The Crying Man & The Can Man

Bridge to Terabithia was one
of my favorite "juvenile lit" books,
and they made it a terrible movie.

This weekend, my current boyfriend and I went up to Lake Lanier and explored several islands--from tiny ones no bigger than a beach with two trees to great big ones, miles long end-to-end, with their own ravines and deer and sub-islands and even ancient ruins.  It was a grand enterprise that made me feel like we were the adolescent boy and girl from Bridge to Terabithia.

While the trip was mostly a blast, full of beautiful, natural sites and wonder, there was one dark cloud that hovered over every stop we made.

Garbage.

Every single time we would roll up on a beach, seemingly pristine, almost like we were the first to discover it, wouldn’t take long before the evidence of previous human visitors became glaringly obvious.  With our boat perched on the sand, the promise of island adventure before us, sometimes I would just stand there for a second and stare at the strewn beer bottles and cans and styrofoam pieces, and think of old Iron Eyes Cody and what an impact that commercial had on me as a kid. (Although, ironically, I just learned in looking for this link that said memento contained a bit of controversy. Ah well, yet another childhood illusion shattered.)

This photo was blatantly
"borrowed" from here.

Christmas 1994

View from my window at the
Buffalo Mountain Camp Retreat Center.

Just last week, I found myself, quite unexpectedly, commit an act somewhat out of character for me. I was driving along when someone threw their trash out a car window right in front of me on a city street. Before I could even think what I was doing, I honked my horn and threw up a single, hot pink, gloved finger. Now, I really know better than this. Particularly in the neighborhood where I was driving, and really anywhere, it's best not to provoke strangers in such a manner.

I don't know why, of all the crimes and misdemeanors against humanity and nature that people commit on a daily basis, litter gets my goat so greatly. More than anything, I'm pretty sure it's because, even when not on a conscious level, it reminds me of my grandfather.

My Papa was a quiet man. He loved a few things in life, and he loved them all quite fiercely. When I think of him, I have sense memories of Wrigley's chewing gum, old fashioned thermoses tucked into old fashioned, black lunch pails as he left for work at the TVA plant, and coffee cans with paper towels stuffed into them to collect snuff spit.

In the mid 80s on into the early 90s, our family suffered an incredible amount of loss, including the unexpected deaths of two his three children, both in their early 30s; Papa's health began to decline as happens when a person enters into his last part of life. In the space of just a few years, he had open-heart surgery, both of his knees were replaced, and I think a couple other things I can't remember. My mom could tell you better. What I do remember, though, is that after all that, he landed headlong into some deep, dark depression that eventually led to bipolar disorder. And for all of that, healing of knees, heart, and spirit, the doctors agreed he needed to get up off his La-Z-Boy recliner and start walking.

And he did!

He walked all up and down the country roads and highways of East Tennessee, and somewhere along the way, discovered the best way to keep himself motivated was to make his adventures functional. He started taking garbage bags with him, fashioned a little contraption with which to spear cans.

Papa would take his cans and bottles to the recycling center and donate the money he got in return to the church for renovation projects. Before long, my Papa became known as The Can Man.

One glorious autumn day, in the year after I graduated from college that constituted my Wandering Phase (living at home & camp, working about 4 jobs at once), Papa came up to camp, and we spent the day together picking up cans on the six-mile stretch Dry Creek Road. It was one of the best days of my life. We shared secrets and long stretches of shared quiet time as we walked and things I won't even tell you about here--guess those are secrets too.

On that day, and this past weekend, I just kept thinking about what a beautiful person Papa was, that he could take the ugly, discarded refuse tossed away so carelessly by other people and turn it into a gift for others, as well as his own healing.

On his final day on this earth, Papa got up, ate his breakfast, looked at my grandmother and asked "Where do you want to go today?" They tossed around a few ideas, and decided he would take her clothes shopping in Kingsport. When they got to the store, as was totally his usual, he let Ma off at the door, told her he'd park the car and be in later. He was going to walk the parking lot for a while.

That's where they found Papa not long after. The doctors said that he was probably dead of the massive heart attack before he ever hit pavement.

In my mind's eye, when I picture the scene, the crowd of strangers gathered around, working on his body, I like to think of him, arm outstretched. Maybe three feet away there lies one, final, flattened beer can...just out of reach.

poem

Green oranges at St. Bernard's Parish in New Orleans.
I was told they shall be ripe by Thanksgiving.

I wrote this when I was in New Orleans this past weekend.  Just wanted to archive it somewhere:


neither straight nor bent
neither up nor down
neither fearful nor free
neither lost nor found

neither old nor young
neither naive nor wise
neither, maybe both
seeing with clear eyes

we'll live as though time is
     abundant
but we will not spend it
     with reckless abandon
let us shore up our house
join hands
     & dance
in the psalm of
     love & life

"The Navigator"

Here's a link to my second episode of The North Avenue Lounge - click here.

Many thanks to Billy Gewin of Cave Cricket Studios for the recording & editing support.

I Am Dexter, I Am Walter White, I Am US!

Borrowed from Scotch Cinema Blog

In the next couple of weeks, two of the most fascinating shows that have characterized "The New Golden Age of Television" will be wrapping up.  Both Dexter and Breaking Bad have kept millions of watchers enthralled Sunday nights with their high drama, compelling characters, and more than anything, they've kept us leaning forward in desperation with their achingly short seasons.

Both Dexter and Walter White of Breaking Bad are fascinating character studies for sure, and I find myself thinking about them a lot.  Other shows that have dotted the popular landscape during this Golden Age include:

• Deadwood
• Luther
• The Sopranos
• True Blood
• Justified
• Weeds
• Sons of Anarchy

All of these shows' leads are deeply flawed, conflicted, often morally bankrupt, and yet, through the magic of brilliant storytelling, somehow we wind up actually cheering for them.  They are the very definition of the anti-hero, but their occasionally heroic deeds, and more - because we wind up learning so much of their backstory and motivations, their beautiful complications - we simply forget that they occasionally beat their wives, steal, kill people and get away with it all. Mostly.

Still, I just can't stop thinking about these heroes we're so fascinated with these days and how they compare with the role we play on the global stage, particularly while the U.S. is considering missile strikes on Syria.  Once again, we're acting as know-it-all parent to the world.  It's complicated for sure.  I've heard the arguments about why we can't sit idly by and let anyone use chemical weapons, even if it's against their own people.  I've heard the arguments about the foolishness of rushing into yet another war.

So, why, you ask, am I thinking about Dexter and Walter White when I think about U.S. v. Syria?

Let's look at Dexter.  By all rights, the character is a psychopathic serial killer.  He may have his tragic genesis story, his code, and his evolution toward emotional connection & compassion, but at the end of the day, he's still a serial killer who hunts people down, kills them, and leaves their chopped up bodies on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean.

What's important to remember about Dexter, though, is that code.  He only kills other killers.  He stalks those he believes have committed atrocious crimes, and before he kills them he ceremoniously holds up pictures of all their victims.  Dexter sees himself as ridding the world of bad people, his own personal crusade.  He just conveniently has this dark passenger inside him that compels, or even, emboldens him to do so where others would not.

How like us (U.S.) that we see ourselves ridding the world of bad people?  

Walter White, of Breaking Bad, begins his character's journey when he's diagnosed with cancer.  He's an intelligent man, trapped in middle class existence.  His cancer treatment leaves him on the edge of bankruptcy.  So, tish tosh, piddly poo, he becomes a drug dealer to make a little extra on the side. Before Walter White can bake up too many batches of crystal meth, we realize he's stumbled headlong down the rabbit hole.  His character changes as he makes grander and grander mistakes. He gets better at rationalizing and deceiving.  At some point, you can almost imagine him taking out his moral compass, stomping on it, and burying it in the dessert like so much drug money.

How like us (U.S.) that we defend our actions, the dirty deals we make and the people we kill, the money we hoard and lord over the world, because we think we're protecting our "families", our interests?

Remember back in the day when heroes rode around in white cowboy hats and were not very complicated?  Straight up good vs. bad? Cops vs. robbers? Now, the cops are dirty and the robbers are really trying to support their families and start a new life.

Please hear me that I very much trust and appreciate this newer style of storytelling.  It's highly entertaining. And, I think, it's more realistic.  The problem with the way our entertainment used to exist was that, not only was there not as much complexity, there also wasn't as much diversity. Now, instead of cowboys and indians, we have American Family and The Wire.

I'm just simply saying that the stories that are emerging from our popular subconscious these days might perhaps be a retelling of something we're perpetuating over and over again.  A feedback loop as it were.  No matter what, we've decided we're, dare I say Justified?, in our actions in all their moral complexity.

After all, does make for a better story.

North Avenue Lounge

Hey, Friends and Fams.

I know it's been a while.  Have no excuse.  This year has been a wild roller coaster of international travel, professional growth, and some heartbreak thrown in there for good measure.  

But now, I bring you some exciting news.  I'm going to be periodically guest hosting the North Avenue Lounge on WREK Atlanta, 91.1 FM, Mondays @ Noon Eastern. My first show airs next Monday, 9/16, featuring an interview with Slash Coleman as we discuss his new book, The Bohemian Love Diaries (available on Amazon.com, at Barnes & Noble, and at Audible.com ~ read by the author himself!)

If you miss us on air, you can listen on the website or by podcast at: http://northavenuelounge.com/

Listen to Slash sing a song from the forthcoming show based on 

The Bohemian Love Diaries.

This may turn into a monthly thing for me, so I'm pretty excited.  Tune in if you can!

(And don't forget to let me know how and where in the world you are.)

[After note: Click here to listen to the show because the archive version is now up.]

Arts Health Day

This past weekend, Alternate ROOTS (the organization I work for), joined forces with C4 Atlanta and WonderRoot to create a Health Day for Artists.  We were each inspired for different reasons to support our local arts community in this way.  Personally, my driving force was all the fundraising we've had to do for our artists at ROOTS when they come upon a devastating illness, most notably Jo Carson.  It's never made sense to me that, in anyone's time of most extreme need of physical illness, they are also faced with mounting financial debt and the stress that entails.  I always think about that in rural restaurants when I see those cardboard card standups where you can add a quarter to someone's diabetes or cancer fund.  Those quarters seem so hopeful and so ridiculous to me.

Anyway, in an effort to try and support our local artists that was somewhere between the cardboard coin collector and systemic healthcare reform, we hosted a day for our artists, that included a health resource fair, lecture/demonstrations, biometric health screenings, and a speaker about the Patient Protection & Affordable Care Act (aka Obamacare) and how it will hopefully improve our support to individuals and small businesses.

Our local NPR station came and did a great follow-up story about the day.  Please read and/or listen to it here.

Cucalorus Film Festival

Hey, Friends & Fans.

I had the good fortune to publish another article on Arts in a Changing America.  This one is about the Cucalorus Film Festival and why everyone should go.  Here it is!

Thanks for reading.

Cheers,
Shannon

Carapace Story: Taboo

Hey, Red Crickette Friends & Fans!

Just archiving the audio of a recent story I told at Carapace, October 2012, Manuel's.  Click here to listen.

Cheers,
Shannon

Native

I wrote this piece for a competition called Write Club - Atlanta I was in last week.  I lost.  But it was a good exercise.  I was up against a writer who assigned the theme "Transplant."  Just using this space to archive.

________________________

She sat in the pale afternoon sunlight, pushing the bruised skin in the crook of her elbow, watching as it slowly changed colors after pulling her finger away.  The wind made it seem colder than it should be for a Saturday this early in autumn. Push on the bruise, feel the pleasing, slightly painful feeling, pull away, watch the yellow, green, blue, purple Technicolor show.

After a while she looked up and realized that the junkyard owner was watching her over her boyfriend, Mark’s, shoulder as they talked.  She suddenly felt very self-conscious and pulled her shirtsleeve back down.  She wondered if he thought she was a drug addict and the bruise was a track mark.  Or if her boyfriend had perhaps grabbed her a little too hard.

She looked away, over to the trees on the skyline, watching the leaves rustle in the wind.  A Japanese maple, looking quite out of place in this part of the country, shivered on the corner of the property, near the junkyard owner’s trailer.

A little girl, around 8, based on her size and sass, was playing with a puppy. The junkyard owner’s granddaughter, based on her incessant shouts to “Pappaw.”

The two men walked around to the other side of a rusted out truck. The wind blew up another cool gust, and she decided to head back to the car for shelter.

She and Mark hadn’t been seeing each other long.  Just about seven months, but she was about the most content she’d ever been in her life, given that her life, for the most part, had been anything but contented.

Her father had been a traveling salesman and itinerant preacher, which is really just a traveling salesman of a different sort. Until she was 12, they’d lived their lives on the road, chasing good sales and the Devil, or at least the next church fellowship hall run by fine Christian women who knew how to cook fried chicken.

That all ended when her father was discovered with his throat cut in an airport hotel in Knoxville. Because it was the 70s, and things being what they were, it took them a few days to find her. The police said probably a hooker was involved, but apparently there were other things about the state of the crime scene that were never discussed with her. They weren’t from around there anyway.

She was placed in foster care.  She didn’t like to think about that time, but the unpleasantness lasted for about three or four years.  Until they found her grandmother, her mother’s mother, a woman she’d only met once, and was a little afraid of because she’d thrown up chocolate milk on the good sofa.

They spent the first bit of time in a tenuous dance, the wary, untrusting teenager and the elderly woman whose daughter had hated her so much she had left home at 16 and never been in touch again. Next to this time now, with Mark, the five seasons she spent with her grandmother were the happiest.  She grew to know the power of staying in one place.  Her grandmother’s house was her home; the yard was her yard.  She didn’t have to keep memorizing where the bathroom was, mapping out escape routes.  She pretended she’d always lived there.  

One day, she came home from school to find her grandmother in her rocking chair, Bible open in lap, glasses slightly askew.  She went to her room, packed a suitcase, scooped up the keys to her grandmother’s 1978 Granada, took $250 from what her grandmother called the “heart fund”, and hit the road.  She stopped at a payphone at the edge of town to call the neighbor, told him her grandmother was dead.  She’d left the front door wide open, said she was fine and begged him please not to send anyone looking.

She lived in the Grenada for a while.  The heart fund started running low.  So she lied about her age and got a job waiting tables in a small town outside of Little Rock.  The other waitresses tried to make her acquaintance, but because she was scared they’d find out how old she was, or that she was sleeping in her car in the parking lot of the Piggly-Wiggly, she kept mostly to herself.

She got pretty good at keeping up the exterior.  Friendly, but not letting anyone get too close.  

At night, after she’d finished stocking the sugars and filling the ketchup bottles on the counter, she sat and read customers’ forgotten magazines and newspapers, sipping root beer.

A kid left behind a copy of The Little Prince.  She picked it up, spent all night absorbed with the story of the little boy from a tiny asteroid who takes care of his kingdom.

She started imagining herself inhabiting a small, lonely planet.  Her planet was her own; she was its native. 

Years went by, while she slowly improved her life by increments. Eventually, she made enough money to get a little apartment, the castle in the kingdom on her planet.  She went through her days, afraid that anyone would ever truly notice her.

She got her GED, took some classes at the technical school.  Still, her planet remained the same.

One day, Mark showed up at the restaurant counter, ordered a stack of flapjacks, and asked for directions to the local junkyard.  She told him how to get there, and started to walk away, but he started talking about how he was in search of a carburetor for his newest fixer-upper truck.  She affected interest, patting the coffee pot in her hand, and tried to back away, but he kept talking.  He was from Maurnelle, two towns over, and went on to explain how he couldn’t believe he’d never heard of this particular junkyard, thought he knew them all in a 60-mile radius.  Even as she tried to extract herself, she thought about how she liked the way he lived so comfortably in his own body, how conversation flowed out of him like cool water.

Months later, here she sat in a junkyard, one of about a dozen she’d visited now.  He had a bit of a habit, but as habits go, junkyards were relatively benign, especially considering some of the shit she’d seen in her life.

The first time they’d gone out, he’d brought her flowers.  She felt a small mountain on her planet collapse in a landslide.  Eventually, she invited him over to her apartment, her sanctuary, and fixed him a simple dinner.  She sat at the kitchen table and watched as he did the dishes after, then took him to bed for what was her first time that didn’t involve predation.  Continents collided violently.  He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, told her that he loved her. CRASH! Huge chunks of her planet broke and spun off into outer space.

Despite the short time, she could see their future lives, as she sat in the car and felt the wind gust around it. 

The little girl and the puppy ran across the yard and mounted the stairs of the trailer.  Apparently they too were yielding to the wind.

He’d already started talking about babies.  In fact, that was the source of the bruise on her arm.  He’d asked her to go to the doctor to have the test to see if their blood was compatible, and just make sure everything else was fine.

She fingered the car keys as they dangled from the ignition.

A little more than half a year later, her planet was nothing but a small pebble, something she could fit in her hand, slide into her pocket. She’d never really imagined herself as the baby-having type. Taking care of herself seemed like struggle enough.

It was scary.  Despite everything, could she really trust him?  It was a lot to let go of. What if he went away tomorrow?  Her planet was virtually gone now. She was so vulnerable. Could the safety Mark seemingly presented really be the new place to set up camp?

She continued to fiddle with the keys, staring out the windshield.  Mark looked up at her, noticing for the first time that she’d moved to the car.  He smiled, winked, and gave her a little wave across the hood of the truck.

She smiled and nodded, keeping her hand on the keys. The wind bent the trees low.

City Cafe Story

Hey, friends, fans, & fam.

Here's the link from my story on City Cafe this week.  I was even on the front page of the WABE website for the day. It was a great honor and pleasure to have this opportunity.  Thanks to those of you who were able to listen in live.

Next stop, This American Life. ;)

Cheers,
Shannon

Some fun news on the Red Crickette Front!

Hello, there, Red Crickette Fans!

I have some fun news to share of things a-foot in my world.

First, today I will be featured on a blog called I Write Because.  Thanks very much to my friend, Lesley Howard, for introducing me to the opportunity.

Even better, on Monday, September 19, I will be on City Café, the noon time show of WABE, Altanta's NPR station.  I went into the station last week to record my story - one of my greatest hits about camp and unrequited love.  I have no idea when in the noon hour it will play.  If you're not in the Atlanta area, but want to listen live, you can stream WABE on their website.  However, I will receive a link after the fact and will be able to send it out.

Speaking of my beloved childhood camp, sadly, it was destroyed by a flood on August 5, 2012 - over $1 million in damage.  You can read about the recovery effort here.  (I have a little story on there too.)

Thanks for all your love and support!

Cheers,
Shannon

New Articles on the Interwebs

Hi.  I'm just archiving a few recent articles here.  Thanks for reading. ;)

• Art or Voyeurism? Real People Telling Real Stories - article I got published on the new journal Arts in a Changing America
• Faces of Carapace: Shannon Turner - profile of me about storytelling in the East Atlanta Patch

Don't Go Back to Sleep

Last night, I had a dream that the world had devolved in a way that seems to me very logical in the way things are going. Now, I once heard someone say that you should never recount your dreams, and if you must, you should sum up their plots in one sentence. I cannot do that with this dream, and I seem to want to share it.

It started out mundanely enough. Don’t all dreams? I was wearing a frog on my shoulder and walking, naked to middle school. Just kidding.

In my dream, I went to the Project South offices to help in the getting ready for their upcoming 25th anniversary party/fundraiser. I was preparing platters, joking with the staff that I was very worried about what to wear that night, when all of the sudden someone came running into the room with news. That was when I realized that things were quite different than I realized.

The young man was arriving from what had started out as the Occupy Atlanta movement. He was urging us to get down there right away because we were under attack. I started to remember, in my dream reality, that the whole world had settled into two encampments. Do you remember the Stephen King book and miniseries, The Stand? It was a similar scenario.

In my dream, all people who identified as liberal/Democrats/progressives were in one camp - literally - and all conservative/Republican-types had settled somewhere else though nearby enough that guerrilla warfare could ensue. Independents, libertarians, and anarchists had finally had to make their choice to be in one camp or another, or else they were literally living independently—out in the wilderness. Sometimes, the most ruthless of the independents acted as messengers or traders between the two camps.

The scene changed to inside the liberal camp. At the heart of it was a stadium, not like a football stadium, more like an ancient Roman amphitheatre or arena for battles between men and tigers. The crowd was restless and chanting; it was hard to discern the nature of their unease. I made my way to the front.

There were two young, white men bound, a little bloodied and stripped to their waste at the center of the fray. They had laurel wreaths on their heads. In my dream, I thought to myself, they kind of look like frat boys on their way back from a bacchanalia. The frat boys were from the conservative camp—infiltrators, spies! They vigorously wrestled with the leather ties at their hands and spit on their captors, looking at them with utter disdain. The throngs of people in the stands chanted for their deaths.

And then, my friend, Elise, came forward, stepped in front of the young men, and held her hand out to the crowd. “No,” she said quietly.

The dream changed again. We were in a small cabin on the outskirts of our encampment. The young men had been given showers and new clothes. I was skulking around the door, listening and peeking in, as Elise attended to them. Even though she was taking care of them and had spared their lives, they were still taunting her.

“This is just what a liberal would do!” one mocked.

“Careful,” the other retorted, “she’s secretly a fascist. If they win, that’s really what they’ll do. They’ll turn us all into fascists!”

“Young man,” Elise quietly said, “do you know what a fascist is? My family is from Europe, and I can tell you that you don’t know what you’re saying.”

There was an awkward pause, where everyone seemed to be thinking.

Again, scene change. I was somehow able to travel the whole world quite rapidly, with ease, but without things appearing to go by too quickly. I was gliding very close to the ground. I was working with someone or something unseen. My task was using stop-motion photography and global positioning technology. We were trying to capture every possible image of every possible part of the globe. Even though I was enjoying these beautiful, lush landscapes, there was a strong sense of urgency to what we were doing. Everything needed to be captured and catalogued as quickly as possible, but I wasn’t sure why.

After having traversed many beautiful landscapes, I paused and took a break. I was hovering over this beautiful lake with a mountain and forest spread out before me. A light mist danced across the lake. In my ability to just sort of lay in the air wherever I wanted, I reached down and dipped my hand in the mist and swirled it around. I watched as that stirring made the mist dance in ripples further and further away from me. My glance made me look up to see dark black clouds had started rolling in. They were as close to the ground as I was and were eating everything like The Nothingness from The Neverending Story.

I suddenly remembered something the two young men had said when they didn’t know I was listening in on their conversation.

“They really are being nice to us,” one boy said.

“I know. It makes me feel bad. Perhaps we should stop the clock.”

With that, I awoke with a start in that way you do from dreams when everything becomes frightening. Because somehow, I knew in my dream that what I was experiencing was the world coming to an end. Something had been set into motion by humans that couldn’t be reversed, and my body was about to be enveloped by nothingness.

* * * * * * 

I do this thing when I awake from nightmares where I try to keep myself from falling right back to sleep. My logic is that it’ll prevent me from going right back into the same dream. As I lay in my bed and tried to get every muscle to unlock, I thought I know what the answer is. I was sweating a little bit. I know what the answer is! But I swear, this morning, as I write this, I can’t remember the answer anymore. I’m not even sure what the question is. *

* * * * * 

Post script: After I finished writing this initial text, I went on to other things. I was soon re-reading an email from an old college friend who had just seen the latest version of Godspell in New York. He thought that “Turn Back, O Man” was a song that I could really rock someday. [Clearly, it’s been too long since this friend heard me sing.] Still, being unfamiliar with the show, I went and found the clip on Youtube. I was struck with the words and their timeliness in relation to my dream:

Earth might be fair 
And all men glad and wise 
Age after age 
their tragic empires rise 
Built while they dream 
And in that dreaming weep 
Would man but wake 
From out his haunted sleep 
Not till that hour 
Shall God's whole will be done 
Now, even now 
Once more from earth to sky
Peels forth in joy 
Man's old undaunted cry 
Earth shall be fair 
And all her people one 
Turn back, oh man 
Forswear thy foolish ways! 
Old now is earth 
And none may count her days

Beth's legacy

Audio of this story as I told it at Carapace, August 2011, can be found here.

Often times in life, we meet people along the way who leave a lasting impact on us. Sometimes it’s for things they do. Or don’t do. Or for the things they do to you. Sometimes it’s for the example they set.

When I was in high school, my father’s job led us to move back to a town we’d lived in before, Kingsport, TN. It was halfway through my junior year. As hard as it is to move that late in high school, you would think it would have been easier to move back to a place I’d already lived. In some ways it was. In others, it was every bit as hard.

One joyful part about it is that I got to know new people that I had not known before, somewhat in partial thanks to the large church we were serving in Kingsport 2.0.

The person I put at the top of this category was Beth Griffin. Beth was one of those ethereal creatures who was seemingly always happy. She could find the good side of anything.

I remember sitting in her lap after Bible Study one night - teenage girls have a unique way of sharing affection with each other before they become completely jaded - after I’d gotten a regrettable perm on my 17th birthday. I whined about how it took so much work to maintain (so much product!) and how it felt as though my hair would never be the same again.

Beth just smiled and said, “I like it. And besides, it doesn’t really matter. You always look pretty, and you’re absolutely beautiful on the inside.”

*Sigh* It was one of those moments that makes you zing. Though I remember at the time wondering why I couldn’t get a boy to say those words.

After we graduated, Beth went to Agnes Scott, a women’s college here in Atlanta. I really wanted to go there too for my own reasons. But life led me in a different direction, and since that was before the days of email and Facebook, we lost touch pretty quickly.

Time marches on.

We all graduated from college and moved out into the world in a variety of ways. Beth got an internship with the Yerkes Institute, which is an animal research center also based here in Atlanta. She’d always dreamed of working with primates.

I, on the other hand, graduated with my B.A. in English literature and women’s studies and proceeded to dive headlong into that existential funk that is a natural outcome of such majors and minors. If you didn’t want to go immediately into a master’s program in English, and you didn’t want to become a teacher, there weren’t a lot of options laid out before you.

Thus began a wandering path traveled by many in their early 20s. In the 2 years after I graduated from college, I lived at a camp, worked in a video store, acted in dinner theatre, moved to Blacksburg to work in a bar, temped, cleaned for wealthy people, and got fired from a substitute teaching job. It was not my finest period.

About six months after we graduated from college, when I was living part-time at camp and part-time at home, I came home one day to find my mom in the kitchen.

“I have some news for you,” she said. “Your friend, Beth, is quite sick.”

She explained that everyone on our old church’s network was talking about it. Apparently, when she was transporting a monkey cage from one counter to the other, a bit of “monkey matter” flipped up into Beth’s eye.

She wound up contracting Herpes B, something that is common amongst monkeys, but which, when transmitted to humans is nearly always fatal.

Still, given that she was only 22 and was an extraordinarily healthy person, we had a lot of hope that she would be able to fight it. In the coming weeks, we watched (most, from afar) as the paralysis slowly crept up her body all the way to her eyes. And then, it started to subside. We thought she was going to win. But, she didn’t.

It was a scandalous, national story as the issue of workplace safety swirled around her death. Protocol should have meant that Beth was asked to wear goggles in that milieu, but there was no protocol to protect her. It wasn’t the only time in my life where something in my personal life was also a national headline. I can tell you that it’s a very strange, double-vision kind of experience to see your friend on Dateline.

Time marches on - again.

I had moved to Blacksburg for no better reason than to try something different. I was working 4 jobs, and one of those was waitress in a nightclub. At about 2:30 in the morning, as I scrubbed a toilet that some co-ed had puked in, a bit of toilet water flipped up into my eye.

I can only describe this as one of those big, epiphany-like moments. In that instance, everything seemed to distill down to one little kernel of light, and I became one with the universe.

By the time she died in such an untimely way, Beth had danced in Japan and ridden her bike across Europe. She was using all her God-given intelligence and human-given education in the pursuit of knowledge and for the betterment of something she loved.

What if I got sick from this incident? What if I contracted some strange, foreign disease because I was cleaning toilets in a bar?

Not that there’s anything wrong with the janitorial profession - I have continued to have cleaning jobs on-and-off throughout my adulthood to support the bills - but I wasn’t in pursuit of anything greater. I was not using my intelligence, talent, or education for anything other than the internal struggle. Who was I to throw my life away when someone like Beth had hers cut tragically short?

When I came out of my light-kernel moment, I felt like the universe had just thwacked me on the back of the head. Six months later, I was in AmeriCorps. Which led to a full-time job with the YMCA. Which led me to grad school. Which led me to where I am today.

And, I just want to say that I’m so grateful for all those little moments in life that open up a new path, a new understanding. And I’m especially thankful for friends who have helped to light the way.

_______________________________________________________

Just so you know, I’m not the only one that Beth’s passing affected. Her family and friends have established a foundation for the promotion of safety in scientific research. Well done.

Everybody's Got a Story

I remember a while back CBS Sunday Morning used to do this thing - maybe they still do. It was called "Everybody's Got a Story." The correspondent would stand in front of a giant map of the US and throw a dart behind him. Wherever it landed, there he would go. Upon arriving in said town, he would then open up the phone book and wherever his finger landed, he would call up that person and ask to come interview them.

It was fascinating.

Well, I've been thinking...

Some of you have been complaining that I haven't had enough to say on this blog lately. I seem to be in a quiet period. Not enough embarrassing or epiphany-driven moments of note have come along. The Writing Muse has been absent around these parts. But, I still think about all of you out there in the world with whom I once shared a parallel path.

I know some fascinating people. Musicians, yoga teachers, writers, cosmetics salesmen, teachers, people who travel the world, and some who've never been out of their home state. You've all got stories.

Another inspiration for this project is that I recently heard a great NPR show/podcast called "On Being" where the person being interviewed remarked on how little news these days has to do with what's good in the world. It's all sensationalism and spin. If bad stuff is what we always focus on, then that's the world we'll continue to create.

So, for the next undetermined period of time, I'm gonna go about getting in touch with some of you and seeing if you'll share your story with this small party of 100.

Where were you born? What do you love? What are you most afraid of? Who was the most fascinating person you ever met?

So, be ready. I'm coming. You can go ahead and write back to me now and declare your intentions. "I can't wait" or "Did you know that I had an affair with a sultan?" or "Don't even think about it."

All of a sudden...
Shannon

ROOTS Fest 2011: A team, a feat, a rite of passage

Dear Friends,

It is my great pleasure to tell you about the accomplishment of the largest project with which I've ever been associated.

Over the last 18 months, we at Alternate ROOTS have been planning our 35th anniversary celebration. All of that planning came down to the 5-day period of June 22-26, ROOTS Fest 2011: Many Communities, One Voice, in Baltimore, MD.

The week was divided up into 2 distinct parts:

• A National Learning Exchange, which brought together artists, academics, administrators, community members, etc. into a 3-day dialogue around Art, Culture, and Creativity and the way that all these things have the ability to build resilient communities and transform the lives of everyday people.
• An Outdoor Festival over the weekend which brought together 10,000 people to celebrate the community of West Baltimore.

If you're unfamiliar with West Baltimore, it is an area that was devastated by a botched highway project in the 1970s, as unfortunately so many of our communities of color are the first places to get razed by "urban planning." Many people know it as the place that was portrayed in shows like Homicide: Life on the Street, The Corner, most recently and frustratingly, The Wire.

I recommend watching this video to learn more about that series of events, as well as some of the amazing people who are why we ended up landing there for our 35th anniversary.

I could say many things about this project and how it feels to be on the other side of it after working so hard for so long with so many other people. Fortunately, for you, I'm very tired, and the words are neither at the tip of my tongue nor flowing out of my fingertips. I thought, instead, I would simply share with you the words, images, and videos of others that I've collected as a small sample of the magic that happened last week.

Below are some of those materials that I'm sending along, especially for those of you who don't do Facebook and therefore have not been privy to (victimized by) our incessant posting of late. I wanted to archive them here as much for myself as for you.

Finally, I just want to say that now, more than ever, Alternate ROOTS could use your support. If you could use another tax deductible source for your charitable giving, please consider this creative, scrappy, hard-working, visionary organization as a worthy recipient of your good money. You can donate here or consider joining our Friends & Family program here.

Thanks to all of you for being in my personal network of supporters. I always enjoy hearing back from you after I make a post, and this is no exception. Please be in touch.

Love,
Shannon

Pre-Festival Press:

• Carlton on the Tavis Smiley Show
• Great article in The Baltimore Sun

Pictures:

• Part 1
• Part 2

Videos:

• Carlton kicks it off
• Sunni Patterson delivers some amazing spoken word poetry

Hit the Chickens

I know this might surprise you, but I have a story to tell about camp and unrequited love.

Now, there are some things that I need to let you know right off the bat in order for this story to make sense. First, most people call me Shannon today – it is my birth name after all - but for a period of time in my adolescence and on into my twenties, many people called me Crickette. It started out as a camp nickname; it stuck around for quite a while. Mostly because camp itself stuck around for quite a while. And many of the people I met at camp showed up at other United Methodist youth activities, so the name sort of spread, like a virus or a bad rumor.

The second thing you need to know is that I had a driving force keeping me away from my given name, and that was my arch nemesis. Her name was Shana. We met when we were 11. Shana thought very highly of herself. And her flute. And the way she played her flute. She found many, many reasons and times to play her flute. She also thought that she could stop walking along, bend down and find a four-leaf clover anywhere. I never saw it work. Not once.

Whatever camp week or assembly I went to, whatever Resurrection retreat weekend I signed up for, somehow magically Shana was there. Our dislike for each other was completely unspoken. On the surface, we were friends.

The third ingredient in the story is Tim. Tim was a camp counselor extraordinaire. One of those camp personalities that become legends. Try as they might, they can’t really define themselves in any other way besides camp, and so eventually, they just succumb to the gravity of it and move in. Camp was Tim’s whole life. Year in, year out. He moved up through the administrative levels.

Of course, I had a huge crush on him, but he was ten years older than me, so he was safely out of my reach and somewhere around rock star status.

By the time I eventually became a camp counselor, Tim was an Assistant Director. Still out of reach in my mind, but at least now I was cool enough to sit around the fire at night and not be sent to my sleeping bag as soon as my belly was full of s’mores. We could sit around and shoot the breeze and tell stories about college and, you know, stuff…

One night, during our staff training that first year, our evening plans got rained out, so the staff was sitting around in the lodge doing various hang out activities. Tim was casually strumming his guitar, and somehow we got on the subject of his cat, Guinevere.

“Did you know that she had a brother, Arthur?” Tim asked.

“No,” I said nonchalantly. “Don’t most cats have siblings?” I’m not much a fan of the feline family, so let’s be honest, I wasn’t terribly enthused by this track of our conversation.

“Yes, but I mean I had the two of them together for a while.”

And that’s when he proceeded to tell me the most heart wrenching story about how the cat had become sick in the middle of the night and, knowing that he would be unable to find a vet, he stayed up all night long, holding it, while it passed away. And then he looked me straight in the eyes with this look of complete pain and sadness.

I. Was. Undone.

I felt this stirring deep inside me like I’d never felt before in my life. This was no little crush I was feeling. For the first time, I knew what grown-up love was. But I still didn’t know what to do about it.

I decided to do what I always did in that situation - hide and wait.

As the weeks of camp passed, my feelings grew stronger. I started telling a few people about it, and they all echoed back the same sentiment that I was feeling – you know, Tim’s a lot older than you are…

Right, right.

But, lest I forget something, there was Shana. She too had started being a camp counselor right along with me.

Standard operating procedure on Friday afternoons after a long week of work together was that most of us would get cleaned up in the camp showers and go hang out together. It was sick really. I’ve experienced this same phenomenon with people who are in the cast of a play together. You spend all of this intensive time together, and you should want to run screaming out the door at the end of your obligation. Instead, you crave even more time when the opportunity for recreation comes about.

On one particular Friday afternoon about six weeks into the summer, I noticed that Tim and Shana were not joining up with the rest of the posse. They went off by themselves and started building a fire. Looked like they were starting a cookout. Seemed suspicious to me. I tried to write it off though. Maybe he’s going to do this with each member of the staff to get to know us better. I had a few ideas in mind for how mine could go.

But that night, it was all the rest of the staff could talk about. The speculation was rampant. And those who knew about my feelings kept looking at me with knowing empathy.

That was hard.

But nothing could compare to what happened a few weeks later. No one was quite sure exactly what the status was on the whole Tim and Shana thing. They appeared to be keeping their relationship under wraps. Until one day, I walked into the lodge and they were on the other side of the room. Tim’s back was turned to me. Shana took the opportunity to give him a big, juicy hug. And as she did, she grinned at me over his shoulder.

I turned around and walked back out the door because I knew in that moment she had won a contest that had never even been declared.

* * * *

Tim and Shana lasted for a long time. I had other crushes in between. I sat on the sidelines and watched. Eventually, Shana pressured Tim for a ring. He got one. They got engaged. I pretended to be ecstatic for them. And then, it all hit the skids. I pretended to be sad for them. They broke up. I pretended to be sadder still.

I waited the appropriate amount of time. Really I did. Like a year. And eventually, I started letting myself feel hopeful again that maybe something would happen between Tim and me. Like really hopeful.

By this point, I was 23 and I had been working at the camp for four years. I had graduated from college and moved back there myself to work year-round.

When that final summer started, I had to admit to myself that I had this big life plan going where Tim and I would be married and run the camp together. We would eventually grow old and sit in the rocking chairs and watch the children play in the evening. It was a good plan. I just needed to wait long enough for Tim to come around to it.

Right about the same time as I was having this big epiphany, a new character showed up on the scene. His name was Anthony. Sardonic, sarcastic, darkly handsome, and intelligent. Anthony was the perfect foil for my dreamy, scheme-y, floaty feelings. And I certainly have a darker side that can be appealed to, so we were well matched.

By that time, I too had risen up through the ranks of camp administration to Assistant Director, and part of my job was to go to town many evenings of the week to purchase vital items like Benadryl cream and flashlight batteries. As reaching escape velocity from camp before Friday afternoon was a coveted position, Anthony liked to tag along with me on my travels so that he could smoke. But, as time went by on our adventures together, I can now see that it wasn’t just the nicotine he was after. Anthony and I built up quite a rapport. Our witty, biting banter with one another – sometimes downright debates – were thrilling. I didn’t understand it at the time because I was too naïve, but I was experiencing sexual tension with this guy. Big time.

Eventually, I confided my feelings for Tim to Anthony. I’m not quite sure why. Thinking back about it, I can’t imagine why I thought it was a good idea. But remember, my pattern at that time was to tell pretty much everyone in my life except the person who was the object of my affection.

Anthony was a surprisingly sympathetic ear. He seemed to enjoy talking to me about the subject. Helping me turn the topic over and again, break it down into its parts, like compost.

As summer went along and began to come to a close, I realized that I was starting to get whipped into a near frenzy about it all. Soon Tim would go back to his year-round camp and yet another chance would have passed me by. I had been out of college for over a year at that point and waiting for him to come around to the life plan meant I was putting my life on hold. At night, I would sit up in those rocking chairs after everyone else had gone to bed, and I would cry. I would cry with this deep, deep despair that felt like my unborn children were walking away as ghosts up the camp trail before me.

Finally, one evening, Anthony and I were driving to town and were as cantankerous with each other as always. It was getting close to dusk and I was flying down this winding, mountainous road a lot faster than I should. He was challenging me that I should leave the camp at the end of the summer and do something else with my life.

“I just wish that Tim would wake up. If only he would turn around and look at me one day and maybe know how I feel about him. Then he would know. Then he might just figure it out and just know we’re meant to be together!”

“You think Tim doesn’t know how you feel about him?” Anthony fired back.

“Of course, he doesn’t…” I trailed off.

“He knows.”

And right then, we rounded the corner in the late evening light to discover a giant flock of chickens in the road. I don’t know where they came from. It was as if they had all escaped from the chicken circus and picked that very spot to stake out their new home. But there they were - all 40 of them, mostly in the road.

Anthony took one look at them, and he took one look at me. He could tell by the look in my eyes that I was about to slam on the brakes, which probably would have wrecked the car.

He fervently laid his hand on my arm, looked steadily into my eyes, and said with passion:

“Hit the chickens, Crickette. You hit those chickens!”

I didn’t hit the brakes, but I did take my foot off the gas pedal. We glided through the sea of chickens, as they parted before us. They all flew away. We didn’t hit a single one.

When we’d made it to the other side, I pulled the car over to the side of the road to catch my breath and just take in the moment in amazement.

And then it all came rushing back to me. Tim knew. He’d always known. Nothing had changed. But somehow, with shaky legs, like those chickens, I knew I was going to be all right.

What’s Going On?

[This post is inspired by hearing about the teacher rallies and Tea Party protests in Tennessee. You can read about them by clicking here and here.

Does anyone else out there think there’s some seriously messed up stuff going on out there? I don’t mean in the Middle East or global warming. That’s scary enough. I don’t mean gas prices either. I can’t really comprehend the stuff they talk about on Marketplace. Now, the political forces that have been steadily dividing our country into two distinct camps over the last 30 years have taken the fight to our teachers. And not even just to the Northwest which feels like the other side of the universe somehow. But to Tennessee – my home state. This time, it’s personal.

I was born in Chattanooga, TN, and because of my father’s job, we moved all over the Northeast corridor of the Volunteer state, living most in a small, industrial town called Kingsport.

The schools there were outstanding. I mean it. I received a great education there. Of course, being white and middle class, why would I and my privilege expect anything less?

I’m not here to talk about white privilege today though. I want to meditate on the inherent right of every child to receive a free public education like I did from wonderful, caring teachers who are supported enough in what they do that they can spend their time paying attention to their students.

The two best years of school I had were 4th and 5th grade. Mrs. Scruggs and Mrs. Spriggs – similarity of names purely coincidental.

Thanks to the newfangled technology of Facebook, I’m loosely connected to some of the people I went to 4th grade with, and most agree that Mrs. Scruggs was the best teacher that any of us ever had. I can tell you some very good reasons why that was the case.

Mrs. Scruggs was a silverfox of a woman – dapper, in her mid-to-late 40s, well dressed. She had a son our age and she could keep up with any of us on the playground if she wanted to, but she didn’t usually show it. Her giant silver hair was always neatly coiffed and did not move on her head. She was tanned and beautiful.

Mrs. Scruggs had created a reward-based system for behavior management that kept most of us constantly excited and interested and trying to do better. We each had a little pocket on the front of our desks that contained three “tickets” with our names written on them. Our desks were arranged in a giant U facing her desk. If you were caught talking or chewing gum or any of the other naughty things, she would pull a ticket. Lose all three tickets before the end of the day and you were in big trouble. But keep all three tickets and you got a sticker. Keep them for a week and you got to go to the prize box. Prizes included awesome things like box cars and princess jewelry. Keep all your tickets for six weeks and whoah – you got to go out to eat after school with Mrs. Scruggs. Usually that meant she would take you to Pal’s, the local fast food joint. This was the most prized reward, and so super cool.

Of course, I worked hard to get to that six weeks reward many times. The few times I got tickets pulled, I was so disappointed in myself for having to start over.

Everything was both clearly educational and fun. I mean, don’t get me wrong – there were moments that didn’t go so well. There was the time when she let the boys demonstrate break dancing for her and a rather large young man in our class, “Moose,” ran and slid on his knees straight into her metal desk, denting it permanently.

Years later, I came back to tell stories for her class, and she was asking me if I kept up with any members of my 1984 class. This was before the days of Facebook and so I said "not really." She said that David* (name changed), one of the few African-American students from our class was in jail. She said she’d been writing to him and that when we were in school together she had feared for him then because of the things she’d seen in his home life.

My point is, she took the time, and knew us all...well.

The next year, I had Mrs. Spriggs. Whereas Mrs. Scruggs was the epitome of aging beautifully, time and teaching had taken their toll on Mrs. Spriggs. She was a large and flapping woman, who labored to breathe just from walking across the room. She had giant, plastic grey glasses that matched her dark grey, springy, curly hair. What she lacked in physical beauty, though, she made up for in sharp-as-a-tack wit. She spoke French eloquently. I can still sing “Napoléon avait cinq cents soldats …”

Mrs. Spriggs noticed almost immediately after I got into her class that I was a smart kid. She suggested that I get tested for placement into the ‘smart kid’ resources that were available through the school system. That opportunity set me on a course that definitely changed my educational path forever.

The thing that I remember the most about Mrs. Spriggs, however, was one moment in time. A single afternoon. A conversation. And at that time, I didn’t even appreciate it for what it was.

The summer between my 4th and 5th grade years, my 30-year-old aunt died in the middle of the night from a rare adult case of SIDS. Such a bizarre and unexpected death, as you can imagine, sent my entire family reeling. I was at the perfect age for it to mess with my head in some pretty profound ways. If God can just come along in the middle of the night and decide you’re done, what did that mean for me?

I found myself acting out against the new reality in sometimes rather bizarre ways. It might have actually had absolutely nothing to do with what had happened. I was (am?) a bit hyper-prone to drama anyway, but I like to blame everything I did in that year on the easy target. All of the embarrassing little details aren’t really necessary here, but let me just say, I was a handful on occasion.

This moment of which I speak came somewhere in the early spring. I was particularly “feeling my oats” as they say, and Mrs. Spriggs called me on it. When I didn’t calm down, she told me I had to stay in at recess. I began sulking immediately. By the time recess started, I was both fuming mad and mortified at the same time. I was in that special human place where you know you’re wrong with every fiber of your being but you don’t want to admit it and so you find every reason you can to blame it on someone else. It’s an emotional state as popular with 10-year-olds as it is with people much older.

I sat at my desk, kicking it rhythmically. Mrs. Spriggs sent the rest of the class out for recess with another class and then she lumbered back over to her desk and sat down. We sat there in silence together for a few agonizing minutes. Then, she called me over to where she sat. I went over begrudgingly. She looked at me over the top of her giant glasses as they had slid down her nose. She really looked at me. Straight in the eyes.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Spriggs.” I said. I tried to return her gaze defiantly.

Then, she did something quite strange to me. She got down out of her seat, kneeled on the floor and took my arms at the elbows with fervor.

“I know you, Shannon Turner,” she stated, matter-of-factly, pushing her glasses back up with a giant, sausage-like finger, “and this is not who you are.”

Tears immediately started to spring up and that place in the back of my throat that hurt when I tried to fight them back began aching.

She pulled me down gently by the shoulders until I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. “Now, you sit here, and you remember who you really are.”

A few years back I read about an African tribe that gives each newborn child a song that is as important as her name. They sing it at her birth as a ritual, and again at other rites of passage throughout the life cycle. But, if for instance, she’s done something harmful or lacking in integrity, they will come together in an ad hoc fashion in a circle around the person and sing the song to remind her of who she is.

When I heard that story, I was immediately transported back to that moment in that classroom on that wooden floor. I’ll tell you, if you don’t know what it’s like, there is nothing like the feeling. To be truly known. Even if the feeling is also associated with shame.

* * * * *

Now, what do all of these stories about a boring, white, middle class childhood in Tennessee have to do with anything going on today? Well, a lot I think.

I doubt Mrs. Scruggs and Mrs. Spriggs are still teaching today. I rather hope they aren’t. But if they were, I’m sure it would be quite different. What would it have been like if Mrs. Scruggs had to work an extra couple of shifts at the local restaurant in order to pay for chalk and paper and other supplies for our class? What if Mrs. Spriggs was too busy worrying about whether our class was going to pass some ridiculous state standardized testing to pay attention to me and my specialized needs – educational or emotional?

Now, if I could just call on that overly dramatic side of myself for just a minute longer…It appears to me that it is on the backs these everyday American heroes (heroines) that the wealthiest and greediest are planning a silent revolution. And it’s been going on for a while now.

What could really be so bad about collective bargaining? With paying our teachers a fair living wage?

The fact that we’ve come to this point in our country’s history makes me ashamed. It makes me wish that I knew a song that I could stand up and sing to the right people and make them remember who they are so that they would get right with themselves. I would definitely pull all of their tickets if I could.



Other interesting links/takes on this issue:
Michael Moore
Jon Stewart

Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

This is a story I told at The Moth in August 2010. I didn't write it down - just got up and told it on the fly. I'm a little embarrassed by its scandalous nature, and yet still compelled to archive it here. I hope most people who read my blog don't go back and check this page.

The family business

[You can hear me tell this story live at The Moth here.]

In my family, we have this long-standing tradition of being staunch United Methodists. It’s almost as if it’s encoded in our DNA. We don’t just worship in the church; many of the men were or are ministers. My grandfather, my great uncle, my dad…You could say it’s the family business.

So, my poor dad didn’t have any sons. But, he was blessed with this extremely gregarious child – me – who never knew a stranger (as a child that is). I was known to actually crawl into the stroller with other babies to play in the store while my mom was shopping.

At some point, I started to notice that my dad would get this very particular kind of look on his face when I would do certain things, which over time I realized was the look of “aha ~ so, maybe she’s not a boychild, but she could still be the next in line.”

The first time it happened, I was about 4 years old and we were living in rural Tennessee. There was a podium in our carport that my dad used to practice his sermons sometimes. He had a speech impediment in childhood that he had overcome as a preacher, but he still had to practice, and he particularly had to go over passages from the Bible.

One day, my dad walked out of the house onto the carport to find me, standing on a stack of crates and that I’d made for myself behind the podium – I was marrying the car to the truck. The car was a 1977 Grenada, and it was the girl, and the truck was a 1979 Toyota. It was, of course, the boy. I wasn’t worldly enough at the time to appreciate the fact that I was sponsoring an international, mixed race marriage.

Sometimes in the Methodist church, there are these instances where there’s not enough ministers to go around or the churches are too small to have a full-time minister, and so several times, we would be in these situations where dad was serving more than one church at a time. He would preach at once church while the other was having Sunday School, and then he would drive to the other place and the schedule would flip. One time he served three churches at one time and I’m not quite sure exactly how that worked, but this time it was just two.

So, on this one day, something had happened, and my dad had gotten delayed at the one church and we were all waiting at the other for worship to begin. In Sunday School that day, we had learned about Zaccheus, and had drawn a picture of him sitting up in the sycamore tree, and so I went up into front of church and held up my picture for everyone to buy my dad some time because I was afraid that he’d be in trouble for being late. I told everyone the story of Zaccheus and I sang them the song when he still hadn’t arrived, I started making up new verses, and I got everyone to join in, until finally Dad walked in the back door. The moment he walked in, I just stopped exactly where I was and sang, “Amen.”

Of course, there were other incidents that gave evidence to the contrary of any sort of future “calling.” For instance, on Children and Youth Sunday, while being tasked with being an usher, I spilled the entire collection plate right under the pews. And of course, this was back in the day when many more people donated with coins, so that was a bit of a mess to clean up. I also have a very hard time keeping a secret. Unfortunately, my dad learned this problem because he confided a few things in me he maybe shouldn’t have over time. And, well, I just had a very hard time being the guardian of such powerful kernels of truth. It was too much pressure. I might even be the reason we moved once…

Nonetheless, as time progressed, my dad began to talk to me more seriously about going into the ministry. And, I did think about it seriously on occasion. But I couldn’t reconcile a few things about the whole idea. For one thing, I was already unlucky enough in the romantic department, and I was certain that becoming a lady pastor would just seal the deal on my being single for the rest of my life. For another, I’m a pretty sensitive person, and I had seen what it had done over time to my dad – having to move from place to place at the whim of committees and district superintendants and bishops. I couldn’t imagine being answerable to that many people all the time and having my job satisfaction on the line like that.

I mean, it all came down to politics, really. Those kinds of politics, and the other kind of politics.

See, thinking that he was well on his way to molding me into the next generation, my dad sent me off to a good Methodist college, same one he went to. I’m sure he thought that this would be all it would take. I’d be so inspired in those hallowed halls, under the oil painting of Bishop Emory and the smell of old books. I’d take a little Greek, a little Liberation Theology as an elective, and whammo, she’ll be off to seminary in four years or less!

What dear old dad wasn’t counting on was that in the 25 years since he went there, his Methodist school had scandalously embraced the liberal in “liberal arts” college. I did take all those things that he was hoping I would take, but I also took World Literature and theatre classes and Women’s Studies, and oh boy was that a problem! I came home for my first Thanksgiving and announced to everyone that I thought that it was completely unfair that the women should slave for days on end to prepare this wonderful meal and then the men just got to sit around and watch football and do nothing. I proposed that from now on, the men should have to clean up the dishes after the meal. Complete silence. Everyone looked at my dad like – so are you going to ask for the tuition back, or shall I?

Unfortunately, the answer to that problem was that they started using Chinette plates instead of fine china, so then they just crawled all over my sensibilities as a budding environmentalist, instead of as a feminist.

Anyway, like I said, by the time I graduated from college, I was this big, flaming liberal. But, my dad, he still hadn’t quite given up. He was even having me come and be his substitute preacher when he needed to go on vacation. I mean, the pressure was mounting. Emails were flying back and forth all the time. So, finally one day, we sat down to talk about it, and I said, “Look, Dad, it comes down to this. I can’t become a preacher in the United Methodist church because I just wouldn’t last very long.”

“Why not?” he asked.

I just looked at him and said, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of Marcus and Matthew.”

The conversations seemed to subside after that.