Red Monkey: Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. Archives

July 5, 2005

Journeys

This is a post about . . . well, it touches on religion. It's not about conversion - either mine or anyone else's. It's just a post about experiences and personal conclusions. (Sorry for the disclaimer, but I believe in truth in advertising.) Every year at my church, instead of a sermon one day, a couple of people stand up and talk about their faith journey and how they got to Southside (our church). After listening to the stories this year, I thought I would write a part of my own.
NEW: Read the whole series on one page (if you're so inclined).

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I was born in Amarillo, Texas. As an infant, we moved to Houston, then another place in Houston. Albuquerque, New Mexico; Oklahoma City. Then we left the South and for what seemed like an interminably long year, we lived in Carmel, Indiana. We left Carmel in the middle of a small blizzard and moved to Austin, Texas. Then I started kindergarten. In third grade, we moved to Arlington -- between Dallas and Fort Worth.

I go through this litany of places because when people ask me where I'm from, I've never really known how to answer. I generally ask, "Do you want the long version or the short version?"
Likewise, even now, when people ask my faith or what I believe, I find it hard to answer without going through a litany of paths I've taken on my faith journey. For a long time I simply muttered, "I'm really not much of anything at all. And it was true. I had a kind of ghost-faith that I kept very very private.

First in the litany of faith paths, I was raised Catholic. My first concrete memories of "going to church" start somewhere around the age of six when I announced -- well bellowed amidst much crying, actually -- that I did NOT want to go to church, I was tired of going to church and I just wanted to stay home with Dad and why couldn't I just stay home with Dad? In retrospect, this may have had less to do with church itself and more to do with the escalating gender battle between mom and I. Frankly, I was tired of having my long, baby-fine, perfectly straight and totally static-y, flyaway hair combed with a fine-tooth plastic comb and bundled into braids or dog ears or a pony tail and then the utter indignity of having to wear one of those awful little girl dress/jumpers so popular in the 70s. Doing this five days a week for school was enough. The weekend was for jeans or shorts and only half-attempts at taming my fly-away hair. Mom was a bit taken aback by my vehemence, but she quickly agreed that I did not have to go to church until I was seven -- then I had to go. Since turning seven in November seemed like eons away yet - even though it was probably only a few short months - I happily agreed.

But after I turned seven. Every Sunday morning. Get up. Wear horrible clothes. Tame the terrible head. And then sit in silence with nothing to do other than the ritual of the mass itself. To those who know me, not surprisingly, I was bored stiff. I'd pick up the Missal and read the readings and the Gospel for the day. Then I'd read weeks ahead and weeks prior.

As Catholics, we didn't have Sunday School and we didn't study the Bible. We had CCD, which was generally just memorizing - and at least in my case, promptly forgetting - the Catholic catechism. When we were really young, we memorized prayers. I had an easy time with the Lord's Prayer, probably because we said it in church every week. I was so proud of myself for memorizing it so fast and with the cockiness of a little kid, I thought the second prayer, being shorter, would be a piece of cake. But the second prayer we had to memorize wasn't one we said every week in church and it didn't make much sense to me, either. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and . . . and . . . and . . . . What the heck did 'blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus' mean anyway?"

I don't know how other Catholic families handled a kid like me, but in the mid-70s at our house, you just memorized it. You didn't ask questions. And the fact that I not only wanted to know what "blessed is the fruit of they womb, Jesus" meant, but I also wanted to know why everyone seemed to assume that we were all sinners did not go over well, especially with my protestations that I was a good kid. That usually got a list of my shortcomings recited at me.

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June 20, 2005

Hall of Presidents

Something during a Google search today got me to thinking about the trip I made to DisneyWorld when I was seven. (No, this isn't some long rambling post about a vacation - hang on, there's more to this.)

This was back in the day, when you were issued a booklet of coupons and you had to budget the different letter coupons so you could go on the rides you really wanted to go on. For example, I think Space Mountain was an E ride and I hoarded my final E coupon for hours until we neared the famed roller coaster ride.

One of the "rides" that I really wanted to see was the Hall of Presidents. I know, I know. Dude, I've already said it: I'm a geek. I thought that seeing robots was cool and I desperately wanted to see Abraham Lincoln speak. I got a thrill just thinking about watching a lanky robot stand and utter something from the famed liberator. The rest of the family thought their coupons were far better spent on things like the Teacup ride and that cloying Small World ride. (That my sister, who'd begged to go on it. . . what? oh yeah. No rambling. Okay.)

Finally, I pestered Mom enough about this ride that she handed me the map and helped me figure out exactly where the Hall of Presidents was in relation to where we were. Since no one else wanted to go with me, Mom decided that at 7 I was big enough to walk through the huge amusement park alone and go see the show. We were to meet up again at some ride I've long since forgotten after the show was over. Now, Mom was pretty over-protective most of the time and I'm not really sure why she thought that a little kid would be perfectly safe heading across the park alone. I guess because it was Disney World and what harm could come to a kid at Disney World? Or maybe she was just exhausted from my constant updates about how much longer until the next Hall of Presidents show. To quote the Tootsie Roll Pop commercial, "The world may never know."

So, I'm both thrilled and terrified to be heading across the park alone. I mean, this is a rite of passage here: I've got to officially be a big kid if I can navigate my way across this park and see a show by myself. But I've also heard plenty of Stranger Danger commercials and seen enough posters to know that kidnappers can appear anywhere and you have to be really aware of your surroundings. I was mentally trying to look everywhere at once and to try to figure out what Hong Kong Phooey moves I could do if attacked. Hey, it was the 70s, everyone was paranoid.

Finally, I arrive in front of the show's little building and I'm just so excited. I can't believe it. I'm going to hear Lincoln free the slaves. This is the coolest thing ever. I'm practically gibbering to myself in excitement. We'd been taught only that Lincoln had freed the slaves and that he was a great hero -- no one had bothered to mention to a bunch of little kids that the whole thing, that the whole civil war, in fact, was more complicated than that. Lincoln was a hero for freeing the oppressed.

I slide into the big theatre and make my way to a seat kind of in the back of the theatre, but not all the way in the back. I want to be close enough to see my hero. I keep checking my watch, with the little bee's eyes that move back and forth with each second that ticks away. How much longer now? When is it going to start?

Before it does, I hear a couple of people sit down in the row right behind me. I slump down in my theatre seat. Are they going to kidnap me? I'm here all alone and there's no adults I know nearby at all. I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Oh no! They're black.

I slump even further into my seat.

And then my brain kicks into overdrive.

"Now wait a minute," my brain says to me. "Why are you here, exactly?"

"I want to see Lincoln."

"You want to see Lincoln do what?" my brain keeps prodding.

Oh. Oh yeah. What the hell is wrong with me?

I look back over my shoulder again. It's a young couple. Maybe in their twenties - it's hard for a seven-year-old to gauge the age of adults, after all. Yeah, they're black. And young. And in love. They nudge each other and give me a smile.

You know, that was a really simple thing on their part. They could have ignored this terrified white kid, afraid that any nice action they made would have repercussions for them. Being young people, they could have tried to tease me or make me smile with a funny face. But they just gave me a little smile.

I smiled back.

I relaxed. I sat upright in my seat. I was here to see my hero free the slaves. Blacks weren't any different than whites. There was no reason to be afraid of them; they were nice people.

When the show was over and I stood up, the young couple was already gone. I don't think I even heard them leave. I do remember being a lot more confident as I wound my way back through the park to the rendevous point and waited for my family. I didn't tell anyone about the young couple or how scared I'd been. I was embarassed that I'd been scared at all.

I grew up in Texas during the 70s. I read Dr. Seuss books; I watched Free to Be You and Me, Sesame Street and Electric Company. I didn't know who Martin Luther King, Jr. was, but I wanted to be a part of the civil rights movement. Of course, I was born too late - the civil rights movement was over. (I thought it was, anyway.) My Dad used the n-word. The Klan.

And somehow, that one smile solidified my whole outlook to all people. A pretty simple thing, a smile.

. . . to be continued

Posted by Red Monkey at 11:18 AM | Comments (2) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | StumbleUpon Toolbar Stumble

June 8, 2005

All We Need Is Some Ice Cream And a Hug

Hmm, I've been shooting to update this blog every other day -- I've never been great at the old creative writing adage to write every day. I'm much more of a binge writer, and I guess that's starting to bleed over into this new enterprise despite my best intentions. Well, phooey.

That said, I'd much rather update when I actually have something to say instead of updating like a madman and giving myself mono.

Now, pull up a chair, Gentle Reader, and settle in by the soft, cool wash of your monitor and relax just a moment.

I loved looking at old board games as a kid. I liked comparing the brand new Sorry box to my mom's old Park N Shop box. They were the same size and shape -- the boards were still the same size and shape despite the 20 or so years in between their printings. Very little had (at that time) changed in how we played board games.

I even had some of dad's old "bookshelf games" (these eventually became D&D style games). He had one about making money and a second about spies. I never played dad's games -- they looked far too complicated to my eight-year-old's eyes. I mean, you had to read a whole fifty page badly mimeographed booklet just to be able to play the basic game! And even if I could get through all of the intricate details, I'd never be able to explain it to my little sister who was only four at the time. I mean, there's wasn't even a board to this game!

But he had other games, too. He had the coolest Parcheesi set I've ever seen. It was so cool. The box was made to look at bit like it was fabric instead of just cardboard. It had some fancy gold flocking that, while still there and looking nice enough, was a bit faded and a bit worn, but still held its texture. Lifting the lid, you just knew that this game was something special. First, there was this smell that wafted out of the box. A smell of age, mystery and, I suppose, of old cardboard, too. It was most like the smell of a really old, but not musty book and it carried the same sense of awe to me every time I opened the box.

After I opened up the box, I pulled out the game board which was the same faded gold textured cardboard as the box. Just a single word, Parcheesi written in gold leaf, decorated the board, dead centered. And, just below the board was another clue to just how special this game was: the white quilted paper cushion gently laid atop the game pieces. Even after opening up the box and removing the board, you still couldn't see the game, really. It almost looked like a box of really special chocolates with that white quilted paper resting there.

After lifting the paper, you could see each individual piece for the game -- not jumbled together in some little cardboard box, but each piece had its own place die-cut into the cardboard. The pawns for the game were all wood -- not plastic like the Sorry pawns. It even came with a little "cup" to put the dice in when rolling. Of course, it was the same green-gold textured cardboard. It all matched and just pulling the game out was a magical time for me.

Yeah, I know. I really was that much of a geek. Didn't really care about the game itself, but oh, the magic of pulling it all out and getting it set up. And just thinking about how old it was (in my eight-year-old's mind the game was at least fifty years old) just gave me the shivers.

It was one of my favorite board games even though I didn't really like playing Parcheesi and I didn't take it out to play very often. I wanted to keep that old game forever. I could see me pulling it out of the cabinet and setting up the game on the kitchen table, playing with my kids and just hoping that it had as much magic for them as it did for me.

I haven't gone looking on eBay to replace the one my mom sold over my strenuous protests. I'm never sure that I'll really find one with that same level of magic to it. And I still haven't gotten to a spot where I can adopt my children like I've always wanted to do. But chances are, when I do finally bring my children home, we'll find something else that has that magic in it. It's probably some old thing I already have lying around the house and have almost taken to the church rummage sale a thousand times.

Wish I knew what it was.
Wish I knew when I can finally adopt. Are my kids even born yet? If they are, what's happening in their lives right now? I hope they're happy right now. If something happens that means they'll be up for adoption in the next couple of years, that means something unhappy is going to happen. I wish i could stop that pain before it ever happens. I'll have to content myself with trying to help them work through it and helping them learn to be happy again . . . .

Wow. This went places I never imagined it would go. Writing's like that sometimes.

Peace.

Posted by Red Monkey at 3:32 PM | Comments (0) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | StumbleUpon Toolbar Stumble

January 6, 1994

Ladder in the Lake

*** Please Note: This is simply a *fast* re-write of this story, which I originally wrote in the early to mid 90s and then re-vamped in a completely different way for the second chapter of my second novel. This version is not great writing. I just wanted to put the story out there so that I could write a post which relates to this story. ***

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David simply stared at the other boys as they argued and smacked each other and grinned through it all - even through the black eye Kyle gave Mikey while they were debating Wii versus Playstation 3 vs. Xbox 360. (Yeah, it was like that. Stupid strap on the Wii controller broke, smacked Mikey in the eye, proving that Mikey was right: the Wii was shoddily conceived even if a nice concept.)

He slid open the back door of the cabin and wandered outside. The others would follow soon. David was far more interested in the dock and the lake than in who could beat who in Madden '07. He'd known Kyle and Mikey and the rest his whole life, but he still didn't think any of them thought of him as a friend. They just kind of knew each other. Really, it was their folks who assumed they were all best friends. That made sure David was invited to all the events. The other boys, they could really care less ... except that if David wasn't there, they'd have to find someone else to pick on.

He walked past the firepit where Kyle's dad was cursing as he wrestled logs into place. Past the tents set up so the adults could have the cabin in peace tonight. Down the path to the dock, keeping his eyes on the water instead of the path, the trees. Eye on the prize, not the path to get there.

And sitting with his legs dangling off the edge of the pier, he sat to watch as the wind played with the calm glassy surface of the water. To watch the light play across the small waves. To feel the wind on his face and watch the waterbugs flying across the surface of their world, effortless and alone, dancing to a music only they could feel.

He missed the call to dinner again that evening. As he did almost every time he camped with the guys.

He lasted on the pier only a few minutes before shucking out of the t-shirt and jeans and diving into the water, the warm blue-greens of the lake surrounding him, holding him. Breaking the plane of the underwater world, treading water to gather his bearings, and then flipping to his back to float. Watching the stars pop in and out of the clouds, a late hawk flapping back to its nest. He picked out Orion, Cygnus the swan, Ursa Major and Minor.

Let the lake's small ripples lap at his sides and wash over his face.

And then came the noise of the other boys. Kyle's dad acting as lifeguard, not realizing that David was already in the water. The other boys did, of course, which was why they all cannonballed as close to him as possible. But he'd heard them coming and dove under the water just before their ever-explosive entrances.

This was all an old story and David was grateful when the call to dinner finally came. Burgers grilled on the bonfire, hotdogs, marshmallows and smores. And then came story time. The man with the hook who attacked the couple making out in their car. Fuzzy foot. (I want my fuzzy foot back.) The "I Gotcha Where I Wantcha and Now I'm Gonna Eatcha" monkey story. Variations on Amityville Horror, Blair Witch, Halloween, Freddy Krueger. Nothing that the boys hadn't told and heard and watched a million times before.

And then the moment David hated the most. His turn. They hated his stories and it always took the prodding of the Moms present to remind the others "that David always tells such fascinating stories, let him tell one."

The moms and David were the only ones who liked his stories. The Dads always wandered off for a brewski or two. The boys rolled their eyes and kicked their feet and threw stuff into the fire.

But David dutifully told the story anyway.

"I will tell you a very old story. The Coyote is a trickster. Since the Indians came from the underworlds into this one, it has always been the same with him. It snowed early in the morning soon after the Navajo came into this world, and a man was going out to hunt. The prints of the Coyote tracks were clear in the snow. He began to follow the Coyote tracks. They led to a place where all the plants were living and green, and in their center was a pond. The Coyote tracks led right to the pond. There, barely sticking out above the water, was the top of a ladder. The hunter stepped onto the ladder and climbed down into the water. At the bottom, he stepped out onto land. Above, in the land where the hunter lived, there was snow and it was winter, but in the land beneath the pond it was summer, and everything was green and growing. In the east he saw white buildings and people. They were beautiful people, Coyote People. He stayed and ate with them and stayed overnight.

"That evening, the Coyote People assembled around the fire and taught the hunter the Coyoteway. They showed him the songs, the dances, the prayersticks, the rituals, the prayers, everything he needed to heal the Coyote sickness. They read him everything and he wrote it all on the pages of his mind. Then he walked back to the ladder and climbed back through the water and back up to this earth."

Then of course, came the usual long silence. And then the mothers wanting to know where he learned all of these things, and the mothers smacking their sons on the backs of their heads and asking the questions designed to most alienate David from the rest of the boys - "Why don't you LEARN things instead of watching that crap on television?" And the ever popular, "Why can't you be more like David?"

So he wasn't surprised when he was pelted with melty marshmallows as soon as the adults began drifting off to the cabin for the night. Mikey's Dad was tending the fire (sort of ... he was actually just tossing some sand around the edges and drinking Old Mikwaukee).

So as soon as the marshmallow pelting turned into a free-for-all, David went back to the pier.

Despite the clouds that had moved in and there was now a low rumble of thunder in the distance, David shucked shirt and shoes and dove in, swim trunks still faintly damp from before dinner. He would just rinse the marshmallows off him. The water was cool and the wind chilled his bare back. He treaded water for a second to get his bearings after an initial burst of speed. Pushed his bangs back over his head away from his face and watched the mist by the far shore move in closer. A wall of rain would meet him if he really did try to swim across the lake.

David put his face back in the water and began swimming quickly. It wasn't long before was finding it harder and harder to bring his head all the way out of the water for each breath. The waves were rocking him off his path, knocking him away from where he thought he was. He began treading water again and got a mouthful of water for his efforts. He gagged and began swimming faster towards the far shore which was now closer than the pier. He'd lost track of time. His arms felt like they were made out of lead and he wished that he had grabbed a yellow wimp jacket. Or that he'd known this was not just a little rainshower, but a full-blown storm.

He paused and treaded water. Part of a tree floated past. He fought to keep his head above the rising waves. A flash of light in the distance and another low rumble, closer, louder. No more stars, no Orion to guide him.

He was under water again. He groped for a piece of the tree he'd seen floating by, but it tore right through his fingers. He couldn't figure out how he'd gotten underwater again. He began kicking for all he was worth, trying not to breathe in half the lake. Finally, his arms broke the surface and he gasped for the air, bobbed under, and popped back up again. He managed to hold onto a new log.

And then he saw it. Just a few more feet away.

The ladder.

His arms didn't slice so cleanly through the water now. His breath came in gulps, sucking in almost as much water as air. The rain pelted him, each individual drop stinging his tired face when he'd pause and look up. His arms felt like lead weights. The lake began pulling him down, and he fought with his cramping body to drag himself forward.

To the ladder.

The lake was dark. Peaceful. Quiet.

The ladder. He had to make it to the ladder.

The lake was peaceful now, the waves rocking him to sleep, drifting with him. No longer fighting.

Rumbling thunder, rolling through the night air like a freight train at the railyard.

the ladder