• What’s In A Name?

    di Grazia      I am finding out it’s a lot.

    Recently, picking up Antonio and Crystel at a community education event, I was told, “I asked Antonio if he was Italian with a name like di Grazia.”

    Standing next to me, Antonio says to the adult coordinator for at least the second time that day, “No, it’s Spanish.”

    I didn’t say anything. But yes, she’s right kid. It’s Italian.

    DSCN0725Jody, Antonio, Crystel, and I don’t have a drop of Italian blood in us.

    At the time, Jody and I were choosing a family name, I was just thinking how pretty di Grazia looked and sounded. It seemed fancier than de Grazia. It seemed more different. It seemed like ‘us’.

    I wasn’t thinking of the ramifications the name di Grazia would have for our family, the inquiries we would face. Even now, I am asked from time to time if I’m Italian.

    No, and I don’t much like pasta, either.

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAdi Grazia means “of Grace.” Jody and I were creating a family from grace. We didn’t have this family yet. We didn’t even know how this family was going to come together. Had we known we were going to adopt two infants from Guatemala we might have chosen the more typical Spanish spelling, de Grazia.

    But, probably not. We had already decided that we liked di Grazia.

    When I first realized that the last name di Grazia posed a hurdle was when Crystel was three years old, eye to eye with a goat. And, I seriously wondered if she could overcome the hurdle.

    DSCN0210We were camping at a campground that had, amongst other things, a petting zoo, pool, and horses.

    After visiting the petting zoo, Jody and I took separate routes back to our campsite. When we got there I looked at her and she looked at me.

    “Where’s Crystel?”

    “I thought she was with you.”

    “I thought she had gone with you and Antonio in the car.”

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERABoth of us jumped into our vehicle, headed back to where we last saw her. The only thing I could think of was that Crystel could not talk. Her speech was not intelligible. The person who most understood her was Antonio and he was with us. She could tell no one her first name, her last name, or who her parents were.

    When you have an articulation disorder, Crystel di Grazia, is not a good name to have. Now if she had my name before I changed it … Ann Smith … she could have spit that out – nothing to trip over there.

    Fortunately, she was right where we last saw her, staring at a goat. Somehow, she knew, to stay right where she was and not move when her family was lost.

    The next time that I was aware that our last name posed a problem was when Antonio was four years old and he was being asked in preschool to practice printing his last name. I looked at him and shook my head. First, he would have to understand that it was a small di then a space then Grazia with a large G.

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWhat I was thinking was, just give it up, kid. It’s not going to happen. You’ll never learn how to say your last name much less spell it.

    Fortunately, he didn’t listen to me.

    And, if he wants di Grazia to be Spanish, then it’s Spanish. After all, it’s a created name. It’s different. And, it’s ours. We’ve grown into it.

    , , ,

  • Competing With Friends for Writers’ Awards

    Earlier this month, I applied for an Emerging Writer’s Grant and a Loft Creative Prose Mentorship, knowing full well that I’m competing with my good friends for these honors. I really want to win. So do the women in my creative nonfiction writers group.

    We’ve known each other for years. We’ve visited each other’s homes. We’ve cried together when one of our circle died. These women often know more know about the contents of my mind and heart than some of my family members do—they read my innermost thoughts firsthand when our group meets.

    They are insightful critics and steadfast cheerleaders. Because we share personal essays and memoir, our subject matter is always personal. Sharing our stories requires trust, and we’ve strengthened that trust over the years. The other writers don’t judge me or my life. But they do evaluate my writing craft and urge me to do my best. We all understand that the writer is different from the writing.

    Perhaps the ability to draw the distinction between the person and the craft is why we’re able to draw other distinctions and balance two seemingly conflicting ideas: we’re friends and we’re competing.

    Although there have occasionally been moments of frustration or resentment among the group members, we have been able to rise above them. For me, these aspects of our group dynamic have helped keep our competition from turning into conflict—

    • All of us are accomplished writers who deserve to win a grant or a mentorship. But we know that winning these contests is a crapshoot. Once you’ve met a certain level of competence, the next round of judging is subjective—my memoir about wrestling with feminism in 1979 might not appeal to a judge as much as my friend’s essays about traveling in Cuba. Luck plays a role.
    • Over the years, we have fostered a “one for all, all for one” mentality. When illness sapped our founder’s energy, the group mounted a submissions campaign to help her get published. When members ask the group to review their grant proposals, we give them our best advice.
    • Some of us openly state that we’re going after an award; others are more circumspect—each according to her personality. Perhaps that tact and reticence is what enables us to avoid open conflict.

    I don’t know for sure what the magic is. And I hope talking about it doesn’t wreck it. I’m proud to be a part of a group that has navigated these tricky waters successfully . . . so far.

    I want an Emerging Writer’s Grant or a Loft Mentorship. If someone else in the group wins, I’ll be sorely disappointed for myself. But I’ll be happy for her.

    , , , ,

    7 responses to “Competing With Friends for Writers’ Awards”

    1. […] Sharing our grant proposals and writing award applications, even when we’re competing for the same grants and awards. […]

    2. Pamela Gemin Avatar
      Pamela Gemin

      I understand what this post is about, having applied for several grants, awards, and residencies as a writer and learning that my female friends were also entering the same competitions. I love the “all for one, one for all” attitude you speak of and it’s uplifting to hear that your group is so tight and supportive. There have been times when I thought I should have gotten the prize, but when I read the winner’s entry I understood why I would have to wait my turn. If we work hard, good things eventually happen. Meanwhile we just have to keep getting better! Writers, unlike athletes and other competitive hopefuls, only get better.

      1. Ellen Shriner Avatar

        I have definitely looked back on submitted work and a)cringed a little or b) seen why I didn’t win. . . 😉

    3. wendyaskinner Avatar

      So well spoken, er, I mean written. I wish you the best of luck on the Mentor grant and to everyone in your writing group who’s applying. It will be a great reason for a party if anyone from your writing group wins the grant!

      1. Ellen Shriner Avatar

        Thanks for the support! As the six of us sat around a table at Caribou, we all agreed that at least SOMEBODY in our group should win.

    4. Bury, Nell Avatar
      Bury, Nell

      Good Luck!! I love reading your blog.

      From: WordSisters <comment-reply@wordpress.com> Reply-To: WordSisters <comment+pgx380qiy1wnm_6qvi1jln@comment.wordpress.com> Date: Thursday, April 11, 2013 6:59 AM To: Nell Bury <nell@inmind-design.com> Subject: [New post] Competing With Friends for Writers’ Awards

      Ellen Shriner posted: “Earlier this month, I applied for an Emerging Writer’s Grant and a Loft Creative Prose Mentorship, knowing full well that I’m competing with my good friends for these honors. I really want to win. So do the women in my creative nonfiction writers group. “

  • Going to the Dogs: On being a Decoy

    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI’ve done some crazy stuff before but volunteering as a decoy for police dogs ranks close to the top. At first, as with most new adventures the idea of being a decoy was thrilling. I was very aware of the nearing day, checking my calendar, reading the email over and over, making sure that I had the right time and the proper clothing. Long sleeve shirt, pants, boots.

    My impetus for being a decoy was simply that I had never done it before and it sounded exciting. How often are you given the opportunity to be dog bait? Exactly. Within a minute of seeing the text asking for volunteers I responded with a firm, “Yes”. Apparently, no one else had this strong feeling because I was the only volunteer from our police reserve unit.

    Sometimes when you really want something and you also don’t really want the same thing it doesn’t happen. I half expected this training event to be cancelled.

    It wasn’t.

    And sometimes you try to imagine what this new adventure will look like.

    Visions of running across a field of flowers with a dog, maybe a Labrador, bounding after me and then taking a gentle leap pulling me to the ground was my image.

    Ignorance is bliss fits right in here.

    Reality was a vacant building, darkness, and me lying on a floor in the corner of an empty room with a sheet of black plastic covering me.

    There would be numerous police dogs with a K-9 police officer attempting to locate me, one by one. When does numerous become many? Let’s say when the count is over five. There would be many police dogs, each with their own K-9 police officer taking turns locating me one by one.

    Aloneness is being in a dark vacant building waiting for a dog to attack. You know it’s coming. You’re warned, “Come out or I’ll send my dog in after you. You WILL get bit.” In case you didn’t hear it the first time you’re warned again. “You WILL get bit. Come out NOW.”

    But and this is a big BUT, the role of a decoy is not to come out. The role of a decoy is to be still in the dark, under the tarp, until the dog latches onto you.

    This leaves you time to think. And, you think, I know I’m going to get bit. Some place on my body. Maybe it will be my arm or my leg, could be my back or my shoulder.

    I wasn’t too worried. I was suited up in a bite suit with a helmet on.

    The advertisement for the Ultra Kimono Training Bite Suit says that high back and chest bites can be taken with confidence.

    I can’t say that I was confident but I wasn’t too scared. I was squished in the corner like the Michelen man facing the wall. I felt as protected as one can feel when a police dog is on the prowl and you are the target.

    Lying under the tarp, breathing shallow, I didn’t stir.

    I heard the dog entering the room. It wasn’t the tap, tap of his nails that I heard first but his heavy, rapid breathing. He came closer. The dog barked a “He’s here boss!” which sounds like 2 or 3 loud snaps. The animal began moving the plastic around with his paws trying to find me with the K-9 police officer urging him on. “Get him! Get a piece of him! Find him!”

    I didn’t move.

    The dog latched onto my helmet and started pulling me out of the plastic. I played the next part perfectly, “Get your dog off me! Get your dog off me!” I screamed. “Get em off!”

    With every dog attack my fear increased exponentially. Each police dog didn’t just want a piece of me they wanted my head. “He’s got my helmet! He’s got my helmet! He’s pulling it off! Get your dog off me!”

    After one attack I took my helmet off. “Is that blood?” I asked looking down at the droplets on the floor. I felt the top of my head which felt tender but didn’t come away bloody. “Oh, that’s from the dog,” I said. It was the dog’s saliva I was seeing on the floor.

    By this time, I was scared like one should be when being attacked by a police dog. Almost all the dogs went for my head no matter how they tried to position me on the floor. The bite suit was so thick and big that I couldn’t get my sleeve up to hold my helmet on and I was sure that the dogs were going to pop me like a cork. A K-9 police officer even tried to expose my back side so the dogs would go for it. Nada. They wanted Beth’s head.

    I acted as a decoy in two other scenarios with multiple police dogs – standing in a corner down a long, long corridor and standing in a corner with a tarp over me. This time the dogs went for my leg. I learned that you shake your leg rapidly after the dog latches on so it doesn’t re-bite you. This is important to know if you’re a bad guy.

    Having become aware of my vulnerability as a human being I started to question my soundness of mind. In-between dogs I had plenty of time to think about that. I thought maybe I wouldn’t need to do this activity again. Perhaps being a decoy one time was enough.

    And, when I had the opportunity to call it a night, I sat down as quick as I could to get that bite suit off and hustled out of the building.

    But, a day has gone by. And I think I just might do it again. You don’t often get the opportunity to feel that afraid and test your mettle. I have learned from this experience. Don’t go prone. Volunteer for the standing position.

    , ,

    2 responses to “Going to the Dogs: On being a Decoy”

    1. Carol Avatar
      Carol

      You ROCK, girl! 🙂

      1. Elizabeth di Grazia Avatar
        Elizabeth di Grazia

        Thanks, Carol!


Recent Posts

  • My New Rocket

    A whole new mode of transport

  • She Did

    On the day of our sale, when the buyer signed and I knew—really knew—that our home was sold, I felt the pressure of years gathering in my chest. Tears burst out. I was standing in the kitchen of our RV when the weight of it hit me. I was not four years old, or eight,…

  • Lazy, Crazy, Days of Summer

    What is it about summer that inspires such expectations? Eating ice cream in the afternoon? Walking in sand? Sitting on a bench with a good friend? A bad mosquito bite?