NOTES FROM THE FIELD: BEING GRATEFUL

The other day, not more than 72 hours after I had arrived home from my second trip to Haiti in less than a year, someone at a party I was at, smiled, and asked, “So, how was your trip?” I took a breath, and willed away all the words, thoughts, and emotions that question brings forth in me, and said, what was the only appropriate thing I could say, given the festive setting of that moment, “It was intense”, I replied, and looked away.
How can I begin to adequately describe the heart wrenching poverty that is Haiti? How does one explain that children don’t have clothes or food, and that I watched families bathe themselves in the same water they threw garbage in, and drank from - because that’s the only thing they can do? One of the hardest things about coming back from Haiti is figuring out what you can say to whom. Because this type of poverty is inconceivable in this land of plenty, people can’t seem to wrap their minds around it – I know I couldn’t until I had seen it firsthand. Since returning, I have held my tongue after discovering that even those closest to me, couldn’t bear to hear the stories I had brought back from the Western Hemisphere’s poorest land – I can’t blame them, I generally tell tales that bring smiles, not looks of shock and horror.
So, what, besides, “It was intense,” will I tell people when they ask me about my travels? The English folktale “The Old Woman in the Vinegar Bottle” gives me a clue. It concerns a woman who lives unhappily inside of a vinegar bottle, until one day a fairy happens along. The fairy tells the woman all she must do is turn around three times, and she will get the house she deserves. The woman does so, and finds herself in a cottage by the sea. So busy is the woman with gazing at the water, that she forgets to say, “Thank you,” to the fairy. Not noticing this, the fairy flies off. After some time the fairy returns, and finds the woman is not happy with the cottage, and wants a bigger house. Again, the fairy helps her, and again, the woman forgets to give thanks. More time passes, and the fairy once again visits the woman, who now asks for a castle. Once again, the fairy gives her what she wants, and receives no gratitude. Months go by, and one day the fairy returns to find the woman angrily yelling at her, “I want my own planet!!!!” The fairy asks the woman to turn around three times as she did every other time, and this time, the woman lands right back inside of the vinegar bottle.
Just like that old woman, I forget to be grateful - for electricity, plumbing, a roof over my head, more food than I really need to eat. But being in Haiti is a powerful reminder of all I, and every other American, no matter how poor, has. It’s soooooooooooooooo easy to take things for granted, so easy to feel that the modern conveniences I enjoy are a right, and not a privilege that not everyone has access to. So what will I say when people ask, “So, how was Haiti?” I will say, “It makes me grateful for every single thing in my life.”

NOTES FROM THE FIELD: THE GOSSIP WOMAN

A few years ago, in a class I was taking on personal essay writing, we were asked to put our own individual spin on something that was common, everyday, and average. A topic that would be completely relatable to your grandparents in Florida, your hipster friend in Brooklyn, and even your eye rolling teenage niece. As I recall there was an offering about food (good choice – who doesn’t eat, right?), stress (another goodie – to use one of my favorite words, good old stress is ubiquitous – love that word!!), and of course MONEY (no need to say anything about that one). After toying around with issues I thought worthy of CNN, or at least the local news, I decided to go with something as (here comes my favorite word again) UBIQUITOUS, it seems, as air - GOSSIP!!
Yup, I went with good old “behind your back, digging in your business, best shared in hushed tones” gossip, because, seriously, who amongst us has NEVER, looked right, then left, leaned into a friend, co-worker, or relative, and whispered some version of this line, “You know what I heard about….” I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that even Mother Theresa shared a juicy tidbit or two while working in the slums of Calcutta. Gossip seems to be one of those things that we humans just can’t seem to get away from, and enough of. Look at the internet, TV, newspapers, and, the grand dame of all readable gossip – the magazines by the check-out line in the supermarket. I know more about some housewives from NJ after an average grocery shopping, than I do about my own sister!!
And then there’s the face to face exchange of information – the checking to make sure the subject of your conversation is not within earshot, the little chuckle and eye brow raise, just before you divulge the secret you have about your gossipee (you, of course being the gossiper). Often these things snowball, one little morsel of gossip leads to another, until your conversation is glutted with “Somebody told me that..” and “Can you believe about…” And while chatting away about that friend, co-worker, politician or movie star, might feel fun and festive, and a perfectly acceptable thing to do in excess with friends – I’ve been finding more and more that, just as eating too many jelly beans on Easter leaves me feeling sick, and somehow shameful – so does gossiping. These days I find myself walking away from a gossip fest wanting to take a shower, and brush my teeth – I feel at once stupid for having gotten into that type of conversation, guilty for any- thing I said to fuel the fire, and bewildered about how – despite my best intentions I gravitated towards the gossip, the way a two year old is transfixed by soap bubbles.
I read somewhere that a good way to break the gossip habit was to not talk about someone who wasn’t in front of you – for ill or good, for a week - do I even have to tell you how impossible that was??? So, this spring, when I was asked to tell “character education stories” – meaning stories that taught some kind of social behavioral lesson to a group of middle schoolers – I knew exactly what my topic would be. Perhaps, my nobler mind thought – I could help these kids jump off the gossip train before they were as addicted to it as I was. And so I told them the story “Feathers”.
There is a woman who is the town gossip, and even though her neighbors are on to her loose lipped ways, they listen anyway. One day a stranger comes to town, and the woman (I know there’s a TV show called Gossip Girl, so we’ll call her Gossip Woman), begins to spread lies that he is a criminal of some kind. After being confronted by some of the town people, and disproving the lies told about him, the stranger demands justice, and goes before the village judge. Once in the courtroom, the Gossip Woman grows frightened, and falls to her knees assuring the judge and all who will listen that she will never gossip again, that in fact, she takes all her words back. As punishment, the judge instructs the Gossip Woman, to take a feather pillow outdoors, shake all the feathers out, and then put them back in. Once outside, the woman finds the task difficult, as the wind blows the feathers in every direction. After hours of trying to capture all the feathers, the woman, defeated, returns to the judge and says, “Your Honor, I couldn’t do it. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get those feathers back in the pillow.” The judge replies, “And it is the same thing with words. Once spoken, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you can never really get them back.”
These days, when I feel the urge to get my gossip on – I try, I repeat TRY, to remember this tale. And, every once in a while the image of those feathers blowing in the air pops into my mind, and I manage to keep my mouth shut!!

Notes from the Field XX

Becoming a Grown Up

Pretty much anyone who has ever read a number of folk, and/or fairytales can tell you the same thing – two parent homes are in short supply in storyland. Cinderella, Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, and many far less known heroes and heroines were missing at least one parent. Scholars write that this loss of a mother or a father in stories represents the coming of age of a child, a new beginning and era for them. A time when the people who had guided them were now gone, leaving them as the leaders, the decision makers, in short, the grown-ups. Once again, the ancients who told, than wrote these timeless tales, had figured out, and expressed, something modern man thinks he (or she) is only now discovering. Namely, to quote I don’t remember who, but somebody who said, “No matter how old a person is, they are not a grown up, until they have lost a parent.”

I began thinking of my parent’s mortality about 12 years ago, when my father had the first of several strokes. Over night, or so it seemed to me, my dad went from hale and healthy, and permanently middle-aged, to sickly, frail, and a senior citizen. My mother, strong, and as full of life force as her mother (who lived into her 90’s) had been, took on an “elderly” look to me as well. But, in my life, since the time I was fourteen, there was another “parent” around, Mr. Gus Dick Andros – ballet teacher extraordinaire. Six weeks younger than my real dad, Mr. A (or Sir to his face, and the Old Man, behind his back)was “that” teacher to me. You know, the one who sees in you, what nobody else guessed was there, the one who believes in you, even before you believe in yourself, the one who’s approval comes to mean so very much to you, that you break your back to do them proud – Mr. A was that to me. In story-speak he was the wise man that the heroine meets at the side of the road while she is wandering lost. It’s he, who puts her on the right path, and gives her a gift that will take her far.

As my ballet teacher at the High School of Performing Arts I saw him five days a week, and hung on his every word and correction. His tricky combinations of steps fired up my brain, and taught me that I could pick up steps faster than most anyone else around me. I knew I wasn’t the best dancer in the room, not even close, but Mr. A rewarded my love of dance and performing, as well as my hard work, and discipline, and told stories of a dance world that was broader than just the classical ballet island I was obsessed by. He opened my eyes to what being a professional performer was really all about, and encouraged me to take the leap, and go for it.

All through my high school years, I studied with him during school hours, and weekends and evenings, too. And, after graduation, that pattern continued, if I wasn’t off performing, or in a rehearsal, I was in his class, day after day, week after week, year after year, literally growing up there. He would jokily refer to me as his daughter, and he even once told a HUGE lie to an old high school girlfriend, saying that I was his illegitimate child – a product of an affair he had with another dancer while he was doing a production of the musical “Showboat”!
But, unlike my birth parents, Mr. A, didn’t seem to grow old to me. My dad would shake his head in wonder as I would proudly tell him that Mr. A, at 60, 70, and 80 was still doing what he loved more than anything – teaching ballet. Sure, he used a cane, now, and he said during the weekends all he did was sleep, but, like a child – like his child, I didn’t see that the end of his story was looming. When his diagnosis of acute leukemia came in mid-October, I remember feeling like my stomach dropped into my feet, followed by a big old blanket of denial and disbelief. It was only in the last two weeks of his life last month that I really and truly felt that he was actually dying.

And so I find myself, like all those characters who tales I recount time and time again, starting off on a path without my guiding force at my side, without that sense of home, devoid of that someone who would ALWAYS welcome me, and love me when I walked in their door. I find myself, my own leader, my own wise woman, I find myself, at long last, a grown-up.

Notes from the Field XIX

A September (and early October) to Remember

While I normally reserve this section for my adventures as a storyteller, I have lately come to recognize that to restrict my musings here to just that part of my life, I’m really not telling the whole story. My life, like most people’s, I suppose, is made up of a web of many different strands. My work as a dancer, clown, storyteller, and yoga teacher weave in and around each other constantly. Each one colors, informs, and enriches the other individual pieces, and creates the whole tapestry that is my life. In just sticking to writing about storytelling here, I would, in effect, be presenting just one ball of yarn, instead of a fully woven piece, ready to be viewed.

So, from now on, my “Notes from the Field” will be notes from the whole nine yards of my field, because life, like all good stories, has many layers. And so on that note…

I am writing this while sitting at the Shanghai airport – yes, that’s right – CHINA!!!!! Crazy, right? And, while in a normal month, or even a regular old six months, this would have been BIG, HUGE news – this time, it is only one part of a truly amazing period in my life.

Around the third week of July, I received a phone call from the head of the volunteer department at Harlem Hospital. Because of my work for the Big Apple Circus, performing there, they have always considered me part of the family. Through the years I have volunteered my time to clown “off hours” at hospital events, walked as part of the Harlem Hospital Center team in various fundraising walks, and pretty much anything else these great folks have asked me to do. I thought they might need me for an upcoming back to school event when Ms. Harewood called. Instead, the conversation went something like this.

“Julie, this year during the 9/11 commemeration ceremony, all the city hospitals are being asked to select two volunteers to read the names of the victims alongside a victim’s family member. We’d like you to represent Harlem Hospital. Would you …”
“YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“You’d have to…”
“YES!!!!!!!!!!”
“There would be..,”
“YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

How could I not? How could I not accept this tremendous honor, and pay homage to the people, who, unlike myself, weren’t lucky enough to have already exited the World Trade Center that day fifteen minutes before the first plane hit as I had. Those folks like Stewart Meltzer, whose sister-in-law, Rachel, was my partner for the ceremony, and had only worked for Cantor Fitzgerald for three months, had two small children, and enough internal calm to call his wife as the building was being consumed by fire, to tell her that he loved her.

Like all New Yorkers, and many others, 9/11 always had a “face” on it for me. It was never an abstract disaster, a far off catastrophe that had happened to “somebody else”. I saw with my own eyes that billow of smoke dust and ash that ballooned into the beautiful September sky. But this year, as I sat in a cold, wind and rain soaked tent, besides Rachel, and she told me the story of her family’s deepest sorrow – the massive loss of the day became emblazoned in my soul. As I looked around the waiting room before Rachel, and I took the stage, it was sobering to know that every second person in there had lost a brother, sister, husband, wife, mother, father, or other part of their family.

I have never been so honored, moved, and nervous in all my life. I had studied the CD they provided with the correct pronunciation of all the names – loading it into my i-pod, so I could study as I worked out, and I prayed to any and every God I had ever heard of not to blow it. I knew there were people standing in the rain, waiting to hear the name of their loved one that had been ripped from them.

Rachel was a source of inspiration to me in two ways – she, and her husband’s devotion to helping raising Stew’s two children is a lesson in compassion and selflessness, and her dignity and grace as she sought to put words to her family’s feelings for Stew, blew me away. It was a day that made me remember, once again, the preciousness, and fragility of life. It was a day that I connected to Rachel, her family, and anyone who lost a loved one eight years ago. It was a day I was proud to be of service in any way I could, it was a day I’ll never forget.

And then, less than three weeks later, I was on a plane to China, to perform comic dances, and clown at a festival – SUREAL – but that’s my life!!

Here’s the scoop on that.
I, along with about 30 other performers were going to perform for a ten days during China’s National “Golden Week” – a country wide vacation time. Now, while I have travelled all over North American and Europe, China was a big departure from that! Not only wouldn’t I be able to speak the language, I wouldn’t even be able to make out any letters on the signs! And, more importantly – could I make these people laugh. I know I may not be what people think of when they say “All-American Girl”, but I am as American as apple pie (albeit one on the browner side). Would what’s funny in Harlem, NY go over in Hangzhou, China?

Short answer – yes! There is a universality in play, silliness, and fun – people like funny, people like to, want to, need to, laugh. And kids – they are the same EVERYWHERE. Of course, there are cultural differences – various histories and social set-ups – but, kids, as they say, are kids. And everyday – I got to look down into the ADORABLE faces of children who, most likely, had never seen a brown skinned American woman before, and have the privilege of bringing a smile to their faces.

And, I hope I’m not going to come off as sounding pretentious, or ridiculous, or both, but I think that with every laugh we performers got, with every little connection we made with a child, and their family – we spread a little peace. We all know how easy it is to make a villain of a faceless person or persons, but when “THOSE PEOPLE” become “that person with the great smile”, it’s a lot harder to demonize them. It’s a lot easier to hear their individual story, and even if it’s way different from yours – still respect, and honor it.

I’m airborne now – the screen on the seat in front of me says I’m somewhere over the Bering Sea – I don’t know that I have a tidy little paragraph to sum up this essay. An ending that will sum up my experiences of September 2009 in an articulate and thought provoking way. I have a feeling that what I have seen, heard, smelt, touched, and felt these last few weeks, will take me a long time to process, and will resonate in my life for many years to come – weaving its way through my storytelling, clowning, dancing, yoga, writing, and life – at least, that’s what I hope.

Notes from the Field (XVIII)

THE TRUE STORY

QUESTION: “So, how is it you got into storytelling?”

ANSWER: “After many years of dancing in musical theater tours, I was seeking a performance outlet that I could control. One where, I would be my own boss, create my own work that would encompass my dance, acting, clown, and maybe even my American Sign Language and stilt walking. Something where I wouldn’t have to spend soooo much time on the road, away from the guy I loved. And, one day, I went to something called a storytelling festival. I watched a woman named Carmen Deedy hold an audience spellbound for an hour, and just like that, I knew I had found what I was looking for.”

While the information above is absolutely, positively, 100% true – it is not, as so often is the case, the whole story. It is more like the little paragraph on the back of a book jacket, the quick, polite response given to a stranger at a party; an outline I might use before I flesh out a folktale, turning it from a five second anecdote to a ten minute story. All those elements were there, all the facts correct, but there was one other thing that powered my transformation from musical theater gypsy to storyteller. It is the little bump on my right vocal cord.

Looking back, the first indicator that my vocal cords weren’t the strongest part of my anatomy was when, just before my grammar school choir’s Christmas concert, half the seventh grade got sick. Where upon most of my classmates were still able to sing – I lost my voice completely, and stood standing amongst them, in my white turtle neck, and black pants, just mouthing the words.

Fast forward five years, when during my first professional summer stock job, I discovered that I would have to sing, as well as dance. While I knew I could carry a tune, I didn’t know anything about vocal technique, or how to hold onto my harmony line, while being surrounded by others singing different parts – and dancing. After a few days of rigorous rehearsals, I realized my voice felt, well – tired. It was to be the first of many times I would feel that way.

“Get some training, and you’ll be fine,” all the older and wiser performers told me. And so I did. I found a voice teacher, and did as I was told. Being a dancer, I was disciplined and used to hard work, so I learned to breathe with my belly, instead of just my chest. I stayed away from dairy, dust, smoke, and caffeine. No matter how little singing I had to do, I did my full warm-up. And my vocal abilities grew – I was able to sing, even getting solos from time to time. But the “tiredness” always came, sooner or later. There would always come a day, when my voice wouldn’t do what I asked of it. From time to time, my speaking voice would grow a little raspy, but it never deserted me the way my singing voice would. It would simply disappear. Normally, staying quiet would bring it back, but one winter, no amount of rest seemed to help.

As usual, my speaking voice was fine the day I walked into the throat doctor’s office that very first time, so he seemed puzzled to see me. It was only after he stuck a long strobe down my throat, while holding my tongue with a piece of gauze, that I saw IT, and heard him say, “Aha!”

I don’t know how many people have ever seen their vocal cords, but they are sort of alien looking, and if you have any mucous going on that particular day, it is just plain freaky! But, even in that realm of the odd, I was able to see something different about one of my vocal cords. On the right one, there was a ridge of sorts, right in the middle – right where the two cords meet. It was that day that I heard the words polyp, nodule, and node.

Apparently, if the vocal cords, or folds, as they are actually called, come together with too much force, they swell. If over time, the swelling isn’t brought down, a polyp is formed, and if that hardens, and calluses, it’s a nodule, or what singers refer to in frightened hushed tones – NODES!!! My swelling had progressed to the polyp state, so I was ordered to a week of silence, and given tiny white pills called prednisone – a steroid, whose anti-inflammatory skills are REALLY potent. That week was one of the longest of my life! This was before emailing, and texting, so I had to turn my back on everyone, and be deemed rude of not saying, “Sorry,” if I bumped into someone on the subway. There was a peace to it that I liked, though, and, being an avid reader and writer, I chewed through several books, and filled many a journal page.

Some people might have been scared hearing this diagnosis, but for me, it felt like the beginning of the end. I had seen what was wrong with me, I had MEDICINE, and when this week – just one measly week was over, I would be okay.

And I was – for a while, anyway. For though the swelling did go all the way down that time, it would resurface time and time again. I did speech therapy, warming up even to talk – even though my every day speech almost always sounded fine. When I was on the road with shows, I NEVER went out afterwards, always retreating to my room, and SILENCE. I watched with envy while others smoked, drank, yelled, but then had high, crystal clear voices at 8AM.

And I got by. The cord would swell, then go down, swell, and go down. It was a bit like Jekyll and Hyde. One day I had a pretty singing voice, on the next it was a growl – nothing I did seemed to be able to stop it. I cursed that tiny sack on my vocal cord, I cried, I prayed, I visualized, and I was silent – A LOT. But what I didn’t realize at the time, and only grudgingly admit to now, is that that little swelling was one of my greatest teachers.

Always creatively inquisitive, I used my “silent times” to explore other modes of expression. It was because my singing voice was gone, but I spoke just fine, that instead of going to a musical theater audition one day, I went to one for a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, and got the role of Puck. When I heard of a way to dance and use movement that did not require me to sing, I found my way into the world of mask, mime, comedia, giant puppets, stilt walking, and clown. American Sign Language became a way for me to talk to people, without breaking my times in the “cone of silence”. That little bump on my vocal cord taught me when it was time for me to stop doing, and to just BE. Being blessed with abundant energy, I could power through aches, pains, colds, and heartaches physically – but when my cord was swollen, NOTHING, and I do mean NOTHING I could do, could make it move. It was only being quiet that could heal it. The bodily awareness I developed around what was happening in my throat, I have never been able to top – even now, as a yoga teacher!!

And it was this acute awareness that told me something was VERY, VERY wrong with my voice ten years ago. For one thing, I went hoarse in an instant, always before I could feel it tiring, and for a while compensate, to get through a show or an audition. But this time, I went from have to have not. Even my speaking voice, which was rarely affected, sounded as if it were “covered”, as if there were a giant piece of phlegm I couldn’t swallow, or cough away. Knowing I was in deep dodo I found my way to the office of THE BEST throat doctor in New York City. What I saw when he pulled my tongue out with gauze, and put that strobe down my throat, made me burst into tears. The swelling that I was prepared to see was there – bigger, and badder than ever, but this time it looked like a red tear drop hanging off the side of my right cord. I had hemorrhaged. Even now, that word makes my stomach ache. With even my speaking voice so impaired I thought it was the end of any sort of performing career for me. But then, Dr. Scott Kessler, the hero of this part of the story, pulled out a photograph of two vocal cords that were as red and chewed up as raw ground beef. “I fixed that,” he said, with a kind calmness I’ll never forget. “And I can fix you.” And he did.

It was during the time of silence that followed the surgery that Dr. Kessler performed on me, that I went to the New Victory Theatre, and watched Carmen Deedy stroll on the stage. It was then, when I was without a voice, that I found one, that I knew that I had found what I was looking for. Something that was creative, that would encompass all the skills: dance, clown, acting, even American Sign Language, into performances I could do for all ages. It was then, that I became a storyteller.

So, that is the FULL story of how I came to tell tales for a living. And like a lot of other stories – it goes on. That little bump is still there, much more manageable, but still there, still teaching me to listen to myself, to take care of myself, and that sometimes silence is REALLY, TRULY is golden.

Notes from the Field (XVIII)

Connections

There’s a look the audience gets when they are really “into” a story. They could be sitting or standing, leaning in – back ramrod straight; or slumped, as if enveloped in an easy chair. The body positioning doesn’t matter – it’s in the eyes. Even if they are half closed, when a person is wholly, fully absorbed in the tale I am telling, their eyes are trained on me, practically beaming energy and light. As I watch them watching me, I can actually tell that they are seeing the story as I perform it. This look is more than amusement, or enjoyment – it is one of resonance, and human connection, and we all know how elusive and rare that can be. This month, not only was I privileged enough to see this look on more than one face, but I saw it in a place not usually associated with storytelling, or human connection of any kind, for that matter – a Youth Detention Center.

I can‘t say I was scared when I walked through the well guarded doors of the Mercer County Youth Detention Center – I had learned long ago that people were not the sum total of their actions, but I was definitely nervous! I know how the average sullen teenager reacts when they are being FORCED to watch something – eye rolling, teeth sucking, overly loud laughter, the occasional rude comment – but how would this group of young men, who were locked up for doing some very bad stuff – including murder, react?? I did what I always do, no matter the age or environment – I went straight for the funny bone. A well known mime teacher, Tony Montanaro, once said, “Don’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself for the right reason.” I think of that quote so often, I should have it tattooed to my face!! Because, like Tony, I know that nothing, NOTHING, and I do mean NOTHING works like humor. There are many feelings a person may not want to experience – fear, anger, even love – if one’s sick of having their heart broken, but the joyous bubble of emotion that laughing elicits – who doesn’t like that?

And laugh these guys did, first out of shock, I think, as I had my character walk in a loose limbed, wobbly stroll. But then, as they saw me acknowledge just how ridiculous I found myself, they truly laughed – and the first sliver of connection began. The real deal, the true resonance occurred during my second tale. It was a Jewish folktale about being judged by ones appearance, about assumptions – often erroneous, that people make about one another in a blink of an eye, about how nothing one can say or do can sway those impressions, that can be so very damaging and hurtful. It was during this story that I saw their eyes, some half closed, some trying to look away, but failing, take on that intense focus that told me, they were with me. Really, really, with me; reliving a cruel reality of life that everyone in that room had fallen victim to. And in that blessed moment, in a place of lock downs, pat downs, and guards, we connected.

Notes from the Field (XVII)

The Story of a Lifetime

After a decade of describing what my storytelling performances consist of, I have come up with this concise, chipper, and truthful one-liner. “I tell folktales, fairytales, and some original tales I’ve created myself”, I’ll say, the words rolling off my tongue, without my mind giving it a second thought. If pressed, I’ll elaborate, saying there might be a legend, or poem in there, now and again. And if it seems like I’m talking to someone who knows, and/or cares about stuff like this, I’ll include, “I use a wide range of story types – Porquoi Tales, Trickster Tales, and others.”

But nowhere, in any of my verbiage, would you hear the words Personal Story. It’s not because I don’t like them, it’s not because I don’t think others like them. No, I don’t perform Personal Stories – those tales based on ones real life experiences, because, frankly, I always thought they were too hard.

I mean, think about it. First of all, you have to have had something exciting, funny, or profound to have happened to you for material. My life, though not boring, has not been filled with even a drop of the drama I find in folktales. By the time Cinderella was my age, she had been orphaned, virtually enslaved, learned how to walk in glass heels, and married a prince! Thankfully, my parents are alive, and Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. As for the rest, Payless Shoe Source makes fabulously faux, comfortable heels of all kinds, and the prince I married, grew up in New Jersey, not a castle. It’s a wonderful life, as they say, but a dull story.

And even if I had an exciting tale to tell, there’s the issue of how to structure it. It’s one thing to tell the little anecdote about how as a kid I ran away from sleep away camp (and my parent’s subsequent ire about it), to a bunch of friends at Starbucks, it’s a whole other thing to stand up in front of a paying audience, and talk about it – for an hour!! Personal Tales, when done well, have a through line – the good old, beginning, middle, and end. There’s detail, but not too much, characters, but not too many, and a satisfying conclusion. And most of all, at least to me, they are NOT someone ranting for an hour about not getting a certain toy for Christmas when they were five. They are A LOT OF WORK, and at the end of it, you can’t be sure that anyone’s going to find it interesting but you.

Yes, I was CERTAIN a Personal Story would never come out of my mouth – but you know what they say about God laughing when we mortals make plans…Not only have I created a tale from something that I have experienced, I have been moved to tell it again, and again – everywhere from libraries to Detention Centers, to six year olds, to senior citizens. One very long, cold, wondrous day has, I think, become a story of a life time for me.

This story began somewhere this past spring, when I went from thinking, “Barak Obama, huh? Well, he’s smart, I like what he’s saying – but is American ready to elect an African-American president – I don’t think so!” to “YES WE CAN!!!!!!” As I watched every news story, and read every article about the upcoming election, I told all those who would listen, and quite a few who didn’t, that if Barak Obama won, I would be amongst the expected millions lining the Washington Mall to witness the inauguration.

My willingness to squeeze my body in amongst the possibly millions of other Obama maniacs, was met with A LOT of skepticism.
“How will you get there?”
“Where will you stay?”
“What about the crowd?”

I, with the fervor of someone newly saved at a revival meeting swept away the questions with an eye roll, and a sigh, saying, “Jimmy (my husband) and I will drive. We’ll stay with my sister. I take the New York City subway everyday – believe me, I know from crowded!!”

But, in amongst my armor of Obama righteousness, I did have one concern – the cold. It would be January, and I might have to be outside for hours, and hours, and hours. For a person with even the normal level of body heat this would be tough, but for me Ms. “Our Lady of Perpetual Coldness”, this could be VERY BAD. I have been known to wear a heavy wool hat inside – in August!! Let’s just say that cold and I, are not on good terms. Yet, even cold could not deter me. Literally layer by layer, I amassed gear made of flannel, fleece, and wool. I gathered hand warmers, ski pants, and a marvelous thing called a “turtle fur” hood (note: no actual turtles were hurt in the making of this garment. I swear on my vegetarian soul). When I had enough warm clothes to fill two EXTREMELY large bags, I realized I still had a weakness – my toes. The digits that I had misshapen through years of dance, now threatened to unhinge my inauguration dreams.

As ALWAYS, it was Jimmy who came to my rescue, discovering a hunting and fishing supply store that we could stop at on our way to D.C. We figured if anyone knew about standing around for hours in the pre-dawn chill, it was those outdoorsy types. Strolling past a parking lot full of pick-up trucks driven by folks in camouflage, we entered the store, and went our separate ways. Jimmy went looking for boots, and I for SOCKS!!!!!!!!!!! While I already had six pairs of socks with me – what I craved was the ultimate sock, the sock that would protect my toes from frost bite as I witnessed history. I searched through mounds of silk, micro-fiber, and polar fleece, and then suddenly – THERE THEY WERE. Battery heated socks!!! Never in my life had three words seemed so wondrous and unbelievable at the same time. (okay, so the first time Jimmy said,”I love you.” was pretty AMAZING, too)

Here’s how they worked: STEP ONE: insert battery. STEP TWO: snap top closed. STEP THREE: wait for the battery to heat the wire connected to the heat panel under the toes. STEP FOUR: be very, very happy!!

So enamored was I by the notion of these foot coverings, that I, a woman who balks at paying over $20 for any article of clothing, joyously slapped down $23.95 for a pair, without a thought. I would have bought a pair for every day of the week, but Jimmy wrestled them from my trembling hands.

Socks in tow, we arrived at my sister’s home, or should I say, her “situation room”. If there is anything we Pasquals are, it is thorough, and my sister, being the eldest, seems to have inherited the strongest of my parent’s DNA, for she had cut out EVERY article concerning how to get to the inauguration, and had them plastered around her living room. Marching like a field general, she walked us through our three options with brisk efficiency – none were pretty, none were fool proof, but Jimmy and I chose the method that seemed closest to the one we use every day to navigate NYC – we chose the DC Metro System.

Normally, the Metro does not run trains at 4AM, but on inauguration morning, they were going to. We rose at 4AM, and after quick showers, Jimmy and I began to layer on all the clothes we had brought with us. Silks, thermals, shirts, tights, and last were our new BATTERY HEATED SOCKS!!! We decided not to put the batteries in right away, so they wouldn’t burn out, so we put our brand new D batteries in our pockets, and waddled to my sister’s car. We toppled over into the back seat, like 2 year olds in their first ski suits, unable to lower our arms, or really bend our knees. The sky was pitch black, and we saw our breath as my sister dropped us off at the train saying, “Have a great time. I’ll be watching at home – where there’s coffee, and HEAT!! My heart began to pound, as we made our way up to the train platform – images of thousands of layered Obama fans, waiting to cram into the train ran through my head. I couldn’t really move my fingers, under my two pairs of gloves, but I did an imitation of squeezing Jimmy’s hand as we moved closer to where the ‘Yellow Line” train would stop. I took a breath, and saw – NOBODY!!!!!!! Well, not nobody – about 6 or so people, but not the throng of humanity that I expected. The train came, and still, NO ONE. I felt, rather than saw Jimmy’s gaze, and I knew just what he was thinking, “I GOT OUT OF BED AT 4AM FOR NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I made little comments about what a clear sky it was, and how we would get to see stars that day, when the door opened at L’Enfant Plaza, where we were to get off. Now, I am a native New Yorker, and I take the subway just about everyday. I have been on trains so crowded, I thought I had grown a conjoined twin. But never, NEVER, NEVER, in my life, had I seen sooooooooo many people on one train platform. Seconds after exiting the train, and squeezing onto the platform, Jimmy and I became separated by at least, 15 people. “Wait for me at the top of the stairs”, I heard him say, as we moved as one giant blob of homo sapiens towards a set of stairs, that didn’t really look like it had it in it to hold us all up.

Smushed though we all were, I heard not one complaint, not one, “Do you mind???????” Everyone just sort of shuffled along, in their layers of clothing, smiling. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought we were all one big cult, drunk on some kind of cold repelling Kool-Aid. I reached the top first, and after 20 or so people passed by, Jimmy got spat out of the crowd. We did our waddle run up the steps, and stepped out onto the street. Some of the MANY Obama merchandise salesmen were already set up, ready to offer us their version of Obama-wear. But since, I already had, two Obama shirts, one Obama scarf, and several Obama light up pins, I was good to go. We bypassed the food as well, keeping to our pledge not to eat or drink, least we land up trying to find, and use a port-a-potty on the Washington Mall.

The ameba of men and women moved towards the Mall, all heading to one narrow entrance. I couldn’t see much, being 5’2” and all, but Jimmy spied above the crowd, what seemed to be an alley way of some kind. Trying to walk as nonchalantly as one can wearing 7 layers of clothing, we moved towards, and through the alley way, and found – MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, that it led right onto the Washington Mall!!!!!!!!! I wanted to do a victory dance, but since I couldn’t really move my appendages, I just let out a hoarse, “YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” We moved quickly to an area that was both by a jumbo tron, and also had a view of the Capital (it was far away, but we could see it), got a piece of cardboard, and settled in to wait for the big doings to start. It was 5:30AM!!

Unbelievably, the first couple of hours passed quickly, we met lots of people from everywhere, boy scouts gave out flags, and the whole time more and more people began to arrive. By 8AM or so, it was so crowded, not only were we standing, we were practically standing on each other. It was right about then, that my toes began to feel just a little cold, so smiling, rather smugly, I must say, Jimmy and I reached into our pockets, and snapped our D batteries into place. We knew it would be a few minutes before the heat would come, but it would be worth it – I knew by the time Barak Obama was being sworn in, my toes would be ensconced in a warmth only possible by my magical socks. The jumbotron showed the concert that had been a few days before, and as the crowd began to move as one large organism, I took stock of what I was feeling: heart pounding with excitement – check, eyes beginning to tear with emotion – check, toes toasty – NOT SO MUCH.

In a panic, I looked at Jimmy. “My socks aren’t working!!!”, I yelled, over the noise of the crowd that had just seen Beyonce on the big screen.
“Mine either !!!”

@*##&%#@@%#!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Visions of me happily handing over $22 for a pair of socks, merged with images of my toes being amputated, and I began to slam my feet into the ground to try and regain any sensation at all. The mammoth television screens began to show politicians arriving, and I was able to distract my mind from the idea that I might loss a toe in the frenzy of historical excitement, when Jimmy, sheepishly, looked down at me and said, in a voice at once insistent, and forlorn, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

There wasn’t room for me to throw myself in his path, so I just yelled, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! There are a least five thousand people between us and the port-a-potties!!! You’ll never get there and back in time, you’ll never find me. You’ll be in a plastic bathroom when history is being made!!!”

But, my husband is a man of action and confidence, so looking at me like a war hero headed into battle, he grabbed my hands (at least, I think he did, I couldn’t really feel my fingers that well at that point either), and said, “I’ll find you!!” And he was gone. I went between looking at the screen, trying to move my toes, and looking out for Jimmy. But even the cold, and my momentary hatred of my husband’s bladder, could not temper the all out euphoria I felt, as I watched the Carters, and then the Clintons arrive. The swarm of humanity around me, all seemed to hold their breath in anticipation as the seconds ticked by. I was so overwhelmed by the events about to unfold, the numbness of my toes, and the GREAT DESIRE to have my husband by my side for all of it, I wanted to fall down on the ground like a woman at a revival meeting. And just as I was about to try to memorize everything I could, so I could tell Jimmy about it - if we ever found each other again, there, coming out of the crowd, like an action hero in a summer blockbuster, was Jimmy. He reached me, just as he said he would. And with his arms around me, I witnessed Barak Obama walk onto the Capital Steps.

I wish I could describe with as much eloquence as our new president has ,about what I felt, and experienced as I watched him take his oath, and give his speech – but I cannot. What I can tell you is that a sense of pride burned through me, like nothing I had ever felt before. “THIS,” I thought to myself. “THIS is who we – Americans are. We are a people who judge, as Martin Luther King Jr once dreamed, by content of character, not by skin color. We are committed to action with ethics. We do believe that dreams come true, and we do not shy away from difficult times. And most of all, we are a people of givers, who reach out to those in need, and help lift them up. THIS, is who we, Americans, are.”

As the crowd thinned, my eyes stayed glued to the gigantic screen, never wanting the images I had seen there to fade away. A feeling of blissful inspiration coursed through me, as Jimmy and I began to make our way off the Mall.

“Well, kiddo,” my partner in all things, even things as crazy as this, said, looking down at me. “Was it all worth it?”
“Yep!!”
“Wouldn’t change a thing, would you?”
“Oh, no –there’s definitely something I would change!”
Jimmy’s eyes were full of shock. “What?”
“I would not have bought a pair of socks for $22, THAT DO NOT WORK!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Notes from the Field (XVI)

A Magic Moment

Haven’t we all had those “magic moments” in life? Seconds, minutes, hours, days, even, when everything has just come together totally, and completely. Where one is happy and peaceful, and magic is not only possible, it’s happening right then and there. I feel amazingly blessed, and humbled that I’ve had a hell of a lot of these amazing nuggets of time. Sometimes, they’ve been BIG LIFE EVENTS, like my wedding, or the first time I flew to Europe all by myself. But, just as often, they’ve been occurrences on a much smaller scale, things that, from the outside, don’t look especially noteworthy, but on the inside, filled me with that elusive thing known as JOY!!! One such time happened this month in the most unlikely of performance venues.

If you looked at my date book for December 20th, 2008, you’ll see I was scheduled to perform two shows, at two different Kwanzaa events. One was at a festival – a good one at that, filled with activities, and lectures for all ages. I’d performed there several times before, and knew that, logistically, it would be a big old piece of cake. The performance space would be a nice sized “black box” theatre – with floor seating for the kids, and comfy seats for the adults. I knew there would be a performer liaison to herd in the audience, deal with the whole NO pictures/cell phones/electronic devices during the show stuff, and basically trouble shoot, so that all I had to do was perform.

The other situation – well, let’s just say, I wasn’t so sure about. First of all, it was at a private home, always dicey – I mean, not to sound like the overly suspicious native New Yorker I am, but really – WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE????? Could they be luring me, the trusting storyteller into a trap, hold me for ransom, determined to get my thousands?? Rampant paranoia aside, I had realistic concerns: would there be space for me to move, without wrecking some family heirloom? The woman booking me mentioned they would be having a “feast” – and as I ALWAYS say (and wrote about a few essays back) NO ONE, NO ONE, and I do mean NO ONE, is good enough to compete with food, so would I find myself vying for attention against a pan full of macaroni and cheese?

And finally, there was the issue of who was going to be there. “All ages” is what the hostess of this Kwanzaa fest had said. “Babies, toddlers, school age children, and adults!!” OKAY! So, that means I’d have to perform material that won’t bore the older folk, while keeping the kids from flinging sweet potatoes at me. Things could get ugly really, really quickly!!

The day dawned clear and COLD. I knew, since I was quite early on in the Kwanzaa Festival, that my audience might be small. Turns out, I was wrong – it was MINISCULE. The beautiful space, and helpful liaison was there – but that was about all. Finally, a grandmother DRAGGED her tween-aged grandson in, a mother with an under two year old entered, and the liaison’s son sat down, and I began.

I won’t say it was a disaster – but, no one was really there to see me. They had all either come in to get warm, or were biding time until they could have their faces painted. The tween never looked up from his play station, the liaison’s son kept trying to crawl on his mom, and the 18 month old was, well, being an 18 month old!

As I walked head on into the OH MY GOD IS IT EVER CCCCOLD wind back to the PATH train, I repeated the mantra “Could’ve been worse. It was only an hour. Quit your whining, at least you have a job!!” I got home, put on the tea kettle, turned on some Christmas music, and started to feel a little less like a grumpy icicle when I remembered I wasn’t done for the day. In four hours, I would be walking into a complete and utter unknown.

My stomach was doing that little shimmy thing it always does when I’m nervous, and I had a hard time holding up my end of the conversation with my husband as we drove. (Yes, I asked him to come with me – let’s remember I’m a paranoid NYer!) When we turned onto the designated street, we both searched for the address – and just when we thought it actually didn’t exist, and was truly a hoax – I heard it.

Yes, I heard the house, before I saw it. Drumming – loud, fast, energetic, playful, jubilant drumming!! I kissed my husband, jumped out of the car, and as I watched him head for a Starbucks to wait for me, I felt my spirits rise.

The front door was festooned with balloons, and cracked open, letting Nordic air spill in – and I quickly saw why. Just beyond the pile of shoes in a hallway was a living room filled not just with drummers WAILING on their instruments – but people dancing, and I mean DANCING – getting down, up and sideways!! Arms flung open, feet stomping, hips wiggling. Kids, women and men – a few of which held smiling infants aloft in the air. The smell of food and sweat mingled in a delicious perfume that practically yelled out, “CELEBRATE!!!”

As I squooze my way over to the hostess to introduce myself, I realized that THIS, and not any kind of theatre, library, museum, or festival, no matter how nice, or well run, was not only a great place for storytelling – it was the PERFECT place for storytelling.

Long ago, before there were so many different kinds of entertainment, each more glitzy and splashy then the next, there were the arts that were communal, and spoke to all ages: music, dance, and storytelling. Roving storytellers, or people from right there in the community, would gather everyone, from toddler to elder to share a tale. I say share, because the truest experience of storytelling is when the audience is just as much in the story as the teller is. When the watchers and listeners chime in with a “Oh, oh!” or “Don’t do that”, or sing the song the performer is singing, or dance the tellers same dance.

And that night, I felt the collective love, and energy of everyone in that room, as they gazed first at me, then at each other, laughing or acknowledging a word, or sentence, or movement I had done. The children giggled, the adults did, too, and even a baby a few months old, was wide eyed, and involved.

At one point, half way through my performance, I closed my eyes for a second longer than I normally would have, because I wanted to really breathe it in. I needed to soak myself in that gathering of joy, and relish that incredibly magic moment!!

Notes from the Field (XV)

Travel without Travel

I was born in an area of Queens that lies close to both JFK, and La Guardia airports, so perhaps that is why travel has always fascinated me. Planes, trains, buses, vans, station wagons, and SUVs have carried me all across this country and beyond – mostly on someone else’s dime.

For most of my 20’s and 30’s, I was on some tour or the other, dancing in musicals in towns whose names I don’t remember. And my work as a clown has allowed me to see Europe with a red nose in my back pack. But the journeys my storytelling has taken me on, are truly unique.

While I have gone as far away as Middle America to tell my tales, the travel that I speak of is much more local – namely, New York City, and the state of New Jersey. Spending time in the different neighborhoods of these two locations is like a tour of the world.

In one week, I have visited a section of the Bronx where everything from the people, to the freshly made bread in the corner bakery, was authentically Italian, and then been in a tiny library in New Jersey close enough to the ocean that the streets are dusted with sand. I travel to communities where Cinco De Mayo is a huge fiesta, and to areas where every house celebrates Passover. To get to the school, library, museum, or event where I am to perform, I walk by penthouses, and the projects; Bloomingdales, and One Dollar stores. Just as I bring the world to my audiences through the tales I tell – the world is brought to me by the myriad of cultures, religions, economic groups, and races I am honored to perform for.

The fact that every culture has the same type of tales – the trickster tale, and the porquoi story, among others – constantly reminds me that certain thoughts, feelings, and experiences are universal. The same holds true for my “travels” around the NYC/NJ area. It doesn’t matter if the kids are fans of Hannah Montana, or Chris Brown; if they drive a tractor, or ride a bike. The smiles are the same, the laughter is identical, and the connection is just as real in Seaside Heights, as it is in Harlem.

Many more learned people than I have written about the importance of travel, and I agree whole heartedly. Of course, travel exposes us to worlds and peoples that may differ from ourselves greatly. But, more than that, it shows us how very much alike we are. How there really is a brotherhood, and sisterhood of mankind!

Experiencing this a time zone, or three, away is wonderful, but I am grateful, and happy, that I don’t always have to go that far to see the world. Thanks to the crazy quilt of humanity that exists within a few hours of my apartment, I can travel the world, without ever really leaving home!

Notes from the Field (XIV)

Deceiving Appearances

There is a Jewish wisdom tale that goes like this:

One day, a prophet, a magical seer of the future, came upon a wedding feast. Outside this party stood the father of the bride. Inviting all within earshot, the man continually cried out, “All are welcome!”

Seeking to test the man, the prophet went home, and put on the robes of a beggar. “May I come in?” He asked the father of the bride, as he approached.

“A beggar such as you is not welcome here,” was the response.

A short time later, the prophet returned to the wedding again – this time dressed in the robes of a king. No one recognized him from his first visit, and he was immediately escorted in, and sat in a place of honor. But when he was offered some of the wedding dinner to eat, the prophet put the food on his glorious robes, and poured the wine down his shirt.

“Why do you do this?” Demanded the father of the bride.

“It is simple,” replied the prophet. “I am feeding the one whom you invited to your feast.”

“Nonsense! I invited you, and you wasted my fine meal!”

“You are wrong, sir,” the prophet said, with a smile. “You see, earlier today, I came here dressed as a beggar, and you turned me away. But when I came back wearing the robes of royalty – you treated me with distinction. And since I am the same man, it would seem that who you invited here today, wasn’t me, at all, it was my clothes. For you said that all were welcome – but you did not truly mean it.”

Normally, I avoid telling tales I’ve hear someone else tell. For some reason, the moment I hear a story come from a fellow tellers lips – it becomes their sole property, in my mind, and I cannot bring myself to utter it. But this story was my different.

The theme of being judged by ones appearances is one that has run throughout my life. As a person of color, and as a woman, assumptions have been made about me by other people long before they actually made my acquaintance. Also, for some reason, I don’t often look like what some people think of as a storyteller either – on more than several occasions people have looked at me quizzically saying, “YOU’RE the storyteller????????” And sadly, one of the few truisms of life, is that EVERYONE, at some time or another, has been judged solely on what they look like. This story then, is universal, and I have seen it work for seniors, the homeless, and one particular group, I think is often misjudged – teenagers.

Who hasn’t seen a group of high schoolers enter a store, and then watched the owners take one look at them, and brace themselves for “trouble”. On the subway, I routinely see people shift away from teen agers if their voices rise above the normal polite train murmur. Time and time again, when I share this tale with a class of 14 – 17 year olds, their hands shoot up when I ask the question, “Have you ever been judged by what you look like?”

They recount instances of being judged by strangers, their peers, and their families, and though they often shrug it off in a show of youthful bravado – it’s clear to me, that they have been hurt by it.
But even though I have often been “the judged”, I am not, as I was recently reminded, above being “the judge”. This past month, I was given the task of “modeling” my performance style for a high school public speaking class that was doing a unit on folktales. I was also to coach them in preparation of their upcoming storytelling performances.

As I walked up the steps of this sprawling, inner city school, I felt my stomach tightened. The scene is one I have taken in far more than once – metal detectors at the entrance, and security guards scanning for any whiff of trouble. “Here was go,” I thought, mentally preparing myself for a group of surly, rude teens, that didn’t give a D*** about storytelling or me, and would probably let me know it BIG TIME. “Use a lot of humor, “ my brain whispered. “Get them to laugh at you. And if that fails – it’s only three visits – how bad could it be.”

My first clue that I was wrong, came when one of the football players in the class – well over 6’3” and 200 lbs, walked by me and said, “You’re the storyteller, huh? That’s cool.”

From the very first word out of my mouth, these students were attentive, and respectful. The questions they asked made it clear that they were eager to learn anything I was willing to share with them. The faces I had thought would look at me with scowls, gazed at me with genuine interest. And that was before they began to tell stories themselves.

As each student rose, and made their way to the front of the classroom, I was blown away time and time again by the level of concentration, commitment, and talent these young men and women brought to their storytelling.

Just as I had been judged by others as not looking like a storyteller, I had done the same thing to these gifted students. With their oversized hoodies and baggy jeans, they might not look like the storytellers one sees at libraries, schools, and festivals – but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t ones. They are a reminder that stories, and their tellers, come in all different packages. For just like the father of the bride in that Jewish folktale, stories say, “ALL are welcome.” The difference is, tales really mean it.

Notes from the Field (XIII)

NO ONE IS GOOD ENOUGH TO COMPETE WITH FOOD
(and other really true things about birthday parties)

While I am generally not one to “toot my own horn, I have been known to quite easily tell anyone that I think I am brave. I’m unafraid of the new, the unfamiliar beckons me, and “feel the fear, but do it anyway” is a favorite mantra of mine. But, just like Superman collapses in the presence of kryptonite, there is a question that makes me shiver – “Do you do birthday parties?”
AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!

It’s sort of ironic that I, who make a HUGE deal every December 23rd (the proximity of my birthday to a certain holiday probably tells you why I do – one too many “this is your combination Christmas/Birthday present” packages sent me over the edge LONG ago!!), would be cowed by this type of celebration. But, I am, and I’ll tell you why.

At schools, libraries, museums, and festivals, there is an expectation, a code, if you will, about how a performance should proceed, and how an audience should (for lack of a better word) behave. When I stand in front of a group of children in a school – I’m a treat! I’m the “we’re missing math class cherry on the top of a sundae”. The students are on their best behaviors, because, if they’re not, one of the twenty or so teachers in the assembly hall, will yank them out of their seats, and back to fractions and multiplication (THANK YOU, TEACHERS!!!!). Also, I am loud enough, and rowdy enough, and involve them enough, to be a bit of anarchy in a structured school day. I still have to have my A-game to keep their attention, but at least the odds are stacked in my favor!!
The same is true in libraries – everybody knows they are entering the land of “SSSSH!!!!!!!!!!!!” – so the fact that for one hour, they can laugh, stomp, and clap loudly, feels quite decadent, and is worth focusing solely on. And storytelling festivals?? PLEASE – that’s an all expenses paid vacation in the locale of your choice!! The entire infrastructure is designed to highlight the main event – the telling of tales. Birthday parties, however, are a whole different beast (and I don’t choose that word for nothing).

Let’s just examine some of the sights, sounds, and events at an average party, shall we?
SUGAR!!!!!! And lots of it – cakes, cookies, cupcakes, and candy!!! What more do I need to say.
Those tootie noise maker things that uncoil like brightly colored snakes, and sound like an angry goose.

Decorations – piñatas, pointy birthday hats (that nobody really wears), and assorted table doo-dads, that can also serve as projectiles.
Music – I love you, Hannah Montana, and High School Musical – really, I do! But not while I’m working!!!

PRESENTS!!!! Webkinz, American Girl Dolls, computer games, and anything else that comes in a big shiney box!! Try being more interesting than that!!!

SEE WHY I’M SCARED???????????????????????????????????? But, because I believe in the motto that has sold a gazillion sneakers – JUST DO IT (and, frankly, because a freelance storyteller is really not in a position to be picky about work, and still be able to feed her Diet Peach Snapple habit), I preserve. I do the OCCASIONAL birthday party – with the following strictly enforced rules.

RULE #1: NO ONE IS GOOD ENOUGH TO COMPETE WITH FOOD. The storyteller must be given an area free of any assorted birthday distractions. This includes, but is not limited to: balloons, those crepe paper table decoration things, pin the tail on the donkey, and, most especially FOOD. Because NO ONE, no one, and I do mean, no one, is good enough to compete with food. Let me break it down for you this way: Me: an average swimmer. A Chocolate Cupcake: Michael Phelps at the Olympics. Guess who’s gonna win???

RULE #: SIZE DOES MATTER. The number of children at said party must not exceed 15. Now, a lot of storytellers don’t like to do school assemblies – meaning big groups of children – sometimes up to 200 or so. I do. Coming from a musical theatre background, that size audience seems very natural to me. A school auditorium packed full of students, and TEACHERS is a controlled environment (remember the whole “I’m saving them from math class thing?) I have, literally, seen teachers fly down the aisle, and scoop up a kid from their seat so fast, they left behind a trail of dust. At a party, though, a large group can quickly become a mob. Gone are the teachers, and the convention of having to be “good”. And may I say, I TOTALLY UNDERSTAND!!! Parties are for play, and a certain amount of wildness!! But, I am all of 5’2”, and oh, so easy to pick up, and toss. I might be able to outrun 15 kids, if things get ugly – but 20 or 30??? No way!!!

RULE #3: THOSE UNDER 5 YEARS OLD, WILL BE CARDED. The week after my next door neighbor gave birth, she came to me, precious bundle in her arms, saying, “You’ll have to tell stories for his christening party – he’ll like that!” HUH?? I looked at her for a good long while, and then, trying not to sound as amazed as I was, said, “But he doesn’t know any words.” Now, I hope I don’t sound mean about this, but – infants are miracles, toddlers remind me of what discovery and play are all about. I LOVE both age groups – but they are TOO YOUNG for storytelling!! There are all sorts of “storytelling like “ things for that age group – storytimes at libraries, with those fun cardboard books (which are also excellent for teething!), circle time Mommy and Me fun – in everything from yoga to music – but actual real storytelling, I think, really can’t be done until a child is in the Pre-K age range. Particularly in a group. It is this humble storytellers opinion, that only then, does a child know enough words, and most importantly, have the attention span to last for even 20 minutes of storytelling. Now, I am extremely animated and playful, and I can certainly keep a two year old entertained, but would it be storytelling?? No!

RULE #4: LEAVE THEM WANTING MORE. At other venues, most of my performances are somewhere between 45 minutes and an hour. Not at a party. As I said before, parties are for PLAY and FUN!!! And while I hope to add to that, I don’t want to be, and shouldn’t be all there is to the celebration. A half hour is long enough to entertain my audience, and still leave time for that awesome birthday cake (which, of course, was hidden during my performance, because of rule #1!!)

And so, with these four rules, I’ve been able to leave birthday parties unscarred physically and emotionally, and with my head held high. Why just last week, I performed at one where the parents eagerly complied to my rules. In fact, they had two teenagers, who lived up the street, and sometimes babysat for the kids, helping out. They were a great audience, except one little girl, who was soooooooooooo taken with the teenager, she paid very little attention to me. HMMM…maybe it’s time for RULE #5?????

Notes from the Field (XII)

A MOMENT TO REMEMBER

Just a few weeks ago, I had the honor, the privilege, the “everything else that makes one feel warm, fuzzy, and thrilled” to perform at the National Storytelling Network’s Conference, in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Making it all the more exciting was that I had been nominated by my fellow New Jersey Storytellers, and then selected over numerous other performers, from various other states, to represent the entire Mid-Atlantic Region.

WOW!!!!!!

This was the first national conference I had ever attended, much less performed at, so the experience was a tremendously rich one for me. So much so, that even though I knew I would write about it, I didn’t know which part of that weekend to talk about.

My actual performance was a highlight, of course. I got to stand on a stage in front of A LOT of people – many of whom are well known storytellers – and tell a tale that moves me in a way few others do (if you want to know more about that story, go to the “notes from the field” called “A Story About a Story”) I also got to meet people whose work I’ve known for years, through their books, CDs, and appearances at large national festivals throughout the country. I heard fellow professional tellers talk about their work – the real everyday joys, and pains in the booties, that come with this wacky profession called storytelling. And, in another case of science discovering what the wise folk of old always knew, I learned how stories actually transmit information to the brain far better than any power point presentation ever would. I saw tellers of all different ages, shapes, colors, and styles. I renewed friendships, and made some new ones. And the towns of Gatlinburg, and it’s neighbor, Pigeon Forge are worthy of several essays each (one word about Pigeon Forge – DOLLYWOOD!!!!!!).

So what to write about? Unfortunately, I got my answer through the one thing that none of us will ever be able to avoid – death.

The night after the Regional Concert, which I performed in, was the National Conference – or as I thought of it: “The Big Guns on Parade”. The line up for this was a “Who’s Who” of storytelling – people who had toured the festival circuit for years, who had loyal followings, and could pack theatres. Among them was a name I had heard of, but had never seen tell – Doc McConnell.

Doc started off that evening with what, I was soon to learn, was a crowd favorite, about aspects of running, or more specially, non-running. As one who spends a great deal of her time happily sprinting to nowhere on a treadmill, I laughed as I recognized myself in the people Doc parodied. But as wonderful as the tale was – and it was superb – what left the deepest impression on me was the reception Doc received as he stepped on, then off the stage. Making his was to the stool, and microphone that awaited him, the audience stood on its feel, and let off a cheer that was both warm embrace, and groupie howl, all at the same time. As he shared his thoughts about his “Non-Run Run”, I could see torsos eagerly pitched forward, faces illuminated with smiles, and lips moving as they recited some of their favorite lines, right along with Doc. The audience adored him, and he adored them right back. Now, I’ve had the AMAZING opportunity to see two of my personal idols, Tina Turner and Bette Midler, perform live, and let me tell you here and now, Doc McConnell worked that audience every bit as well as those divas vamped a concert hall. The love the crowd felt for that man was palpable, and that, above everything else that weekend, was what I will always remember.

We live in a society that tends to honor some pretty weird stuff. The fact that I am well acquainted with the status of Britney Spear’s child custody arrangements, simply by glancing at a magazine rack while paying for my Diet Peach Snapple, tells you A LOT, about who gets glorified in this country. So, sitting there watching this group of people – storytellers, and story listeners pay homage to Doc, and to the oral tradition, moved me. It made me proud to sit amongst these folks who saw the specialness of storytelling and storytellers. Was it Groucho Marx who famously said that he’d never want to be part of a group what would have him as a member? Well, Groucho, in this case I disagree with you 1000000000000000000%. In that moment – watching what would be Doc’s final appearance on the National Storytelling Conference stage, I was floored to be part of this group of people that cold take in, and appreciate the ART that is storytelling, and the ARTISIT that great storytellers like Doc are. An art that can look so very simple, that a lot of folks say, “What’s the big deal? Where’s the sets? The costumes? The car crashes?” to be amongst people who truly honor their own – even when the rest of the world would probably pay no heed to an elderly man on a stool, talking into a mike – made me proud.

I didn’t get to meet Doc after the show, as I left I saw he was swarmed by admirers. Thoughts of his performance, and the audience reaction drifted through my head every now and again during the almost 12 hour drive home the next day – but then it all shifted to the “been there, done that” file in my mind. But then, a few weeks later, I go the news that Doc had died. Like warm shower water pouring over me, the memory of the Conference came back, as did the pride I felt that night.

So here’s to Doc McConnell, and all the souls who appreciate him, and love tales, and their tellers: You are a special, beautiful people, and I am honored to be one of you!!!!

Notes from the Field (XI)

Stop and Smell the Strawberries

I love fruit! Just adore it! Sometimes I think instead of calling myself a vegetarian, I should be labeled a fruitatrian. Green apples – tart and crisp - are what I can be seen eating most of the year. But summertime brings my very favorite of nature’s sweet treats – peaches, plums, blueberries, and strawberries.

There is something about eating these juicy yummies that scream, “Slow down! Enjoy! Feel the juice run down your face, and between your fingers!” And just the other day, as I was savoring a bowl of mammoth sized strawberries (I always wonder if I should worry when they’re that big), I was reminded of two folktales where these succulent red berries taught huge life lessons.

The first tale is one that is probably familiar to anyone who has studied Buddhist, or certain yogic meditation techniques. A woman finds herself in the jungle running from tigers. She goes as fast as her feet will carry her, until finally she finds herself at a cliff that has a long vine hanging from it. Hoping to climb down to the valley below, she begins to descend, only to see that there are tigers below her as well. As both sets of tigers roar, she notices that there is a tiny, but persistent mouse gnawing on the vine. But then her eyes spy a small patch of bright, plump strawberries. She picks one, pops it in her mouth, and thoroughly enjoys it’s deliciousness.

I love this story, for if ever there was an example of “being here now” and “enjoying the present moment”, this is it. Faced with almost certain death, no matter where she turns, this woman is able to see the beauty that is in front of her, and instead of bemoaning what her fate may be, she relishes in the sweetness of that instant, by eating a strawberry.

How I wish I could say that I lived like that – not worried about the “tigers” I left behind, or the ones that may await me. To often the chewing that I do is not on a piece of fruit, but on a conversation – real or imaged - or a moment, probably long forgotten by everyone but me.

The second story is a Native American tale about a married couple who have a fight. The wife storms out of their home, enraged. After a few minutes, the husband realized he must apologize to his wife, and takes off after her, only to find that she is so far ahead of him, he can’t catch her. The Sun, whom the husband asks for help, shines down on the earth where the woman is walking, and a patch of blueberries appear. The wife ignores them, and continues her angry march. Next, the sun conjures up blackberries. But, still the wife walks on. It is only after the Sun creates a brand new fruit – strawberries, that the wife stops. As she eats the berries, her anger fades, and the couple reunites. Once again, strawberries save the day.

Now, I know as well as anyone, life isn’t always like the folktales I tell. Sometimes – most times – it’s hard not to let the “tigers’ consume you with worry, and it can be all too easy to walk away from someone who loves you, because you’re pissed off. But maybe, during this season where strawberries are abundant, and fresh, we can use them to remind us that life is so very, very sweet – and all we have to do is slow down long enough to see it.

Notes from the Field (X)

A Story About A Story

I will freely and willingly admit that when it comes to stories, I like ‘em short, fast, and funny - the type of tale that keeps a smile on one’s face, and a giggle on one’s tongue. Big, bright, musical comedy type affairs – that, as they say, is how I roll. So it makes prefect comic sense that a story containing none of the things I am normally drawn to, has given me more deep, rich, meaningful gifts than any of my “Ha-Ha” tales combined.

The tale of “The Spirit of the Tree” first came into my life when I was asked to tell stories at a wedding. A teacher who used storytelling in her classroom, and appreciated the transformative nature of folktales, contacted me through a friend of a friend. My first response was, “Wow! Cool idea! Of course I’ll perform for you on THE MOST IMPORTANT DAY OF YOUR LIFE!” My second thought was, “AAAAAH!!!!!!!!!! Me?? What will I tell?? What will I wear??”

I knew short, fast, and funny was NOT going to cut it – especially after meeting Jennifer and Richard. You know all those catch phrases like “made for each other” and “two peas in a pod”? That was them. She had those kinds of looks that screamed, “I’m a good doer - as beautiful on the inside, as I am on the outside!” And he had that “the guy who would always have your back” face. No wonder they fell in love with each other – I was smitten with them both.

I listened intently as they told me about their lives, their likes, and their families. I took more notes than someone studying for the Bar Exam. The part that really got to me, was the fact that both of them had just lost grandparents, who were very dear to them. “Their spirits,” they told me, “are still with us.”

To find the prefect tale for them, I unleashed my research loving side, and hit the books – HARD. Using my personal folktale collection (which is WAY larger than someone who lives in a one bedroom apartment, with a very tolerant husband, should be allowed to have), and the resources of the New York City, and Jersey City Library systems, I searched for the prefect story for Jennifer and Richard.

I found lots of love stories, lots of deceased parent/grandparent stories, lots of love stories about people who had deceased parents/grandparents. Most were beautiful, a lot were moving, a couple were almost short, fast and funny, but none, to quote good old Goldilocks, was “just right”. But we all know how those tales go, “They looked, and looked, and just when they were about to give up – THERE IT WAS!!” And don’t you know, that’s exactly what happened.

In a book I had owned for several years, but hadn’t looked at for a long time, I found “The Spirit of the Tree”. I don’t know why I didn’t discount it immediately, because at face value, it looked like a dozen other stories I had already rejected. It is one of the hundreds of Cinderella variants – young girl, dead mother, step mom’s a meanie- but what grabbed me is how the spirit of the girl’s mother, and not a handsome prince, is really who guides her to a “happily ever after”. Yes, she falls in love (with a hunter, not royalty), but only as a result of her mother’s guidance, and promise that, “I will always be there for you, I will always care for you.” Tears came to my eyes when I read it, and I realized it was the prefect tale not just for Jennifer and Richard, but for me, as well.

The mother’s promise, and love in that story, reminded me of the powerful blessing my late mother-in-law had bestowed on all of her children. I will gladly tell anyone who listens, that I married an amazing man – compassionate, intelligent, and loving beyond belief. His innate goodness, and that of his brother, and sisters, is a living testament to their mother, whose face always shone with pleasure and delight at the site of one of her children. Her death was, unfortunately, a long, drawn out affair, but because my husband and his siblings each got a very real chance to say good-bye, I feel like they were all encased forever in their mother’s love. This story, then, was a chance to honor the woman who had given birth to my greatest gift.

There were a lot of tears when I told “The Spirit of the Tree” at Jennifer and Richard’s wedding – but I had never felt so joyous. While I LOVE, and I mean LOVE my work with children, this was an opportunity to help seal a bond of love between two people who had already weathered loss together. That I was able to contribute, in even a small way, to their path of marriage was an honor I will always cherish, along with the loving memory of my mother-in-law.

Wanting this tale to remain a tribute to that happy couple, and to my husband’s mom, I sort of put it to bed. I didn’t often have the occasion to tell such an “adult” story anyway, so it was easy to let it slip to the bottom of my “play list”. I pulled it out occasionally, and once recorded it, along with two other tales, for the Cotsen Children’s Library at Princeton University.

Fast forward a few years. I was EXTREMELY flattered, honored, and floored to be nominated, this spring, by my fellow New Jersey storytellers, to perform at a Regional Concert as part of the upcoming National Storytelling Network’s Conference. If selected, I would be representing not just New Jersey, but the entire Mid-Atlantic region! The judging committee would need a tape or CD of my work, and even though I didn’t think I had a shot of making the cut, I popped the CD I had from the Cotsen Library in the mail.

“CONGRATULATIONS!!!” the email, that arrived some time later declared. “You’ve been selected to tell your story, “Tangiers Cinderella” at the NSN Conference on August 9^th, 2008!!” Yeah! Yeah!! HUH?? “Tangiers Cinderella”? I’d never even heard of that story, much less told it. Chalking it up to a “miss-dial”, I sent a reply saying, “Sorry, wrong storyteller.” But another email quickly came back saying, “Maybe we got the name of the tale wrong, but not the name of the teller. We want YOU, and the third story on your CD.”

Third story? To my recollection, on the Costen Library CD was “Mommie Mouse”, a story for toddlers, “The Clever Turtle”, for the grade schoolers, and finally, “The Knee High Man” for all ages. I was sure of it. Positive of it. Certain – or was I? It had been soooooo long since I’d recorded that CD, and I had never listened to it. Could I actually have forgotten what I had told? I rose from my computer desk, and grabbed the CD. I listened as my own voice announced, “Mommie Mouse” – just as I knew it would. Jumping to the next track, the words “The Clever Turtle” sang out, again, in my voice, and, again, just as I had expected. But just as I was beginning to feel a little irritated at this “judging committee” – I mean, how could they raise my hopes up, and then mistake me for someone else – the words “The Spirit of the Tree” cut through my indignant silence. OOPS!!!!

I’d love to say, “and in a flood of memories, it all came back to me, and I laughed at the ironies of fate”. But actually, I felt pretty stupid, and wanted to kick myself for almost blowing a BIG opportunity.

So, on August 9^th, at the National Storytelling Network’s Annual Conference, I will tell a story that is unlike any other in my repertoire - a tale that came to me through a loving couple I didn’t really know, and one that binds me, forever, to my husband’s family. I will happily, proudly, and probably tearfully perform “The Spirit of the Tree”.