The Questionable Memoir

 

“Write a memoir.”

 

When that idea first struck, I thought it was crazy. Me? Write a memoir? Pfft. Why should I write a memoir? I’m a nobody. An unknown. And unrecognized person. I am not famous, wealthy or a public person.

 

I am just a writer.

 

Granted, I have been through A LOT of things in life, and a lot of those things shaped who I am today. I did try to commit suicide once, but I am not the only person who has been through such experiences. As a person with disabilities, I have experienced discrimination. I have endured abuse and struggled with alcoholism for years. But mine is not a unique story. I know there are people out there who have been through worse.

 

But, I do know that mine is not much of an ordinary life, either. I suffered 3^rd degree burns before I was 2. I became deaf when I was 13. And, apparently, being burned AND deaf has put me into a minority. In fact, I once got an email from someone who was also burned and deaf, and she commented that she hardly ever found anyone else like her, or like me.

 

This is very true. I also have not come across many people who were burned AND deaf. It has often made me wonder just how many of us there are out there.

 

And not only am I burned and deaf, but I also have a hand disability, which has compromised my attempts to learn sign language. (A lot of hearing people are shocked when I tell them I am not fluent in ASL. Fingerspelling and lipreading is how I communicate with hearing people. However, I know someone who teaches ASL, and I am communicating with her about how I can STILL be fluent in ASL even though I can only sign with one hand.)

 

Being burned and deaf has definitely created some interesting experiences in my life. Sadly, I have experienced discrimination on both fronts. I’m either discriminated against for being deaf or for being a burn survivor. I have had many negative experiences at jobs that had made me wonder if they were because I didn’t look all that attractive to those who acted out against me. I also wondered if I was turned down for positions or jobs because I refuse to cover my scars with make-up and present myself as I am, with burn scars on my face and everything.

 

So, yes, it is possible that my own memoir just might have some marketability. Maybe people will be interested in it. Hopefully, an agent would be interested in it! And I would hope that readers might be interested in it too.

 

I even have a title for it. The title actually captures a common name I was called in elementary school.

 

Still, I kept wondering: SHOULD I have a memoir? Do I deserve one? Like I said, I’m not famous. Who is going to care? On top of that, I haven’t even found my place in this world yet. Yes, I’m a writer who is getting my writing out there, but as far as having a “place” in society, some kind of position that is respected, that’s not there. I’m not a teacher, nurse, first responder, award-winning-something-or-other, or even a popular person. People don’t know my name. They don’t know who I am. I HAVE done volunteering in the past, but nothing recent. I’m nobody’s hero and nobody’s “special person.” I am not a celebrity or actress, nor do I want to be. I don’t want the spotlight, attention or adoring fans.

 

I am just a writer toiling away in obscurity.

 

And, yes, I KNOW I can change all that by putting in the effort to make those things happen, but I don’t WANT to be a teacher, nurse, first responder or award winner. I don’t want to be those things, because I just don’t fit into those profiles. I know I am meant for something MORE, but I can’t figure out what it is yet. I WANT to contribute, but I haven’t been able to find the right way to contribute. Sure, I write books and stuff, but that’s not enough.

 

Basically, I am asking myself: Am I even DESERVING of having written a memoir? My life is not at its peak just yet. I know there’s more to do, and more to write about.

 

But, even still, I am also wondering: Am I too young to write my memoirs? I am not even in my 50s yet.

 

But then I read this article in the New York Times and realized, you don’t need to be a certain age to write, or even start writing, your memoirs. 

 

 

So I started writing my memoirs. Just anything that I could remember.

 

That, too, is another thing. I wanted to write what I could remember, while I still can remember those things! I needed to get those experiences down, while they are still fresh enough for me to recall them in detail. (I strongly suggest that EVERYONE write down things they go through while they can still remember them, because the day will come when the memory is not so fresh in our minds. This is another reason why I encourage people to keep journals. A journal is the best source of information for recalling events in detail. Well, that, and a blog.)

 

I am writing what I can remember in this memoir. I know what this book should focus on, so everything that I write in it is about that focus. (I don’t believe in writing tell-all books, so I’m not putting into this book something it really doesn’t need.)

 

Yes, I am writing my memoir. I don’t know yet if it will be published or not. I don’t know yet if anyone will want to read it.

 

All I do know is that I must write it. And write it I am.

 

NOTE:

 

I wrote the above blog post over a week ago. The very next day, something happened. Something that I walked away from and suddenly realized, “That’s it!”

 

I know now what I must do with the rest of my life. I know now what kind of contribution I must make.

 

It WILL mean going back to school, but I am willing to put in that effort. And it will take time to get there, but I’ll keep going.

 

I know this is what I MUST do with my life now. And it all fits with a common theme in my life story: Taking a bad experience from my past and using it for something good. Something that will help others.

 

This won’t make me famous and I am just fine with that. I don’t want to be famous. I don’t do things to get attention. I can happily live my life without being famous, important or someone with a bazillion of admirers around the world. I do things because I feel that I must do them.

 

Writing my memoir is one of them.

Overcoming Adversity: Being a Burn Survivor

I was tagged by Karen over at a Deaf Mom Shares Her World ( http://putzworld.blogspot.com/ ). This is part of Stephen Hopson's, over at Adversity Universitys, project on the Secrets of Overcoming Adversity ( http://adversityuniversity.blogspot.com/2007/06/secrets-of-dealing-with-adversity.html ).

I was only 20 months old when something happened that would change my life forever: I was burned. My mother was walking home one day, after walking my sister to the bus stop, and she carried me in her arms as she walked along the busy street of Southern Pasadena (California). According to the story that had been told to me many times, only after I was old enough to understand it, this woman was recklessly driving a van in the wrong direction on the street. My mother and I were in this woman's path. My sister was screaming to my mom to watch out but my mother couldn't hear her. The van hit my mom and pinned her to a brick wall. On impactr, I was thrown from my mother's arms and I landed, unconscious, underneath the burning van. If it were not for the firefighters who rescued me from under that burning van. I would've died in the following explosion.

And, yet, I had not escaped from the fire unscathed. The flames from the vehicle burned me. I ended up with third-degree burns on my entire left arm, on the left side of my face, some of the left side of my head, on my back and left side. My left hand was too badly damaged from the accident and my fingers had to be amputated. All that was left of my "stump" of a hand was a tiny piece of thumb. My left ear was also damaged from the fire; only a tiny part of it remained on my head.

The accident left me in a coma for several months. My mother also suffered injury; her left leg, from the knee down, was amputated.
I was only a baby when the accident happened, so I can't remember much. All I later remembered, when I was in my 20s, was flying through the air after the van hit my mom. That's it. My parents refused to allow me to see the newspaper story and they wouldn't allow me to watch the news about it, either. (They had taped it.) It was a very traumatic experience for all of us. Both my mother and I were in and out of the hospital a lot. When I was about 11 or 12, I had a "toe-to-thumb" transplant done on my left hand, to allow me to have a "toe-thumb" finger. Later, two more toes were taken from my other foot and I now had 3 fingers on my left hand. (Here is a picture of my hand as it is today: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/37406164/?qo=59&q=by%3Agreenwolf103&qh=sort%3Atime+-in%3Ascraps ) I also had cartilage taken from my right rib to create an "ear" for my left ear. It doesn't look like a "normal" ear but it's an ear enough for me! Until I was 17 years old, I had numerous reconstructive surgical procedures done, taking place in California and New York, by skilled and renowned doctors such as Dr. A. Richard Grossman, Dr. Harry J. Buncke and Dr. Elliott Rose, but never would I look like a "normal" person. This is the one thing which burned deeply within my heart: I wanted to look normal. I wanted to look like everybody else. I didn't want to have burn scars anymore; I wanted SKIN! Real skin!

And growing up with burn scars, getting picked on and bullied by kids in schools that I attended and getting looks of fright or disgust from others I crossed paths with, only added to this desire. As I got older, you could probably imagine how hard it was for me to have dates with boys. I was turned down and rejected many times. I was always "just a friend" and nothing more. My parents often consoled this pain I had to deal with, assuring me that someone VERY special, with a good heart who didn't care about looks, was out there waiting for me to meet someday. (Only years later, in my 30s, did I come to understand and appreciate this wiosdom.) But being a teenager, I didn't really believe this. I had no dates at the school dances. I felt left out while my girlfriends hung around their boyfriends. And of course I blamed my burn scars for this rejection. I didn't want to look like this anymore. I wanted to look normal.

But I eventually learned that...well, we can't really "define" normal now, can we? I mean, what IS normal? Really?

What does it really mean to look like everybody else? What's wrong with looking like...well, like ME?

This is the one thing I often take pride in nowadays. That I look so unique. As much as my appearance's imperfections make me feel so disheartened, no matter how it saddens and angers me that people and children can react so negatively to how I look, I still take pride in the fact that I DON'T look like everybody else. I look like me. This is me. This is Dawn Colclasure, burns and all. This is who I am and how I present myself to the world. This is my "normal." And I will not hide from my scars in shame. This is part of the reason why I refuse to wear make-up. I am not ashamed of my face. I am not ashamed of how I look. And I will not hide behind make-up or some mask, either.

I have ultimately learned, though, that life is not about how we look. It's about who we are. It's about the kind of life we live in this world. It's about what we do for ourselves and for others. It's about giving, about sharing, about helping, about leading. It's not about beauty...it's about love. Loving ourselves for who we are, not for how we look. Loving others for who they are, not how they look.

And most important of all....loving our life.