Icy Sparks (34 page)

“Tourette Syndrome is a reason for your behavior,” the doctor had said, “but it's not an excuse.”

That was four years ago at Berea College. I'm twenty-one now.

I got an education and a diagnosis all at the same time—the reason why I am, the reason why I jerk, croak, and tic. A neurological disorder, neurotransmitters gone haywire, lid off the id, computer overload. I suffer from a disorder. A disorder with continental flare. First described in 1885 by Gilles de la Tourette. The good doctor was glad to make my acquaintance.

But why did I say suffer? Let's say, grow. I have found order in my disorder. I have embraced my difference.

In rocky soil, I, Icy Sparks, have blossomed. My difference has allowed me to flourish. Without it, life would have been easier, but I would not be me.

Look around you. Nowhere in these mountains will you find a stronger family. The photograph on my mantel says it all. Me in my cap and gown. Matanni and Miss Emily dressed in smiles. All of us wearing a legacy of joy.

Nowhere in these mountains will you find a better friend. Just ask Mamie Tillman, or Mrs. Mamie Combs, I should say. For six years, through six birthing blankets, we've been fast friends, and now, with my own hands, I'm knitting her a seventh. A blue and pink one for the baby on the way. The rest of Mama's blankets I'm keeping for myself and my daughter.

Look closely. You'll never find a more loyal friend. Maizy Hurley Cunningham will tell you so. We talk about nursing, about music therapy. We still talk about empathy.

Just write Peavy Lawson and Lane Carlson in Vietnam, and they'll tell you about getting a letter from me every week.

Look around you. In this country of coal mines and curves, you won't find a more openhearted woman—to her old friends and to her new ones.

I'm a caring therapist. Children silent as stone sing for me. Children who cannot speak create music for me.

“And why, frog child or saint?” you might ask. “Why are you so special?”

In just two words, I'll answer you. In just two words, I'll give you the reason why. Tourette Syndrome. At first, a curse. Now, a blessing. Frog child and saint. Matanni always says, “The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”

So what do I care if—in these genes of mine—I also carry croaks, curses, and jerks?

So what do I care if I'm led to speak in tongues and in the voices of animals, if I have the urge to flap my arms and fly?

If I sometimes let my feelings show and expose the pokeweed inside me, I say, “So be it,” because in these genes I also carry nourishment, a voice so sweet that it can soothe the angriest spirit, and eyes that not only pop out to look at the sun but also are curious and eager to learn.

So if in these genes of mine I pass down all of these traits—the jerks, croaks, curses, and repetitions—I will not care because my children will be blessed.

And if someday the townsfolk say to my daughter, “You is your mama's child,” I'll rejoice knowing that no one can forget the memory of a golden-haired girl who throws back her head, pops out her eyes, and croaks loudly into the dusk of a hot summer day.