Modern DJ
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DJ Fuzion


I am sharing this DJ because one of my students said he truly changed her life through his joy & online music shows.

Song
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Gravedigger


by
Dave Mathews Band

     Brrrrrr. Frigid Below-zero wind seeped through the cracks of the college beater car my boyfriend was driving along toward Northern Maine. I was, in my early 20s, in the early 90s, raised in Minneapolis, on classical music and math game challenges around a smooth walnut-wood table from Sweden after formal-style meals. Headed to his hometown of 62 people in the woods. He had described it with a goofy sparkle in his eye many times. I enjoyed nature, through parks, walks, and camps. He had grown up practically IN the outdoors - harvesting potatoes, building log cabins to help his grandad earn deer-meat for supper, relying on the garden for fresh vegetables.
“Folk music, in French!? Is that all the music we can find up here?” I joked. “Yep!” he chuckled, turning the radio dial, “fuzz fuzz…”Shay bitta lu la…”.  “Do you understand it?” “Pretty much. The nuns beat our kind of French (Quebec-qua) out of us at school, but I still understand. My Mom, Dad, and grandparents speak it”. How interesting, I thought. We arrived in the dark and tip-toed in. His Mom and Dad jumped up to greet us. They were each at most 5 feet tall with big smiles even in the middle of the night.
The next morning, they told proudly of their culture. It’s Acadian up there. Mix of Eastern Canada (Nova Skotia, Anne of Green Gables), winter survival, and lots of family stories. That evening, Ham, beans, turnips, salted scallions, red hot dogs, filled the well-worn Formica dinner table. All made with love by Mom. I watched her operate, I saw that she had energy. She told stories of growing up with 10 siblings in a 2-bedroom house with no indoor plumbing. She had mastered making quote-unquote nothing into EVERYTHING SPECIAL. It’s like she could make a penny feel like a million bucks.
Growing up in Minnesota, “niceness” and small talk were the norm. “How’s the weather” was the big opening line and in our household we had a lot of rules about manners. On the second night there, I could see the main thing here was plain old being together. I was vegetarian at the time. At our second meal, his Dad blurted, “Hey eat some meat! Is something wrong?!Are you OK??” “No way, not me, you can’t make me,” I blurted back. You would think this would make for a tense, it would have at my childhood meals. But here, everyone laughed. Goofiness was part of the package.
I happened to have a miniature water pistol on my keychain at the time. (Not sure what possessed me to use it, but I could not resist). Here’s the scene: After mowing the lawn and loading wood into the cellar with Mom, Dad was dozing on the 80s era brown stagecoach patterned sofa [arms behind head like napping, with snoring sound here]. I tip-toed to the sink and filled up my pistol. Tee hee hee. Squirt squirt squirt. I squirted it right on his rugged bald head, then stepped back like nothing happened. He just opened one eye, turned, and chuckled.
The next morning, I met my boyfriend’s grandmother. It took just a one-mile walk up the only road in town to get to her old blue wood-paneled 2-bedroom house. Tidy as could be. She sat in the living room and talked about her children, grandchildren, and beyond. Positive energy emanated from her body, despite a fragile appearance. While everyone else was chatting in the kitchen area, I sat quietly with Grandmeme (pronounced Grand Mem May) in the living room space. I dared to lean in to whisper my curious questions, “How did you have 11 kids, how did you do it ?” Raising her thin vein-decorated hand, she slapped it down on her knee, smiled and leaned in too. “Well…you see……we did not have TV back then…" And she laughed, a look of delightful memories in her smile. Her main thing was love. It was like she had packets of love in her pockets and she was craving to send you home with one.
 I kept seeing this hard-working-knee-slappin’ spirit at every turn. How could you not feel at home with this family? After visiting we returned and had leftovers for lunch. The at-homeness I felt there prompted me to take a nap on the cozy couch.  Ahhhh, peace.
BRRRR!!!! – What was that!?  Zap zoop yikes! freezing cold water! I shot up and there he was, my boyfriend’s Dad pointing a REAL-LIFE SIZE WATER PISTOL at me! HE GOT ME BACK! Yes, right on the back of my neck! Ouch, cold! It turns out my boyfriend’s Dad kept a water pistol in the fridge to ward off critters. Oh my, what a moment. We all laughed so hard we almost peed our pants.  
Phew! After we caught our breath another homemade dinner was launched. The evening was capped off with some chill TV time: Die Hard (our choice) and Country Music videos (his Mom and Dad’s choice). My boyfriend was so relaxed with this simple evening. The main thing to him was getting to see his folks happy.
The next morning it was time to head back. I was seat-belted in for the 10-hour drive back to our college town, curled up in a hand-quilted blanket his Mom insisted I accept for my apartment. Ahhhhhhh, cozy. I began pondering and sifting over the visit. Well rehashing really--was I TOO much, would they ever have me back? (I was an insecure young lady for various reasons, but that’s a chat for another day). Anyhow, during our first stop to fill up on gas and bitter coffee, my boyfriend teased, “Hey….do you know what my Dad said? “Uhhhhh, oookaaay?” I whimpered, bracing myself. “…Well…he pulled me aside just now…” “Ya…and…?” “Well, you really wanna know?” “Just tell me!!!” (Arrrgh)….
He said: “She’s a KEEPER”.
I thought for sure he was going to say “you better be careful” but his Dad liked me! Wow! Really? Thankfully, I felt like my boyfriend’s folks were Keepers too. And the main thing is, we all stuck together. It’s been 30 years since I married that man. The main thing is still togetherness and love to keep each other going.

Musician

Rob Sylvain

Credits

To keep up with high school credits in the facility, I remember being told it was all set, just do as we were told. One task was filling out worksheets. For example, one day in the cafeteria, alongside my pressed plastic tray topped with breakfast food (yes I was eating it as advised by a nutritionist) and my textured red cup filled with orange juice, I read vocabulary and filled in sentence blanks using the definitions. My mind’s eye recalls it being about United States History, and easy.

I remember a group project for school credit one day too. All of us “students” were ushered into a room. Seemingly a high school science classroom-6 marble slab counters with surrounding stools. We were assigned in small groups, given poster paper and markers, told to work together to create a poster with certain parameters. There was discussion among us, like pulling teeth. I remember giving suggestions, getting confused, asking questions.

All the while with clinical staff  holding their clipboards in the far corner (aka “our instructors”). At one point a student in our group went to speak with that cluster, then two of them pulled me aside and said I was not allowed to stay. Essentially I was being “sent to my room”. Well, this was the familiar consequence of my childhood, so I left without fanfare. Later, I was counseled that I had been too “controlling” in my group.

By this time in my “treatment” I was tired of the word "control". Prior to hospitals, I answered questions in psychologist sessions where they informed us that my caregivers were too “controlling”, no practical solutions generated. This added tension to my family. Part of the “system” clearly was measuring me by my weight gain (my eating disorder stuff is a whole other layer which was real, but not the whole story, and I was trying at this point to eat well, but no way could I force my body to weigh whatever numbers they sought). And from this class project it was concluded I was socially “too controlling” and not being given a way to resolve whatever I did with my “classmates”. Just left alone in my room. I looked out the vertical blinds on my window, feeling defeated.

Graduation
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No matter how hard I tried, psychology was telling me that my family, body, and social self were broken beyond repair. Sorry 1980s magic, This was NOT working.

This is a DECISIVE MOMENT. I found my grit and essentially decided “FUCK IT”. Is this working? NO. So...I have to do SOME-thing.

My 14 year old mind created the decision tree below:

1. Is this working? NO
2. Can I do this by myself? NO, but can I decide to never give up? YES I WILL NEVER GIVE UP
3. Can my family help me? SOME. Can I try to collaborate? YES I WILL TRY WITH FAMILY
4. God?

1. My family taught me - Things that belong to others are valuable, they must be handled with care.
2. I think God created me.
3. So, I belong to God
4. So, I am valuable
5. YES, I WILL SEEK GOD AND TAKE CARE OF MYSELF BECAUSE I BELONG TO GOD.

1. Other unknowns and insecurities – DECISIONS 2-4 SAY I CAN DO IT

And this is what I did. I turned my attitude around and no one could stop me. Soon after, I was released from the hospital. It was a type of personal graduation. I graduated to a new definition. Determination now defined Lynn, not medical charts. I gritted and humored and believed through sports, music, some friends, faith adventures, and more. I am still here in 2024. I hope sharing some of my hospital memories helps someone somewhere.

​copyright Lynn Jodeit Ouellette, 2024

These 3 people “from the outside”
still stand out against the flood of stigma mental health treatment can rain down. 
They were like fishermen volunteering in their homemade boats to rescue townspeople treading water after a hurricane. They did not come across medical nor assigned, just like people
alongside others trying to survive.

Music Guy floated in and out of our treatment facility like it was a bohemian coffee bar on the East Side of Houston. He wore a corduroy vest and felt hat, wiffs of cigar smoke and old books lingered behind him. Music Guy walked comfortably, like he was catching a cup of coffee before his next gig. Music Guy said hello to you, as if you were an old friend who happened to be there eating a taco, someone to sit with for a moment to shoot the breeze. His demeanor was life-saving in my opinion because I just felt like an actual person around This Cool Dude. I can still feel myself sitting down beside him shyly on the piano bench, hitting the keys to peck a few notes. He accepted me and the other kids, connected with us about songs we liked and things we enjoyed doing. He would say, “Well, I like guitar, wanna hear a song?”. Listening to his tunes felt natural, like community. No big deal. When he was around, we relaxed and hung out with him, laughing.
Yes, laughing in a mental hospital, it is ok.

Lady in a skirt – I have a distinct memory of sharing freely with a visitor who came to my room. She had a slight floral aura, like a department store perfume sampler. She wore a plaid wool skirt and a buttoned blouse on top. Even though she seemed “buttoned up” on the outside, her demeanor felt soft and receptive. She told a story about her self and smiled. Lady in a skirt stepped in my room, but stayed in the small entryway. Lady in a skirt carried a notebook, but just held it loosely at her side, never wrote in it around me, and she did not approach the main part of the room with the bed in it.
This felt fresh, like she was legitimately
checking on Lynn, a person, not invading personal space or taking data.
Lady in a skirt stood there like a person, not a uniform, standing still, tilting her head. She asked a couple questions but did not demand answers. I asked her questions too. Her wait time let me capture a few of my many thoughts and say them aloud. I remember pondering aloud, “If I find girls beautiful, am I gay?”. Lady in a skirt accepted the pondering nonchalantly and said I had time to figure it out, it was normal at this age to explore these questions. We discussed little likes, dislikes, and a big decision I had to make about where to go after the hospital.. 

Family Peer--The other nicest person ever was a family member who treated me like a peer, like good company. Family Peer came into the facility, sat beside me in the hallway next to my room, and we leaned against the beige woven plastic washable wallpaper. Family peer seemed relaxed and asked, “So, what is it like in this place?”, with sincere curiosity and wonder, treating me like a regular person in some kind of adventure. No condescension or analyzation. No notebook or clipboard. This made me feel like I wanted to get out even faster because I had a friend.

These memorable folks did not seem to be following a script or curriculum. 
​But they gifted a life-saving lesson-ACCEPTANCE

Illustrated Book
​

The Colors
of Olleh


by
​Robdarius Brown &
Teiyonna Douglas

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