over the edge

I blame it all on Cliff Droke.

Cliff Droke was a local celebrity at Emory & Henry College for one reason. He had an outrageously over-the-top conservative talk radio show on our local college station. His job in life was to piss people off. And he was basically very good at his job.

Let me back up. When I was nineteen, I inherited the coolest car that I have ever owned ~ a red Volkswagen Fox ~ from the coolest relative I will ever have. My Uncle Ken was a wonderful guy who died an untimely death way too young. I'm the same age this year that he was when he died as a matter of fact. Stories about him and his passing and what that meant to my college self go elsewhere. But his car and the way I felt about receiving it definitely apply here. I went everywhere in that car. I listened to the cassette tapes I found in the glove box like I was trying to unravel mysteries about Ken’s life I didn’t know. The first day I got the car I put 75 miles on it just driving all over the Emory/Abingdon area. That evening, I went up into the Emory cemetery, sat on the hood and smoked half a pack of cigarettes all by myself, watching the sun go down, feeling sad and romantic and grown-up.

So, back to Cliff Droke. We are now about six months after I’ve received the car. On this night, Cliff Droke’s topic du jour was the gays.

I was, in fact, driving over to my college gay boyfriend, Matt’s, house to pick him up so that we could go to the Omelet Shop. It was our habit in those days to go there for two to three nights of the week and sit for hours in the middle of the night as we ingested mass quantities of coffee, eggs, toast, and Norton’s Anthologies.

When I got to Matt’s house, I parked the car as Cliff Droke was spewing Bible verses, and I was fuming mad. I went inside to tell Matt that I would be sitting outside waiting for him while he finished, you know, fluffing his hair or something.

I couldn’t have been inside longer than 90 seconds.

When I came back out, everything was dark. There were no lights on in Matt’s parking area. I didn’t think much about it at first. We were in rural, southwest Virginia. It was a dark night in early spring, a cold sprinkling rain was just starting. I suddenly realized that I couldn’t hear my car running or the radio or anything. It must have stalled out, I thought to myself.

I am pretty nightblind, and so my strategy most of the time in circumstances like this is just to walk until I run into the thing I’m trying to find. But this time, I walked and walked until I ran into the concrete retaining wall at the end of the parking area.

And that’s when it dawned on me – My car is not here!

I thought about it a bit longer. When I got out to go inside, I was sitting in a flat area, so even though it was a stick shift, I didn’t set the parking break. But when I got out of the car, I was so mad, I had slammed the door. I must have set it into motion.

I took off running down the driveway in sheer panic and then something caught my eye far off to the right in a gathering of trees. There they were…my headlights. Sticking straight up in the air. My brain couldn’t comprehend it.

I remember, in the movie Tremors, the aliens sucked this car under the ground, and the last image you saw was from far away. The headlights went straight up into the air before they disappeared. That’s what this looked like. How could my headlights be pointed straight up like that?

I ran across the yard and approached the car still not understanding what it was I was observing. Which is why, when I reached out to touch the car, my feet flew out from underneath me, and I found myself tumbling down the 15 foot, 80 degree embankment that the car was sitting in.

There I was, completely dazed, having found the barbed wire fence that the car had taken out on its way down, laying in the pool of water that was beginning to collect in the gully next to the road that I had just discovered I was now next to. Cliff Droke’s voice was still barking out hell and damnation from inside the car.

The next thing I can remember is that I heard God’s voice from above.

Are you ok?

That didn’t make any sense. God generally knows whether or not you’re ok. But the voice sounded so strange, and again, it was coming from directly over my head. Remember, I was having quite a hard time understanding the physical dynamics of the situation I was in. Finally, I started to take it all in, and I realized that God, at that moment, was my gay boyfriend.

“I’m fine, but I really don’t know how I’m gonna get out of this mess.”

The first thing I decided that I needed to do was to turn the car off. In order to accomplish this task, I had to reach up, open the door, jump two feet off the ground, grab the steering wheel with my hands (feet dangling off the ground), reach in and turn off the ignition, lights, and radio. While I was performing these Lara Croft-style antics, the whole thing began to creak like it was about to turn over. So, I let go of the steering wheel, pulled my hands out fast before the door slammed shut, and slid back down the embankment on my belly.

By this time, Matt had walked all the way down his driveway and back up the road to where my car was, um, resting so that we could walk back to his house and begin the painful process of making phone calls: 1) the tow truck; 2) my parents.

Only partial reality had begun to set in for me. I was at that point in a crisis when your brain begins playing tricks on you and you start thinking completely outrageous things. Like maybe this is a very permanent situation you’ve put yourself in.

“You don’t understand,” I found myself crying to Matt, “They’re never going to get it out of there. They’re going to have just plant flowers in it and call it the Shannon Turner Monument to Stupidity.”

When we got back to the house, I showered off a bit and Matt gave me some clean, dry clothes. Unfortunately, we did all that before I called AAA because when I was speaking with them, the last thing they said was, “Could you leave the hazard lights on for us to aid the process of finding the car?”

Yep. I had to traipse back out there and repeat the process of reach up, open door, jump, steering wheel, jerk hands out, aaaaahhhhh….

When the tow truck finally arrived an hour later, I walked up to the window and knocked on it. The driver was literally sitting there with his head in his hands. “Hi,” I said. “I’m the person responsible for this mess.”

“I just have one question,” the bewildered man replied. “How?”

You see, he didn’t understand that there was a house and land up above. He thought that I had somehow managed to drive my car directly sideways from the road up the embankment. When I explained to him the real course of events, he thought I was slightly less crazy. Slightly. It didn’t make his job any easier though.

He pretty much had to put a giant hook under the trunk of my car and drag it out. I’ve rarely heard a more sickening sound in all my life. And the visual of watching it bounce down and out, careening across to the other side of the road. It was like witnessing a slow motion wreck.

While the trunk was crumpled, the car was still structurally sound, so my dad and I decided only to get the taillights fixed. Six days after I got the car back from repairs, someone else rear-ended me, and I was able to negotiate with their insurance company that, rather than suing for damages for my whiplash, they would pay to fix the whole trunk situation.

I loved that car. I drove it practically until the wheels fell off. Fortunately, the wheels didn’t fall off that time, or any of the other times I abused it. It was one of my best friends in college.

Liberation

It was one of those days in the middle of May when it was absolutely torturous to still be in school. The smell of late spring wafted in through the windows, making us absolutely drunk with the feeling. Summer. Was. Approaching.

And not just summer, but the end of middle school. Soon, we would be free.
Actually, in Kingsport, Tennessee the smell that wafted in through the window in late spring or any season was the noxious mixture of the Eastman Kodak and Meade Paper plants. But this story is not about the environmental politics of an industrial Appalachian town.

It’s about middle school politics.

The moment that I exploded came during a Monday morning homeroom. Morning announcements were over. The pledge of allegiance had been said. Most had settled into that quiet five-minute period when everyone was supposed to be concentrating on the homework they should have done the weekend before.
My concentration was broken by a quiet snicker.

“Get a look at those things.”
“What?”
“Those shoes. They look like clown shoes.”
“Oh, hell yeah. They look like they could walk up walls or something.”
“What are those? Buddy Keds?”
“More like Super Keds!”

And that. That is the moment where I broke. I stood up, took the shoe off my foot, shoved it into the offender’s face and yelled…

“Do you see this shoe? Do you have anything else to say about this shoe?! Because I don’t appreciate you talking about me as if I and this shoe are the same thing!...”

I should back up here and explain a little more about the details, the context behind what led to this moment of inexplicable courage and unsolicited sermonizing.
John Sevier Middle School was made up of a class structure as strict and distinct as any third-world country ever invented. When we walked in the door of sixth grade, we were practically handed assignments on the first day.

Preps. Nerds. Rednecks.

The distinctions were unique, never to intermingle. Who were these different factions? Well, let me take a moment to introduce you to the various parties…

In this corner, and generally at the bottom of the social order, we had the rednecks. Rednecks were a little bit scary. They generally wore black t-shirts, often for country or heavy metal bands, and their hairdos involved mullets and highly teased and hairsprayed bangs that defied gravity. They smoked in the bathrooms and out back after school. Approximately 2-3 of them got pregnant per year.

Next were the preps. Being a prep was the most coveted status at Sevier. Their parents were doctors, lawyers, and executives at Eastman. Preps wore the best brand name clothes – British Knight tennis shoes, Sebago loafers, Guess jeans, Coca-Cola jersey shirts. They tucked their jeans down into slouchy socks with complete precision. Their hair was silky, even when permed, and perfect. They coupled off with each other. Back then, we followed their romances, like teens today follow celebrities. And even though they were only thirteen years old, we knew that their children together would be beautiful.

Finally came the nerds. Nerds were not necessarily smart, but many of them were. Nerds often wore off-label clothing and tried very hard to be cool despite their social awkwardness. A person could sometimes randomly and without much provocation be moved into the nerd category simply by falling from grace. My friend, Jeremy, had become a nerd when he earned the nickname “Skidmarks” on a band trip after getting food poisoning.

I, of course, was the queen of the Nerd Herd. I desperately yearned to break out of this mold. I knew that I could be better than this label. I loved my friends and knew that they were better than this stupid pigeonhole they’d been shoved into. Occasionally, we turned on each other. That was nasty.

But worse than the bickering amongst ourselves, there were the public and private, the big and the little, ways that the system picked apart our dignity on a near daily basis. Sometimes hourly. Everything about the way it worked was built on keeping us bullied and cowed and in our place. I quietly tolerated the abuse.

The movie Dirty Dancing came out in 1987, the summer between seventh and eighth grade. Among other things, it skyrocketed Keds to top of the charts of our middle school clothing fantasies. Well, Keds and cut offs. Cut offs I was able to score quite easily. The Keds were another thing altogether.

My mother was a particular non-believer in name-brand clothing. She would gladly buy me a $5 pair of Keds-style tennis shoes at Wal-mart, but they were always missing that extremely important blue tag on the back of the heel. I had fantasies of going into a regular shoe store, discretely ripping the blue tag off of a real pair of Keds and hot-gluing it to the back of my imposters.

On the weekend before this fateful Monday morning, I had been helping my mother clean out her closet in preparation for a yard sale. Somewhere, in the back of said closet, I found them. A pair of Keds so dirty, grass stained, and old, you would have barely recognized them. Let us be clear. They were from the 70s. They had red stitching and laces. These were not the current fashionable Keds that I had so long yearned for. But they were Keds. And so I had gone tromping out of the house that day wearing shoes that were two sizes too big for my feet just because of the blue tag on the heal. I just didn’t get it. Nor did I know what I was in for.

So, back to our scene…

“Get a look at those things,” said Tommy.
“What?” asked Pepper.
“Those shoes. They look like clown shoes.”
“Oh, hell yeah. They look like they could walk up walls or something.”
“What are those? Buddy Keds?” chimed in Cameron.
“More like Super Keds!”
“Can I get a demonstration?”

“Buddy” was the worst insult you could attach to anything. Buddy was a way of indicating something was not the name brand or exactly the right conformity and therefore just generally subpar.

As I sat there, listening to the taunts build, I started to feel this intense pressure start to build up in chest. I imagined myself like one of those cartoon character teakettles. In many ways, this was really no different than the casual-to-intense ridicule that I and my other friends had endured on countless other occasions. I’m not sure why, on this day, I reacted so differently. Perhaps it was the spring air.
Perhaps it was the complete indignation that came from the particular insult, hurt, and confusion that came from striving so hard around the whole Keds issue.

For one reason or another, like a teakettle, I began to scream.

I shoved the offending object into Tommy’s face.

“Do you see this shoe? Do you have anything else to say about this shoe?! Because I don’t appreciate you talking about me as if I and this shoe are the same thing. Do you have anything else to say about this shoe?”

Stunned silence.

“Here. I’m going to leave this shoe here for you to talk about it while I’m not in the room. And here you can have the other one too.”

With that, I took off my other shoe and threw them both down at Tommy’s feet. I booked it for the door. Now, I don’t know where I thought I was going at 8:30 in the morning with no shoes on my feet and no money in my pocket, but I was getting the hell out of there. When I got into the hallway, I heard the voice of my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Byrd, behind me: “Stop right there.”

I turned around; there she stood. And behind her were Tommy, Pepper, and Cameron looking like they had just seen the door to an alternate universe open up before their very eyes. She looked at them. She looked at me. “Now, I was just wondering if you have anything else you’d like to say to these people.”

“Well, yes, I do…! I’m so sick of you and you and you and ALL OF YOU and the way you make fun of us all the time. I’m so sick of it. It’s not human. It’s been three years of this crap. Who do you think you are?...”

I went on and on in this long stream of consciousness monologue. I was JFK. I was MLK. I was Ghandi reincarnated in a 13-year-old white middle school girl's body. I said everything that I’d ever wanted to say. And I said it well…

“…And just because my father doesn’t work alongside your father doesn’t mean he doesn’t put his pants on one leg at a time. And from here on out, I’m telling you, I’m not taking your shit anymore.”

With that, I came to a screeching halt. I knew I’d crossed a line by using the swear word in front of the teacher. And really, I’d meandered into a little bit crazy territory with the father/pants part. Mrs. Byrd looked at the three perpetrators and asked, “Do you three have anything to say?”

A quick and half-hearted round of “sorries” was passed out. With that, they all turned to go back into the classroom. And that was the moment that my seeming triumph turned into complete and utter horror. I realized that every single doorway on the entire eighth grade hall was open. Dear God. Every person in the entire eighth grade had heard my tirade. And then it dawned on me. If they hadn’t heard it first person, they would certainly hear about it through others in short order. I went back into the classroom, put on my shoes, gathered my books, and waited for the bell to ring. The first two periods were remarkably quiet. I thought that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal after all.

But then, in third period Math, we had a substitute, which generally provided the space for a lot of sparring and banter. The energy in the room was very weird. I wasn’t entirely sure if it had to do with what had happened, but I had a sense that maybe it did. At the end of the class, a girl I’d never spoken to in the entire three years we’d been in school together dropped a note on my desk:

“Dear Shannon: I know we don’t know each other very well, but I heard about this morning. If you ever want to hang out, I’d really like that. You seem cool. Chrissy”

At lunch, all of us Nerds had an opportunity to gather and reflect on what a coup I had managed to pull off. We were joyous. We walked around with our heads held high, meeting people’s gazes straight on. My friend, Jeremy, joked that he wanted to make a t-shirt that said “I’m proud to be Shannon’s friend.”

Just after lunch came gym and that’s where stuff got even stranger. Girls from every part of the social spectrum surrounded me. I think some were just fascinated – like maybe they thought I was going to kill myself and they wanted to get a look at me before that happened. Most of the rest just wanted to talk about the outrageous course of events.

By the time I made it back to my locker, I found that it was crammed full of notes. Expressions of good wishes. Kids asking questions. A few were less than well intentioned. But even that didn’t bother me. Because for that one day, I was the most popular girl in school. As embarrassing and strange as it was, I had somehow managed to transcend.

Two days later, someone thought it would be very cute to trip one of my friends on her way to the bus, thus ending our brief foray in the sunlight. Soon enough, we would all go our separate ways for the summer. And then would come high school. High school brought the promise of reinventing oneself. Two middle schools came together there. Lots of room to spread out. You could specialize more with activities. Get lost in the pursuit of things. At least, that was the dream we all clung to.

And sometimes, even today, when I’m feeling bad about myself, like I just don’t do enough to make this world a better place, I think back on that day and smile and remember the way I led my people to a new place by simply standing up and taking off my shoes.

_____________________________________

Click here to view the live version of me telling this story at The Moth in Atlanta.

hard work

I come to you today with one of the most serious discussions I've ever put before you.

My heart is heavy with a lot of pondering. But it is also light with a lot of new trust and discovery.

A few weeks ago I learned that something serious and scary had happened to my friend, Tufara.

Tuffy works for the Highlander Center. If you're not familiar with that highly esteemed organization, please check them out. They do important work in this world.

Part of Tuffy's job is to travel around developing new partnerships for Highlander. She recently went to a rural area to do just that. I'm not going to tell you exactly where because, if it's too far away from you, then you might just think you're somehow vindicated in this story and that's not the point.

She arrived in this new community at the appointed hour.

As she was getting out of the car, Tuffy overheard a voice: "They didn't tell us they were sending us a nigger." Right about that time, her cell phone rang. The person on the other end was a constituent from inside the building saying, "Tuffy, get back in your car and drive away."

Now, when I learned about this incident, I said, "I can't believe that things like that still happen in these days and times." I even posted that to Tuffy's Facebook page. "I'm shocked and indignant..." I believe is the way I put it.

Tuffy wrote back that she was shocked as well. Shocked that I was shocked. Given the work that I do, she wondered how I could not know that these evils still transpire every day.

So, I started thinking about that.

I believe that this is one of the subtle and nearly unrecognizable aspects of white privilege that we carry with us every day. It’s a mask. Kind of like the comedy and drama masks. The one of surprise. Oh?! That happens? We have to be reminded every time.

So, Tuffy and I have been having this very rich dialogue about it, strangely enough, facilitated by Facebook. And, I told her - here and now, I’m ripping off that mask in her honor.

She told me she believes the only way that racism will ever truly be over is when white people understand that it’s our work. Did you hear me? Our work. To take up the mantle and carry forth these discussions. To tell these stories. To recognize and lay down our privilege whenever and wherever possible.

I don't know what comes next, but my heart is heavy with pondering. And light with new trust and discovery. Let me know your thoughts...

on the market

Hello there, Friends and Fans!

Well, as it turns out, that New Year's Resolution wasn't quite as easy as I'd hoped it'd be. What can I say? I'm a louse! But, as a special Valentine's treat, I thought I'd bring you a special edition from the adventures in online dating.

So, just to bring everyone up to speed, the fellow that you may remember me mentioning back in the fall lasted a whole whopping two months. That is, if anyone's keeping tally, a world record in RedCricketteLand. We give him mad props. Much was learned. And hopefully, over time, these lessons will just continue to bear fruit.

I know that in the past I've regaled you with many tales of hilarity, but I'm just not going to do that tonight. Because it's time that I get down to being honest. I'm kind of funny. And the ability to be funny has been a very good mask to hide behind rather than face the truth of it all.

But not tonight. Tonight, the bare, naked truth.

I'm done.

And I don't mean I just don't want to continue to go out on a bunch of these dates and amass humiliating stories so that I can tell them to people later.

I mean I am finally ready to admit to myself and the world that I would very much like to be partnered in this life.

There. I said it. And it didn't even hurt. Much.

So, with that said, I'm sending along my profile to you, my closest 100 friends and colleagues. I figure if you get a chance actually to see the way I'm describing myself and this magical person I've yet to meet, perhaps you've met him and just didn't think about how fantastic we'd be together. I kind of doubt that. More likely though, I figure you can help me meditate on this. Print it out and put it on your refrigerator or shrine or in your toilet reading pile. Maybe, if 100 more people than just me are thinking about it, we can manifest the energy that it'll take.

Now, before you read any further, I'm not open to criticism about this profile. You can't get all judgy-judgy about the little white lies I may have told about myself or that I could have chosen a better picture. If you think you can do better, get your own profile. One person has already told me she thinks this profile shows me as too picky and that got a big harumph from me. We already knew that. My Memaw, God rest her soul, told me that I was too picky. I'm gonna call it discerning.

I suppose that should be about all the preamble you need. I appreciate your careful, prayerful consideration. Happy Valentine's Day!

Cheers,
Shannon

redcrickette
Tagline: People say I'm crazy doing what I'm doing...

34-year-old woman
Atlanta, Georgia, United States
seeking men 30-40
within 5 miles of Atlanta, Georgia, United States
Relationships: Never Married
Have kids: No
Want kids: Someday
Ethnicity: White / Caucasian
Body type: About average
Height: 5'3" (160cms)
Drink: Occasionally

In my own words

for fun:
watch movies (especially independent/foreign films); bike; cook; listen to NPR; I especially love cooking while listening to NPR; I LOVE to listen to music while cleaning and rock out in between; occasionally write poetry and blog.

my job:
I work for an arts and social justice organization that provides grants, training, and networking opportunities for community-based artists throughout the south.

my education:
MFA in Arts Administration

favorite hot spots:
the DeKalb Farmer's Market, Pine Lake, Little 5 Points, Piedmont Park, Asheville, Chicago, New Orleans, Italy

favorite things:
Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Etta James, Patty Griffin, Nick Drake, Ray LaMontagne, Amos Lee, R.E.M., Van Morrison, Jonathan Safran Foer, Hulu, Thai Food, Indian Food, my vegan soups, Dollhouse, Mad Men, your friend's obscure youtube channel

last read:
"Spider Speculations" by Jo Carson (who happens to be a friend of mine)

About my life and what I'm looking for:
I dare you to show me you're really an original. Genuine without being sickeningly sincere. I'm looking for someone who is kind and has a good sense of humor ~ that perfect blend of Jimmy Stewart and Jon Stewart. Not caught up in the rat race, while still being mission-driven and passionate about one's work; i. e. should know how to draw boundaries around work and "self time." Must like jazz. 

Love me - love my gay friends ~ no homophobes allowed. 



I am not a head-turner, but I am told I'm pretty funny. Ask me about my Southern belle jokes. 

I love life. And I especially love my life right now ~ my job, the place I've come to at this point in the journey, and being here now. I'm pretty smart; I care deeply about working toward a better world, and I can see both sides of almost any issue. 



Having been a DJ in college and for some weddings, I've amassed a fairly eclectic collection of nearly 15 days of music on my computer. This has also led to a special series called the Hoo Hah Mixes. 



Basically, you need to be old enough to take care of yourself, young enough to still be curious about the world. Strong enough to know what you want in the world, and bold enough to call me on my $%^&. Laugh with me, read books together in bed with me, acknowledge that farts happen, and meet me out back at the compost pile. Ok, maybe we can take care of each other. 



P. S. You get 100, 000 points if you know where my tagline comes from without looking it up.


About me

Hair: Auburn / Red
Eyes: Hazel
Sports and exercise:

• Cycling
• Dancing
• Other types of exercise
• Swimming
• Walking / Hiking
• Yoga

Exercise habits: Exercise 2-3 times per week
Interests:

• Book club/Discussion
• Camping
• Coffee and conversation
• Cooking
• Dining out
• Exploring new areas
• Gardening/Landscaping
• Movies/Videos
• Museums and art
• Music and concerts
• Nightclubs/Dancing
• Performing arts
• Political
• Shopping/Antiques
• Travel/Sightseeing
• Volunteering
• Wine tasting

Education: Graduate degree
Occupation: Nonprofit / Volunteer / Activist
Income: $35,001 to $50,000
Languages: English
Politics: Very Liberal
Sign: Leo


[Oh, one more thing, please understand that there's a lot of formatting on the actual profile page that gets lost in translation here, so this might not make total sense looking at it this way. I tried to reformat it as much as possible, but, well, you know how it goes...]

health care in America

Dear Friends and Fam,

One of my New Year's Resolutions was to blog more. Here I am, six days after New Year's, and just now getting around to it. I think this one might be tougher than going to the gym. I seem to be experiencing some spiritual malaise that extends to my fingertips. But I promise to try to do more better.

So, with the same effort that it takes to strap on those neglected jogging shoes, squeeze into that unflattering pair of stretch pants, dust the cobwebs off the IPod, and step out into the unforgiving January air, here it is -- my long-awaited return to blogging...

And it is: a rant about the American health care system and why I believe that our current national debate about it must bring about real, authentic, substantive change.

Alternate ROOTS founder, Jo Carson, discovered this summer that she has colon cancer. Jo is an extremely accomplished writer, having published several books and plays, not to mention her many residencies across the country as a playwright for community-based plays. In short, this woman is the definition of successful.

Despite all that, she is not, as you might say, "well off" financially. And she is independently insured, as many artists are, if they are able to afford insurance at all. Many are not.

Jo's course of treatment involved radiation, surgery and chemo. Within four months, before she ever got to the surgery, she'd already racked up nearly $20,000 in medical bills.

Now, Jo was lucky in that she had some particular resources at her disposal. We at ROOTS gladly became the fiscal agent for the fund raising effort on her behalf, which meant that Jo could avoid some of the tricky tax issues that come to bear when people donate money. More importantly, through her own fabulousness and through colleagues, Jo was able to have a celebrity champion her cause. Peter Sagal of Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me! on NPR blogged about Jo's plight [read here] and as a result her story went all over the country.

And people responded.

We took in all of the money Jo needed for the first phase of her treatment and will even be able to provide some toward the surgery. It was a tremendous outpouring. Everyday I became more overwhelmed by people's generosity as the credit card and check donations in large and small portions came in. Not to mention the loving notes and personal stories that accompanied their contributions.

It really changed my perspective on human nature a little bit.

But, you know what? With every donation, I would also think about all of those other people out there who don't have a celebrity champion and a nonprofit to back them up. Folks who have to declare medical bankruptcy and even some who are forced to get a divorce because it's legally better not to be married when faced with that kind of debt. What kind of world - or nation - asks that of people just because they have the nerve to get sick?

And even for Jo, what now? There's the rest of the surgery to pay for, and the chemo still to go...

Even in my own journeys with the American medical system, I've said on more than one occasion that it's like falling down the rabbit-hole like Alice in Wonderland. When you enter the doors of Western medicine as a patient, you end up feeling like down is up, left is right, and you're never going to get a straight answer. "Curiouser and Curiouser" becomes a way of life.

Because of all these experiences that I and folks like me have had, I just assumed that most folks really did agree that the health care system needs a radical revision. It was just the muckety-muck politicians that were duking it out in Washington, but most of us out here in the real world understood that everything was pretty much in need of a giant overhaul.

But, when I went home to Tennessee for Christmas I got a stark reminder of how divided our country has become. I was struck by the way the Political Action Committees have bought up hours of commercial time in those districts, which are by and large conservative. They've poured thousands of dollars into airtime there in order to make these horrifying commercials that you wouldn't believe. I mean, these ads are like "they are gonna kill your babies, haul your old people off to death camps, and steal your family jewels in order to finance health care reform." Every other spot was about it. I was stunned.

I just kept thinking about how these are the folks who are constantly comparing the Obama camp to Nazi Germany, but the propaganda that's being propagated by them is just painful. And it is propaganda.

I hope that, after all this vigorous debate, we do enter into a new era for health care. Last spring I was just naive enough to believe that it was all possible. Now, I'm thinking it's just going to be watered down drivel meant to make the democrats feel good about themselves and really accomplishes nothing. I'm heartsick that there's no public option. Having been independently insured on more than one occasion myself, I know how great it would be to have, well, the option.

Ok, enough. Wow. I did it. It was easier than I thought it would be. Sort of. Next time it'll be even easier. Hopefully.

Hope you're all well. Hit me back with news from your neck of the woods.

Cheers,
Shannon

If you'd like to read more about Jo Carson, read here and here.

being "nice"

So, one of the things that's been said about me in the past is that I can be "too nice." It doesn't sound like a bad thing really, when you think about it. But, several of my friends in the past have said that I have a tendency not to draw good boundaries. Around work. Around people and their eccentric personalities. Around whatever.

What can I say? I'm a people pleaser in many ways.

(I'm also secretly not always a nice person, and I think that's what I'm trying to cover up most of the time.)

Facebook is one of those places where the yearning - like Willy Loman - to be well-liked can come to the forefront. I mean, come on. The more "friends" you have there, the more you feel connected, worldly, dare I say popular?

It was shocking to me how many people came out of the woodwork on the day of the shootings. It was both incredibly touching and a little bit disturbing how people who never spoke to me in high school, who kicked me out of their sorority, and my old roommate that used to yell at me routinely, somehow found me on that day to make sure I was alive and safe. I think that there was a strong need to find some connection to the story ultimately. Anyway, many of the folks who found me that day did so through Facebook.

I think Facebook has this tendency to create a sense of false intimacy because suddenly someone that you barely know is scrolling up your screen with sometimes hourly updates of

• having just had coffee,
  
• having just returned from vacation,
  
• having recently become single,
  
• having a bad day.

These are things that I'm not sure I want to know about someone that otherwise I would have never seen again for the rest of my life.

Well, the point of this is that I had a very interesting thing happen last night.

Over the weekend I received a "friend request" on Facebook from a person that I couldn't remember but who'd clearly been a contemporary in high school. I accepted the request, took the voyeuristic opportunity to discover that she has a 15-year-old child (and took a few minutes to freak out about the fact that someone I went to high school has a kid that age)...and then I moved on. I didn't think another thing about it.

Until, last night.

Exhausted from a long day at work, I sat down at home with my computer to watch something mindless and heard that annoying little pop that indicates someone is trying to "chat you" on Facebook.

When I tabbed over to the page, I discovered it was this new "friend" of mine. She asked how I was doing, what I'd been up to, etc., etc. She told me about her life with four children, her blood clot, her love of animals.

But, the thing is, I really have no recollection of who this person is. I can't remember her at all. She clearly remembers me though.

And I couldn't bring myself to tell her.

I mean, how would you begin to say that? I couldn't do it. I just kept carrying on the conversation as if I was soooooo glad to reconnect. And then I cut it short with tales of my long day at work.

I'm left with this very panicky feeling every time I return to Facebook because I don't know what I'll do if she chats me again. Can I keep up the charade?

Your stories of overnicety would be welcome.

change is gonna come

Well, hello there, fellow travelers.

I know it's been a very long time since I've made a post. Truth is, I got into a bit of a rut there for a while. Too much TV, not enough friends. Too much work, not enough walks. Too much reality, not enough generosity.

So, I've made a change of late that I'm hoping will manifest other kinds of change.

Beginning in early May, I started to transition out of working for Synchronicity and into a new job at Alternate ROOTS. For now, my work with ROOTS is just a five-month contract. I will primarily be coordinating their Annual Meeting, which takes place in August in Asheville. The AM is a gathering of about 175 artists and activists from all over the country, but primarily the South. I have been an active member of ROOTS since 2005, and I am so pleased to be coming onto the staff in this way.

After this contract is over, I'm strongly considering moving to Asheville. While there are many things that I've enjoyed about living in Atlanta, I'm not sure that this is the place for me for the long haul. I've had a hard time establishing a sense of community for myself here.

So that's the quick update. I am sorry for my radio silence, and I sure do hope to be in touch again more regularly. Fingers crossed that the amusing or thought-provoking adventures like I've regaled you with in the past start finding their way onto my path again soon.

Until then, I remain steadfastly yours...

Cheers,
Shannon

P.S. And before you ask, there's been NO internet dating in about a year. I lost the gumption. ;)

for posterity's sake

Here is the link to my performance in Blacksburg last April: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Yryp7R4a7M

NEA moves closer to extra $50 million in funding

NEA moves closer to extra $50 million in funding

Posted on Back Stage's blog, 1/29/09
(borrowed from "You've Cott Mail")

The House approved $50 million in additional funding for the NEA. The measure still has to pass in the Senate, but it's a good first step. The bad news is there are people out there like Brian Riedl of the Heritage Foundation -- you know, the people who brought you the Iraq war, at a cost of $10 billion a month -- who think this is a waste of money. "Government policies that make people and workers more productive will increase productivity," he told NPR this week. "But simply borrowing money out of the economy in order to transfer it to some artists doesn't increase the economy's productivity rate. It doesn't help workers create more goods and services, and it won't create economic growth." Actually, for every $1 of federal, state, and local government funding that the nonprofit arts community receives, it helps to generate $7 in tax revenue, according to a report from Americans for the Arts, which says the NEA [also] generates at least $7 in additional giving for each dollar it grants. This $50 million isn't a heedless giveaway to "some artists" (which we guess Riedl sees as self-indulgent, half-baked baristas reinterpreting Strindberg with finger puppets). It's an investment in proven winners who give back much more than they receive. And if Merrill Lynch, Bear Stearns, and Lehman Brothers were generating a 7:1 rate of return, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

another ten lousy bucks

Hello, there blog friends! I hope you're all well and enjoying life in your respective nooks and crannies of the world. I know I did this before in the spring when we were in the nexus of fund raising for HERE, but some of you seemed to really enjoy the opportunity (not to mention the fact that I give money to your cause of choice when asked), so I'm doing it again. Please find below another Ten Lousy Bucks letter, and this time it's for my current employer [and life partner ;) ], Synchronicity Performance Group. We do really amazing work. You know that I wouldn't be working here if I didn't believe in it with all my passion. Read on...

December 5, 2008

Dear Friend,

Remember that old song from the Great Depression, "Buddy, can you spare a dime?" Well, this year, we're singing loud and strong..."Buddy, can you spare ten lousy bucks?"

"Excuse me?" you say. "You're crazy. Why should I give you my hard-earned ten dollars? Especially now?"

We'll tell you why. In fact, we'll give you ten great reasons:

1. Right now, your money will be doubled. That's right, some of our visionary donors have stepped up and offered a dollar-for-dollar match up to $50,000! So every dollar (or $10) that you give us gets matched and goes further.
2. The arts are key to stimulating the economy--and boy, we can all use a little stimulation right about now.
3. We believe that art inspires conversation and compassion--and so we encourage community involvement in all that we do--from Playmaking for Girls to ice cream talkbacks after the show.
4. Because, let's face it, your TV could probably use a break.
5. Synchronicity makes you smarter. Really! The arts make us smarter. Studies show that children who participate in the arts have higher SAT scores and do better in school.
6. Our Playmaking for Girls outreach program has been getting some serious attention for empowering girls in the juvenile justice system and in local Title I schools by helping them discover their own unique voices through theatre. That's worth at least ten bucks right there!
7. Our Family Series creates exuberant, inspiring theatre for children and adults...and it beats the heck out of watching "Hannah Montana" again.
8. Synchronicity supports women artists--from writers to actors to interns. Hey, women are half the population, and no one else in Atlanta is doing this important work!
9. There's a good reason they call it "nonprofit." Without your support, we can't keep producing smart, gutsy, bold theatre.
10. Did we mention that your donation will be doubled?

Okay, you've hopefully seen our productions. We inspire you to laugh and cry, and we give you lots to think about. Maybe you've brought your kids to one of our Family Series shows or attended our Women in the Arts luncheon. Or maybe you've already bought tickets to this year's amazing Naughty & Nice cabaret. We know you've got ten bucks in your pocket or at least in your bank account. Why not slip your donation into our website (click here) or send it in to PO Box 6012, Atlanta, GA 31107. What could be easier?

Don't make us wait. Send us ten bucks today. We promise--it'll make you feel great. We thank you from the bottom of our pockets (and our hearts).

Shannon Turner
Development Director

P.S. Of course, if you're feeling generous and want a crazy-go-nuts tax deduction, MORE than 10 bucks would be nice as well. We have some lovely merchandise to offer for gifts of $100 and up.

things that are helpful to know

So, for like weeks I had been hearing about this awesome fundraiser for this organization that is affiliated with Alternate ROOTS (an organization that I've been a member of for a long time now). This other organization is called Project South, and they've come to the ROOTS Annual Meeting a few times, and I was happy to support their work. Additionally, the name of the fundraiser was "Sex, Wine, and Chocolate." How could you not want to go to something called that? I knew it was a joint affair with another organization called SPARK, but I had never heard of them, and my understanding was that the purpose was to raise money and awareness about domestic violence. The event was billed as an "evening of sensual pleasure for women." Ok, I'm thinking, you know, fun, lots of chocolate, perhaps a tiara will greet me at the door, maybe a few bawdy jokes here and there, all in good fun, blah, blah, blah...

It didn't seem like the kind of thing I wanted to go to alone, but I don't really have a lot of girlfriends my age in the area yet. Especially ones who are not married and doing the baby thing. So, I invited my 58-year-old Indian neighbor, Pushpa, and I was especially hoping that she would bring her daughter, who's close to my age and who I've been trying to strike up a friendship with. Pushpa's daughter ultimately backed out because she's a doctor and doing the baby thing, so we together, an unlikely pairing, donned some sassy wear and ventured out on a fresh, fall evening.

When we arrived, we discovered that the fundraiser was, in fact, to promote reproductive rights. Also something I very much want to support, but it was my first clue that the evening was going to have a different, um, flavor than I had originally imagined. Pushpa had showed me the extra check she'd brought along in hopes that there would be a silent auction so that she could buy presents for other people. As we were checking in, we discovered that there was no silent auction, but then we learned that instead there was a raffle.

We made our way on over to the raffle table and found an array of prizes that might be won, from baskets that included gas cards and candy on up to the grand prize, a ladies luxury package, including a cruise for 2 and sex toys!! Yikes... (I looked at Pushpa out of the corner of my eye and tried to see if she was taking this in.)

I tried to move us quickly away from that table and on over to the next where there was lots of literature about the two organizations. Available for pick-up at this table were little, plastic items that looked like those coin purses that you squeeze on both ends and then the long line opens up to expose your change. But the longer I looked at them, the more I realized that they were oddly round, whereas change purses are typically oblong. And that's when it dawned on me, that these were designed to double as a condom holder. Pushpa picked one up and thought aloud, "I could take this home to my grandson. He loves to play with this kind of stuff." I just looked back at her, wondering which way this would go. Then she threw it back down and said, "Naaaahhh." Whew...

Then, we shuffled into the next room and discovered in the dim lighting and flashing bulbs that "Prom Pictures" are being made. Once again, I started to grimace as I saw all the props that have been laid out to be utilized for pictures, including handcuffs, whips, dog collars, and whipped cream. At this point, I had to wonder how much of this my companion is picking up on. Is she taking it all in? Completely oblivious? She seemed to be enjoying herself at least partly, but I was growing increasinly uncomfortable with every new turn.

Thinking we must have reached the height of decadence, we emerged into a room full of women and men naked from the waist up getting body painted quite intricately. AAAAAAAHHHHHH. I shuffles us quickly on through there, unable to look Pushpa in the eyes and then, thank god, we found ourselves in the main room and at the bar. Unfortunately, we discovered that, despite calling the event "Sex, Wine, and Chocolate," our $20 tickets did not pay for a single drink ~ it was a cash bar. I was so annoyed. I really thought there would be at least one glass of wine in it for me!

There was, at least, copious amounts of chocolate.

And, low and behold, a beautiful half naked African-American man draped across back of the table.

It was just too much. I couldn't take it any more. Claiming that the music was too loud ~ which it was ~ I grabbed a few cookies & chocolates off of the table and asked Pushpa if she would like to go back outside with me. Bless her heart, the poor woman doesn't eat sweets and doesn't drink. Why did she even agree to come with me to this thing?

Anyway, we hung out in the lobby for a long time watching the many fabulous characters as they entered the festivities. One highlight for Pushpa, I could tell, was when we discovered that the check-in table had started distributing Obama buttons after we had come through. She was intending to make up for her lack of chocolate in schwag somehow, and this was a perfect substitute for her. She went back to the table thrice. She walked away with 8 total. Pinned them to herself, her program, and made sure I got one too. My purse now says "HOPE all over me."

We eventually ventured back into the ballroom ~ Pushpa with napkin pieces stuffed in her ears ~ and tried to take it in for a while longer. But it was just so not our scene together. Finally, I turned to her, and said, "You know, if we leave now, we'll make it home in time for the debate." I think she kind of hated to acknowledge it, but sometimes you just have to admit it's not going to get any better.

We stopped at Trader Joe's on the way home. She had never been there before, and I wanted to show her something at least a little more up her alley to my estimation. It still didn't seem to be the right thing.

As we drove home, I still wondered to myself why Pushpa had come with me. She started talking about all of the other things that we might do together ~ go to thrift shop, the movies, etc. And finally it dawned on me...I think it was to get out of the house and not babysit her grandson for a while. It didn't really matter what we did together. We were just hanging out.

And I think we had fun, even if we did get a little, um, over-stimulated, as it were.

a quote from RFK, Jr.

Fascist writer Westbrook Pegler, an avowed racist who Sarah Palin approvingly quoted in her acceptance speech for the moral superiority of small town values, expressed his fervent hope about my father, Robert F. Kennedy, as he contemplated his own run for the presidency in 1965, that "some white patriot of the Southern tier will spatter his spoonful of brains in pubic premises before the snow flies."

It might be worth asking Governor Palin for a tally of the other favorites from her reading list.

-- Robert Kennedy, Jr.

the dark side of internet dating

In order to fully appreciate this post, it would be very helpful to listen to the following episode of This American Life.

Dear This American Life,

It is rare that I have the impulse to write in to one of the shows that I listen to regularly on NPR, and I have never honored that impulse. However, this week my real world came colliding with the world you had built for me through the radio in an unbelievable way.

Over the weekend, a co-worker of mine called to say that she would have to cancel her reservation for tickets at the theatre where we work together because the man she was coming with had his travel delayed. I didn't ask many questions because I don't know her well, only because we haven't been working together for very long. But when I mentioned it to my boss she said, "Oh gosh, I hope this guy's for real." When I inquired further, she explained that this man was someone that my co-worker, I'll call her K., had been getting to know over the internet and this was the first time they were to see each other and that his travel had been suspiciously delayed over the course of a week.

When we got together in the office on Monday, K. explained that the story, as she understood it, was that her supposed companion was Spanish, had worked in England for a while, but had been in Nigeria for the last bit of time. When he began his trip over, he was delayed in Miami due to weather for a long time, and then he made it to Atlanta, but they flagged his visa and wouldn't let him out of the airport. And then somehow ~ mysteriously ~ someone had managed to smuggle him out of the airport to a hotel, but he didn't know where he was because it was dark when he got there. The inevitable conclusion is that, of course, K. had given money already, and more was needed. To pay off a man in Nigeria. To help him find his way out of the hotel that he didn't know where he was. Etc. Etc.

They were calling her at all hours of night and day, but K. had put her foot down and would not give any more after the first amount. She was so overwrought.

And, of course, the entire time I listened to her story, my heart was breaking because I had just listened to your previous edition of TAL about scammers based out of Nigeria and the people who set out to catch them, which is the only reason that I knew for certain that this is all a sham. That man is not anywhere in the States.

When I mentioned the story to my friend and the other women that I work with, another colleague said, "Can you send that story to me too? Our box office manager is dating someone over the internet who supposedly lives in Nigeria as well."

I'm writing you because I have no one else to write to. And I thought that someone should know that these scammers have changed up their game plan. I'm afraid that they are preying on lonely, vulnerable women on internet dating sites. This feels much more insidious to me than the previous scams on suckers who should know better than to think that they can get money for nothing. The promise of love in today's volatile world is not something to be trifled with.

The thing is, every time I talk to K. about the situation, she says she's still answering the phone. She's clearly a very intelligent woman. She's taken more than a few harsh blows from life, and I would have thought that she would have walked away from this situation by now. She keeps saying, "My head knows that you're right. But my heart just wants to go there and see the empty hotel room before I can believe it."

I don't know what you can do with this information, but I had to feel like I was doing something.

Thanks,
Shannon
(a loyal listener)

the writing i've been promising you...

Dear Friends,

You may remember that I've been promising you for a long time that I would write something about the performance in Blacksburg at the anniversary of the shootings. I never seemed to be able to do that in this forum, but eventually I was asked to write an article for the Community Arts Network (see short description and direct link to story below, or you can just click on the previous link to CAN for the next week or so because it's the first story on the page).

Many of the members of HERE are subscribers to this blog: Thank you for your participation in this journey and the making of the story. Writing this article made me miss you and Blacksburg again terribly. Additionally, I had two wonderful editors, one in Colorado and one in North Carolina, both of whom served as midwives to the piece. Thank you both tremendously.

Hope to hear from you all about your respective journeys on the planet.

Cheers,
Shannon


Today CAN brings you "Community Conversations through the Arts: Artistic Response After the Virginia Tech Tragedy" by Shannon Turner. Turner was a graduate student in the arts and public dialogue when the shooting rampage broke out at Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007. She joined a disparate group of Blacksburg residents who formed HERE: Honoring Experiences, Reflections, and Expressions. They wanted to create a healing artistic response to the shattering events. Turner takes the reader through a year in Blacksburg, as HERE presents many community arts events that memorialize and examine the tragedy, culminating the "Community Conversations through the Arts," a creative showcase intended to give local, amateur performers an opportunity to perform on Blacksburg's Lyric Theatre stage on the first anniversary of the shootings. She also interrogates HERE's process and its criteria for the success of the project. Shannon Turner is a member of CAN's advisory board.



Go to this entry:
http://www.communityarts.net/apinews/archivefiles/2008/08/virginia_techs.php

a quote

by rilke

"And if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us."

“Eleven”

by Sandra Cisneros

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is.

Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.

"Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month."

"Not mine," says everybody, "Not me."

"It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so.

Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.

"That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

"Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not.

Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.

In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care.

"Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense."

"But it's not—"

"Now!" Mrs. Price says.

This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine.

That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay.

Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late.

I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.

do you wanna dance?

Given the somewhat depressing nature of the video I sent out earlier this week, I thought it would be nice to post something somewhat more uplifting that my friend Eleanor passed along to me, and which is guaranteed to make you smile and maybe even help you to tear up in a good way...

http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/videos.shtml

the story of stuff

Friends,

If you know me, if you trust me, follow this link and watch this 20-minute video. You've got the time.

http://www.storyofstuff.com/

This came along at an especially poignant time for me, as I've been unpacking things that I haven't used, and have been able to live without for 2 years. I'd be very interested to talk with you about it after you've watched.

Cheers,
Shannon

barack to the future

Hey, folks.

So, I just returned from a lovely eight-day trip to Colorado. The first four days were spent in Boulder with one my best friends in the whole wide world, Erica. We rocked the house with general funness, including buying a new-to-her car. We also sold her old one in four hours on Craig's List. I'm a new convert, for sure.

I spent the last four days in Denver at the National Performing Arts Convention. It was great, but overwhelming. Practitioners in the fields of dance, opera, choral music, theater, etc. came together for one giant convening. Interestingly, we encountered while we were there an instance of self-censorship amongst our ranks. I am going to write more about this incident on another occasion because I simply can't wait to get to what I want to tell you about...

At Synchronicity, we do our shows at 7 Stages in Little 5 Points, but our offices are actually in downtown Atlanta in the actual 5 Points area (very close the Underground). We work here because the office space is donated to us, which is a fantastic contribution to our bottom line. For months we worked with construction noise and all sorts of bizarre occurances as the place was literally being built up around us, and then one day it just kind of stopped. There was still the occasional electrician here and there, but for the most part, you could tell the building was in a holding pattern. It's run by a fellow who's name is, of all things, Pat Swindall (insert jokes here), and he has this very loud and overbearing voice as he comes barrelling down the hall barking orders to his staff. On occasion, Mr. Swindall would come through leading a tour of young lawyers or other professionals who were considering renting the office spaces all around us.

So, one day, just before I left for Colorado, a very interesting looking tour came through the building as I was walking down the hall--an entire entourage of very well dressed, very good looking African-American men. Pat pointed at our offices, and said "This is Synchronicity Theatre. They're a great bunch of ladies to work around and can tell you all about the arts in this town. Girls, you can work around the Obama campaign, can't you?"

Excuse me? The Obama Campaign?

Rachel, Amy, and I looked at each other, looked at them and said....

"Yes, we can!"

Unfortunately, we sort of geeked out and unleashed a few more cliches on them about how it would be a welcome "change," etc. But, I think they were amused.

Anyway, the entire time we were in Colorado, I would think about it, and sure as the world, when I got to work, here they are. It worked out. They signed the contract and they're here. But here's the hilarious thing. The well-dressed gentlemen, have been replaced by droves of twentysomething white kids in their shorts, t-shirts, and khakis. But, ultimately it's great. You can tell they're ready to hoof it. They're totally on fire. They don't know where the bathroom is yet, or how to work the copier, but they're so freakin' excited.

And I am too. Sometimes I answer the door just to have the opportunity to walk up with one of them and find out what brought her here or whether he would like to join me for a cup of tea in my office at 3.

It's going to be a great summer.

the omniblog

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. I’ve had a lot of different blog concepts rattling around inside my head, but none of them have fully materialized into a complete post. So finally, I decided that I would compress them all into one.

Ladies and Gentlemen: The omniblog.

#1 The last time I wrote was around the time that I went back to Blacksburg to finish up the work that I’d been doing there and host the show in honor of the anniversary of the VT tragedy. The show was amazing, and I still for some reason don’t have the wherewithal to write about it completely.

However, there’s one interesting part about that day that’s so a chapter completely and typically out of my life. On that morning, I got up and started to go downstairs to get some laundry out of the dryer. Important laundry because it contained pieces of clothing for my outfit for that day. My slippered feet met thickly carpeted stairs, and away we go. The next thing I knew, and sadly not for the first time in my life, I found myself at the bottom of the stairs.

This is why my mother refused to ever say “break a leg” to me on the day of a show. It was always so much more likely with me than with other thespians.

The unfortunate thing about my trip down the stairs is that, while my leg was actually fine, my arm was being dragged out behind me as I went. Now, here I sit about six weeks later and my shoulder is unfortunately still kind of ouchy. I finally went to the doctor last week. I am probably looking at a situation of, at the best, a pinched nerve and, at the worst, a rotator cuff injury.

Bleh.

#2 Another thing I’ve been thinking about a lot relates to this blog in general. Every once in a while, I’ll make a post that really gets a lot of you folks talking. There are about 90 folks who subscribe to this blog, and at times, I’ve heard back from nearly half of you on one particular subject. For sure, the internet dating stuff has been richly evocative for lots of people. I’ve heard some of the most bizarre and heart-warming stories. From a friend who’s supposed other “friends” signed her up for e-harmony without her knowing about it—until she started getting the emails from strange men!—to another friend who is a housewife raising two kids on a mountainside who told me she wished there was an e-harmony for her to be able to talk to other housewives.

My point in all this is that I wish that all you fine folks who are out there—people whom I’ve known and loved and laughed with at some point in my life, people who are now far-flung to places like Colorado, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Australia—had a way to see each other. I wish that your conversations with me were visible to each other. Because there's this whole sort of meta-conversation that happens. An invisible community that you don't realize you're tapped into.

There is, of course, a way to do that. And that would be if folks would be willing to use the blog itself, rather than remaining in the realm of email. But, many of you have told me that there’s no way that you have time to make the click over, so I understand. Life is busy and hectic, and I know that there are times when I would do anything to keep from having to be on email for one second longer.

#3 Speaking of the online dating theme. Many of you were pulling for ol’ Morgan after the vivid description of our fourth date that I left you with. Sadly, there were no more. I know, I know. How could he not want to be with me after such excitement and adventure? Well, it really didn’t have as much to do with the fourth date as an overall incompatibility.

Now I’m on a dating strike for at least the month of May. Not because of Morgan. I decided that, after all the running up and down the road I’d been doing for the first four months of the year, and given the way that dating was feeling like a never-ending job interview, I wanted to give myself a break so that it might feel like fun again eventually. So, I’ve been enjoying house & dogsitting for the month of May. It’s been rather like living someone else’s life for a while. I get up every day and go for a long walk with this beautiful Collie named Bella. I eat breakfast in a great, big kitchen with lots of natural light. It’s great. Dating, schmating I say. I’m on vacation. Sort of.

#4 Ok, so I’m not really on vacation because Synchronicity, the theatre company that I work for, had two plays going on this month, so I was really working my butt off most of the time. Still, Bella and I have of late been watching in our meager free time together a fantastic show from the BBC (rented through Netflix) called Ballykissangel. The premise is that a young British priest gets sent to a small village in Northern Ireland to become the curate at their parish, though there’s an older over-bearing priest who oversees his work at the larger village nearby. I can’t recommend this show enough for character, storyline, scenery, you name it. Plus, you could watch it with your grandmother if you wanted to (I must admit this is not usually a criteria I'm looking for in my entertainment, especially since one of my grandmother's is blind and the other one would rather talk your ear off than watch something). Back to BalleyK. (as the locals call it)...It’s mostly funny, but after a drastic plot turn I witnessed yesterday, I found myself nearly in tears over the avocados at the farmer’s market. You'll find yourself dreaming of a trip to Ireland quickly, for sure.

Ok, that’s enough thought strands for now. Would love to hear from you...