realia

another rider

Yesterday I see a young guy flying by on a BIXI bike, unbuttoned jacket fluttering behind him like a super hero’s cape in the wind.  He’s wearing the uniform of an airline pilot, including the hat, which is tipped jauntily on the back of his head.  His long, slim form creates angular shapes on the bike which is not adjusted to his height; and his trousers ride up to expose skinny sock covered ankles and long feet.  With the fast, purposeful pedalling, I’m again reminded of Miss Gulch.  It crosses my mind that he’s late for a flight, but he’s riding in the opposite direction of the downtown airport. 

About 20 minutes later, I see the fella again; strolling back the other way, arm in arm with a gal.  He wasn’t, it appears, late for a flight.  He was late for a homecoming.

mismatched or something

Early in the week I stop on my way home for something to eat after working late.  About halfway through my meal a couple sits at a table nearby.  They seem mismatched, both in size and style.  I check myself for making this judgement; after all I’d like to think I’m deep enough to remember that human connections have nothing to do with size or style; that they’re made up of much more interesting and mysterious things than that. 

Still, humour me.  He looks younger than her, at least by way of style.  He looks to be the kind of guy who shops at the mall for clothing and assorted electronica and other boy bling with his buddies.  That kind of guy didn’t exist when I was his age, in my little world anyway.  Boy bling was only popular among the white polyester pants and open shirt set of my parents’ generation; and electronic toys came in really large boxes with really large woofers and tweeters that took up whole corners of living rooms or was installed in the doors and rear windows of the shaggy-haired owners’ beat up Monte Carlos. 

This guy has perfectly trimmed hair and a nice shirt and expensive looking jacket and has just set his expensive phone on the table after checking for messages.  The gal is not the kind you’d imagine our guy and his buddies cruising at the mall. She doesn’t look like she goes to malls much.  Her hair isn’t modern; neither are her clothes. She doesn’t set a phone on the table upon sitting down. 

But it’s not the appearance of the two that gets my attention, it’s the expression on his face: a bland smile, which is not a smile; the kind of face you wear on a first date when you’re trying to hide your disappointment, trying to pretend you’re up for a good time when really you’re counting the minutes to the moment when you can call an end to the evening and chalk it up to experience.  His eyes match the insipidness of that not-a-smile, trying to look at her as if she were somehow interesting but seeing through her instead.

I can’t see her face but I expect it is either (1) wearing the same bland mask of resignation, or (2) wearing a face of an eager, insecure not-a-smile, not quite covering a furious search for something clever to say.

She takes a long time to order a drink and the guy and his bland not-a-smile are patient as the gal discusses options with the server.  I'm taken back to a time when I was about 15, sitting in the corner of a car with a bunch of kids having skipped school on a gorgeous June afternoon.  We stopped at a drive-through window and I ordered a large pop because I was thirsty but was mortified to discover just how large the large pop was, and I spent the rest of the glorious June afternoon feeling miserable and embarrassed about having ordered a bucket of pop (no doubt puny by today’s standards) and thinking I must look so ridiculous.  Of course the only thing that made me look ridiculous was the embarrassment over a stupid cup of pop which nobody noticed.  That moment of insecurity ruined the experience of the afternoon which should have been fun, with boys and skipping school and early summer and all. 

My mortification over that pop is probably the only thing that keeps that memory alive in me.  And what gives me compassion for that girl who seems to be trying hard to order the right drink.  After she finally makes her decision, he orders a craft beer in a fancy bottle without hesitation.

I can’t bear to watch as she considers the food menu and turn back to my book, ironically, 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life, a memoir by Kristen McGuiness who embarked on 51 dates in 50 weeks.  Looking up now and then I see the couple’s conversation slipping in and out of the air between them.  When it’s not sliding off to the floor in a heap, the talking is quiet, serious, polite.  He nods kindly at something she says and then it slithers away again.  Between bites she watches the filler content running on the hockey channel right above their table.  He looks around for something to be interested in. 

No doubt I’m in tune with the couple because of this book I’m reading which is all about a whole bunch of first dates.  I’d heard the author interviewed on the radio a year or two ago, and quite possibly it was she who inspired me to embark on my own Year of Dating Fearlessly.  Certainly I’ve had my share of bad first dates, more of them than good ones and like McGuinness I was searching for some kind of flaw in me that was hindering the success rate. 

In the end, my year of dating was more successful than hers – on one level.  What we both got was a little more self-understanding.  For me, it was a reaffirming of my awareness in knowing what I want and what I don’t want and being secure with that.  I’d venture to say that wouldn’t be far off from what I knew back when I was 15.  At least when I wasn’t agonizing about what boys were thinking about my drink choices. 

As I ask for my bill, things seem to be warming up, the conversation more animated and relaxed.  Maybe it’s the drinks loosening them up a little. I’m hopeful for them. 

But then as I walk past them to leave, she’s watching the hockey channel with a bland not-a-smile and he’s talking on his cell phone; and my hope for them slides to the floor along with their failed conversation.

terra firma, rich fabric

Last night I had conversations with four of my oldest and most valued friends.  I wish we didn’t have the reason that we all talked, but that we did made me feel better than I had in the twenty-four hours previous.  I hope that was the case for all of us.  Mostly for Denis, because on New Year’s Day he lost his dad. 

I’d been feeling blue about it on a number of levels.  Mostly because someone I love is torn up; he’s been hit, unexpectedly, with life’s cruellest circumstance.  His dad was a really lovely man; a husband in a seemingly inseparable partnership, a good father and pépé and neighbour and respected teacher and now he’s gone.  

If I’m not censoring (it’s a start, Lisa), I’ll tell you that this is one of the two situations in the past year that threw my own mortality in my face.  Hard.  It sounds so selfish.  My heart is truly with my friend, but a feeling of scared came swift and forceful.  A parent is only one generation away. 

I have all my parents – and none seems like s/he is going anywhere soon.  But I got scared about losing them.  They’re still too young.  Like Denis’s dad.  He shouldn’t have gone yet; his family’s hearts shouldn’t be heavy now.  And yesterday evening I was wondering how to move out of the sudden funk – how could I call my friend and be supportive and somehow make it a little better when I felt like I was teetering on some thin emotional wire; psychically a piece of shit?

And then after supper I talked to Debbie.  And then Denis.  And then Robbie.  And then Lynn.  And at the end of the evening I was back on terra firma.  I’m sure it’s because each of them were part of the journey to now.  Last night I'd got away from the moment and they brought me back to it.   

We all exist here in this unstoppable march of time and we all have to face it, and most of us deal with loss when it happens and maybe we don’t get over it but we learn to move on and to be happy again even if there is a new hole in the family’s fabric.  But then again, isn't the fabric richer and more beautiful for that person having been a part of it?

The fabric is precious and beautiful and it’s all any of us has.  And I’m not that articulate, but I’m sure it’s pretty much the point of it all. 

in which bankers fly like nannies

This morning it’s deeply overcast; one of those rainy mornings when you wish it was Saturday but it’s really Thursday and so you drag yourself out of bed, late, and don’t care about what the clock says because everybody is late on a rainy day.

The atmosphere has an indigo-charcoal cast and soft, smoky clouds are obscuring the tops of the buildings.  It’s warmer than usual and it’s raining lightly but it seems like the rain is coming down hard because of the thrusting winds.  

I walk outside and one of those winds sweeps up smacks me wet in the face and so I look at the streetcars approaching the stops outside my building.  One going east to Union Station would be a relatively fast ride, and then I could navigate my way through the station and walk the underground malls all the way to my office.  I’m gauging the favourableness of that as opposed to the 25 minute blustery rainy walk when I get a look at the steamy windows of the streetcars and I think about the vacant, rude, blackberry punching humanity crammed inside, and that times a hundred teeming through Union Station, and I open up my polka dotted umbrella and tilt it into the wind and walk up into Spadina Avenue for my journey north-east to work.

Right away I smell the rain on the city and I’m glad I’ve chosen the walk, even though gusts blow up one side of me and down the other and I’m hanging on to my umbrella wrestling it back to its job.  I get up to Front Street and other people are wrestling their umbrellas too and some are crouched up tight in their hoods and scarves.  On King Street the streetcars are glistening behind the swishing windshield wipers and the streets are shining under the rain and the clouds seemed to have sunk down to encompass the coffee shops too. 

I get close to Bay Street amidst all the suits and black umbrellas and while I’m waiting for a light I imagine all of those bankerly types suddenly swooping up into the air like the would-be nannies in Mary Poppins, high heels flying off and scarves fluttering; and I imagine them flipping and whirling, getting smaller as they move off past the cloud draped buildings and over the lake toward Niagara Falls.

I get to my office with mashed up hair and a runny nose and I prop my dripping umbrella next to my desk and get myself a cup of jasmine flavoured tea and know that my wet ankles will dry before long.

mud and wine

“It’s still raining.”

I’m walking up to the car rental place on Saturday morning to retrieve the car in which my girls and I will drive down to the much anticipated Shores of Erie wine festival in our home town when Debbie calls. “Bring rubber boots, raincoats, umbrellas, tarps, dinghies – whatever you got. And for heaven’s sake, don’t wear anything white. Or nice.”

I’d been getting updates on the back home weather all week; it started pouring about five days previous and hadn’t stopped; until that moment I’d nicely avoided thinking about the consequences. And call me a reckless avoider, but I don’t even consider taking that freshly ironed white shirt out of my suitcase.

The back home weather report is inconceivable. It’s the most perfect morning of the entire year, and I wish we could move the entire festival four hours up the highway. Luscious September days like this are precious: sunny with a soft breeze – the kind that caresses your skin with the gentlest of kisses. There isn’t an ounce of humidity and the sky is so clear it sparkles.

After collecting the girls we get on the highway, happy in spite of the mucky news. The event is about old friends, wine, food and live music. Last year we had such a good time, seeing so many of my home people dishing out so much love. Add to that memory the gorgeousness of that September and the beautiful setting alongside a familiar river – not going was not an option.

The luscious weather remains perfect for pretty much the whole ride down the highway. When we’re down to a half hour away, we begin to see layers of cloud formations: some thick and cotton-like, seemingly miles deep, others wispy and flying fast underneath them. And then the occasional black one hanging like a lame threat over some farm field.

When we finally pull into the yard at Debbie and Len’s, it’s stopped raining and Deb’s looking disbelievingly at the breaks of blue in the sky. We did our best to bring it along, we say.

 

The rolling grounds of Fort Malden are a sloppy mess. We’re talking barnyard. It seems no less crowded than last year. Apparently wine lovers are a serious lot, and no one is going to let a little rain and mud diminish any of their fun. Kind of like making lemonade out of life’s lemons, what was once a promenade of cute dresses and sandals has morphed into a parade of audacious wellies.

Thousands of pairs of audacious wellies - beautiful thing number sixty-three.

One doesn’t venture away from one’s table much this year for fear of going topsy turvy in the muck. And yes, I wore that white shirt. At one point Kelsey has to ask a bloke to give her a pull because she gets stuck. She isn’t the only one suffering mucky dilemmas. We witness a number of fall-downs one amusing one by a guy who is gallantly carrying a girl on his back. It is amusing because Princess is NOT pleased and climbs BACK on his slimy back for the rest of the journey to the paved walk about five feet away.

Next day, Sunday, the sun joins the party and by after lunch when we go back to the site, the conditions have improved considerably, and continue to do so until the event closes. Sarah Harmer, who we’d stayed the extra day to hear play charms everybody. With the crowds considerably thinned and the sun shining, it is a most pleasant day.

They say that for a time Fort Malden served as a lunatic asylum. I’m amused by the thought of what those who walked the Fort Malden grounds a couple hundred years ago might be thinking from the vantage point of a netherworld, of these hoards of people in crazy-coloured rubber footwear happily wallowing around in acres of mud and seeming to celebrate that with endless toasting and good cheer.

If I were one of those netherworld beings, I might see that party down there, mud and all as most definitely beautiful thing number sixty-four.

big day, large island, tiny town

As discussed in my previous post, my family and I attended the South Baymouth Canada Day celebrations this past weekend.  We always anticipate this world class parade on that gentle jewel of an island sitting in Lake Huron in the middle of Ontario.  

  My family, in all its forms, waiting for the parade.

Here it comes!

 My girls, (Carly left, Kelsey middle, and my niece Denice, right) waiting...

A premier float - Somewhere Over There

Firemen!

Family friend Reg on his vintage tractor... 
  Dad for mayor!

what if your story turned you into nothing?

The other night I saw a film presented in Toronto’s HotDocs festival, Imagining Emanuel. If you’ve visited me for any length of time, you’ll know I’m preoccupied with the power of the personal story, and how we can explore our own personal stories to gain self-understanding, understanding of others, recognize and act on our potential, even re-invent ourselves. Us bloggers are using that to marvellous effect, and the thought of our voices out there, adding to the beautiful mosaic of humanity is something I find immensely gratifying.

So it would have been from that perspective that I watched the film about Emanuel, a refugee who landed as a stowaway in Norway.

The only thing Emanuel has is his story. He has no identification, no “proof” of where he came from, he has never had any “papers” of any kind. He tells us he was born in Liberia, and because of the war, fled to Ghana with his mother. They lived on the streets in poverty, and she eventually died. He supported himself by helping market vendors carry their goods to market for pay in food.

He decided to seek a better life, and hiding in the propeller cavity of a ship, became a stowaway to an unknown destination. After days of either sitting or standing in the small, wet space with no food or water, he emerged and gave himself up and found he was in Norway.

Norwegian officials do not believe his story. They have determined he is not from Liberia but from Ghana. The illiterate Emanuel has never wavered from his story, it’s the only thing he has. Ghana has refused him citizenship papers that would allow him to travel, and with no status in Norway, he is in limbo. No longer incarcerated, he has been given a temporary home on the farm of a man who has befriended him. He has nothing to do – he can’t read. He can’t work, he can’t upgrade his skills; he can do nothing to provide for himself.

All he has is his story, and because the officials say it isn’t true, his story means nothing.

I think about the people who have taken my classes and how empowered they become when they get the opportunity to tell their stories. I think about how gratified I feel because you read my stories and you tell me they have made a difference to you.

I think about my own experience of the story against that of Emanuel. His story is essentially taken away from him and re-told, probably for the reason of not granting him refugee status. And the invention of him by others has left him with nothing.

But thanks to media attention in Norway, and a young documentary filmmaker, Emanuel is not invisible. The filmmaker took photos of the audience to send back to Emanuel, and it felt good to wave at the guy and let him know his story was being heard beyond the context of official "truth" – that his story might mean something in itself.

e. e. cummings, jimi hendrix’s guitar, and the power of a metaphor

…or another Ken Long story.

One of the things I learned in doing my adult education degree is that people process new information based on their individual experiences and accumulated knowledge. Each of us absorbs (or rejects) information in a different way, and if we reflect on new information against our own life experiences, we can come to a more meaningful understanding. If new knowledge is meaningful to us, it changes us somehow. In education circles, that’s called transformative learning.

I didn’t know or really care about any of that when I went to university the first time. All I knew was that I was ten years older than most of my lecture hall peers, and I felt out of touch and out of place. But my first English professor, Ken Long, taught me about transformative learning a most impactful way.

So there are my classmates and me, wearing all manner of perplexed expressions as Long tries to get us to analyze this poem by E. E. Cummings:

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

Most people are shifting in their seats, trying to translate the disjointed sentences and punctuation that was, if not absent, used in odd (wrong) ways. Surely the thing is derogatory. Or, maybe it isn’t?

But Long is trying to get us to look deeper– what is the *point* of the disjointed sentences used together? What emotions are evident in the poem? How many voices is the poem reflecting?

Silence.

So then he turns to that most powerful conveyor of meaning, metaphor:

“Think about Jimi Hendrix’s guitar solo of the Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock.”

Long looks back out to the sea of blank faces – and maybe he saw mine in the midst of them, smiling under the light bulb that had been switched on above my head. Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

In one instant, because of my awareness of that historic rock and roll moment, I could see that Cummings is satirizing false patriotism created by catchphrases and concepts, and I see him suggesting that his beloved country is less free because of those that blindly ascribe to those phrases and concepts while calling those that don’t, unpatriotic.

I wasn’t old enough to remember Woodstock directly, but I knew all about the event, I had seen the video and heard Hendrix’s controversial solo many times, and I knew he was playing to an audience that was critical of the Viet Nam war in particular, and questioning of the “establishment” in general, and were often called un-American for it. I had felt the emotion in that solo, and could tell that it reflected both love for his country, mourning for lives lost in war, and a critical disdain for an administration’s use of a bunch of symbols wrapped up in a national anthem to form such a narrow definition of loyalty and patriotism.

It was with mild amusement that I saw that none of the 19 year-olds in the room seemed to have any idea of what the professor was talking about. If they knew who Jimi Hendrix was, or if they’d heard of that solo, the connection sure wasn’t gelling.

For me though, that professor shed light – again – on my power as an adult learner, showing me how my own experiences and life-acquired knowledge framed my critical perspective, and could make new learning richer and more meaningful.

Oh, and there was that other little writing/art/life lesson too – the power of the metaphor. I must say, to this day that particular metaphor of a most beautiful guitar player reflecting the meaning in an e.e. cummings poem, is still my favourite. Let's call it beautiful thing number 36.

 

I'm finding beauty - are you?

on moments, learning and beautiful imperfections

Exploring a few more questions:

What is the simplest truth you can express in words?
All we have is now.

 

If you had to teach something, what would you teach?
I actually learned how to teach because there was an idea that so inspired me I had to teach it - that we all have stories to tell, and all those stories are important.

With the growth of mass media/communications in the last century came the subsequent explosion of targeted messaging, public relations, spin and the manipulation of information in general, and we seem to be subjected to versions of “reality” that are increasingly narrowed, ironically.  If we all told our own stories from the perspectives of our own personal windows on the world, we might use our own critical skills and reject certain “realities” being constructed by those with louder voices and taller platforms. 

So, I did it.  I learned how to teach so I could encourage people to tell their own stories. 

 

What is the most defining moment of your life thus far?
There are a few.  My interest in memoir and personal stories has caused me to examine these at length; for people who write in this vein, these moments - the points at which everything changes and nothing is ever the same again – are a goldmine to explore.  Here’s one I tell to most of my classes at some point in the semester:

I went to university when I was 30.  I was in the process of ending my marriage, and my girls were still really young.  All my life I’d been called an underachiever in school; that my output was not reflective of my abilities.  I just wasn’t that interested in some of the subjects, and my brain refused to process others – usually those involving numbers and equations.  Many years later I would learn about the concept of learning styles, and that the way curriculum was disseminated in the 60s and 70s didn’t much accommodate mine.  I’m not here to throw blame – I just didn’t bother corralling my mind and imagination within the walls of the classroom; I got by as a mediocre student, and that was good enough for me. 

It is with this background I find myself in an English class, a few weeks into my first semester of university.  I am in a class with a bunch of kids that got to university because they got good grades in high school.  I am there because as a “mature student” they had to let me in. 

So I’m sitting there in misery because we’re about to get back our first papers.  I submitted a critical analysis of a William Faulkner short story which I am sure is a piece of crap; I am certain Professor Long will call me aside after and ask me what in heaven’s name am I thinking in hanging about these halls that were built for academic types, not underachievers like me.

Before handing back the papers, Long begins to write a breakdown of the grades on the board; first he writes down the letters A through F and under each the number of students who got that grade.  I believe he is trying to illustrate that most everyone did badly, to ease the shock of those grades at the tops of those papers.  There is one A, a couple of B’s, several C’s, lots of D’s and one F – which I am convinced is mine.  In my head I’m making plans for quitting this nonsense and getting on with my life without a degree.  I’m not one of these people.

While I consider hightailing it out the door and avoiding the humiliation altogether, my paper is dropped in front of me and at the top of it is the A.  I’m in danger of hyperventilating, and I leave the room to collect myself in the hall while all the complaining smart kids are standing around Professor Long’s desk seeking some sort of explanation as to these foreign looking letters at the tops of their pages.

Ken Long would go on to shine light on more understandings that year, but this moment was the first time I understood that knowledge comes not only with study, but also with living.  That my own critical perspective has weight and value.  It was at that moment that the concept of lifelong learning, and idea that education could have something in it for me, revealed itself like the proverbial clap of thunder.  I left that room feeling considerably more valuable as a human than I did when I walked in.

Another ten years down the road I would go on to pursue another degree in adult education because I wanted to share this type of experience.  If I could make learning experiences a fraction as meaningful as Ken Long did for me, I will have made a difference in my little corner of the world.  And what more could one ask for?

Is there such a thing as perfect?
I like to think that it’s imperfections that make the world and its people interesting and beautiful.  In fact, I think “perfection” is a dangerous concept.  Who’s to say how perfect is defined?  By its implication, everything considered not perfect is somehow lesser than the thing labelled perfect by the person who has somehow acquired the right to name it so.  We’ve all got a lifetime of experiences, beliefs, understandings that would cause us to see a thing in a different way, and what if we don’t see it the same way as that person who labels a thing perfect?  Does that automatically render us imperfect?

It seems I’ve written myself into a theme here.  You know that “A” paper I wrote about above?  It was technically an A-.  Not perfect, and yet the most beautiful thing I had seen in a very long time.  Let’s call it beautiful thing number 35. 

 

I'm finding beauty, are you?

one of the turns in the road to here

I’ve been thinking a lot about the power of the personal story these days.  Not that such thoughts are exactly new – anyone who’s read the stuff on the other pages of this space will know it’s exactly why I develop and deliver courses in writing stories and why I’m here.  But in the past few days I’ve read some stuff by some fellow bloggers who have illustrated again how the personal story can take something – something  so big, so out of control that we feel powerless to understand it, let alone do anything about it – and make it, well, understandable.  The personal story gives you cause to experience something like, say, a tanked economy or a major flood disaster, through the eyes and mind of the storyteller - and through that experience you find a bit of yourself reflecting back. 

Most semesters, I wind up telling my class about a couple of students I had when I worked for a short time in a small private “school” teaching English as a Second Language.  Ronaldo* and Michel* were required to spend six hours a day in this little class because they had been injured on the job and were receiving workers’ compensation benefits.  In order for these benefits to continue, these guys had to be enrolled in a school like this to learn some alternative skills so that they could go on and find different jobs and get off the benefits. 

I can tell you it wasn’t much fun for them.  Michel had been in Canada for more than ten years, Ronaldo more than twenty; both employed in labour jobs since soon after their arrival.  Ronaldo injured his back when he fell down a hole.  He found it difficult to sit in the classroom for six hours a day, and sometimes would take his book to the back of the room and rest it on the top portion of a computer desk so he could stand up during the lesson.  Michel had a repetitive stress injury and suffered substantial pain doing small tasks, like writing and using a computer. 

They would talk about how they’d loved their jobs.  Ronaldo worked in the Public Works department, and he told me he felt such satisfaction when he got ready for work every day.  He loved the physical work, the look and feel of the hardhat on his head and the “good” tired he felt when he got home at night.  Michel had always felt a great sense of pride in that he came over to Canada alone, worked long enough to eventually send for his family, and ultimately start his own business. 

You might, then, imagine how drilling through pages of ESL grammar workbooks every day didn’t mean a whole lot to these guys.  Each was competent, intelligent and hardworking, and would have much preferred to be out working than stuck in a classroom plodding through sentence structures and verbs and tenses and collecting compensation benefits.  They were allowed a few sick days a year, and no vacation.  No vacation.  Collecting worker’s compensation benefits precluded them from the meagre two-week vacation the rest of us are allowed by law.

Knowing that adults have meaningful learning experiences only if they are able to apply what is being taught to their own lives and circumstances, I took every chance I got to apply their personal lives to the lessons.  Thus I heard many stories - about their favourite meals, fishing and camping trips, family gatherings, soccer matches, weddings, boyhood games and the challenges they faced when they first came over to a new culture. 

At the time I was participating in a minor travel writing competition – and it occurred to me that these guys could learn to write English much more effectively if they were writing their own travel stories.  At first they said “NO WAY....I don’t have that kind of education....I can’t write a story....I couldn’t even do that in my home language!”

“Pffft” I said.

I assured them that we would work slowly – sentence by sentence.  Each would prepare an outline and that turned out to be not so bad.  Then they worked one paragraph at a time, present that paragraph on the board, wherein we, as a group, would critique it and make grammatical and spelling corrections.

They were empowered.  They found pleasure in it.  And then magic happened – both Ronaldo and Michel purposefully went after bringing out the beauty in their minds’ images with techniques that were way ahead of their appointed learning schedule, according to those dreaded workbooks, things like metaphor and symbolic language – naturally and without prodding by me.  They closed their eyes, saw the images and put them down on paper.  I’ll never forget those images – Ronaldo’s sand that looked and felt like fine sugar, or Michel’s soft moon hanging heavy over the spruce forest.  Mostly I won’t forget the pleasure of living the stories through them.

The best thing learned was this:  One story, down on paper, meant it belonged out there on the stage with all the others.  And after being sequestered in a small classroom to plod through meaningless grammar lessons as though they were being imprisoned and punished for their chance injuries, these guys managed to turn the language into something that mattered to them. 

I had to leave this job not long after because it just didn’t pay me enough to live on, and I’d found another one that did.  But I’ll never forget Ronaldo and Michal for showing me what I’d sensed all along – that personal stories are not only important documents of the lives of people and their families, but they invite us to look at ourselves and others and find elements of our experiences that are shared.  I suppose that’s the humanity part – there even when we’re seemingly worlds apart.

*Ronaldo and Michel are pseudonyms.