“Dark Card”, Poetry by Rebecca Foust, reviewed by Lynn Alexander.
I’ve figured out that difference pays freight
when linked with intelligence; genius trumps odd,
alchemizes bizarre into merely eccentric. (Dark Card)
Rebecca Foust is a delightful new discovery for me. Foust has this ability to write beautiful, poignant things without coming across as excessively sentimental or descriptively redundant-not that most would mind if she did given her subjects. These poems have a graceful intelligence, and hers is a subtle wit. That Rebecca Foust is an award winning poet comes as no surprise.
In “Dark Card”, Foust has written a volume of poetry that explores the experiences of a mother raising a special needs child, with Asperger(‘s) Syndrome, an autism spectrum disorder that can present as a cluster of behavioral challenges including difficulties with socialization and connection, repetitive behaviors, and a narrow range of interests.
There is something in the way that she reveals pieces of her world that lets the reader know while she indeed plays the “dark card”- the hand dealt- she is not writing about burdens to be pitied, and there is a sincerity that really comes through about that. Sure, there are emotional themes that she tackles as she engages with the subject, but she does so in a learning and then celebratory way.
She tells us how it is, for example, to be the parent of a child with a disability in the supermarket, prepared for a mishap with a napkin up her sleeve, always on guard. In the middle of mishaps, however, she is still able to step away and see beautiful things about her child. Can the world see them too?
My boy loves who he is,
even if the world does not
(Like Dostoyevsky’s)
Foust wants the reader to see what they see without an expectation of denial or ignorance, but push themselves to see more, as through a loving mother’s eyes. His humming, pacing, fixations- these are ways her boy “keeps time”. She describes how she learns to see that many of these things bring him real joy, and she is learning to leave him be.
In this, Foust asks us to consider what joy really is, what fulfillment is. Who sets the standard for what makes us happy? How can we take our measure and hold that up to another, and decide that they cannot be happy the way they are, doing things that perhaps we would not do or find gratifying? Joy is relative. Joy is individual.
And this is where Foust’s point comes through, I think, about diversity. It is not about simply “tolerating” or “accepting” that children are “different” and might be destined to grow to be “different adults”. Her version of diversity involves appreciating, seeing validity in the choices, having a certain degree of trust in the individual’s ability to seek out happiness- which is essentially the way the spirit triumphs and the person comes to realize a a sense of realized wholeness. It is a terrible mistake to see this is unattainable, unworthy of a parent’s champion or community’s support.
The excitement in the difference between two pennies
increases exponentially when there are twenty,
a hundred, a thousand, and he vibrates with joy
Oh, never to grow bored or experience a numbing
sameness of things! To immerse consciousness
in the sensory present of a bottle cap flattened by traffic
(Apserger Ecstasy)
Rather than attempt to get into the mother’s perspective, I think this particular poem- one that many parents can connect to on many levels- says a lot about the process of reconciliation. I think many will read this book and be glad for parents like Rebecca Foust, will relate to her candor, and will appreciate the courage that comes through.
Refrigerator Mom by Rebecca Foust
They called them cold and witholding
“refrigerator mothers”, indicted them
with their kids’ autism. You did too,
you soul-less suck of a self-righteous
so-called psychologist, with your “walks
outside” and your “talks up in trees”
that never leafed out. You wasted time
sitting mute next to my son’s muteness
for two years getting other work done,
explained how my “helicopter mothering”
was causing the problems, how maybe
I was the one that ought to be medicated.
It was convenient for a time having me
Paxiled; no more second-guessing
the doctor’s advice to chill out, no more
nagging about homework, chores,
computer, TV. I learned the art of aloof,
how to sleep while awake, how to
speak softly or not speak at all, how not
to feel desire or desire to weep
For nearly a year in our house,
a kind of peace reigned, until one day
it cracked and rained pieces
of everything- propellers, coils, struts,
random refrigerator parts
