaving only the tops of cypress knees poking above the water. Jackie is trying to wedge her way through the brush as I sweep around the corner out of the sight. I yell out again that I’m okay and try unsuccessfully to swim myself and the boat over to a three foot piece of muddy bank that rushes by. It’s the last visible land in sight, but I realize I really am okay. The boat is a great flotation device, this isn’t prime alligator habitat, and although my hat is gone, the rest of my gear is strapped down, including the glasses around my head. Land will appear eventually, and the boat will be swept close enough to grab hold. I relax and use the time productively. I take the opportunity to pee.

When Jackie catches up, I’m perched on a patch of mud trying to dry my glasses. She lets me use her shirttail, and we sit together quietly. It seems like a good time for lunch. After a fortifying meal of roast beef sandwiches on onion rolls with horseradish, carrot sticks, cherries, grapes, and a semisweet chocolate bar, I get back on the kayak.

At the next and final log, I thread my way around the edges through a maze of cypress knees. The landscape is familiar, although, flooded, everything is changed. We know we’ve made it when we pass the familiar stand old growth cypress trees. Early in the 1900’s they escaped the loggers because of their lightning scars and are now the giants of this submerged forest. We’ve reached the tidal section of the river, and the current that has been pushing us combines with the outgoing tide. We rush over the still submerged log (whew) near the confluence of the Wekiva River and enter the wider, saltier stretch where cardinal lobelia and swamp lilies line the edges. The cypress trees have given way to marsh grass, and red buckeyes with their pear–shaped pods hang low over the water.

Five hours after our launch, we reach the boat ramp where my van and power chair are waiting where we dropped them off this morning. It’s now safe to be smug, and we talk about how wrong that guy was and how we are going to impress people when we tell them we paddled this section of the river. We practice how to casually drop it into conversations. I change into dry clothes, Jackie picks some more smilax tips for a snack, and we drive back to her car. After buying a watermelon and peaches at the fruit stand we caravan home. We do stop at the bridge on Highway 24 just before Bronson that crosses an even further upstream section of the Waccasassa. Jackie gets out and scouts the path to the river. We don’t know of anyone who has paddled here and it looks iffy, but a few more rainstorms and we’ll probably give it a go. The mosquitoes haven’t gotten us yet.

Sandra Gail Lambert writes fiction and memoir. Excerpts of her novel, The River’s Memory, have won prizes from Big Fiction Magazine and the Saints and Sinners Short Fiction Contest. Her work has received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations and has been published in New Letters, Brevity, the North American Review, Water~Stone Journal, DIAGRAM, The Weekly Rumpus, and Arts & Letters as well as other journals and anthologies. She lives with her partner in Gainesville, Florida—a home base for trips to her beloved rivers and marshes.

www.sandragaillambert.com

Experimentation

By Sarah Rizzuto

She pulled on a pair of latex gloves

and uncapped a tube of purple, Hot Topic hair dye.

She worked it into my silky, black strands,

allowed it to set longer

than the recommended fifteen minutes.

Then, her fingers bare, she turned on the shower,

washed my hair out, twisted it and wrung it

until purple no longer dripped, streaking

the white wall tiles and staining the gray floor.

When the water ran clear,

I wondered where all the color had gone.

I sat on my bed hoping a tint would appear

when she was finished blow–drying,

but she laid me down to sleep, my hair still black.

A yellow coloring shone through my window.

I woke and she was at my side.

I asked her if she saw any difference.

She didn’t answer, but pointed to my pillow,

its case streaked a faint purple.

I stroked a strand of my identity

as a girl who had once stroked it

and remembered my roots:

the risk of experimentation.

Sarah Rizzuto holds a Masters in English as well as a Master of Fine Arts in Poetry from Southern Connecticut State University. She currently teaches creative writing there. She has also taught Disability Studies, a course she developed through Women’s Studies at SCSU. Sarah also earned a graduate certificate in Women’s Studies from SCSU. She is the President of the CT Poetry Society’s New Haven chapter. Most recently, she was published in Kaleidoscope magazine and is working on submitting more of her poetry.

I’ll Be Looking at the Moon

Fiction by Susan M. Silver

Just when it was that I started feeling dead, I don’t know. My sense of time has been altered by the Illness. But the confines of this familiar room, an irregular box which constitutes my whole apartment and my only sanctuary, are starting to take on the colorations of a sort of peaceful death chamber, or maybe a way station to another level, perhaps because of how I feel inside it.

I lie in a small, headboard–less bed adorned in ultra clean white linens, hardly moving, out of breath. The charcoal–ammonia–detergent taste that ebbs and flows mitigates my appetite. My feet are square, throbbing concrete blocks. Electrified birthday–party streamers of pain, originating from the back, simultaneously squiggle down my legs and shoot upwards in a multi–colored path through my arms, rendering the fingers stiff. My lower back, a treacherous trapezoid of shifting soreness, feels like a foundation with multiple cracks, unable to hold up the structure. My balance is tightrope wire–like; I seem to be wobbling even while prostrate. My vision goes grainy black–and–white; squid ink is releasing itself from the dental implant in my mouth, which is numb and throbbing, like frames from a film noir in which the hero is blacking out. I picture my face and brain wearing a Phantom–style black mask. My memory is numb. What’s the name of the lanky Midwestern composer of Stardust? Macy’s phone number? Oscar winner for The Good Earth and The Great Ziegfeld, with the teardrop eyes? Who wrote the theme playing in the elevator? Oh, where’s Mom with her musical theme dictionary?

The space is navigable courtesy of the flickering light of the television, which offers the unlikely company of an old sitcom whose Midwestern working–class characters have oddly become my family: wiseacre mom, beer–driven dad, prankster kids. Across the room on the piano is a silver–sealed glam image of Mom at her professional zenith, seated at a shiny grand: valentine face with ‘40s cheekbones, shoulder–length chestnut hair, wearing a