That time someone helped me instead of judging me

It was last winter. John was working in Georgia for a few days, and I was doing that thing I do sometimes where I insisted on trying to do things that can be a little difficult to do with one adult and two children because, damn it, I got this.

Horatio needed a better winter coat and both kids needed gloves or mittens. I took all three of us to a thrift store to see if we could find any of these items for cheap, and did see a pretty good looking toddler coat. While I was looking for mittens, Virginia announced that she needed to use the bathroom.

I looked around the edges of the store, and did not see a sign for restrooms. Then I asked at the checkout, "Do you have a bathroom we could use?" I knew there had to be a staff bathroom at the very least, and maybe they would take pity on me.

"It's out of toilet paper."

I whispered with Virginia about what kind of business she had to do and was about to argue that we could do without toilet paper if necessary, when the woman said. "Why don't you just go to Whole Foods?"

Whole Foods was a couple of stores down the shopping center and did have a very nice bathroom. I put down the coat and hustled the children out. We marched across the front of Whole Foods, straight for the bathroom. We walked into the Ladies' and towards the open handicapped stall, where Virginia froze in the doorway. It was an automatic flush toilet.

Virginia does not like automatic flush toilets. They are loud, and sometimes flush unexpectedly because the sensor is made for adult-sized people. We had had some difficulties with this before, but on this particular night, Virginia flat out refused to use the toilet. My patience was wearing a little thin and I was prepared to put her on the stupid toilet with or without her help, when a young woman entered the bathroom.

She didn't have any children with her. It is possible she was a mother, but she struck me as more of a college student who maybe nannys. She saw what was happening, to my great embarrassment, and smiling calmly said, "You can tie toilet paper over the sensor."

I thanked her sheepishly, locked the door, and covered the sensor with toilet paper. After I convinced Virginia that the toilet couldn't see her anymore, and wouldn't flush, she agreed to use it. Then we went back to the thrift store and bought the coat. And we bought new, overpriced mittens, at another shop.

As you might guess, we have to tie toilet paper around automatic flush sensors all the time now. Virginia doesn't get upset about using them anymore. And I remember that one time, when I was not at my best, someone understood and was kind.

Two Short Funny Stories

John's back has been hurting, so the other afternoon I offered to give him a massage. He laid down on the living room floor and I started rubbing his back. I looked up, and our cat Penelope was eying me from the futon. She sleeps there pretty much all day. She sat up and gave me a look. Then she opened her little mouth an meowed at me accusingly. She was jealous that I was petting John and not her!

Penelope crushing the futon.

At dinner recently, John got up from the table to get a beer. "Don't drink that, Daddy!" Virginia shouted. "You'll get drunk!"
"What are you talking about" I asked her.
"He already had a glass of wine!"
I said, "Virginia, Daddy can have two drinks and not get drunk. Now, if I had two drinks, I would be 'woooo'... fun."
Virginia looked at me conspiratorially. "Momma, you should have a beer."

Woo fun without beers.

The Ballad of the Birth Certificate

This is a story I'm working on. It is meant to have musical accompaniment, which will take me a little while to perfect. Although this account has obviously undergone some artistic interpretation it is based on real events.

Virginia is the daughter of a storyteller and a lawyer, so she came out telling stories and arguing. And because the next generation always has to add something on, she came out singing songs, too.

"I'm a rambler and a gambler a long way from home. If the people don't like me they can leave me alone."

Virginia picked up the guitar, ukulele, cow bell, recorder, kazoo, harmonica, train whistle, drum, tambourine, any instrument she could find. She couldn’t quite reach the piano keys, but she got pretty good with the iphone app.

Virginia was burdened, as many children are, with parents who seemed determined to make her life hard, so she often played the blues.

Before she was even born Virginia’s parents were making her life hard. They made the very unconventional decision to have Virginia at home, which meant that Virginia had to acquire her own birth certificate.

She filled out the paperwork as best she could, she was only a baby, and then took herself down to the courthouse. You may wonder how she got to the courthouse and there is only one way for a rambling one-baby-band to travel, by The Wabash Cannonball.

Virginia jumped off the train, hit the ground with three or four instruments tumbling around beside her, and then went through security at the courthouse. All her cases were scanned by the x-ray machine and when security saw that there was nothing in them but music-making devices they let her through to the Probate Court.

Virginia couldn’t quite see over the counter at Probate Court so she stacked up all her instrument cases and slid her form through the window. The woman behind the window told Virginia she hadn’t properly filled out the little boxes.

“These little boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky-tacky” said Virginia, “pertain to the home where I was homebirthed. You see my parents don’t own or rent that home. My Sugar, that’s my Grandma, lets us live in her house for free. She wrote up a statement saying so, it’s all here.”

That Probate Court lady was just listening to Virginia and smiling and talking with her about those little boxes that weren’t properly filled out. But a singing one-baby-band does not go unnoticed and the Probate Court lady’s manager stepped up to the counter.

“We can’t file this form.”

“Why not?”

“Those boxes aren’t filled out right. I’m not going to waste my time by filing this  

incorrectly filled out form.”

“I don’t have the information those boxes are asking for.”

“Only illegals, poor people, and hippies don't have birth certificates. The form should be hard to fill out. Not just anybody can be an American citizen.”

“Are you really going to deny me a birth certificate over those boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky-tacky? There’s no arguing that I got born. I’m standing right here.”

Crash!

Virginia was standing right there until her tower of instrument cases fell over leaving her dangling by her fingertips from the counter. At that moment a sheriff's deputy caught her, set her on the ground, and told her to leave the Probate Court.

Virginia dusted herself off. “I’m trying to get a birth certificate…”

“You threatened this woman.”

“I didn’t…”

“She pushed the emergency call button.”

Virginia had no choice but to follow the deputy into the lobby.

“Look, sir, there has been a misunderstanding. I’m just a baby. A one-baby-band. I didn’t threaten anybody.”

Three more deputies showed up. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the courthouse.”

“What? No. I’m here to file this form so I can get my birth certificate.”

Five more deputies came out of nowhere. They surrounded Virginia. The deputy who had escorted her out of Probate Court pulled out his baton.

“My job is to protect the employees of this courthouse. That woman in the Probate Court felt threatened, so you have to leave… One way or another.”

“You wouldn’t strike a one-baby-band.”

There was a noise between a kathunk and a twang. He brought the baton down on the guitar, cracking it in two.

“You are one baby banned from the courthouse. Now get out.”

She dared a parting shot as she herded her instruments and cases out the door: "You can break my guitar, but you can't break my spirit. I will not be silenced."

Virginia hopped back on the Wabash Cannonball and took it into the big city to talk to Vital Records.

“The Probate Court won’t file this form because I can’t fill in all the little boxes, little boxes, little boxes made of ticky-tacky, but I’ve got some extra information right here that’s just as good. Will you take it?”

“Yes...But it still has to go through Probate Court.”

“The police make it hard wherever I may go…”

“I’ll send them a note explaining your case.”

“Actually, can I send it to them? I have some...things I’d like to include.”

Vital Records wrote the note and handed it to Virginia. Back at home she made up a package with several of her dirty diapers, and the note on top, so they’d be sure to see it, and she sent it off to Probate Court.

She waited a few days to make sure they got the package, then hopped the train to the courthouse. She piled all her instruments on the conveyor belt, where they got x-rayed. And she went back into Probate Court.

Virginia made a tower of her instrument cases and peaked over the counter. The nice lady on the other side said, “Oh, I think we got a note about you. Birth Certificate, right?”

Virginia handed over her form with the notes attached. The nice lady took it from her with a smile. But the manager had noticed Virginia come in. It’s hard to miss a one-baby-band.

She walked up to the counter. “Your note stinks.”

“Sure does, ma’am. Be on the lookout for another one. I’m sending you the bill for my new guitar.”

Doing it Right

I didn't do a post right at the end of the spring semester - the end of the first year of my doctoral program. But I think right now, today, is actually a better time to reflect on this mile marker.

This weekend I completed my first fringe festival, in which I performed with three other talented storytellers as the Bad Ass Storytelling Quartet. We did four shows in four days, and I also told a three-minute story at the preview of all the fringe acts. We met other amazing performers and were surrounded by audience members who appreciated art for art's sake. I've recently resolved to look for more opportunities that allow me to be myself and not worry as much about the ones that would require me to change my shape to fit the mold. Fringe is an excellent place to be yourself and, for the most part, fringe attendees are really into it.

Our group did get the audience choice award, which was a nice finale to the whole experience. And the bit of extra cash will be nice, too - always a bonus to get paid for doing what you love. But the energy in the room during most of the performances was enough. Even more interesting was that the large ensemble people's choice went to another storytelling group (KSU Tellers), so look, the art of storytelling is alive and kicking.

So far, this seems to have little to do with my first year as a PhD student, but pursuing a career that allows me greater connections with storytelling has been important to me. I was able to find the time to do this performance, and I guess I've spent more time recently philosophizing on the general value of what I do. Stories really can change the world!

But also, as of today, I've gotten my final grade for the semester. (I had an "incomplete" so I could get a short extension on a final paper.) This experience has been interesting. I have a hard time taking criticism, although I realize its importance. There has been a lot of criticism, but also genuine support. Every critique of my work has been, not to point out my flaws as much as to help me be better. I really feel that everyone here wants me, and the other students, to succeed.

I've had moments of self doubt, but I have realized that tough criticism will lead to better work in the end. And, actually, the work I've done isn't bad at all. It is good, and with some refinements, will be amazing.

There have been times in my life when storytelling was the one area where I felt like I was doing something "right." The one area where I felt like people appreciated my work. I was a different person when I was storytelling.

I came home from the fringe festival to an affirmation that I am making it as a PhD student, not barely hanging on, but really making it. I'm doing something right. Today I didn't have to step down from the high of a successful series of performances to the low of fumbling through everyday life. My everyday life is just as good. And I love it.