.

New Huffington Post Blogger

Trish Kinney — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 01:59:00 GMT

Trish is now blogging on the

Huffington Post.

Visit her Huffington Post Archive at

www.huffingtonpost.com/trish-kinney/

Web Weary

Trish Kinney — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 23:28:00 GMT

April

August 6th, 2009

I know what you're going to say when I say the following: I long for the good ole days when we weren't so dependent on computers. "Seems we got along just fine without cell phones and email and internet???" "Young people spend too much time in front of their computer screens and not enough time outdoors." "No one reads books or newspapers anymore." You're going to say that I'm showing my age. Well, maybe I am. And so what anyway? I worked damned hard to even be this age. And I will act it if I want. Let's get into it.

I wrote a book, Silver Platter Girl, that was published and released recently. We are now in the first phase of promotion and marketing. So often I am told that I have to be present on the web in order to go viral and catch the wave. I have a website that I keep current and fresh. I write a blog which you are reading right now and post often to keep my readers updated. I recently had a featured blog on the Huffington Post which blasted me and my book all over the internet. But that wasn't enough, I was told. Start tweeting on Twitter. So I set up a Twitter account (plattergirl) and began to experience what all the fuss was about. I learned that a lot of people must spend a lot of time tweeting about the most unbelievably mundane things. Hard to understand who cares if John McCain is about to start his interview on Meet the Press and David what's his name, the new host, is having a pre-show bagel. I mean, why can't we just watch Meet the Press if we want to? I admit that some of the postings inform about important issues and direct us to links about global issues that we should know more about. But if Elizabeth Taylor was so stricken over Michael Jackson's death that she couldn't attend his memorial and speak, then it's hard to imagine her being able to tweet her deepest feelings to her followers including what was on the card of a bouquet of flowers she just received. Some say that this is a way for celebrities to control their own "press", show the traditional media who's who, and commune directly with their fans. But isn't it like a kind of voyeurism for those fans. Experiencing the lives of their favorite stars vicariously through Twitter, convincing themselves that it is a relationship. What good can come of this for the followers? Doesn't it entrench them even more in a passive world of worship and envy and discourage development of their own self-esteem and talent? All I know is that when I log on to Twitter and read how Lance is feeling after his day at the Tour de France, which celebrity (Robin Williams today) is spending time with him on the team bus, and that he refused to speak to the media, I feel like I need to log off and take a shower.

I have made myself go through this exercise day after day, listening to those who say I must if I want people to find out about my book. But at some point, we have to ask ourselves who we are and if our own choices reflect that answer. I get that only 30% of books today are purchased in a book store, the rest on-line. I get that people need to talk about your message if you want to be heard and everyone is talking on the internet. But I want to talk to people face to face. You have to get off the computer to do that. I want to inspire people to contemplate their own story and what it means because within those thoughts is great power and wisdom. I personally want to close my eyes and meditate quietly, enjoy the moon on a warm summer evening, play with my puppy, hear about what kind of day my sons are having, and go to the movies without instinctively reaching for my blackberry in a dark theatre so as not to miss anything important during those two hours. I want to read an article in my hometown newspaper that I haven't already read on the internet. I want to feel the power of walking past my humming hard drive without stopping to check email or surf a little bit. I want to have a conversation with someone who is in the same room as me.

I have been doing radio interviews to talk about Silver Platter Girl. It is nice using my actual voice to speak, interacting with the host, taking calls from listeners if it is that kind of show.

Don't get me wrong. I am obviously writing a blog here that I am about to post on-line. And I really enjoy working on my website and seeing that people are visiting every day. And email is a wonderful way to communicate with people who have read the book. Instantaneous and satisfying. I'm just saying, balance is a wonderful thing. Take time off from the computer. Give yourself a break. Reconnect to things that are wholesome and human and feel good. And whatever you do, read a good book. Nothing like it.

SPG

Huffington Post on a Thursday

Trish Kinney — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 02:25:00 GMT

June 25th, 2009

Sometimes there is a day you will always remember for one special reason. Or maybe you will remember exactly where you were sitting or standing when you heard something unforgettable. It is rare that more than one memorable thing happens in one single day. Today was such a day for me.

I was sitting at the breakfast table reading the Huffington Post as I always do. The blackberry buzzed and I opened a message telling me that my story as depicted in my new book, Silver Platter Girl, was a featured blog on the Huffington Post. Very excited, I clicked on the link to see the headline "Trish Kinney, Sexual Abuse Takes Toll on Victims" right there on the Huffington Post. The story quoted Dr. Larry Bergstrom of the Mayo Clinic whom I met recently to discuss his wonderful work on the mind body connection. He said that my story was in keeping with his own findings and that he would be happy to speak about it publicly. This provided validation from the medical community which was not only a boost for the book, but for me personally as well. If you are a survivor of abuse or trauma, validation is a key to recovery. I know that when I was treated at Mayo for my high risk cancer several years ago, they did not even want to talk about the strong connection I was openly making between my history and my tumor. And now they are studying it and speaking out on my behalf. Amazing. I won't lie to you. This morning, two days into my national media campaign, it was a big deal to see my story on the Huffington Post. One step closer to being able to reach more and more people who are seeking the truth and the empowerment that comes with that. Read the article by clicking on the link below.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/trish-kinney/sexual-abuse-takes-toll-o_b_219801.html

In the midst of my excitement and continued exploration of the site, I came upon the sad news that Farrah Fawcett had died of her cancer this very day. When her documentary aired a few weeks ago, so many people asked me if I had watched it and what I thought of it. It reached a lot of people and I would imagine did her a lot of good to tell her own story in that way. I am very glad she got to see it broadcast so that she knew people would have a chance to share what she was going through. A friend of mine who is reading the book sent me some emails from a woman she knows who is bravely battling Stage 4 breast cancer right now. I was very proud of the courage it took for her to write so honestly about her experience but I have to admit that reliving all the details of treatment and the fear of such a terrifying diagnosis put me in a bad place. There but for the grace of God go I. It rekindled my desire to speak out as a survivor of both abuse and cancer because I am healthy and able to do so. A collective voice for all of us, to be heard, to speak truth and healing loudly. And by the way, Farrah, dying from your cancer does not mean you did not heal or failed in any way. We learn from you and honor your life. We will all join you one day.

Late in the day I decided to escape all the action and go to a documentary called "Brothers at War". Before I left, I heard the report that Michael Jackson had died. I couldn't help but think of the interview he gave years ago about his difficult and demanding childhood, which he labeled abusive, and living with the ridicule and cruelty of his own father. He said that his father beat him. Looking at that early video of a young, gifted Michael, so talented and sensitive, it is hard to imagine how any parent could raise a hand or even a voice to that beautiful child. But then I could never understand how a father could treat a beautiful little girl in a sexual way. I even heard today that Michael's family was suing him over his upcoming solo tour saying he was contractually obligated to tour in a family reunion show instead. This was one of countless meltdowns in the Jackson family played out in the press. No wonder Michael's heart stopped. Imagine how much it hurt.

So I stuck with my plan to go to the movie about three brothers, two in the Army serving in Iraq, and the third who wanted to know what they were experiencing so he picked up a camera and joined them in Iraq to document what it was like. It was very moving and insightful, the story of this American family who felt compelled to serve their country. It reminded me so much of the Vietnam combat veterans that I was so lucky to work with over the past twenty years and make a film about. They were my true inspiration in telling my own story after I did everything in my power to convince them that healing was synonymous with the truth and facing it head on. These men who fought in Vietnam were more seriously wounded by their homecoming than by anything they saw in the war. They came home to find that the country they loved and believed in did not love or support them and there was no validation for their service. Their anguish at being emotionally abandoned is very similar to that of abuse victims.

I watched LSU win the College Baseball World Series last night. Their lovely coach in a post-game interview said how lucky he had been to have coached such wonderful kids in his career, not just at LSU but at three other schools before that. He said that somehow winning this national championship was about all of them, not just the LSU team members, and he brought each of them to the experience with him. I understood exactly what he meant. My book is not only for my sister, the primary victim in our family, but for every combat vet whose country let him down, for every child whose parent ever did the unthinkable, for every woman who has been raped, for every Catholic child who trusted the parish priest and was terribly hurt, for every person who has been in a destructive relationship and couldn't find their way out, for every person whose situation has literally made them sick, and for every one of us who has a story to tell and hasn't yet been able to put the words together to begin the journey home to self. I stand up for each of us, for all of us. And, by the way, for the many hard working people who have healed themselves.

What a day it has been. There is so much to remember. And so much to tell.

SPG

Believing What You Read

Trish Kinney — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 13:19:00 GMT

June 18, 2009

The daily news can be a devastating read. The media may or may not reflect the mainstream, hopefully it doesn't. I sometimes cut out stories that speak to the issues raised in my book, Silver Platter Girl. As a collection, these stories begin to weave a tapestry of challenges to consider as we work to make our society safer and more conducive to healing.

A young woman writes to Dear Abby. At age 15, she was raped by a family friend. She told her parents. The perpetrator was arrested and DNA tests confirmed his identity. A few days before the court proceedings, he committed suicide. His family blames the young girl for his death saying she was trying to ruin his life. People ask her if she is relieved that he killed himself. She signs her letter, "Blaming Myself".

This is a perfect example of the complexities of "telling", even when it is entirely clear that it is the right thing to do, as in this case. A woman who does not keep the secret as it is intended by the abuser must be dedicated to the truth, strong in her resolve, and willing to stand up to those who do not benefit from the truth telling. Most commonly, she must be prepared to be questioned as to her integrity. The parents of the abuser in the Dear Abby case, by saying that they blame the victim for their son's death, are really saying that the victim is somehow untruthful or not entitled to the comfort and validation of the truth.  They are implying that she is a liar, even in the face of irrefutable evidence to the contrary. It often makes no sense, defies logic, and yet continues to be thrown out like a major league pitcher's slider, looking for sure like it is going one direction and then out of nowhere ending up somewhere else, leaving the batter scratching his head.

On a Friday, the headline reads "Educator Quits Amid Exploitation Inquiry". This is the story of an assistant principal. A 17 year old student's cell phone was confiscated when she was found talking on it to the assistant principal during school hours, a rules violation. The call and text message logs confirmed numerous text messages between the two including a pair of explicit photos. The log showed the assistant principal thanking her for sending the photos and asking if she had "anything else". The girl sent him a photo of a couple having sex and he responded "nice" and "what else". When questioned, he refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing and stated, when asked, that he "conveniently" lost his cell phone that day. He said the relationship began several months ago when she came to talk to him about family issues. He states that he repeatedly told the girl to stay away from him but she persisted. The police are looking into whether charges should be brought against the girl as well saying it is a crime to send and receive what she sent so she actually did commit a crime. The assistant principal has resigned.

Or take the case of the pastor arrested for suspicion of using his position to sexually assault troubled women during counseling sessions. This is a reminder of the Catholic Church sexual abuse scandal when priests used their position of authority and trust to seduce and destroy young Catholic children. In many cases the priests involved denied their wrongdoing, calling the children liars, an all too common response from abusers who are known and trusted by the family.   After all, who would believe a young child over the word of the parish priest. One woman said she went to her priest at age 14, upset over her parents' divorce and the discovery that her father was having an affair. The priest told her he would "become her dad". Over the next 13 years, he molested her as part of a "healing process". She saw him as a "saint" and he controlled her life until she turned 27. She attended one of the Church's healing masses because it made her feel like the Church finally believed her.

I am embarrassed to say that I questioned myself as to whether I should even publish this blog today. These stories have become such old news that people don't really seem to want to hear them anymore. I considered that if I begin harping on these daily injustices to children and women, people may not be interested in my book, labeling me a crazy crusader. But when I see these stories in print, relegated to small columns buried in the back pages of the local section, I feel compelled to speak about them so that one day maybe they will be reported and perceived more thoughtfully. Each one of these events is a mark on the soul of a child or a woman that will carry significant consequences throughout their lives. Healing comes only with support and validation and a clear understanding of who is responsible.  Since child sexual abuse so often is committed by a family member or trusted friend, it is remarkably difficult for a child to disclose under those circumstances.

It is a huge job to change the way we view these kinds of crimes. Imagine a world in which the victim is empowered to say no because he or she has been educated enough to know it is a realistic choice. Imagine a world where it is safe to tell. Imagine a world where we help each other heal in those cases where violence or force is used and we cannot say no, where we tell because we know we will be cared for in so doing. This is the world I envision, a world where the perpetrators think twice, because they can no longer assume the secret will be kept or that they will not be held responsible. Some say this is an unrealistic dream that cannot be reasonably realized.  And I say that we help people one at a time. Who knows? One today, twenty tomorrow, a thousand next week. Worth it? Hell, yes. I'm the Silver Platter Girl. And I think I will keep talking.

SPG

Cover Story

Trish Kinney — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 12:28:00 GMT

June 5th, 2009

I knew when I wrote Silver Platter Girl that what appeared in the pages of the book would be controversial and uncomfortable for some people. What I didn't anticipate was how controversial the cover would be. But, of course, when you write a book, you aren't really thinking about the cover. But there comes a time in the process when you have to. You hear all kinds of things about how important the cover is for marketing and whether it will catch the eye of the book buyer as he is browsing the store because it is so unlikely that your book will be in the front of the store on one of those cardboard stands that features your cover image and all those blurbs about how great it is. No, that place in the store is reserved for the big boys, such as William Jefferson Clinton, John Grisham, and others who can virtually promise a best seller. Then you learn that less than 35% of books purchased today are purchased in a book store so that whole cover theory is minimized when you realize that your cover image on Amazon is about one inch square.   Well, yes, you can click on it to zoom in and enlarge it but even then, it's pretty small. Your book is characterized more by reader reviews than what is on the cover. So it seemed fair to conclude that the best choice would be a cover that accurately reflects the content of the book. Simple, right? Well, not exactly.

My publisher, a wise and fair man who admittedly didn't totally understand Silver Platter Girl when he read it because he was a "guy", intuitively knew it was important and truthful. When he shared the story with a woman he respected, she said she "got it" and that seemed to influence him positively. It is his job to think about the presentation of the book and he said they would present several cover ideas for me to choose from. While those options were prettier and more pleasant than what was ultimately chosen, in my opinion they did not accurately reflect the content of the book. (I swear the fact that my name was misspelled in these original designs and the name of the book was wrong didn't influence me unfairly. Those little problems were easily fixed.) I worried that a nice middle-aged breast cancer survivor would see one of these covers featuring my sympathetic cancer image and imagine that I was a fellow survivor who was going to tell my story of triumph over the disease.   She would have no idea as to what was lurking between the front and back cover. And I didn't think that was fair. I began to believe that my publisher, bless his heart, would be more comfortable with a more mainstream approach to the cover because that was the part that reflected on him. What was inside was more my responsibility.   But to his great credit, he realized that just as the blunt honesty of the book was its very heart and soul, the honesty of the cover was every bit as important to me. So he agreed to allow me to take a stab at the cover image myself. I turned to my son, who is a professional photographer, and had shot the 10 year recovery photo series for my national cancer exhibit "To the Light". He knew me better than anyone and would be sensitive to the task at hand.

Cover Options Presented by Publisher




We scheduled a cover shoot and began to discuss conceptual ideas. We had already decided that the cancer image would be shown as a reflection on the platter but that my current "well" self would be the dominant image of empowerment and ultimate survivorship. It was important that the platter itself would somehow visually be under my control. So we tried heading off at a brisk walk to the future with platter swinging behind in a pretty dress that flared engagingly when the fan blew on it.

Then we tried what we affectionately refer to as the "crazy" cover, out of focus and frenzied, but rejected it for fear no one would believe anything that woman wrote.

Then the more melancholy, pensive cover which was rejected for fear that I may appear depressed and passive.

Finally I was sitting in my little dress on the black bench with the platter leaning casually against it and I said I wanted to try something else. Sprawling across the bench on one elbow, both hands on the platter, stockinged legs extended beyond the end of the bench, I waited while he set up for the new shot. During that short time, I allowed myself to conjure up every feeling, every fear, every insecurity, and finally the audacity and work necessary to overcome all those things to get where I was at that moment. As I filled myself up completely with the intense emotion of my long journey to wellness as told in my book, he snapped the shutter. I hardly noticed, having been in my own world at that moment. He took a look at the image on the back of his camera and said "I think we're done here". One image. That was all it took. To me, it said everything. It was a true reflection of my story. I guess I should have known that if my story made some people uncomfortable, a cover that truly reflected that story would also make people uncomfortable. I just couldn't imagine how uncomfortable.

The issue of the cover was unfortunately exaggerated when the galleys arrived (the uncorrected not for sale first draft to actually look like a book), and the color on the cover was heavily saturated causing the platter to look green instead of silver and the birthmark on my right arm to be the most prominent color of all. It was my intention to bear my stain openly as it was an important component of the story and after all, I was letting everything hang out, but it drew the eye with its brilliant reddish purple super saturated appearance. Some people believed it to be a major mistake, not having read the book, and felt embarassed when it was pointed out that it was a birthmark and part of the story. My publisher explained that galleys were a short digital run and the cover could not be color corrected. Not to worry, he said, the first printing of the book would be a perfect color match to the original photo. But while the birthmark drew a lot of attention, the expression on my face drew even more.

My coach at the gym, a wonderful young 23 year old man, pronounced it "scary", his eyes as big as saucers as he recalled seeing it for the first time. When asked, he said that there must be quite a story inside that cover and it would definitely encourage him to find out what it was. A handful of women who had read the book for a focus group unanimously proclaimed the cover to be absolutely perfect.

When I showed the book at my publisher's booth at the LA Times Festival of Books at UCLA in April, I was introduced to another author, an older woman. I could see the darkness descend over her face when she realized that I was actually "the silver platter girl." She launched into a ten minute harangue about what a terrible cover it was, how mean it was, how she would never pick it up or ever read it based on the cover. Her husband who was standing a few feet away, horrified by her behavior, quietly asked her why she didn't just tell me how she really felt. I was stunned by her outburst and collected every available ounce of composure to resist engaging in a full out battle with her. With graciousness beyond even my own expectations, I quietly said that perhaps we should just agree that she was simply not a potential reader of my book. Unexpectedly, that intensified her attack, with her saying "you don't know me" and informing me that I was not the only one with a story. At that point, I left the booth and made myself scarce for a long while, stinging from her words. When I returned, she had settled down and said she didn't mean to offend me with her "attack", that it had been about the cover and not about me personally. It was interesting how she herself referred to it as an attack. She then proceeded to restate her objections to the cover. Later in the afternoon, we were seated next to each other for book signings. It was at that point that she began to share some of her own story with me. She had been married four times, engaged in an affair with her psychiatrist, was raped, and once slept with five different men in five consecutive nights. She beamed as she reiterated that I was not the only one with a story as if this was a competition and she was pulling way ahead. By the end of this long day, she quietly told me that she would definitely read my book.

On two occasions I was told that the cover design was ok, but I needed a new head with a new face. One woman said that the look on my face on the cover did not reflect what a warm and vibrant person I was, that it was just not me. She suggested that through the magic of Photoshop, I simply replace the scary face with a happier, friendlier face. Then a man at the New York book expo suggested that we just pluck the happy cancer recovery face off the back of our marketing card and plunk it on the cover to replace the bad face. So out of respect for these two older, upset observers, I offer you the Photoshopped version of the cover image to make me happier and friendlier.

Another woman suggested that it is simply not acceptable to use the author's image on the cover of a memoir unless that author is a recognizable face. Someone famous. And what if someone passed on the book because they were turned off by the cover? The answer, of course, is that the cover, and the book for that matter, cannot possibly appeal to everyone. Those who need and want to read it and explore its message seem to relate in a strong, positive way to the cover image. Those who are so upset about it probably aren't ready to read it or have no desire to delve into the subject so deeply. My opinion is that whatever it is about the look of that image that scares people is probably the same thing that prevents people from talking about the kinds of things that are inside that book. The fact that a woman has to go to the place depicted by this cover image to overcome the obstacles to wellness with which we are presented in our lives may be intimidating to some. But this is one of the many things we have to get over in order to reshape how society views the subject, in order to get used to the idea that the only route to wellness is through the "telling" of what we have been through. We didn't ask for it. But its what we got. So as unfair as that is, at least help us admit what it really is and give us a hand as we dare to be strong enough to do more than survive it, but to thrive in that survival. Let me be the woman I had to be in order to get well, the woman in that photo on the cover of Silver Platter Girl. Because I had to be her before I had earned the luxury of being that warmer, more vibrant woman that some wish to see on the cover instead. That cover girl is the warrior. Without her, I don't exist today.

I thought a bone marrow transplant was hard. And it was. And I thought that releasing my personal, intimate story of survival was also very hard. And it was. People say it took courage to do both. Keeping my tough cover in the face of so much controversy is also hard. Deep down, don't we all want to be loved and accepted? Wouldn't I prefer for everyone to say how beautiful the cover is, how beautiful I am, and how beautiful my message is? Wouldn't I rather have seen my cover on the front of the publisher's catalogue rather than the last image on the back? Heck, yes. Wouldn't I like to have had Danny Thomas for a dad who left me St. Jude's Cancer Hospital as a legacy rather than sexual abuse? Lucky Marlo Thomas, she's "that girl". But not me. No, I have to portray the reality of this hand some of us, way too many of us, have been dealt. It's a bitch, it really is. But that's my job.

But the story doesn't end there. A professional book cover designer stopped by our booth in New York, showing us his beautiful portfolio of impressive work. We asked him what he thought about our cover but of course he had no way of knowing how important his answer would be to us. He took time to read the back cover including the reviews and the short summary of the story. Then he gazed at the cover and said it perfectly depicted the subject matter. Thumbs up, he gave it a thumbs up. And there are the many women who have been so drawn to the cover that they want to touch and feel it and hold it close because they know by looking at the cover that there is truth inside its pages. And we are all, at some level, drawn to that if we truly desire to be well. I just keep reminding myself to be guided by honesty and the gut feelings that helped me overcome my upbringing and troubled pre-cancer life, that helped me learn to live inside the joy of my remarkable recovery and to stand up to those who would advise me to be a little less of an irritant. Yes, that sexual abuse can be so irritating.

So I will leave you with a saying that a lovely woman in Maryland uses as her e-mail sign-off. She is a hard working advocate for sexual abuse victims in the Jewish community and runs a non-profit called The Awareness Center, Inc. (the International Jewish Coalition Against Sexual Abuse/Assault).

Every great oak tree was once a nut that stood its ground.

SPG

The Power of Santa Fe

Trish Kinney — Thu, 14 May 2009 12:53:00 GMT

May 14th, 2009

Santa Fe is legendary as a magical, mysterious mecca for those who can afford it and wish to breathe clean air, meditate, and get away from it all in style. To feed the legend, we know that Carol Burnett, Jane Fonda, Ali McGraw and Shirley McClain are resident believers. But on my first visit anywhere to discuss my new book, Silver Platter Girl, I found that Santa Fe is home to many powerful, caring women that you have never heard of. Until now.

My host was Alicia, aka Red, aka Bad Red. A vibrant redheaded pistol, Alicia picked up one day and left the heat and congestion of Phoenix to settle in Santa Fe. She didn't know a soul there at the time. She chose a home within walking distance of the famous Plaza so she would be close to whatever goes on there. I knew she would find whatever she was looking for quickly. She is persistent, charismatic, determined and very hard to say no to. Before long, she was volunteering her time at the highly regarded Santa Fe Rape Crisis and Trauma Treatment Center. She now serves as Vice President of the Board. It was our first stop after my arrival. A lovely building with deep colored walls and a stand of young, dancing aspen trees lining the entry walkway, its peaceful presence and powerful energy belie the nature of the work that goes on there. It is humbling to think of the stories that are disclosed within the walls of this beautiful, quiet structure. But hopeful to imagine the healing that takes place there. Their youngest client was just 18 months old.

The next day, we visited Origins, a women's clothing store just off the Plaza, every inch of floor space packed with elegant clothing, jewelry and purses designed by a variety of artists. Judy, the owner, made a magnificent entrance from the back of the store when our arrival was announced, dressed head to toe in various treasures from her shop. With energy as big as a mountain, she looked at me intently as we were introduced before opening her arms and gathering me in for a hug that I imagined would cure me of most anything if only I could stay in her embrace long enough. We took a very short walk just around the corner down a small side street to the Paris Cafe for lunch. The waiter was describing the day's special, a Cornish game hen with fresh vegetables,. Judy pointed to the chef sitting outdoors at a small table who was eating the hen with great relish, a good advertisement for the dish. But Judy was visibly agitated and couldn't decide on her choice. We asked for more time. She then spoke of the amazing French pastry that came out of their kitchen continually during the day and got up to see what was in the case. The tension left her body as she returned to the table to announce that she had made her decision, naming something she saw in the case in French with a perfect accent, leaving me ashamed that after 8 years of study of the language, I didn't know the word. I felt better when the waiter didn't seem to recognize the word either, having to confirm her choice in English. Judy announced that, yes, she would have the apple pastry for lunch because the apples melted in your mouth. She was right, they did, as we discovered when she insisted that we have the first two bites. Over lunch, she told us stories of her travels all over the world seeking healing from a persistent pain she felt. At age 16, she announced to her family that she had earned enough money to go to South America for the summer and despite the horrified protestation of her parents, did just that. She spent time in India, learned the ways of the Native American community, and studied with various healers who later would become known all over the world for their ground breaking ideas. She told us she would be returning to India soon, a place where she feels spiritually at home. She wore various pieces of jewelry that had their own energy, especially the engraved silver drop earrings with the beautiful deep opal stones that completely captivated me. We had given her a copy of the book and she left it there on the table next to her, often picking it up and running her hands over the cover with a smile. She couldn't wait to read it, she said. I had no idea yet why Judy and I were brought together but as a matter of simple faith, I knew she was someone I needed to know, and someone in whose strong hands I wanted my book. After lunch, I got two more hugs from Judy, the powerful queen of light.

Then it was just a few steps across the narrow street to Collected Works, the best bookstore in Santa Fe according to Alicia. She asked for Mary, but the gentle fellow at the desk said she wasn't in today. When Red told him she was expecting us, he admitted that maybe she was in after all. While we waited, we walked down the long narrow rows of shelves packed tight with books and more books. Then Mary burst out of the back, dressed in brown pants, a black shirt, comfortable shoes with no make-up and hair pulled back low in a rubber band, a testament to her grounded self-confidence. She looked at me intently when introduced, shook my hand and told me it was an honor to have me there and how much she enjoyed my book. Then Mary did what she does best. She talked, and talked, and every word that came out of her mouth was interesting. She asked if we wanted to see where the store would be moving soon so we walked about two blocks, the longest trek so far in our Santa Fe afternoon. We arrived at a corner space where a furniture store used to be. At least four times as large as her original location, it features spacious rooms and spectacular arched windows on both sides. The plumbers were busy at work and asked if they could have a moment but didn't mean to interrupt. She told them that she was always talking so the only way they could ask their question was to interrupt so by all means, ask away. She showed us where the coffee bar will be along with a nice covered outdoor seating area. There is a huge fireplace in the main room with a set of antlers above. She said she was almost sorry that the landlord left the antlers because she had recently seen a mounted Texas longhorn that included not just the head but the whole neck as well and it would have jutted way out into the room. Wouldn't that have been something, Mary said. She noted that this would be the perfect place for their book signings and said it would be where we could have mine. It should benefit the Santa Fe Rape Crisis Center, she said, describing it as one of the most forward thinking and progressive centers of its kind in the country. So off we went back to the store to discuss dates. Sitting in her cluttered office filled with books, we talked about open dates in July and visited with her Yorkie, a six pound bundle of adorable activity who showed off his amazing ability to get into her travel bag, get zipped up and completely disappear for clandestine air travel. Mary modestly spoke, only when asked, about her former life working on the executive floor of Apple, having sold them a video application she designed that became a part of their Final Cut Pro editing product. When her mother become ill in Santa Fe, Mary rushed to her side and never left. She has been living and working there ever since. Towards the end of our fascinating visit, Mary said I must be sure to write my second book, predicting significant success for Silver Platter Girl. Some first time authors never do, she warned, but I definitely should. Coming from the fantastically bright Mary, I considered this deep encouragement. She spoke with quiet confidence and an almost motherly tone. Be sure to wash your hands, always say please and thank you, and don't forget to write that next book. I paid close attention and dared to believe in her confidence in me.

A local coffee house where we met with Barbara on the way to the airport the next day was barely large enough to contain this earthy, grand woman with a heart and voice as big as the Santa Fe blue sky. Her reputation as a tough, strong and passionate advocate for the Santa Fe Rape Crisis and Trauma Treatement Center, where she had served as Executive Director for 18 years prior to her recent retirement, preceeded her. It was no surprise that she had requested the largest pup of the litter when choosing her new giant Schnauzer. She spoke of him and his huge size and boundless energy with feigned disapproval and total delight. We brought a copy of the book for her to read and she accepted it enthusiastically, clutching it to her chest with both arms. I sat right next to her and wanted to lean in closer and closer to make sure I got the most benefit from the safe, comforting aura that surrounded her. She referred to sexual abuse as a pandemic, a subject so complex and unfortunately distasteful to so many, that very little progress was being made in its treatment and education. She said it was like a laser that cut across social lines and boundaries of all types but was rarely acknowledged for the devastating social problem it is. She commented that I had a healthy glow and amazingly seemed to somehow have made myself whole, an accomplishment with my background. I looked like a woman who could laugh, sing and dance, said Barbara. She asked about my story and I told her. She seemed very excited about a book that honestly delved into this difficult subject and its powerful ramifications, including the blatant mind body connection that was such a key part of my experience. She loved that it was hopeful and showed that healing was possible. She immediately began to conceive of an event that would include seminars with health care professionals and community leaders as a fund raiser for the Center, using the book as a centerpiece to stimulate understanding and healthy dialogue. She would begin reading right away, she said, and only wished that the last hour which seemed to go by in 5 mintues time could have been much longer. She was hungry for more. We planned for a follow up meeting where we could take the time to talk as long as we wanted while I was secretly delighted to have an excuse to return to Santa Fe. I knew right away that she would help me continue to understand my own story and how to make it meaningful to others. It left me wondering how my life would have turned out if a Barbara had been available to me. Of course, there is only one Barbara. And now I had found her. Everything is as it should be, as always.

And so I left the women of Santa Fe behind to their wonderful work and their meaningful lives. Having so much dragonfly in me, I felt I could have flown home without the plane after absorbing their tremendous energy but knew that there was too much work to be done to fly away just yet. They say that Santa Fe decides for itself who belongs there and who doesn't. It isn't clear to me what the criteria is but everyone seems to acknowledge that the town lets you know if it just isn't the place for you. But Alicia, Judy, Mary and Barbara are daughters of Santa Fe, adopted and loved and nurtured by their environment. They take care of themselves, each other, and many others they don't even know with their generous spirits and big hearts. I feel so fortunate to have been included through my own work and know that there couldn't be a safer or more healing place to begin sharing of my story. I am becoming aware of the profound benefits of "telling", thanks to a place called Santa Fe, that hopefully will one day decide that I, too, belong there. A place to laugh and sing and dance.

SPG

Not a Hallmark Thing

Trish Kinney — Sun, 10 May 2009 13:22:00 GMT

May 10th, 2009

Early on this Mother's Day, before rising, I felt the usual twinge. It is the same one I have felt every year on this May Sunday for just about as far back as I can remember.  Long gone are the times when I made my own mother's gift at school by painting an egg carton gold, gluing beads on top to form the word "mom", and waiting for her inevitable expression that told me it was simply the best gift in the world. Innocence is still a joyful memory to me in so many ways. But things tend to get complicated and Mother's Day even more so.  My own right to be honored by my sons on this day has always taken a back seat to the complex feelings the day brings up in me. That isn't really fair but it is just another small price to pay for truth and healing. A price I am more than willing to pay.

On this particular Mother's Day, contemplating the situation one more time, realizing that another year had passed since the last contemplation, it came to me that only one opportunity per year to do this a little better presents itself. Thus time is of the essence. There isn't a lot of rehearsal time like in the theatre where you rehearse for weeks, over and over, and ideally feel prepared to give your best, fully thought out performance when the audience is present. No, Mother's Day sneaks up, I try to avoid thinking about it, and then when it arrives, I haven't made much progress since the year before. This year, I am determined to apply the principles that I risked everything to put forth in my new book, Silver Platter Girl. I have decided to teach myself what I am trying to teach others and seem to have forgotten. Yes, this Mother's Day will be different.

First there was the dreaded "should I acknowledge Mother's Day" with my own mom. I long ago gave up the visit to the Hallmark store searching for a benign card that didn't have the terrible undercurrent of our painful situation. The cards with the gooey sentiment served not only to remind me of what I miss so much each day, but also what others enjoy with their moms. Then I reminded myself that it was possible that millions of women probably send the card they know their moms want to receive, even if they have to bite the bullet to do so. It is most important to remember though that there are lots of lucky families out there who have wonderful moms who deserve to be honored on this day and do so willingly, choosing the gooiest of cards with full confidence that those cards reflect their true gratitude to the woman who most likely loves them more than anyone else possibly could. Hallmark has made a fortune on that belief. More power to them. The love of a mother, the protection and sacrifice of a mother on your behalf, are amongst the greatest gifts in life.

This year I decided, like in most recent years past, to send flowers. I didn't place the order until yesterday, putting it off as usual, but knew that in this day and age, they would take any order at any time and deliver them in plenty of time. When the nice lady asked what sentiment I wanted on the card, I responded "Happy Mother's Day, love, Trish". She paused and then asked if that was the entire message for my card? Yes, I said, that was it.

I don't want to be angry on this day. I still love my mom and don't mind, on this day, giving her state of denial a little artificial validation, so she can say to friends and family that Trish sent beautiful flowers for Mother's Day. And it will mean a lot to her. That's ok with me. Those friends and family don't know exactly why I have stayed away for so many years and never show up when they come to visit. My mom tells them she has no idea why I would do that. That's life on the silver platter. Served up. I am proud that I have never indulged my natural desire to repair my tarnished image with those friends and family by telling them why I stay away. No, I tell them they will have to ask my mom. I know she won't tell but now I have. As healing as it is to tell, to have now told in my book, it doesn't feel good to do it at anyone's expense. I have been living on the silver platter for so long that it feels strange to finally step off and just see my reflection in it, as it appears on the cover of my book. It is hard to accept that I have a right to be happy and tell my own story because for so long I have not exercised that right. Now I have to work on feeling ok that I did that. Not just for me, but for so many of us who have trouble with that one thing. You know, that part where we honor ourselves and decide that we deserve the truth and the wonderful healing that comes with acceptance of what happened to us. Then and only then can we move on to claim our own truth which is now in our own control. Often for the very first time.

I guess I just wrote what my job is on this Mother's Day. Accept my situation for what it is, and recognize the love and joy that now exists in my life of my own making. The love I fought for, risked my life for, and have every right to live in the light of. Don't get stuck in the love that didn't work out, that you wanted and needed so much, but never really materialized. Or you might miss the love right before you.   Now that would be a terrible way to spend Mother's Day. Letting all that get away from you.   Today I choose to be present in the love of my own children rather than absent somewhere else. Hopefully it is not too late to let that love be their Mother's Day story. And then when they have their kids, any Hallmark card will do.

SPG

Lots of Ways to Tell

Trish Kinney — Tue, 05 May 2009 13:41:00 GMT

May 5th, 2009

The headline on the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times caught my eye. "When the Cellphone Teaches Sex Education", it said. It may be a reflex reaction for people of my generation, proudly claiming the 60's as our credentials, to scoff at yet another example of texting, twittering, and subjects secretly beyond our everyday comprehension (and this after we have finally integrated that damned e-mail into at least our professional lives). But no one can argue that the texting written about in the Times last weekend is a good thing. The Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention campaign of North Carolina has launched the Birds and Bees Text Line directed at 14-19 year olds. Kids can text their questions, no holds barred, to one of the trained responders on duty, and answers are texted back quickly, just like the kids are used to. Texting, by definition, requires the answers to be short and direct. Impressed with the success of such a simple and effective idea, I read on approvingly but didn't get emotionally hooked until the end of the article when one of the responders told of receiving a text one evening with the question "If I was raped when I was little and just had sex was it technically my first time when I was raped or when I recently had sex?"

I recently got together with a dear friend of mine from college theatre days. He was about to go in for cancer surgery and we had a good talk about my book and my own cancer experience. It made me wonder how different my bone marrow transplant "transformation" may have been if I could have had a computer in my room with access to e-mail and everyone in my address book. Instead, I wrote letters in longhand to those closest to me, asked the nurses to assist in finding a stamp and mailing the letters, and waited hopefully each day for the mail to be delivered. Such old fashioned letters rarely bothered with the minutiae of a typical electronic transmission, such as the weather or where you went for dinner, but instead were more focused on feelings and hopes and things that came straight from the heart. Those precious declarations of caring, in my situation, were a lifeline to be treasured and held and touched, read and reread. Many of them are quoted in my book as the perfect reflection of those difficult and emotional times, now a stack of envelopes with faded postmarks, some so precious they are held in my small safe in a zip lock bag. All this may sound odd coming from someone who just wrote a book, telling absolutely everything, in a quest for the ultimate healing. But this access to electronic instant communication may or may not inspire the kind of telling I did in my book. In fact, it may discourage doing so as it is so instantaneous, one wonders just how much thought can go into transmissions that keep coming at lightning speed. And who has time to do much internal contemplation, the very heart of emotional growth and transformation, when so much time is spent on modern instant communication? Are we always thinking of connecting with someone else through a device instead of connecting with ourselves?

Justice Souter comes to mind as he announces his retirement. He sits on the Supreme Court, a lifetime job if he so desires. But he is retiring to get his life back so to speak, voluntarily giving up the ultimate job. He has no computer on his desk at work, no television in his old family home in the woods of New England that is filled with books instead, and writes his opinions in longhand with a fountain pen. There is something about the image of a voracious reader, who shapes our society with his intellect, writing with a beautiful pen rather than clicking away on a keyboard that fills me with confidence. Maybe that explains why he didn't live up to the conservative expectations of his appointer, the first President Bush. He actually thought and contemplated and acted on his conscience.

Kids today have complete and private access to each other. When I was an adolescent, I lived abroad with my Air Force family in Turkey. We had no telephone, no television, often no electricity (I remember writing my report on Clara Barton by candlelight during a routine power outage), and radio in Turkish only. If I wanted to see my best friend, I walked to her house and hoped she would be there. Our sleepovers afforded the supreme luxury of unlimited access to each other as we spent hours in bed after lights out discussing anything and everything that mattered to twelve year old girls while giving "turns" with a plastic back scratcher deep into the night. Would there have been anything left to talk about if we had already e-mailed and texted everything? Would we have spent our evening texting all our friends who weren't there instead of confiding in each other? Would there be an unexpressed thought still left in our heads? Would there be the secret intimacy of late night talks that shaped our view of ourselves? I have no way of knowing. But just as I wouldn't give up coming of age with the Beatles for anything, I wouldn't give up those late nights in Turkey with my friend, Judy, either. We were so tender, I can't help but believe that introducing electronic media into the coming of age process may toughen it up a little. Maybe that is a good thing in this day and age. But tender was a trust, an intimacy you shared with a friend, not a thought that may end up on the internet someday.

I also can't help but wonder how my family life may have changed if my sexually obsessed father would have had a computer to satisfy some of his hefty sexual needs. I do know that in his later years, one of my sons reported that he saw pornography on my father's computer. But I saw some on my son's computer, too. Seems it's pretty common. Facebook has a college degreed Porn Squad that gets paid $50,000 a year each to monitor photographs and postings on the social networking site to insure compliance with company policy regarding appropriateness of material for the site. Facebook works consistently with law enforcement to help solve crimes because so many clues lie buried in the pages of the site. It is so addictive that even when on a crime spree, it seems that people can't help but check their Facebook page which can then be tracked to determine whereabouts. Facebook just welcomed its 200 millionth user. And there are college courses taught about Facebook. Buck up, you children of the 60's, and remember how radical we were in our decade of social change. This is their version of radical. And who are we to judge? Remember what we thought of our parents when they did that?

Look at the bright side. My oncologist at the Mayo Clinic used the internet to organize a worldwide group of people suffering from a rare disease and communicated with them and brought them together at an international conference. His nurse beamed when she told me how he was treated like a rock star for what he had done for them. As a former high risk cancer patient, I can only imagine what it was like for those people to be in touch with each other and have a chance to meet. And what about the way cell phones give people the opportunity to call for emergency help if they need it or make that one last call to a loved one if they are about to go down in a skyscraper or in a plane. As for me, I will finish this blog post, shoot the accompanying photo, download it onto my Mac and then the site, and click publish.

I promise you that this Silver Platter Girl will find her electronic place in the world. Anywhere a young girl wants to know whether her first time was when she was raped or when she chose to have consensual sex for the first time is where I'll be. Just in case she needs my story to help tell her own.

SPG

Trauma Treatment

Trish Kinney — Fri, 01 May 2009 16:11:00 GMT

May 1st, 2009

Even my husband, who most say is the star of my book Silver Platter Girl, agrees that it is far more difficult and complex to be a woman than a man. He said so just this morning. That makes it easier to bear the burden of our complexities, knowing that he knows that it is so. I don't have to fight to prove it every day in my own home, or feel the agitation that comes with a constant sense of knowing that someone close to you is never going to admit something you desperately need that person to admit. No, it is important that I never get my husband mixed up with my father in that regard. My husband gets everything and I live in the warm light of that security and confidence.

We are in discussions with a lovely woman in Orange County, California who owns a beauty salon. She is interested in the book and is contemplating our offer to have her operators read the book and get together to discuss it. If they feel it is valuable, they would then discuss it with their clients while cutting hair, or coloring, or perming. This gets women talking about things they may not otherwise feel they can talk about and the purpose of my book begins to realize itself.   So I was having my hair trimmed yesterday and talking to my stylist, the owner of the salon, about this idea. In walks a beauty product rep and begins telling her about some events planned to introduce salon owners to new products. Before she left, she plopped down a sample packet of something called "Trauma Treatment". I found this absolutely fascinating. Apparently the concept is that we do all sorts of traumatic things to our hair including the coloring and perming mentioned above. This relentless pursuit of beautiful hair causes damage and trauma to the hair. Women, and salon owners, recognize that the trauma must be treated or, God forbid, the secrecy of the damaging treatments may be exposed. Why else would you have brittle hair, split ends and roots sprouting everywhere if you weren't causing trauma to your hair by chemically changing it somehow?   No, that kind of trauma needs treatment.

Surely you see where this is going. If we are that protective about our hair and its care, and are willing to spend a lot of money to insure its health and beauty, then shouldn't we also be at least equally protective about other kinds of trauma as well?   If we have been traumatized as a child, or in an adult relationship, or even by a stranger, shouldn't we use all our resources to heal from that so we can be healthy and beautiful inside? Isn't that every bit as important as controlling the color and wave in our hair?   Obviously it isn't as easy as buying that tube of Trauma Treatment by L'Anza, and it surely isn't as pretty as that option, but I will go out on a limb and say that the benefits of treating your internal trauma are far more profound than what L'Anza has to offer. In fact, I will go further and say that you will enjoy your beautiful head of hair even more once your internal life is just as beautiful.

I was lucky enough to witness a focus group of women who had read Silver Platter Girl last week. So many things stand out in my mind from that wonderful experience, including an instant bond between all of us who barely knew eachother in some cases. But one comment resonates even today. A woman said that I had written in the book about things that each of them had thought about, done, wished they could do, or planned to do but could not really speak about. By reading the detailed and very intimate account of those things in the book, it was almost as if they had spoken about it themselves.   And they felt that perhaps they had received the same benefits. There are many ways to treat our traumas, big and small. The reason I wrote Silver Platter Girl is to start the process, figure out where it hurts, and how to make it feel better. A little healing at a time leads up to a lot of healing.

So the next time you make an appointment at your favorite salon, to either do a little more damage to your hair, or repair damage already done, remember to take equal care with yourself. All other parts of you, whether it be your emotional life, your annual exam, or the way you choose to live your life by empowered decision making. As for me, having lost every bit of my hair more than once during my cancer treatment, I promised that however my hair came back, I would be satisfied and would accept it just as it was. So far I have done that, not even coloring the small amount of grey that is appearing on my hairline. If I do decide to color it, I will choose the gentlest product and treat the trauma as well.

SPG

The Marks On Us

Trish Kinney — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 13:43:00 GMT

April 15th, 2009

It is a port wine stain, the mark that covers my right hand, arm, part of my chest and back. The trouble begins right away when they name your most prominent physical characteristic after a stain, the one commonly known as the most difficult to get out. It wasn't until I was sitting in a treatment room discussing my dreadful cancer diagnosis at age 42 that it was referred to as hemangioma, which doesn't sound like something you want any more than a stain. But it's what I got. When asked about it, I just say "it's a birthmark", usually explaining that it doesn't hurt as chlldren so often fear. Children are the ones who usually have the nerve to ask. And when you are a child, fellow children can be the most cruel. My parents were really cool about it. They never tried to hide it, took me to Duke University to see if it was something we could get rid of, and when the Duke doctor advised against even trying, my parents accepted it and expected me to do the same.

My Southern grandmother, Mammy, always said that it was God's mark on me, a result of my mother getting shocked by lightning while turning on a lamp during a terrible electrical storm when she was seven months pregnant with me, right there in Mammy's living room. That must be why I always connected the stain to God. When I was just five years old, I stayed awake all night long in my bed, begging God to remove the stain before morning. If He gave it to me, He could certainly make it go away. After finally drifting off, I was crushed to wake up and find that it was still there. No miracle for me. But I wasn't mad at God. Just disappointed, I had made the effort, He decided against answering my prayer. I figured He knew what He was doing. My first experience with faith, but not the last.

My father told me, as I struggled to understand why God had given me the stain, that He had a reason. He just never told me what that reason was, leaving me, over time, to figure it out for myself. To be honest, I'm not sure my father even had a theory for God's decision to stain me. I think he just couldn't come up with any other answer. I eventually did. Blessed with a dancer's body, and lucky enough to become a dancer, without my stain, my body would have attracted a different kind of attention. I would have chosen different clothing, more provocative most likely (although my husband tells me that when he first met me in college, my clothing was plenty provocative). But there was always the stain. It gave people a start, prevented them from seeing me as having the ideal body, and gave them something else to think about. It prevented me from treating my body as a sexual instrument and displaying it that way, which was the culture in my family. I didn't know that it would be so highly valued later in the form of my unique "strawberry" breast and that I would choose it as the symbolic location for the huge malignant breast mass I made in order to save myself.

This difficult subject matter is the port wine stain of my book, Silver Platter Girl. Instead of being a proud first time author, I have been sick with worry about what it would do to a handful of other people whose stories are intertwined with my own, how my children would feel knowing certain things about their parents that no child should have to know, how it would affect my business and people who work for me, and whether it was the right thing to do. No, there has been no celebrating. But the people who have read the book have declared it to be important, brave and capable of doing enormous good. I still feel sick with worry deep in the pit of my stomach. But I figure that if someone has the nerve to tell, tell it all, every painful detail, then maybe we can desensitize our culture and we will no longer feel stained by what happened to us and by telling what happened to us.

When I feel like I simply don't have the courage to go through with this, I remind myself that 1 in 3 girls is sexually abused and that a child is sexually abused every 2 minutes. 95% of those children know and trust their abuser. Only 25% of the cases are reported and 50% of the time, the child is returned to the alleged abuser's care. 1 in 10 homes are involved with some type of sexual abuse and it is a leading cause of teen prostitution and suicide. These statistics make my personal sacrifice seem small. And besides, I now know why God gave me the port wine stain. Just as I have claimed my birthmark by openly writing about it in my book and displaying it prominently on its cover, I have stopped being its victim. I have made it my own and wear it as my badge of honor, no longer hiding it. What used to be my stain is now my battle scar, proudly worn as a survivor.

The marks on us are not always as prominent, symbolic and external as my birthmark. But we still have to claim them, use them to help us understand ourselves, and avoid allowing them to control us. After all, they are what makes us who we are, they remind us of where we have been, and become signs on the roadmap of where we want to go. This is what I am working on with my port wine stain. Hopefully one day, it may be cool to display your birthmark, like God's tatoo, just like that woman did who wrote a book about a silver platter.

SPG
photo by Peter Vander Stoep

God Bless the Child

Trish Kinney — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 13:52:00 GMT

April 9th, 2009

It's just my luck that Father of the Bride has become one of those movies that is shown over and over on cable, maybe not quite as often as Pretty Woman, but right up there.   Don't get me wrong, I love the movie for all its sweetness and emotional cleanliness. Mostly I love the kind of father Steve Martin portrayed. He had all the healthy, appropriate responses when his darling daughter, Annie, found the man of her dreams. He couldn't bear the thought of Annie being with a man, any man, because she was his little girl and he didn't want to lose her.  No one could be trusted to love her the way he did, as much as he did. His lovely narration that tenderly reflected his struggle with this life transition broke my heart. He knew that he had to find a way to give her the love and support she needed from her dad and then send her out into the world to find her own happiness. Diane Keaton, the perfect wife and mother, understood her husband's struggle and loved him all the more for it.   She was appropriately excited for her daughter and immediately accepted her future son-in-law with open arms. Seeing that movie was devastating to me. It perfectly illuminated the deep dysfunction in my own family as told in my book, Silver Platter Girl. When I see Father of the Bride on the cable guide, I try to click right on past it. Sometimes I am not successful and watch it again, or just parts of it. And I wonder what it would have been like to bring my fella home and have my dad tell him that he better take good care of his little girl or else. And mean it.

I rely on movies and television to show me, and validate for me, the way it is supposed to be. Just two weeks ago, on Friday Night Lights, the town's football coach accidentally walked in on his 15 year old daughter and the team's quarterback in bed. He blew a gasket and for a moment, I thought he was going to get out the shotgun in a Texas moment. He told his player, "that's my daughter". Enough said.   Coach is a man of few words but believe me, Matt got the picture.   Then Coach left it to his wife to have "the talk" with their daughter.   Very different from my experience.

Sometimes it isn't what actually happens to you as a child, it is what goes on around you, the things you are routinely subjected to, the atmosphere of your home, the environment of your family. Take Sean O'Hair for instance. He is a professional golfer who recently stepped into golf's biggest spotlight when he blew a five shot lead on the final day of Arnold Palmer's tournament to none other than Tiger Woods. That gave the announcers time to speak about Sean's background, and his hard driving father who yanked him out of high school and took him on the road using the family fortune, demanding a rigorous training schedule and weekly qualifying tournaments all around the country. Sean's dad didn't believe in college, a waste of time spent studying if all you want to do is play golf, or if all that your father wants you to do is play golf. At some point along the way, Sean rebelled and they became estranged. Sean married and formed a bond with his father-in-law who often caddied for him in his early pro years. When asked in an interview during the Arnold Palmer tournament if he had talked to his dad, he said no.   That led Johnny Miller, former golf great and now television analyst, to proclaim that poor Sean would never be "whole" until he reconciled with his dad. Because, Johnny said, we need our father's support and praise. Mr. Miller's comments were troubling to me. Of course we cannot know the exact circumstances of the relationship between young Sean and his father. But for the sake of discussion, let's suppose that it is, as the press reports, abusive. Let's suppose that Sean is estranged from his father because he somehow found the courage to stand up for himself and no longer chooses to be subject to his control. Does Mr. Miller assume that Sean does not wish to have a father to "support and praise" him? Does Mr. Miller assume that it is Sean's responsibility to remain loyal to his father no matter what the consequences? Does Mr. Miller assume that it is no less valuable to find a father figure who respects and appropriately loves him if his own father is not capable, or willing, to be that person in Sean's life? As a society, we must learn that it is not the responsibility of the child to honor the parent if that parent cannot or will not act in the best interest of the child and refuses to seek help. Healing takes committed work by both the victim and the abuser. Forgiveness does not necessarily mean continuing contact, depending on whether the abuser has made any effort to reform or has truly repented.  I do know one thing, an abuser without a victim is powerless. An abuser without power cannot hurt anyone.

We all deserve a chance to be cherished as children and to grow into the potential of ourselves. We don't have a choice as children when our family situation is inappropriate unless intervention takes place which is all too infrequent.   But as adults, we do have a choice and should exercise that choice using our best judgement. And golf announcers should refrain from implying that only our fathers' support and praise can make us whole. If that were true, I would be only a fraction of myself.

When my physical therapist, each and every time I go in for a session on my lower back, respectfully asks me if it is ok to roll my pants down over my hips, I feel a little more healed. That's the way it is supposed to work. And I know that now.

spg

Savasanaaaaaaah

Trish Kinney — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 00:26:40 GMT

March 29, 2009

Beyond your flexibility.....go beyond your flexibility. That is what the teacher in my Bikram Yoga class says when we finish the Pranayama breathing and begin the first pose. Arms are stretched up over the head, elbows straight and close to the ears, hands clasped with index fingers released and no space between the palms. Then a slow gradual stretch over to one side in a half moon shape. Stretch beeeyoooond your flexibility, the teacher says, squeezing the most out of that image. At first I wasn't sure how you could bend beyond your flexibility but now I know that you can always find the courage to go a little further than you ever have in the past. We do the same exact sequence in each class, ninety minutes precisely in a climate controlled room of around 104 degrees with 40 percent humidity, led by a variety of teachers who all use the same phrases to guide us through the familiar sequence. Some ask if I get bored with the same routine every time. It isn't boring but I don't know why or how to explain. One day the teacher said that the only thing designed to change from class to class is you. All other factors remain reliably consistent. Those of us who practice consistently supply the change.

It is probably no coincidence that I began practicing Bikram yoga at the same time I began writing Silver Platter Girl in earnest. I remember because it was late summer and despite the intense desert heat, it still felt cooler outside than it did in the room where "hot" yoga is practiced. It took me a while to summon the courage to attend my first class after a massage therapist at the facility where I train told me she thought it would be perfect for me. No doubt my dancer ego got in the way, wanting to "perform" brilliantly the first time and be flexible enough to accomplish the poses that I had viewed over and over again on the studio website. I wanted to know everything about it in advance. I was also fearful that I wouldn't be able to acclimate to the heat, that I would faint or turn to mush. Instead the heat felt friendly to me, welcoming. It reminded me of good times spent rehearsing for summer musicals on the campus of ASU in non-air conditioned rooms when I was a theatre student. Or in the second floor dance studios of New York with the windows wide open and oppressive humidity, not a breath of fresh air in the room. The 90 minutes spent in the peace, tranquility and safety of the hot room where yoga is practiced was like a salve for the wounds caused by wading through the journals and letters of the past as my story poured out of me, struggling to overcome the intense memories of the trauma that led to my terrifying cancer diagnosis. The writing process shook me to the core but in that room I was encouraged to stay in the moment, stay in the room, leave everything else in my life outside, and concentrate on the care and healing of my body and soul.

If we are going to take on the difficult work of delving into our own stories and dare to look straight into the eyes of the truth, we must bend beyond our flexibility. In class, we do several deep back bends. The first one can be scary and the teacher tells us that it will hurt like hell but we should not be afraid. Look back, go back, way back, we are told. But there is a reward for the effort. When you come back to center, your spine feels released and you have overcome your fear. Later, the class comes to a climax as we are asked to perform the deepest back bend of the series, ustrasana, camel pose, opening our hearts to the sky. Whatever is buried inside of you, the teacher says, will emerge as you drop your head backwards and lean back, way back. This is a pose I cannot yet sustain. What is buried inside me is hurt, pain, disappointment and tons of chemotherapy. When these things come to the surface, I am overcome with nausea and unbearable discomfort. But I am going to keep easing into ustrasana, and throw my heart to the sky each time, until I can sustain the pose, until what comes out of me is clean and pure and pain-free.

After the first 45 minutes of class, the standing and balancing series, we earn the right to lay down on our mats in savasana, or corpse pose, for two minutes. Don't mistake what looks like a simple break while lying on your back as just that. No, the teachers tell us, this is the hardest pose in the practice. Learning to be still, completely relaxed and connected only to the breath. This is where the renewal takes place, the healing. It is from this stillness that the best listening takes place, even though you are not to be consciously thinking of anything in particular. But there is a connection formed with your deepest self, the true place that is not tainted by the demands and challenges of a complicated, modern life. You can find your answers in that stillness. After a long practice of savasana, you are to roll out on your side, but when you roll out of savasana, don't let savasana roll out of you.

Should you desire to be emotionally free and well above all else, and should you dare to establish that as a priority in your life, and should you be willing to take the risks associated with such a decision, and should you decide to be strong enough to absorb the blows that come with that work, you must learn to care for yourself in the process. Not so easy for so many of us. I was lucky. Cancer gave me that opportunity, not only to learn to care for myself, but to have the luxury of the support of almost all others in the process. After all, who is going to begrudge a cancer patient a little selfishness? But now I know it is not selfish, it is smart. And a gift to those who truly care about you. It makes you better. Whether you find that renewal in the yoga room, the running trail, the bathtub, the chapel, or outside on a moonlit night, be sure you do find it. When asking a lot of yourself, you must give a lot in return.

A few days later........

An e-mail popped up from the yoga studio announcing their move from the temporary location they had been using for several months back to their original, completely remodeled studio.   The move would take place on April 1st, with the usual ribbing about the announcement not being an April Fool's joke because the move had been delayed so many times. I attended noon class on the day before the move at the only location I had ever known. I couldn't wait to go because I had been immersed in the process of working with the publisher to set the book interior and cover for the galley print. It was stressful for all the expected deadline driven reasons but more so because it represented one more step towards the presentation of my story to the public, the shedding of all privacy about my personal life . All my anxiety returned when the publisher said that in a few days, he would be sending 60 copies out to media outlets. Yoga couldn't come soon enough.

When it came time for ustrasana, camel pose, I was prepared for the usual discomfort, nausea and inability to finish the posture. I began thinking of how much that room had come to mean to me. How safe and protected and still and peaceful I had felt there during the turmoil of my work on the book. How I probably couldn't have finished the work had I not been able to spend time there. How the suffering and sweating and pushing and pulling had turned into wonderful empowerment and reconnection with my total body, inside and out. Suddenly I realized that it was a near identical feeling to saying goodbye to the sterile room where my bone marrow transplant transformed my life. I was terrified to enter that room for the first time and almost didn't, I suffered tremendously throughout the process, and when it was time to go, triumphant with accomplishment, I could barely leave the place where such profound things had occurred.   So in the second cocoon I have had the privilege to inhabit, I threw my head back, opened my heart to the sky, and moved into ustrasana. This time I felt no nausea, no discomfort, no overwhelming urge to pull immediately out of the pose. I let the breath flow through me and only good came out. Later that day, the book went to the printer. The galley copies would be finished on the first day at the new studio.

And so, dear readers, dare to go beyond your flexibility. Then relax in savasana. Ahhhhhhh.

SPG
Photograph by Peter Vander Stoep

Seeds

Trish Kinney — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 13:35:00 GMT

March 28th, 2009

Do you believe the old philosophical saying, "there are no accidents"?   Sounds like a harmless notion but it really isn't. The number one movie in America right now, Knowing, makes a case for the possibility that certain events can transform a non-believer in the "no accidents" theory to a believer. Granted, the events depicted in the film are earth shattering but then the character, out of grief and despair, was rooted pretty deep in his non-belief so nothing short of cataclysmic could bring him around. In the case of ordinary people, a few Twilight Zone moments can be overlooked but when the evidence starts to stack up in ways that simply cannot be ignored or explained in any other way, one can't help but consider the possibility that there are no accidents.

I had always been a theoretical believer by nature but that belief remained untested for most of my life. Until one day when something happened that set into motion a chain of events that could be considered a textbook for the "no accidents" philosophy.   This chain, the events leading up to its first link, and its ultimate consequences are the foundation of my story as told in Silver Platter Girl. When it first happened, I made a conscious decision to believe it was not accidental and that I was in the midst of a fantastic journey filled with symbolism and profound healing orchestrated by a power that I simply accepted, requiring no further explanation at that time. I called it faith and adhered to it with fierce determination. In private moments, I wondered if my philosophy was a crutch for putting a hopeful face on a very dire situation, a possibly terminal cancer diagnosis. Then a friend told me that she had once heard tell of a doctor who wrote a book that somehow she imagined was meant for me. She wasn't familiar with his work but just "knew" I needed to have the book. I "knew" she was right and found it right away. It was Dr. Bernie Siegel's Love, Medicine and Miracles. In the pages of that book I found validation for my theory that my disease was exactly what I thought it was, that I had participated in its creation, that I had the power to use it for healing, and it was no accident. It was pure opportunity. Bernie, as he insists on being called, brought credibility to my belief. He, as a cancer doctor, had witnessed it first hand. What a relief. I didn't let that book out of my sight for the first two weeks of my life as a cancer patient.

My personal set of Twilight Zone moments began to grow in number at an astonishing rate of speed. When you accept that the "no accident" theory is in full effect, your awareness gives you the ability to identify how it all fits together, like puzzle pieces. Theoretically, once the last piece is put into place, the transformation is complete.

I couldn't wait to get to the Mayo Clinic once I was diagnosed. My only prior connection was that I had assisted the Clinic when they purchased their beautiful piece of natural desert by facilitating a good neighbor deal with an adjacent community, a client of mine. I was impressed at Mayo's efforts to take into consideration the impact they would have on the surrounding area and for my efforts, they sent me a tin of delicious cookies when the deal was done with a lovely note thanking me for my help. I just felt we belonged there, me and my disease. Sitting in the exam room at the Breast Clinic for my first appointment, my heart sank when a female doctor walked in and I knew instantly that although she was kind and appropriately concerned over my case, she was not the one. Luckily, she knew it, too. She excused herself and brought my Dr. John back with her. Once he entered the small room, that was it. I later learned that he was her husband and was none too happy when she plucked him out of the hall and dragged him into my exam room. He complained that he had a full patient load already and they argued. I don't know how she knew but I had already given up questioning the non-accidents and accepted my good fortune in finding my healing partner.

He just kept saying the right things at the right time. He didn't wish to participate in my no-accident theory but gave me full support to explore it fully while he promised to take care of the cutting edge science part of my case. A deal was struck. We each had our own parts to play and while he was a scientist by training and career choice, it was clear to me that he was much more. That allowed us to communicate on a level beyond science and medicine which was a requirement for me.  So we became a small ensemble.

After ten years of joyful recovery, Dr. John referred me to an internist to take on my extended medical care. It was exciting to see a doctor that wasn't an oncologist. She mentioned on our first visit that Dr. John would "graduate" me from oncology care now that I was so far out. But Dr. John decided we were not the graduating kind. We would meet every year for our regular check-up during my transplant anniversary month of February as close to Valentine's Day as possible, he said. We would use it as a way to celebrate what we accomplished together.

This year when Dr. John asked me how everything was going, I told him about Silver Platter Girl and my anxiety over the possible consequences of telling my story. He asked me if I knew the parable of the seeds. While he quietly performed my annual cancer exam, he spoke of the farmer who threw the seeds into the air. Some would fall on hard ground and just wash away in the rain. Some would root in shallow soil and begin to grow, but only temporarily. And finally some seeds would take root in deep, rich soil and produce a good crop, a hundred times more than was sown. "He who has ears to hear, let him hear", Jesus said.

Dr. John said that movements that push important ideas into the consciousness of people always require sacrifice for the greater good.   He said that when the Mayo Clinic was built in the desert, many coyote habitats were sacrificed. But my life was saved.

He promised to read my book, which he did right away. He wrote a beautiful endorsement that appears on the back cover. My Dr. John..... a specialist in the "there are no accidents" theory. And, oh yes, my check-up was perfect. A miracle, he said.

SPG

Buffets and Bears

Trish Kinney — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 13:26:00 GMT

March 27th, 2009

My former nutritionist used to say that if you stood in front of a buffet featuring all kinds of foods, you would reach for precisely what your body needed to balance itself, thereby producing optimum health.   Naturally there was a simple qualification to his theory.   It would only work if you could eliminate from the selection process any emotion related to eating. You would have to ignore all cravings based on stress and frustration and fatigue. You would have to clear out all tainted thoughts related to how we use food to make ourselves feel better for all the wrong reasons. Then you would stand in front of the buffet with a completely clear head and allow your true internal voice to intuitively lead you to the perfect plate of food for you. Then and only then, would your choices be totally okay, no matter what food was chosen.

Using the clear-headed buffet image as an analogy, let's apply it to decision making as to what is best for us outside of our food choices. What if we could eliminate emotion from the process of choosing what is best for us? What if we could separate our decision making from the ways we perceive things to make us feel better even when we know that perception is not reality? What if we could see what is best for ourselves and put that ahead of what others perceive is best for us, or for them more often than not? What if we could eliminte the fear that if we choose only for ourselves, we would be rejected by the others? What if we could look at our own decisions with a completely clear head and allow our true internal voices to intuitively lead us to the perfect decision? Then and only then would our choices be totally okay, no matter what decision was made.

My Dutch husband taught me to apply logic to emotion. At first it seemed like heresy to me. How dare he apply logic to emotion? Emotion is emotion. It can't be tainted by logic. But as my education continued, with his encouragement, I began to try it. The results sometimes felt like air moving through a place that had been stagnant for so long that it had become a forgotten place. Emotion is not a bad thing. But sometimes crippling, negative emotion prevents us from finding our way to healthy, joyful emotion.

The key to following the Dutch method is so simple, it should be more obvious. And yet, we miss it more often than not. The right to choose.   Isn't every decision we make a choice?  Don't we sometimes forget that we have choices? About everything? One thing the Dutch know that cannot be forgotten is that you must take responsibility for your choices, and so must others. You have a right to expect that. When I recovered from cancer, I made a decision to choose for myself over and over again each and every day. Choose to love my husband, choose to raise my sons, choose to be healthy, choose to stay away from toxic situations, and choose to be kind to myself. Because cancer taught me that choosing for yourself comes with the great privilege of living. Practice it, get used to how it feels, exercise your right to choose like a muscle that gets stronger after every workout. Once you start choosing on a regular basis, it feels natural to own those choices. And life starts to make a lot more sense.

I spoke to a service organization at a breakfast early yesterday. Looking through their chapter scrapbook, I found an article about a wonderful program co-sponsored by a local police department. It provided a teddy bear for children in traumatic situations such as fires, kidnappings, and domestic violence. I read on with great interest being a big believer in the healing power of the teddy bear. The children are given the bears right there in the field when they are feeling the most vulnerable and in need of comfort, safety and security.   But, the article explained, not all children qualify for the teddy bear. A child who is raped or molested cannot be given the bear because later, in a trial situation, it may be used by the defense to say the child was unfairly influenced by the police. Bribed for testimony in some way. I say we should send a Dutch specialist over to that police department. Make a decision to give all children a teddy bear, stand by the decision, and be responsible for it in court by explaining to a jury that the police believe it is more beneficial to comfort a child who has just been raped or molested than worry about if a lawyer may later defend a child rapist by saying a teddy bear caused an unfair prosecution.

Choosing well is not always easy. And there is enormous pressure by society to choose a certain way, especially where fantastically complex family relationships are concerned. And it is something we can learn to do. It may be a natural talent for the Dutch, but not for the rest of us.

So last night, as I laid out on the counter the things my husband brought home from the Whole Foods deli for dinner, I went straight for the broccoli crunch and the raw kale salad. Almost like a craving. And that is what I chose.

SPG

The Dream

Trish Kinney — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 14:46:00 GMT

March 25th, 2009

I dreamed I was invited to speak about my amazing cancer experience at a corporate meeting. When I arrived, the room was poorly lit with large columns that blocked my view of the audience, a chaotic group. They were milling around, talking and laughing. I inquired of my host as to when the speaking should begin, but he was uncertain and didn't seem to want to find out, joining the others, leaving me unattended. I stepped up to the podium on my own but no one noticed. I grabbed the microphone from the stand and began to walk from side to side on the small riser, searching for a spot where I could best see my audience, who apparently had very little interest in seeing or hearing from me. I couldn't find my notes. I asked for directions to the bathroom and was directed to a large room with furniture, a small kitchen and a few toilets right out in the open. Upon my return to the stage, I decided to begin my speech. Not a person in the large room stopped to listen. So I changed my tone and demanded their attention, firmly saying it was obvious that they were not interested in a stock inspirational story about disease and remarkable recovery. I offered to tell them the real story, the uncensored version. That seemed to be of possible interest. So I began by telling them that my father was a fighter pilot, I was raised around the world, and the environment of our home revolved around sex. From that point forward, they listened. Dream over.

Some dreams are difficult to interpret. This one wasn't. With the launch of my memoir, Silver Platter Girl, coming up in the next few weeks, I have been struggling with the decision to open up the most personal, intimate details of my life story to the public. My husband asked me why I felt the need to do it now, 13 years after my recovery from cancer. He believed my healing, both from the disease and sexual abuse which were one and the same to me, to be complete. He would accept it if I said that telling my story was the final step in the long healing process, but would be sad if that were true. We had been through enough as a family. He had hoped it was enough. But it wasn't. It isn't. And that knowledge comes from a place that is not intellectual, but entirely intuitive. It is the same internal voice that told me that my tumor was filled with the life-long residue of being victimized by sexual abuse, that by removing the tumor and cleaning out my soul through a transformational bone marrow transplant, I would be well. This would be a physical, emotional and spiritual healing. And it was.

Abuse of any kind has a way of robbing its victim of their voice. I know how difficult it can be to tell. Sexual abuse adds another difficult component. It is a subject that is not easily discussed, especially when the sex involves a father and a daughter. Or a parishoner and a priest. Or a teacher and a student. In such cases, it can be like losing your voice in two ways. Our silence, a legitimate result of the terrible wrongdoing we have endured, empowers the abusers and allows the cycle to continue. In many cases, from generation to generation.

My story is that rare instance in which my voice has not only been recovered, but engaged. My voice comes not from a place of anger or revenge, but from a place of hope and healing. It is a difficult story to tell, no doubt controversial and prone to criticism from those who would prefer that telling never be an option. But I know my own story better than I know anything. I acknowledge it, accept it, embrace it, and believe it. In that belief comes certainty that my voice can become our voice, a collective voice, of faith in the potential of our own empowerment.

Back to the dream. That the audience only became interested when the true story began to unfold says that some will be interested in the sexual content of the book for the wrong reason. But at the same time, it was a sign that the truth will engage the room, for whatever reason. Once the words are read, the message has a chance to get through, no matter what originally interested the reader. The bathrooms being out in the open room simply represent the sacrifice of privacy, and the perception of safety, that is made when you tell. The dream ending abruptly once the truth telling began signals that everything after that step needs no further exploration. The truth is its own direction.

And so I will release Silver Platter Girl very soon. And by doing so, I will stand for all of us who have a story to tell, even if we aren't sure of its content quite yet. I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the anger of those who are part of my story and have always held an unspoken belief that I would never disclose the truth. I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the inevitable criticism of those who will say that I wasn't abused enough and am using it as an excuse to justify my past behaviors. I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the guilt over the discomfort my husband and two sons will feel as our personal lives are presented in a public forum. I will overcome, to the best of my ability, the sting of those who will say that I am a bad person for what I have written. And I will overcome, to the best of my ability, any doubt that this is the right thing to do. I will have faith that the truth is our most powerful weapon in the struggle to regain ourselves. This is my dream.

SPG