Story Slammed

You know the old saying, “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride”? Well, I was reminded of that Friday night downtown, as once again I was not chosen to tell a story at a story slam. Now, mind you, that was only the second slam I had put my name in a hat for, but at this point I get it: I will NOT be picked. Ever.

My first foray into slamdom happened about two years ago, with a story slam at the World Café in West Philly. I foolishly thought I had a chance, and toted several friends down with me. Rose even surprised me and came all the way from New York. I had a great tale to tell, and I was more than ready to tell it! We wannabe storytellers were instructed to fill out a paper with our names, which would then be placed in a hat. From that hat would be drawn the performers for the evening. 

I recall sitting, nervous but excited, awaiting my turn at the mic. I planned to relate the story of my ill-fated filming of a low-budget local TV commercial in Knoxville, Tennessee, many moons ago. It had everything! Humor! Suspense! Absurdity! It was a commercial for Kay’s Ice Cream, filmed by the producer’s hapless son in his mother’s kitchen. The comedy of errors included industrial lights burning the kitchen ceiling, and an unplugged freezer containing the star of the show (melted vanilla, anyone?)

But alas! The World Café (and the world in general) was deprived of my brilliance that night, as the evening ended without my name called. I was bummed, but not defeated. Surely I’d make it next go-round!

As the years passed, I determined to try try again, this time at a Moth Story Slam at the Painted Bride Art Center. I had worked up another true, yet fabulous story, this one about the night our apartment neighbor threatened to kill us (yes!) This time, the odds were with me: a mere 21 people had put their names in, for 10 possible slots. 50-50!! I was in for sure!

I wasn’t the first one chosen. No worries!! Nor was I the second. Or third. Number four was a woman whose daughter dared her to try out! She didn’t even really want to do it! But that’s not all! Number six was…the daughter herself! Performance lightning had stuck twice in the same family!!!

Some of the remaining stories were great, some were REALLY lame. None of them, alas, was mine. The evening ended in sadness, as once more I struck out.

On the drive home, I made up my mind: no more slams for me. It’s just too depressing to work hard on a piece, only to be snubbed time and again. I am lucky in all the ways that matter most: my incredible family, my wonderful friends, good health.

But gee, would it kill the universe to grant me one lousy shot at a story slam as well?

Happy/Sad/Happy World Bipolar Day

I thought about appropriate ways to mark today, and considered the following:

Driving to DC and back within 8 hours (6 hours of travel, 2 frantic hours of sightseeing)

Crying inconsolably for 5 hours

Using enough curse words to win a Profanity Prize

Maxing out my credit card by buying 4 more pairs of (very) expensive heels

Picking fights with Steve, the kids, and any friend unlucky enough to be in my path

But then I remembered—my bipolar disorder is under control now, and has been for years. The behaviors described above were hallmarks of my long-past daily rollercoaster of wild mood swings: episodes of mania followed immediately by bottomless “blues.”

There are millions of us worldwide who live with bipolar disorder. The lucky ones (like me) get the help they need, good therapy, effective meds. The unlucky ones (including those who do not have health insurance or any other means to be treated) keep suffering. To add to the problems, many people refuse to admit they have a mental illness at all, because of fear. Fear of losing loved ones, losing jobs. Fear of the criticism and prejudice of a society that still stigmatizes and demonizes people with depression, anxiety, borderline personality disorder, PTSD. No wonder they are afraid! Wouldn’t you be?

During the 12 years since my diagnosis, I have searched for a reason why I was afflicted. I’ve concluded that this was not a God-sent punishment for my sins; it just “happened,” as it does to so many. I couldn’t control getting sick. What I CAN control is how I live my life in recovery. And that is where I find the silver lining.

As much as possible, I am using my voice as a writer, speaker and church worker, to be a mental health advocate. I have written and spoken extensively about my experience, and encouraged others to do the same. And they have, which is such a good and healthy thing for them, and for the world at large. Mental illness should be treated like a physical ailment. We wouldn’t shame someone with heart disease or cancer; we shouldn’t shame someone whose struggles have to do with their brain chemistry.

I am thrilled to be co-producing the Philly premiere of This is My Brave, a show that shines a spotlight on mental illness. We have cast the show with 15 very brave individuals who are willing to share their powerful stories with an audience. I have high hopes that we will reach many people, and spread awareness and acceptance. Mental illness touches EVERY life. Treatment needs to be more available and affordable. And the stigma must be shattered.

Two of my favorite reasons for living!

So on this World Bipolar Day, I stand with my bipolar brothers and sisters. I pray for healing for them. I thank God every day to be in a better place, and remember that my job, now and for the rest of my life, is to reach out a hand of love and support to others.

An Aurora Named Steve

Forces of Nature!

I always said I married a colorful guy. NASA Goddard Space Flight Center space physicists have just named a newly discovered part of the Aurora Borealis (also known as the Northern Lights), and they are calling this phenomenon “Steve.” Steve can be seen further to the south than the rest of his eerily glowing counterpart. I don’t find my spouse to be “eerily” glowing, but otherwise I see a resemblance.

This is just the latest in an escalating series of natural events that are given human names. Remember when only hurricanes were called “Gloria” or “Hugo”? Now EVERY unusual happening boasts a different name. Superstorm Sandy! Winter Storm Skylar (Sky-lar. Get it? I like that one!) and so on. I suppose these monickers make them more “special” (think your local weathercaster writing Thunderstorm Gus!!! on the weather map—perhaps with a frowny face). It’s all about the branding these days, whereas back in the Mesozoic Era that was my childhood, rain was rain and snow was snow and that was the extent of it.

As I have a number of rather animated guys and gals in my immediate family, I thought I’d do the National Weather Service a favor, and go ahead and name upcoming disturbances in the field after my loved ones! Here goes:

Volcano Sheridan: Sher is placid on the surface, but bubbling with inspiration and creativity underneath. When he erupts at last, thousands of musical notes cascade down into the valley below. Beware of molten concerti, people!

Earthquake Evan: Ev is on the West Coast now, so this is extra-fitting. Amid the rumblings of national political unrest, all at once the earth is shaken with new possibilities. San Andreas? You are not at fault! It’s Evan’s Congressional candidate Gil Cisneros! Whoo hoo!

Tsunami Rose: She just missed a very big one before her arrival in Thailand in 2005. As the tide receded, unsuspecting folks ventured back into the water, then whammo! And our lovely Rose still likes to catch us all off guard!

Heatwave Patrick: He was baptized on the hottest day of 1991, and sweated through multiple sports over the years. He’s an executive chef now, enduring the restaurant kitchen’s sky-high temps. For Pat, every workday’s another scorcher!

Blizzard Julie: Gentle as a softly falling blanket of snow—until it hits you that this blanket is three feet deep. Julie’s effect is slow but steady. Note: Julie will also rescue you from the drifts, because Julie.

Tornado Ya-Jhu: NO one can power through a house cleaning, or a meal making, or a song cycle writing, like our Yaj! The trick is to batten down the hatches, enjoy the ride, and not get swept away.

Aiden and Peter are a little young to be meteorologically labeled yet, but I’m sure something significant will bear their names someday.

And me? Hailstorm (crazy, mixed up, ice pellets on a warm day) probably fits.

 This is fun! Monsoon? Cyclone? I can christen it! Bring on that weather event, Mother Nature!

Steve! (Photo from National Geographic)

In Dog Years

Our special dinner! Aerial view!

While I do not put much stock in fortunetelling, I am strangely charmed by the Chinese lunar calendar. There is a legend that explains it…

A long time ago, the Jade Emperor decided to have a grand race and all the animals in the kingdom were invited. 12 animals showed up at the event. Grateful for their efforts, the emperor rewarded them by naming each year of the Chinese Zodiac calendar after these  animals: rat, ox, tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog and pig.

This is the Year of the Dog. Considering the perennial “underdog” Philadelphia Eagles’ Super Bowl victory, I think it’s very appropriate. People born in a dog year share many of the best qualities of the canine. Dogs are loyal and loving, drawn to being a friendly presence in other people’s lives. The dog is gentler than other signs. The dogs take a cooler-headed approach to problems, rather than letting emotions flare up and get the better of reasoning. My Julie was born in 1994, a dog year, and those characteristics suit her.

I, on the other hand (paw?) am a 1956 model, which was a Year of the Monkey. According to my research, people born in the Year of the Monkey are clever and intelligent, especially in their career and wealth (wealth! Ha!). They are lively, flexible, quick-witted and versatile (aww shucks!). In addition, their gentleness and honesty bring them an everlasting love life (I do have my everlasting love, Steve, but I can’t credit either gentleness or honesty on my part). We do have several shortcomings, including an impetuous temper and a tendency to look down upon others. (Now we’re talking turkey—um, monkey).

For the past couple of years, inspired by Yaj’s presence in our lives, we have celebrated Chinese New Year with a home-cooked feast. The timing is perfect. Smack in the middle of the winter doldrums comes a colorful and festive occasion to boost our spirits. This year was made extra-special by a visit from my sister C. She, along with Julie and her boyfriend Gil, observed the beginning of the Year of the Dog with us, complete with Tsingtao beer and honey walnut shrimp.

Some of the revelers

 So what will transpire in this Year of the Dog? We so desperately want to have control over our futures (or at least be able to predict them), that we read our tea leaves and our tarot cards and our newspaper horoscopes for clues. In reality, none of us know what will happen in the next minute, much less year. But we can look at our qualities as described by our signs, and work on emphasizing the positives. Julie can remain her loyal and loving self, and I can aspire to monkeylike liveliness and flexibility.

If we all work on being our best selves, every day, we can make this year a winner, for everyone. We can place in the Jade Emperor’s race, in 2018 and always.

Sshin-nyen haoww! Happy Chinese New Year!

Map Quest

It’s a game they are playing. Every night Evan leaves a message, telling Aiden where he has stopped for the night. Aiden then goes downstairs to the big US map on the wall, finds the destination (with a little help) and puts a push pin there. Aiden’s shushu (Chinese for uncle) has covered a lot of territory since his departure on Monday. He needs to be in California to start his new job by tomorrow, which still involves many, many miles on the road. So far Evan’s luck as held, and he has not run into terrible winter driving conditions (he deliberately plotted a more southerly course). Aiden thinks he will make it on time, and I do too.

Aiden has always loved maps of all kinds. He is also crazy about Evan Shushu. That combination has been a winner, because Evan has traveled quite a bit during Aiden’s 3 ½ years, and my little guy loves to trace his adventures. 

Sometimes the journeys have been American, such as Ev’s cross-country drive helping a friend resettle on the West Coast. Other times, Aiden has needed to switch over to the world map on the other side of the room, where even at a very young age he could point out Barcelona (where Evan went to graduate school) and other spots Evan hit in Europe and Asia. Last winter, his intrepid uncle went with another buddy to Argentina for five weeks of trekking that included time down in Patagonia. This location particularly fascinated Aiden for some reason. Several times daily, Aiden would put on his small backpack and head for the front door. “I’m goin’ to see Shushu in Argentina!!” he would call out. We would solemnly wish him safe travels. Three minutes later he would zip back into the room, journey completed.

What, I wonder, does Aiden think of all these places, depicted in so many different colors and shapes on his maps? He knows where many of them are, and knows some personal connections attached to them too: Indiana, where Steve was born; NYC, where I was born; Thailand, where Rose Gugu (aunt) spent a year. He himself has been to Taiwan several times, and can easily zero in on Taipei, where Ya-Jhu’s family lives.

When I was little, I pictured the world as incredibly diverse and exciting. Then I spent time in different US cities, and was sadly struck by the sameness of so much that I saw—the same fast food places, malls, hotel chains. But in recent years, traveling more, and looking past the surface, I am heartened to realize that little me was right--everywhere IS special and unique.  

I am so grateful that my loved ones and I have been able to travel, and I look forward to Aiden experiencing the world as more than push pins in a map. Putting on a big backpack someday, walking out of the house, and really meeting his beloved shushu in the amazing Argentina of his dreams.