CRWR 106

But now one summer later, I was hanging out with the popular girls. I was wearing their clothes, which I realized was part of the problem. I was not like my friends.

In Emily Rapp’s memoir, “Poster Child”, we see a first person point of view being used. From reading these chapters, we see that she is reflecting on her past experiences and adding to her thoughts about these experiences, based on what she has learned as being an adult. Like when she was she was wearing her friends clothes, which she realized was part of the problem. At the time when her friend gave her these clothes she was excited to wear them but then she realized that she never should have taken those clothes in the first place. In class we asked the question, why would anyone want to read our stories? I think that Emily Rapp has a story that many people can relate to but she has a different perspective on things, and that makes it interesting for the reader. In one of the chapters she is telling us a story about being out with her friend. She starts out by saying she is in the car on the way to a party and she keeps trailing off and telling us about other things before she continues her story. This is a good way of keeping the reader interested and wanting to keep reading to figure out where they are going.

“…the summer I agreed to do things I didn’t want to do and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. I had just turned sixteen, and what I wanted more than anything else in life was to be beautiful. I didn’t care about being smart, successful, or good. In fact, I believed that beauty was the prerequisite for achieving any of those other qualities”
– Poster Child, Emily Rapp, page 128

Emily Rapp writing in first-person narrative is not a unique style for a memoir. Her coming of age chapters, too, are not entirely unique. They are different in the way that the vast majority of us do not have to worry about matching our prosthetic leg to our flesh leg, which has obviously been a theme in this book. That’s what she wants us to care about, in theory—her time living and growing and rolling with the punches of being disabled. And no doubt, that there were memorable moments in the chapters that revolved around her leg and the trouble of being insecure because of it and asking for a different model and so forth. But what was really poignant in her writing, to me, was when she didn’t talk about her leg. Because in her desperation to be just any other girl, she was, and I don’t think she even realized it. And through her perspective of counting calories, and laughing at jokes that weren’t funny and just over everything wanting to be pretty—she is, just another girl. And we’ve been reading the whole book so far and she’s always been highlighting what sets her apart, but coming of age and those growing pains, that’s seemingly universal.

I had agreed to wear this skirt because it was the summer of 1990: the summer I agreed to do things I didn’t want to do and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny.  I had just turned sixteen, and what I wanted more than anything else in life was to be beautiful.  I didn’t care about being smart, successful, or good.  In fact, I beleived that beauty was the prerequisite for achieving any of these other qualities (Rapp 128).

I think what Rapp is able to do in her memoir that is remarkably interesting is how although her memoir is a story filled with events that seem unrelatable and completely unique on one level, she is able to create a sense of empathy and interconnectedness with the reader.  Asides from being disabled, Rapp is very much still a female of the world.  Where she struggles with identity issues due to her leg and from not having a socially “acceptable” body, some of her identity issues also stem from worries any other women have, such as finding worth in being able to be loved, married, and desired.  Dilemmas with religion- with prayers not being answered- although specific to her in that she wished to be whole and made anew, are still similar to the reality of others- of hoping so hard for something, yet never attaining it.  Rapp presents us with a story unimaginable to most, and although it is an experience that I cannot fully empathize with since I have not lived it, to a degree I can.  Is it this ability to empathize and sympathize with her struggle that reels the reader in so close it makes one feel united.

Openmouthed, Ashley looked at Melissa. Melissa stared at her. Ashley shut her mouth, stepped out of the car, and slid into the backseat with me. She looked up at Melissa and then scooped up the puke with Melissa’s expensive sweater. I felt as though I had won some unnamed battle, that this round in the invisible fight was mine. Although it seemed impossible, I had found a way to hide. (144)

In this paragraph, the reader sees how Emily, at the age of sixteen, feels vulnerable to the speculation of boys and other people who are outside of her group of friends. She shows the reader how she truly feels during this tender age in her life by writing about a situation in which wearing a revealing skirt makes her feel extremely conscious about her prosthetic leg. She doesn’t want to feel as though she stands out at the party she and her friends are going to. This paragraph does a wonderful job at explaining just how important Emily’s appearance is to her at this stage in her life. Emily is so nervous about going to her first party, that she throws up in order to save herself from a situation of potential humiliation. Rapp says that she, “felt as though [she] had won some unnamed battle” (144) in which the battle was finding a way out of her mini skirt. “I found a way to hide” (144) Pertains to that way in which Emily feels like her prosthetic leg is what defines her, and by hiding it from view, she also feels like she is hiding the vulnerable and emotional part of herself as well. Although throwing up in her skirt is embarrassing all in itself, Emily finds it a rather appealing outcome in comparison to the humiliation she might have felt if she had gone into the party exposing her leg. This paragraph is an effective and necessary part of the story because Emily portrays her feelings about her appearance in a away that many young girls can relate. This excerpt evokes a feeling of empathy from the reader, which, in turn, creates a relationship between the narrator and the reader. The reader can easily visualize the situation at hand, and is able to feel as though he/she is there with Emily, experiencing the situation as she experiences it.

My face burned. I adored the vets, but I was not a man or a war veteran. I was a girl on the verge of becoming a woman (pg. 112)

Emily Rapp uses first person in her memoir, Poster Child. The use of first person is important because it is really a great technique to draw a reader in and really have the reader be in your shoes. The quote above is an example of this. Rapp displays how she feels like an outsider not only to society in general but also around people with disabilities like hers. She can’t relate to them because she isn’t a hero that lost a limb she was born like that and it makes her feel different and almost alone. We wouldn’t be able to tell this if the story wasn’t told in first person. Understanding Rapp’s frustration and sadness is a crucial part in getting the most out of this story emotionally. When reading the first person, one gets much more out of it then if they were being told a story.

“That  girl was trying to tell me something, but whatever she had to say, I didn’t want to hear it.”

In Poster child, Emily Rapp does an amazing job of articulating the feelings of herself and other characters in past tense and juxtaposing them with the feelings and ideas she currently holds. Doing so allows her to give a multilevel experience to her readers. In which, she exposes–in raw truth– the feelings, ideas, and understanding she had then, with her newfound understanding. She then uses her analysis of both to get a pivotal point across to the readers about her experience and life experiences as a whole.  The combination of these things makes this a poignant read, where individuals care about and want to continue to read about her. They can relate to her through different experiences and emotions they have also had. They can begin to understand a new perspective on the world or they can simply read and absorb. Whatever an individual personally gets from this book is up to them, but there is no way nothing resonated with them at all, that they could careless about Emily or any experience that she had.

“Stop it!” I’d scream at her, releasing all of my rage on the most convenient and undeserving target. “Stop looking at me!” Whereas I had once commanded her attention, it now annoyed me when she monitored my gait; it threatened my elaborate and carefully constructed plan of passing as normal. But even as I resented her preoccupation with my leg, I also relied on it. As long as Mom was thinking about it, I could do my best to erase the fact of the leg from my mind. So she was the one who had noticed the chewed-up-looking foot.

Emily Rapp writes her memoir in first person so everyone who reads it can feel her emotions as if they are their own. This is the closest way her readers will get to experiencing her life’s trials and tribulations, and it is often what keeps us reading. It is much more interesting to understand the emotions behind an experience rather than just being told about the account. In the paragraph above, you can really feel her anger. She presents the anger in a way that most mothers and daughters would be able to easily relate to, even though the exact situation is one that the vast majority of people will never experience.

“I wanted all signs of my body’s idiosyncrasies and deficiencies to be promptly hidden if they could not be permanently removed. At the same time, I knew that no matter how well the leg worked or how clean the hinges or the new foot, I could never have what I wanted, which was the leg I’d prayed for years ago at my First Communion: one made of soft, pliable flesh and strong bones, with real blood running through its veins. Whatever Vince did, no matter how hard he worked and no matter how ardently I hoped, it would never be enough. I hated him for that.”

-Emily Rapp, Poster Child page 116

Emily, I believe, writes her memoir in first person form so that she can accurately relay each and every feeling and emotion that comes along with each event in her life. This paragraph was so raw in my opinion because you see the maturity level of a young adult and how she, as a typical teenager, could never be satisfied with anything given to her. What really stuck out in this passage however is how despite having the exterior appearance of a teenagers maturity level, she is still  wishing for a leg the way most children wish for a puppy for Christmas, or for their hair to grow longer. It is so innocent and heartbreaking because since she was a baby she was deprived of this sense of normalcy and unlike other children doesn’t have the privilege to wish for such mundane things. Instead she is wishing for a real live leg instead of the prosthetics she has been unfairly forced into choosing from. That is why the point of view is so important in this memoir because it makes us care about Emily and her situation, because now we are in her mind, she is revealing her innocence and disappointment, and even rage to us that we never would have been able to experience if she decided to write this differently. People want to feel emotion, any emotion when they are reading a piece of work and Emily is an artist in the way she is revealing every emotion to us. I also thought that it was interesting the way she wrote this passage with a few long sentences instead of breaking her thoughts up into smaller chunks. It is as if all of this was just rapidly spilling out of her head onto the page, which makes this passage that much more real to me.

“In skiing, I found the sport in which my wishes for speed, agility, and grace were fulfilled. I was taught a distinctive skiing style: The foot was “educated” to steer the ski in a specific way; I learned to anticipate each turn and adjust my body, skis, and outriggers accordingly, producing a fluid, graceful motion.”

Emily Rapp effectively uses one of the most common points of view used when writing memoir (she uses the first person point of view). Not only is Rapp able to convey her own personal thoughts and feelings to the reader, but she is able to convey her experience in a way that is relatable to the reader, even though they themselves may not necessarily have the same disability she has. While reading Poster Child, I found it interesting how although Rapp’s literary point of view did not change, her point of view of her physical image (her disability) changed throughout the novel. For example, at the beginning of the memoir, Rapp sees her leg as more or less a nuisance that brought her much unwanted attention from others who didn’t understand her situation. However, as Rapp got older, she started ever so slowly embracing her disability (e.g., talking with the war vets in the waiting room of her prosthetist, participating in the Winter Park Handicapped Ski Program, etc.), even though she continued to worry obsessively about her looks and how other people perceived her.

Mary Rossi

“After so much struggle and agony over my own physical appearance, I should have been that much more compassionate toward others who struggled with similar issues. The reverse was true. I had numerous flaws, but in what I thought was a clear sign of my superiority, I had managed to hide them all. I looked down on people who had acne, a stutter, buckteeth, or thick glasses. What was wrong with them? I thought: Go to a doctor, get a speech therapist, get contacts and braces–for God’s sake, just fix it as I did. Try harder. Fake it. I had no idea that financial burdens of these procedures were too great for most of my classmates’ families. I was completely and willfully ignorant of the sacrifices my parents had made–most of them way outside their means–that gave me the privilege to ridicule others. I was merciless and cruel. I gossiped as much as anyone else. I felt powerful and popular.”

–Poster Child, pg. 119

In this chapter, we are introduced to Emily at the start of the next stage in her life: adolescence. Gone is the innocence, wonder, and sweetness that we have seen from her so far. The biggest loss of all, it seems, is her compassion and sense of camaraderie towards others like her. In a single passage, we can clearly see how rapidly and radically she has transformed from a brave and empathetic little girl to the perfect archetype of a bully: she is beautiful, popular, shallow, contemptuous of others, and, most of all, insecure. Her superior status amongst her peers (a status which she has worked tirelessly over the last few years to obtain) reflects her struggle to compensate for what she views as her fatal flaw. The confidence and appreciation for her own uniqueness have been replaced by a desperate desire to be normal and whole–a desire that she surely shares with the very people she taunts. And yet, despite these abundant displays of cruelty towards others, we are still able to understand her actions in a way, having been given a detailed look at her life up until now (the then). With the benefit of context, we are able to identify all of the “why’s” as to how she has become the person that she currently is (the now); we are able to sympathize her while also condemning her for her behavior. Moreover, we hope that this is merely a momentary lapse in character, that it can be chalked up to the capriciousness of youth, and that she will soon be able to reconnect with the self-loving and compassionate spirit of her former self.

I believe that deep in my memory I hold this image of my mother behind the glass, sending me a kiss and looking at me as if I were the most precious and beautiful baby in the world. Although these circumstance of my birth are factual, it’s difficult for me to imagine the scenes: being talked about in the maternity ward; being different, feared but pitied, classified as deformed. But this look, this look of love -this gift- I can easily imagine, because I would know it for the rest of my life.

I remember that day so clearly that I can see the city stretching out in front of me, looking beautiful and at the same time looking nothing like I had expected or even wanted. It was a sight to behold, but I had hoped it would look different: like a slow accordion should be played over the French scene; a golden hue over everything, lovers walking along the river, sweet perfume filling the air. But the city I saw, the City of Lights -this dream- was nothing like I had imagined, sadly it was only ordinary.

While Dad was preaching at his church that Sunday, Mom padded down the hallway in her pink bathrobe to look at me through the glass window of the newborns’ room. She felt other mothers looking at her, searching her eyes, and she stared back at them. She had longed for a redheaded girl; I had arrived, but in slightly different form from what had been expected or wished for. The nurses had attached a small sign to my crib that read “Miss America” in blue, carefully printed in letters. Mom tapped on the glass; she blew me a kiss.

While Dad was working at the fire station that weekday, Mom walked down the hallway in her everyday clothes to look at us through the crystal clear window of the newborns’ room. She saw other parents looking at their babies and taking them home, she smiled at them, and they smiled back. She had hoped to take us home sooner; we had arrived, but slightly premature from the date that was expected. The nurses had attached a small sign to our cribs that read “Baby A” and “Baby B” in red and blue, strategically typed in letters. Mom’s love radiated through the glass; she never stopped smiling.

Stunned, I looked up into the branches of the snow-covered trees. Wet snow crystals dropped on my face when the wind shook the branches. Andy was screaming my name, but his voice disappeared into the cold ground. I could taste blood and feel it, fast and wet, filling my mouth. I heard Mom’s shouts and hurried steps down the path. I wanted to move, but I could not. Sun moved over the snowy branches, and then the whole sky exploded into a glowing, sparkling white.

Fading into consciousness I could see fuzzy shapes, hear the buzz of the device delivering the mind numbing drugs and the keeping track of my vitals, and my mouth was too dry to taste anything.  Looking hazily around, I could make out the bodies of family members crowded into the small recovery room. This was the basic hospital scene that I would become familiar with over the next seven days: white, hard floors, cold atmosphere, and the sounds of nurses chatting in the hall. I was worried when I looked around at the faces staring at me. These people – my family – were never this quiet. With a scratchy voice from being sedated I called out, “Why is everyone so quiet?” They all shifted uncomfortably and didn’t attempt to make conversation with me, not wanting to disturb me as I was in pain. As another buzz sounded off, my eyes became heavier. The drugs were working, and the pain I thought I would feel from my newly made spine was nowhere to be felt. As I drifted back into unconsciousness, my last sight was of my step-grandfather, with his long, blond beard and pot-belly stretching a redskins football shirt, looking at me with a mix of worry and relief.  My eyes closed before I went back under, but I could still hear the nurses chatting, the buzzing of the devices, and now the taste of saline flooded my senses leaving a clean, strong taste in my mouth for days to come.

“As Grandma cried, Dad stayed silent. Mom looked at him. The room was full of unasked and unaswered questions: Will she live with us forever? Will she die young? Will she walk, run, skip, play, read, and write? When she speaks, what will she tell us, what will she say? And also the other questions that would never be answered: Why us? Why her?  The air conditioner rattled in the window.”

As Nana looked on with adoration, Titi cradled me. Mommy rested. The room was bounding with love and apprehension: Will she leave this hospital? Will she bear the weight of her charge– the world and her sensitivities? When words throttle from her mouth and passion spreads from her gait, will she be heard and acknowledged? Or will the world in its equal beauty and cruelty disregard her? Questions lingered: How do I prepare her? How do I protect her? In the distance, a baby screamed.

The nurses sang a song from the musical Annie as the anesthesiologist fitted the clear plastic mask over my face in the operating room and I began to count backward slowly from ten. The mask was like a toxic flower, and with my nose pushed deep into its dull, gray-colored petals, I was being forced to inhale its dangerous scent. The anesthesiologist stared down at me as the flower-venom disintegrated in my mouth. I was already too tired and too heavy to struggle. “Good job, good girl,” the doctor said, and the notes of “Tomorrow” faded into silence. My breathing slowed. My muscles loosened. The anesthesiologist’s big hands held the mask to my face. His nose was round and slightly red; sweat leaked out from the edge of his blue cap. I would never be able to snorkel or dive without thinking of that mask. Having plastic in my mouth or over my nose always makes me feel as if I am about to inhale a substance that will put me to sleep and when I wake up a part of my body might be missing, gone forever. The nurses’ blue caps blurred together, and all the voices stopped. I never got past the number seven before I was completely asleep, floating in a dreamless oblivion.

Music crooned softly from the corner speaker in my bedroom as my hair was wrapped once, twice, three times around an unyielding fist. Dirty fingernails scraped sensitive skin and rather than my hair being fisted it felt as if I was being suffocated; heavy fingers clogging my only way to breathe. My breaths became shallow as the demeaning gesture caused a vibration of pain to spread from my scalp all the way down to my toes. Disgust pooled low in my stomach. The taste in my mouth was bitter, like soured milk, and no matter how many times I cleared my throat it wouldn’t go away. Cruel brown eyes came into my vision and I stared blankly back, feeling any emotion leave my face. My mind was screaming, begging, taunting me to get away, but my body felt heavy under his weight. There was no struggle left in me. “Good girl,” He whispered maliciously into my ear as the song changed, the tempo picking up speed with my heartbeat. My body went rigid at the sound of his voice, the feel of his left hand clamping down on my jaw. Eyebrows grew closer together as he concentrated on ruining me. I would never be able to hear that song or see the shade of his eyes without the memory of his too big hands on me. Without the memory of how it felt as he carved his name and his insults into the soft, innocent flesh of my mind and my heart. The lyrics haunt me in my dreams, the once beautiful words now harsh against my ears as I wander aimlessly in a maze trying to find my way back to who I was before. I wake up no closer to that girl than I was yesterday. She is lost to me now, her kind eyes and unapologetic smile strangers to me, the lifeless shell left behind. I wake often during these dreams, my vision blurry and my heart racing in the hollowed out cavity that I have come to recognize as my chest. I press my fist to my heart to feel it beating wildly as the images slowly fade away, as my mind slowly fades away, leaving nothing but a darkness that reflects the murky water my conscious has become.

On the flat surface are the lit shadows of two long leg bones, one not quite long enough, a bit twisted, a bit tentative, searching for its remainder; the left foot points out toward the X-ray’s edge as if it is trying to leap away from the body, although at second glance it looks snuggled up close to the chest as if it never wants to leave. One limb looks strong, ready to walk, kick, and fight. The other, smaller one seems brighter, a warning. Turn the globe upside down and the snow keeps falling. The bones glow. (12-13)

On the cobblestoned bridge over looking the canal were the timbres of my boots, slowly weaving out and around the park bench where ice and snow had fallen. However bitter, solemn, and gloriously quiet the night was, my brain made up for the lull of the night by restlessly rethinking about the mountain of homework that awaited me later that evening. My body paused at a particular bench in front of a familiar café. The lantern’s copper hue illuminated onto the white blanket that submerged my feet. My hand reached inside my coat, searching for the crumpled paper. It was always there, like a friend that never left my side. It trembled in my hand, while the other, hoisted high in the air, caught the fine feeble flurries that were so cold against my skin. Hold them there and a stream trickles into my sleeve. Let them fall and the words are washed away.

She sat me next to it and went into the kitchen, where she wouldn’t be as tempted to help me stand up but could check my progress periodically by poking her head around the corner. I loved that doll- a little teddy bear with a soft cloth book in the middle of its tummy- and I went for it, just as mom had expected I would. “You puttered around for a little; It took effort. I watched you then from the kitchen, keeping my hands busy with dinner so I wouldn’t run over to help you. Finally you gripped the edge of the stroller with your hands, pushed yourself up with your right leg, and used the knob of your brace to lift up the final few inches.” After that, she told me, “you were steady on your feet and walked as well as any kid.”

My mother dropped me and my twin sister off at college and started on her journey back home to Rhode Island, where she was unable to see us in person but she could check up on us by calling or texting us. I loved this school- a little liberal arts college with great opportunities nestled in the middle of Virginia- and I went for it, just as mom had expected I would. “You struggled adjusting a little; It took effort. I watched you from home, keeping myself busy so I wouldn’t bother you with many questions about your new life. Eventually you got the hang of it and started to make friends and have steady grades.” After that, she told me, “you were doing great and worked as well as any other student.”

Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. Cranes swung in the air over buildings-in-progress. Digital billboards advertised cars, bourbon, cigarettes, and cruise holidays. A Chinese opera blared out of a record store. A chaos of smells-car exhaust, rotting vegetables, melting tar, and frying garlic-moved through the sweltering mid-afternoon air. I turned off the main road onto a smaller street when my left leg buckled beneath me; I fell backward into a puddle of motor oil in front of a small roadside stand.

Horses were everywhere. Parents of riders were swarming the perimeter of the ring. Bulletin boards were filled with jumping courses and orders-of-go. A food truck played country music. A hodgepodge of smells including greasy food, horse manure, fresh paint, shampoo, and freshly cut grass shifted through the mid autumn air. I walked my horse toward the in-gate, ready to complete the first course; I looked back at my mother as she gave me an encouraging thumbs up.

Residual. What’s left when something’s taken away. This strange word that I had never heard before and didn’t completely understand made me sad. I looked out the window and watched as a truck barreled past us on a steep hill. As we passed Abe Lincoln’s monument on I-80, I stared into his bronze, deeply lined face until our car was too far away for me to see him. As soon as I had the leg, I was going to walk right up to that monument. No walkers or scooters or casts or crutches. Just me and my good and healthy stump.

The idea first came to me in a dream. The dream was funny and harmless and I woke up from it feeling happy. But later, looking down from where I sat on the railing of our balcony, I saw my feet dangling over empty space and my breath caught. I realized I actually wanted to do it. I wanted to stand at an edge and let myself slide, unsupported, over a great distance until my fall, and my entirety, came to a halting end. When I finally slipped back onto the balcony’s sturdy wooden floor and made my way inside, I was crying. It wasn’t the pain that made me cry anymore. I wept in fear of what I’d become.

That word: institution.  It is gray and heavy.  I was newly diagnosed with a birth defect that seemed to have already set the stage for my life before the curtain had even gone up.  The play had just begun, and the audience was already disappointed and stressed, mulling about in their seats, complaining about the actors, the set, the plot. (Rapp 12)

That exclamation: “It’s a girl!”  It shrouds the world in a pale pink light that only gets more bright and vivid as the years go by.  I had been assigned female at birth, which at the time seemed only logical to those who caught sight of my anatomy.  The finality of my anatomy seemed to have come with a prewritten script of my life, one that allowed for little deviation.  The play, although seemingly like all others that came before it, was retold anew as the pale pink light often came into conflict with a slightly different light shining from within.  Armed with high hopes for their new addition, spectators and fellow actors alike never imagined themselves becoming disappointed and stressed as they unknowingly found themselves entangled with a remastered version of a traditionally held classic.