Jackson Free Press

One of my favorite responses to the Katrina crisis was a headline—from The Onion, I think—about a man who had decided to just drive a semi-trailer full of ice down to the Coast his own damn self, considering how poorly the Bush administration was responding to people in need.

That wasn't a joke. When systems failed, many people around the country got in their cars and drove down here and did whatever they could. They did it themselves. They didn't wait for someone else to take care of the problem.

The truth is that the citizens cannot do everything ourselves, and there is a role for government, especially to solve problems that its own carelessness—or devotion to gas-guzzling SUVs—creates. But the government cannot and should not solve everything. We have to find us a toolbox and learn to use it.

In the mid-'80s, I found myself living in North Dakota with an Air Force officer—don't ask—who was gone for three days at a time working in a missile field. I was alone and bored for much of the time. I didn't have a career, although I had brought my talent for mixing records from D.C. with me and was a DJ at the hottest club in Grand Forks (dubious honor, but still). I was also a radio jock.

But glamour of those gigs aside, I was frustrated as all hell that I was "already" 25 and didn't know what I was doing with my life. I had dropped out of law school in D.C. I had done plenty of secretarial gigs, and I waited tables and bartended and you-name-it.

I had a vague notion that I wanted to "be creative." I could also write. Now, I didn't write well, at least by my standards today—I used too many passives and clichés and adjectives and adverbs, and although I was a good storyteller, I didn't know how to really commit to getting and giving narrative details in a story.

But I wanted to be a writer, damnit.

Meantime, I became "craftsy"—I prefer the term "arty"—for the first time in my life. We lived in a hideous apartment complex, but I was determined to New Yorkify our place. So I spray-painted, and dyed, and glued, and scavenged in thrift stores (a talent inherited from my mama). When Christmas came around, I went nuts, but with a twist, because, well, my sense of humor is a tad twisted—instead of making a candy cane into a reindeer, I made a candy cane into a Super Fly reindeer with a big Afro and a tooth-"pick" sticking out of it (in honor of one of my dear high-school friends).

I did ornaments with New York skyline scenes, and made mod ornaments from flour and water. Once I got going on it, the creativity started gushing out of me. And it spilled over into my night gig—I started carrying around props, like Miss Pinky (a pearl-bedecked pink flamingo), and the club even did a "Late Night with Donna Ladderman" show for a while.

I was learning to fly.

Suddenly, writing started to feel less elusive to me. I had studied political science at State, but I decided that if I wanted to be a writer, it was time to just go learn how to do it my own damn self.

So I went to the library and checked out books on writing. And selling stories. I started reading about pitching publications and how to write query letters. The Air Force officer bought me an electric typewriter at the BX (it's been a while).

Soon, I wrote two pieces—both funny; one about being a newcomer to Grand Forks and making fun of such stuff as calling Coke "pop" and plugging in my car to outdoor heaters, and the other about fashion tips, believe it or not—and the Grand Forks Herald bought them and paid me for them.

I was a writer. A published writer.

It would be a while before I would do it for a living, or do anything that would come near, gulp, winning an award. But I had taken the first step when I checked that book out of the library. And I took a huge one when I dared send my work to a stranger to read.

Later, I would end up in New York and flying solo (I sent the Air Force officer packing), but I picked up a habit when I lived in Grand Forks that is still with me today: I like to do things myself. To show others how to do them. To make things happen. To not wait around for the government, or for anyone to give me permission, or even to get a degree.

In New York City, I was involved with my first newspaper startup—my own. Looking back, it was pitiful but oh-so-well-meaning; like too many inexperienced people who start publications, I thought that I could build a newspaper, and advertisers would come. Actually sell them? Moi?

I was living in a neighborhood where the city was kicking homeless people out of the park, even though they wouldn't do anything to clean up the shelters. It was safer for those guys in the park, so they set up makeshift households there. It wasn't pretty, but it was home. I felt safe in that park, especially after a group of my homeless friends went and kicked the butt of some Brooklyn guy in a fur coat who mugged me one night. Talk about DIY.

It was also a time of anti-gay bashing in the city. Kids would come in from the 'burbs on the weekend looking for trouble, and go to gay neighborhoods and find a young same-sex couple to harass and beat up. It was ugly, and I didn't like watching it happen in my neighborhood. So I wrote about it in my little paper.

Fast-forward some 15 years to 2001, past several newspaper startups, good editors and meeting Todd Stauffer: I'm finishing my journalism master's (finally studied the right thing) at Columbia University, and I'm reading about the state flag vote back in my home state. It seems that the only real argument articulated is about a new flag being "good for business."

By then, I'm a professional writer, and I know how to tell stories and pull heart strings. I've pursued social justice in several states. But back in my home state, I realize that too many people aren't getting enough real, detailed stories about our past to understand why that rebel flag is such a horrifying public image.

I realized then that there was no choice for me: I had to stop complaining and go do it my own damn self.

Once I flew south, though, I realized that DIY really means DIO—doing it ourselves—and there is no better place than Jackson for a group fixer-upper project.

Thanks for the help, gang. Now pass the hammer.

Previous Comments

ID

75701

Comment

Donna, we're glad you came home!

Author

katbird

Date

2007-12-05T20:57:13-06:00

ID

75702

Comment

whoohoo! here's to being a (sometimes) lost 25 year old with rough writing talent and a enough chutzpah to do things my own damn self. boohoo to the dark shadow of blind independence that will not accept help.

Author

Kat

Date

2007-12-05T21:58:36-06:00

ID

75703

Comment

But I wanted to be a writer, damnit. I get this thought from time to time. I fight it down with a glass of gin. This is one of the best things I've read in a while. You stopped it too soon. I know you had about three thousand more words in you that you couldn't fit on the page. Because I had three thousand more words in me just reading it. What's amusing to me is that the only fight me and The Boyfriend actually have is when he says things like "Well, I guess I'll have to be in Jackson for at least two more years." Typically, I answer indignantly, "What do you MEAN you HAVE to be in Jackson for AT LEAST two more years? We're seeing this thing through. ARE YOU HEARING ME?? SEEING IT THROUGH!" Then I stomp my feet and grumble for at least five minute. He giggles. Then, I know he's going to stay too. He says my optimism amazes him. I say its the only thing I have left that means anything-other than the fight. Here's to absolutely knowing in your heart of hearts that this place CAN be what we want for it. Thanks.

Author

Lori G

Date

2007-12-06T20:47:09-06:00

ID

75704

Comment

You're welcome. ;-) Here's to absolutely knowing in your heart of hearts that this place CAN be what we want for it. "Seeing it through": Damn straight. The test of America is right here. Let's pass it. To be continued ...

Author

DonnaLadd

Date

2007-12-06T22:53:36-06:00

ID

75705

Comment

I expect many of us have similar experiences. People have been waiting for someone to save them much too long here. Many of the people I meet in the area are profoundly alienated and needlessly cynical. Personal investment in the community is needed. Now, about the missles; is it really like "The Day After"? That movie freaked me out.

Author

Willezurmacht

Date

2007-12-07T11:49:40-06:00

ID

75706

Comment

Good column! Who is the Air Force Guy? You said please ask, didn't you?Did he get his wings. I hope he didn't suffer the fate of Worley, my favorite character, in an Officer and A Gentlemen, who went DOR to have his women leave him. I won't tell what he did afterward. It's too hurtful.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2007-12-07T12:08:04-06:00

ID

75707

Comment

Great article, Ladd. I read it twice. I went into "shock reaction," initially when I realized that this law school drop out with all of the creative juices in the world flowing, was you. This is really a fantastic history of survival and with enough motivational energy to jump-start the world! Ray Carter, the Air Force Guy blew it. ....and I can tell eell ll, The Way you do the things you do.

Author

justjess

Date

2007-12-07T13:44:10-06:00

ID

75708

Comment

Very refreshing...

Author

ellen

Date

2007-12-07T13:52:47-06:00

ID

75709

Comment

Sigh. Fine. Oh, and I think I was married to air force guy for a minute or so, and I'm fairly certain he's in the burbs now living the "American Dream." You're right. He wasn't all that.

Author

emilyb

Date

2007-12-07T15:06:56-06:00

ID

75710

Comment

Doing things yourself build character, self-sufficiency, self-dependency and non-dependency on others, the only chance in life many of us have who were born into the wrong families or families without great means. When we depend on ourselves there are fewer chances for others to hurt, abuse and devastate us by their departure or estrangement. We have to step out on nothing and land on something. For the most part, in North America, we all have a chance at survival and the American Dream.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2007-12-07T15:50:45-06:00

ID

75711

Comment

Thanks, all. As for the Air Force guy, let's just say that he was not worthy of my love, and I'll leave it there, being that this is on the Internet, and he is identifiable for some people. However, we have remained friends, as I do with most exes.

Author

DonnaLadd

Date

2007-12-07T16:15:07-06:00