Tricia Martin

1. Story statement Struggling to raise her adoptive son, a mother eventually learns to acknowledge her limitations and to examine her own upbringing, laden with unrealistic ideals. 2. Antagonistic force Jeffrey first challenged the protagonist by revealing developmental delays. His mother, whose family prized intellect over all, struggled to accept that her idealized little boy would not excel in school like his sister. Later his misbehavior both at home and school further challenged her. Pursuing graduate studies in psychology, surely she could modify his unwillingness to comply with basic rules. But her efforts proved futile time and again. Eventually he gave in to drug addiction, forcing her to realize her inability to attain the outcome she wanted for him. 3. Proposed titles: I’ve Never Been to Denver; Where Was the Map for Raising My Adoptive Son? What my Adoptive Son Taught Me About Myself Saving Jeffrey, Saving Me Pushing the Boulder Uphill 4. Comparables Beautiful Boy; A Father’s Journey Through His Son’s Addiction, by David Scheff, 2009 Secret No More: A True Story of Hope for Parents With An Addicted Child, by Lisa Hillman, 2017 The Unlikely Village of Eden, by Emma Nadler, 2023 by Lisa Hillman, 2017 5. Hookline When her adoptive son exhibits developmental delays and oppositional behavior, a mother is forced to examine her own failure to achieve unrealistic ideals and how self-loathing and anxiety affect her emotional well-being and her parenting. 6. Genre: Memoir Hypothetical scenario demonstrating core wound and conflict. Metal chairs scraped across the floor and clanged into each other as the students rearranged positions. I sat off at the side with a few other parents as the cacophony rose. Four teenage boys, two girls, all in baggy jeans, sat roughly in a circle tuning their instruments. The red bearded, heavy-set instructor moved among them, stopping at each music stand. He leaned over shoulders, in sotto voce threw in a comment here and there. Jeff had begged for a guitar and then for lessons. Naturally I took advantage of his eagerness. All of the students had individual lessons prior to being grouped into a makeshift band. Jeff seemed pleased with his progress, as was I. I took out paper and pen to start a grocery list while I waited. The teacher’s voice was suddenly louder. “What are you doing, Jeff? We just worked on that line! What’s the matter with you?” My adrenaline surged. Jeff simply tried again. “That’s better,” I heard. Jeff smiled. The group was to play Hurt So Bad at the performance in a few weeks. “Now let’s try playing it together,” said the teacher. They clambered up to the stage, the lead guitar came forward. I ached for my son. I so wanted him to get through this without being called out, embarrassed in front of his peers and their parents. And he did. It wasn’t a flawless performance as a whole, but he played his background, repetitive chords without a mishap. I saw him smile at me, and I smiled back. I realized I’d been barely breathing. I gulped in some air. The students packed up their guitars. Jeff snapped his case shut, then came towards me. I couldn’t wait to get out the door. We got in the car and I immediately lit in. “We don’t have to come back here, Jeff. I’ll find another guitar teacher.” “What? What are you talking about, Mom?” “I don’t like the way he talked to you. There was no reason for him to be so harsh.” “Mom! It’s okay. He’s usually nice. And I’m doing good. I really want to stay!” Mrs. Lindbergh enjoyed my piano lessons as much as I did. When I began at age 7, she often exclaimed about my talents. I must have glowed when she praised me. I caught on quickly, and though I fell considerably short of the recommended practice hours, I performed well during my weekly lessons. My first recital was easy, a one or two-page piece in a beginner’s book. Mrs. Lindbergh, and my parents, flooded me with compliments. A year later as a third grader I started to question my abilities. Not just in piano, but in academic subjects as well. My position at the top of the class was being encroached upon. Was I really all that smart? That year I walked onto the recital stage, having memorized my piece, an abridged version of Liebestraum, by Franz Liszt. Two-thirds of the way into the piece my mind went blank. My fingers stiffened with fear, my face became flushed. After a brief pause I started over. I was able to improvise adequately to finish the piece without traversing the bars that had thrown me off track. I don’t’ know that I ever participated in a recital again. I continued my lessons with Mrs. Lindbergh. I cried when I had to say good-bye to her due to our move to Cocoa Beach. Once settled there, Mom found a piano teacher, Mrs. Zanitch, who tried to convince me to play in a recital but the thought of being on that stage elicited such anxiety in me that I refused. I loved the piano, I hated performing. Staci was also an eager and adept learner at the piano. She was around 7 or 8 when her teacher told us about a Christmas performance that would involve parents who knew how to play. I could feel the heat rising in my neck but I didn’t want Staci to know I was afraid. I agreed to play a duet of Silent Night with my daughter. It was a very simple version, nothing difficult. We practiced every day leading up to the pageant and I felt fairly calm. As we sat in the auditorium awaiting our turn my anxiety inched upwards. Then, my precious daughter leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Don’t mess up.” I role-played confidence. I don’t think she or the audience was aware that I stopped playing for a measure or two. I was able to regain control of my fingers and finish the piece along with her. Outside of my awareness at the time, this is what played in the background during Jeff’s guitar lesson. My own paralyzing anxiety. Such an urge to escape. 7. Setting There are two major settings in my memoir: Tampa We stood side-by-side at the water’s edge at dusk, both conjuring images of a future home. The aged orange grove on Lake Magdalene had outlived its fruit-bearing years, and had been mapped out for a new development. Practically adjacent to our current neighborhood, I had included the newly paved streets into my jogging course before considering the thought that we might live here. During the winter and early spring months the orange blossoms added to the sensual experience, the scent wafting through the air, the tiny white buds glimmering in the muted dawn light. On this day the orange trees were no more, the land having been cleared except for the pines and tall grasses at water’s edge. I could barely make out houses on the other side of the lake. What I could clearly see was the blue heron standing 20 feet or so away, her graceful neck bent toward the water as the stilt-like legs stepped elegantly, as if in a ballet. She found her minnow and deftly nabbed it into her long, slender bill, creating gentle ripples in the shallow water. I swatted at mosquitoes around my bare calves as I stood at the marshy shoreline, but their presence did not deter my growing affinity for this place. Charlottesville, Virginia “Ahh, Charlottesville. Where time stood still,” said a colleague when she learned I was taking a position at UVa. Quite a contrast, geographically, from Florida. Instead of the uniform topography of Florida, tropical vegetation, sand, salt air (thus rusted cars), and extreme heat (thus blistering sunburns), Charlottesville is abundant in leafy oaks and maples, tulip poplars, dogwoods. So far above sea-level that we had a basement. We moved there in August, witnessed the multihued vibrancy of autumn, a few snowfalls of winter, and oh, the magical emergence of pastels in the spring! I was enchanted by the appearance first of daffodils, then the Bradford pear trees bloomed. Shortly after, tulips, blue bells, dogwoods, peonies, and more reminded me of Tasha Tudor illustrations. The influence of Thomas Jefferson in Charlottesville is inextricable. He designed both his home, Monticello, and the University of Virginia, these iconic structures within a few miles of each other. His statue, along with those of James Madison and James Monroe, front the courthouse downtown. Red brick buildings, herringbone sidewalks, and serpentine garden walls, all two centures old, serve as backdrop for the historic town.

Pre-event assignments (1).docx

Thank you for the heads up. It’s hard to imagine someone criticizing my work more harshly than I’ve criticized it myself, but I’m sure it’s harder to hear from the authorities. I’m bracing myself!