Storytelling

My life often feels divided into three equal parts: teaching, parenting, and writing. And the commonality among them is presence of storytelling.

At work, current and prospective students—mostly female—stop by my office to chat about work, school and life. Often, they are there for a specific reason, a question about an assignment or a struggle at the office, but sometimes they are there just to talk. I am always amazed and grateful they share their stories with me. Sometimes it’s the story of a new puppy or a promotion at work; sometimes it’s a darker tale I feel humbled to hear. At home, I have two daughters who do nothing but tell stories. A tall tale about why the lamp is broken. Or a story that is merely the mark of an exploding imagination. And when I sit down to write, I craft my own stories, hoping I share one to which someone else can relate. In all the areas of my life, I am in the presence of women and their stories. And I’ve noticed that often, we as women don’t do the best job as storytellers.

The lives we are living, the experiences we are choosing, are the most important stories we will ever tell. We pick the plot points, we choose the cast of characters. And yet, I find that women spend the least amount of time crafting their own stories. I see them get swept up in other people’s narratives, or playing a secondary character in someone else’s tale, or—even worse—giving up on their own stories.

But if we see our lives as stories, we can use three rules of storytelling to weave tales we are proud to tell.

The first of these rules is: Don’t Just Be the Hero

I constantly hear the phase: Be the hero of your own story. I see it on posters, on memes, on home décor. And that is fine advice. We should be the hero of our own story. But I’ve seen enough Disney movies with my daughters to know that even when the princess is the hero of the story, it’s always narrated by someone else. An omnipresent voice telling us the hero’s journey and, often, how to feel about it.

It’s not enough to be the hero of your story. Be the narrator. Then, write yourself as the hero.

I remember very clearly the first time I lost my narrative. It was right after the birth of my first daughter, who was born in the summer between semesters of my doctoral degree.

When the summer ended and the semester started up, I was able to secure two days of child care. This meant that on Tuesdays and Thursdays I would need to attend class, do any of the work for the university to fulfill my scholarship requirements, as well as schedule any dentist or doctor appointments. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I was at home with my newborn, taking her to story time at the library, Mommy and Me gymnastics class, or to see the elephants at the zoo. While she napped, I worked on my dissertation. When Jim came home from work, I made us dinner and then left to drive an hour away, to another university, where I taught two night classes that lasted until about 11. The next morning, it started all over again. This was my routine for two years.

At the time, when people would ask what I was doing now that the baby had arrived, I enumerated all of that. And most every person I told this to responded in one of three ways: 1) Gasp and express how unbelievably lucky I was to find a man who would support me in all of this, or 2) Bring up the financial ramifications of my choices; many were quick to point out that the expense of graduate school must have put undue pressure on Jim to support us fully on his salary, or 3) Lightly suggest that I could be on the verge of ruining all of it.

The narrative was: here’s a woman being careless, selfish and irresponsible with her family. And after frequently hearing that story told about my own life, I bought into that narrative so completely that it became the story I told. I’d sheepishly say I was in school, but express that it wasn’t a big deal. Or I’d lead by saying how lucky I was to have a husband like Jim who supported my school work. Or I’d undersell how overwhelmed I was because I didn’t want anyone assuming my stress meant stress in our marriage.

One morning in the shower, while scrubbing my hair, I enumerated all I had to do that day—get Jim off to work, feed and change the baby, get her to day care, get to class, go into the office to run data for the grant I was working on, get my hair cut, pick up the baby, get dinner ready, grade papers while we ate, and create my lecture in my head while I drove an hour to class. And it suddenly hit me: the narrative was all wrong.

The true story was this: I was and am lucky to have Jim, sure. But not because of the reasons people kept saying. If the rationale is that I am lucky because my spouse supports me in my personal and professional goals, then Jim is damn lucky, too. I was also not a financial burden at all. I was caring for our child nearly full time (saving us thousands of dollars), I was on full scholarship for school (again, several thousands of dollars), and I was bringing in money from adjunct teaching (let’s not get into the monetary value on this one). Further, I wasn’t on the verge of ruining my marriage with all my stress. I actually handle stress really well. And it was insulting to imply I wouldn’t be aware of it if I were.

Wasn’t any of my journey impressive? Wasn’t anything I was doing worthy of admiration, or respect? Why was it that everyone only saw my story as it related to my poor, put upon, stressed-out, financially struggling husband?

How had he become the hero of my story?

It was because I had let go of the narrative.

So after that shower, when I was good and steamed, I took back my narrative. Sometimes in overt ways—like writing about it—but often it was just in how I responded to people who asked about my life. I stopped downplaying it, or hiding it, for fear I seemed selfish and reckless. I was proud of my story, and I took pride in the narrative. Which I know made me preform better in school and at home.

I reveled in my story because I realized I was the hero.

I see a lot of women who let their narratives go to someone else, be it a parent, a child, a spouse, even strangers. And the problem with that is that no one else is ever going to write you as the hero.

Recently, a young woman who had just graduated college asked to meet with me. She was interested in applying to the graduate program I help administer. She told me that she absolutely wanted to do the program, she just didn’t know when. Her problem was she was waiting to see where her boyfriend got a job. Then she would probably move with him, as they were probably going to get married and then she could make a decision about starting graduate school.

I have no problem with women embarking on an adventure for—or because of—love. But in that conversation, she was talking more about her boyfriend’s career, opportunities, and desires than her own. She had given him the narrative and was living as a secondary character in his story. And if she gave over the narrative that time, making the boyfriend the hero, she’s more likely to do it again. And again.

Life is about compromise, sure. But that doesn’t mean giving over your narrative. Be the hero of your own story. But more importantly, be the one telling your story. Be the narrator. Be the main character. And dare to write yourself as heroically as you can.

The second rule is: Don’t Put Plot Before Character

The most interesting and compelling stories are made up of characters you can relate to, fall in love with, and root for. The stuff that happens to them is just plot. And it only matters because of who the character is.

If you ask someone about Harry Potter, they don’t say, “Oh, I love all that stuff that happens to Harry Potter.” No, they say, “I love Harry Potter.” At that point, it’s best to walk away because they are about to tell you all the many reasons why they do, and you do not have that kind of time.

I find that people—especially women—focus on the plot way more than the character.

I met with a prospective student last summer. I knew her only by her sterling reputation, so I was beyond excited when she reached out to me about the graduate program.

She started our meeting with a disclaimer—she was going to have a baby. I was thrilled for this stranger, congratulating her for the good news, and, of course, reminding her not to give her narrative away to the baby or her husband. She promptly corrected me by saying she wasn’t actually pregnant yet, but she wanted me to know her frame of mind to give our conversation context.

Now, this isn’t unusual. Many of the women I talk to mention this right up front. I think it’s great to voice our desires. And, as their potential advisor, it helps me know what kind of life they are striving for—which is helpful when it comes to career counseling and course selection.

But the reason for mentioning her interest in having a child was because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to take the program I help administer—which is a traditional in-person program—or one offered at another university online.

Again, that isn’t an unusual conflict, and I’ve heard many potential students express it. She thought that an online degree would offer more flexibility, which would be helpful whenever a child came to be.

Now, there’s a lot of data that suggests online programs are actually more time consuming, but I could tell that wasn’t really the direction our conversation needed to go, or the real root of her dilemma.

So I asked her: “Which one do you want to do?”

She laughed and said she would much rather take the program in person. She loved having conversations with her classmates, getting to interact with the professors, the camaraderie of school, etc.

So her conflict wasn’t between an online program and a traditional one. Her conflict was between plot and character. She clearly had a preference. And the reality was, her preference wasn’t detrimental to her other plot points—her future kid won’t know the difference.

But women continually jump to the plot point before they’ve thought about the character.

And one of the biggest lines of bullshit that women get fed is that the major plot point of parenting immediately comes with sacrifice. That motherhood equals martyrdom.

So we start sacrificing before we are ever asked to. I’m not saying parenting doesn’t come with some sacrifice; it absolutely does. And you never know what issues or challenges will come with each child. But by and large, my kids aren’t the ones asking me to sacrifice. The sacrifice my daughters ask me to make is to get off the couch and get them goldfish crackers; they do not ask me to give up on my hopes and dreams.

Yet when women are ready for motherhood, we start clearing our life of all the things we really want in preparation for all the sacrificing.

I kept putting off getting pregnant with our second child, trying to accommodate a possible job opening at the university--the position I now occupy. After months of waiting, I gave up on the plot point and listened to my character. I wanted another kid. And the university patiently waited until after I gave birth to that kid to interview me.

If we think about character first, then logical plot lines flow from there. The prospective student can choose to do the program she wants and make the arrangements with the baby around that. But if she jumps to plot first, picking a program she is less excited about just because she thinks the plot dictates that, then she is not only putting plot before character, but she’s handing over her narrative.

So, if you’ve got a hold of your narrative, and you’re writing yourself as the hero, then accept the plot points that make sense from the point of view of your main character. Which is you. Remember? The hero.

The final rule is: Don’t Recycle Plot Lines

My husband and I stream a lot of Netflix. And Hulu, and Amazon Prime. We’ve instituted two minutes of eye contact between episodes, so it’s fine. Sometimes, a few minutes into a new show, we’ll turn to each other and say, “Have we seen this? This seems familiar.” Now, whether or not we have seen it before, the familiarity has already weakened our interest.

Our own plot lines should be compelling. Unique. And keep us on the edge of our seats as we progress in the story. If it feels familiar, you’re gonna be bored.

And yet we often get caught up in the common plot points we’ve heard about. I’m not talking about big major life milestones, like school, marriage, kids, and the like. I’m talking about the small points of plot we think are necessary for our character to experience.

For the first two years recruiting for our graduate program I got the exact same question from every prospective student: “What can I do with this degree?” For two years I showed them statistics on what other students had gone on to do. I showed them income reporting from alumni across the region. I showed them the most common jobs that look for someone with this degree. But after two years, I had a young woman in my office who asked that same question and I snapped (I apologized, we’re good) and said: “What can’t you do with this degree?” I was just so tired of recycling plot lines to students.

Look, I get that people don’t want to take unnecessary risks. But there’s also a point at which we have to stop thinking everything is an equal input-to-output exchange. That if we follow the same path as someone else, it will result in the same outcome. Or that we can only get to point B if we go through point A. I’m guessing going through C is way more fun anyway. Very few things in life have a replication model of success. Would we encourage our youth to drop out of college because look how it worked out for Bill Gates? No. And we shouldn’t be doing that with our own points of plot. There is not going to be a direct path to anything. Or a guarantee on anything that looks like a direct path.

But I see my students, especially my female students, get caught up in the tiniest points of plot when they don’t follow the prescribed order.

I recently had a student in my office upset that she wasn’t going to be able to fulfill the requirements in our program for a “concentration,” which is three courses in a specialized area. She bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t realized there was a concentration option until she had already taken all of her electives. She was very worried this would impact her success on the job market. I asked her why she picked the electives she did, and she said it was because they sounded the most interesting to her, and lo and behold, they were among her favorite classes in the program.

So I explained to her that her experience in school is her very own. There will not be a hiring manager who has her resume sitting next to someone else’s identical resume. Rarely, if ever, is a single line on a resume (in this case, a concentration) going to make or break the candidate. My student laughed when I phrased it this way. I reminded her that she is more than just tiny plot points that other people have already experienced (concentrations, degrees, trainings). She’s a character, and a narrator. And she can easily get into an interview and tell her own story of why she’s the best candidate. Very rarely, if ever, does a transcript or a resume do that.

Don’t get swept up in recycled plot points. They are what they are, simply experiences other people have used in their story. And if you insist they have to be in your story, you’re going to get that sinking feeling of familiarity that causes people to stop streaming.

The story of your life can be as dramatic, or mysterious, or romantic, or adventurous, or as funny as you choose to make it. You own your story. You pick the plot points; you choose the cast of characters. The only thing standing between you and a great story is simply your own ability to narrate it.

So tell it well.





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Back to School

August 19, 2016


Dear Lowery,

You are starting kindergarten this Monday. And I'm feeling only one emotion about it: excitement.

For the past few weeks, many people have asked how I'm handling the fact that you are starting school. They have looked at me with sympathy, a hand across their chest, head tilted to the side. Your grandmother asked me yesterday if I was holding up ok, and she was teary just forming the question. My friends are struggling with sending their own children off to school. And I remember how your Aunt Minnie struggled when your cousin Payton started kindergarten.

But regardless of all the sadness I'm expected—and allowed—to feel, I don't feel any of it. Not a single drop. I feel nothing but excitement. Well, that's not true. I feel mostly excited. The other feelings I have, to a much lesser degree, are: overwhelmed, anxious, fatigued, and gassy. In no particular order.

This doesn't mean I don't understand the strong emotions people are feeling. I completely do. No matter what the milestone you come across as my kid, I'm always a bit baffled it's time for it already. And when you go off to college, I'll sing a different tune, but for now I don't feel sadness.

The past few days I've watched pictures of children on their first day back to school populate my newsfeeds (which is exactly what Facebook should be for; I doubt it will still be around when you are a parent because the political articles and time lapse recipes will have imploded it). I've read all the emotional turmoil other parents are in watching their children getting ready for something they still can’t believe it’s time for. And I've tried to mirror that sadness, that longing for your infancy, that mad grasp at your youth. I've worked like hell to tap into some deep, repressed sadness that I could get to bubble to the surface so I could have a good cry about the fact that you are starting school. Because just yesterday you were emerging—albeit begrudgingly—from my womb.

But I've had to come to terms with the fact that there is no deep, repressed sadness. I'm not in denial. I'm not ignoring true feelings.

And this week I finally figured out why.

You and I went to the mall. We were there to get your ears pierced. For more than a year you've said you were ready to get your ears pierced, but you kept talking yourself out of it. But this week, you said you were ready and I don't know why, I don't know what it was about how you said it, but I knew this time you meant it. So there we were, the minute the mall opened. You strode with confidence—but you still wanted to hold my hand—into Claire's, the very place I had my own ears pierced 20 years ago.

You were curious and animated—your most defining traits—but something was different. Something I couldn't quite articulate until the technician explained that she was the only one working and so she would have to pierce your ears one at a time. She asked if you were brave enough to do that—to not chicken out before the second ear. I shrugged at her, and then I looked to you for the answer. And you nodded, once. Then you picked out a beautiful pair of sparkly pink earrings, you sat still as she marked the dots on your ears, and you barely cried while she submerged the post into your lobes, one ear at a time.

And that’s when it hit me, the reasons behind the excitement I've been feeling about you. About school. About you growing up.

I'm finally getting the relationship with you I had always dreamed of before you were ever born. I'm no longer making all your choices. I'm no longer responsible for every decision put before you. You've grown into a person who is all her own. And I have a relationship with you.

When I dreamt of children, when your dad and I planned for them, this, this time right now, is what I had imagined. The conversations we’d have. The choices you’d make. The aspects of you I’d learn. Babies are great, sure. They are cuddly, adorable, the clothes are fun, the sweet looks from strangers are heartwarming. There are some real perks. But nothing that comes close to what I was witnessing in the bright fluorescent lighting of Claire’s.

Which was you, sitting in a chair admiring your newly pierced ears in a hand mirror. Two pink, sparkly marks of your own accord.

And while I'm not ever going to stop being your mom, I am so grateful I am easing off a bit on things you are now proudly taking over. Because with every bit that you take, the more whole you become.

And you're shaping up quite nicely. You're funny. You're compassionate. You're smart as hell. And you're mine.

So no, I'm not the least bit sad about you starting school because it's only going to add more to your wholeness. It's only going to make you more of everything you already are, and more of a few things we’ve yet to learn about you.

What's even more exciting about you getting your ears pierced and you starting school is that I remember my own experiences doing those things. I don't remember being a baby, or taking my first steps, or learning my first words. But I very clearly remember my first day of school. And sitting in that chair at Claire's and gripping the arm rests like you did in preparation for the pain. So now, now you and I have some experiences we can share, memories we can compare, and best of all, you're letting me relive some of my favorites.

All I ask is you let me keep growing right along with you. Keep sharing, keep reliving. And that for a little bit longer you hold my hand while you stride with courage. But even when you're ready to let go, I'll be ready, too. Because we would have grown together.

I know you are ready for school. And I'm ready because you are ready.

But it's important for you to know, as you prepare to start school, that getting to know you, learning about you—watching you become you—well, my darling, it's been the best education of my life.

Now go, learn, grow.

Then come home and tell me all about it.

Love,


Mama



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White Noise

There is a sound machine in every bedroom of our house. And I leave them turned on and at pleasing levels, all day every day. When Lowery was first born, I had hers turned on to the “heartbeat” setting. After eight weeks, she burst out of her swaddle sack and tried to pull up the floor boards.

So I switched the setting to “downpour” and there it stayed. In our bedroom, the sound machine has always been set to “ocean.” Before London was born, our house was just a rainy day at the beach.

But as I was preparing for our second child, I had to decide which noise machine would be best for the new baby. I didn’t find frogs of the Amazon to be all that soothing, and thunder could potentially be frightening. The hoot owl was a bit too ominous and the lullaby setting would most certainly piccolo me all the way to the asylum. So I opted for a simple “white noise” machine. The package promised to create a restful environment for the baby, assured me she’d get a good night’s sleep, and guaranteed to lower the age of potty training.

On the first night home from the hospital with London, I flicked on the noise machine, filling the nursery with a gentle, whirring hum. And for the next two years and two months, it stayed on around the clock.

Until last week.

I had done the usual routine for London’s bedtime: giving her a bath; brushing her teeth; coaxing her off the stool she stands on to brush her teeth; reading her a book; singing her a bedtime song (The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme); and placing her into the crib, sleepy and happy.

Back downstairs, not a few minutes later, I heard London call out:

“Mommy Meg, what’s that noise?”

I waited a few minutes to see if she could answer her own question—the mark of parenting the second time around—but she kept calling out, demanding to know what the noise was.

I begrudgingly climbed back up the stairs and into her room, only to hear nothing. But she was standing, covering her ears, and screaming for the noise to stop. I looked around the room to try to locate the source of the sound. I ran out into the hallway and across to the bathroom to make sure the water had been turned off at the sink. But there was no noise. The air conditioner wasn’t even running. All I could hear was the peaceful white noise drifting from the miracle machine in the corner.

“Do you mean this?” I asked as I flipped the sound machine off.

London relaxed, her cupped hands dropping from the sides of her head. She nodded her head enthusiastically.

“But Lunny, this is your noise machine. You have slept with it on every night for two years.” I flicked it back on.

“No!” she yelled. “I don’t want that noise! No more noise! Turn it off!”

And with that rare outburst from my youngest, I flipped off the machine and walked out. She quickly fell asleep.

London’s ability to ask for exactly what she wants, and nothing more, is perhaps one of her most defining characteristics. Her sister Lowery is the kind who asks for everything she wants, plus a bit more in case she wants it later. And a bit of something else on the chance she changes her mind about the first thing she asked for. And then she’ll ask why you aren’t getting all those things for her right this second. Then she’ll ask why you seem so irritated.

But London uses her asks in a different way. She’s a bit more methodical, and also, a bit more forceful. When she was just over a year, we discovered London had an extreme aversion to elevators and would fall into an emotional pit of despair when we were in one. Given that it was one of very few quirks, we happily climbed several flights of stairs to keep her happy. That’s something we’d never do for her sister because Lowery would have as big an opinion about the stairwell as she would about the elevator. But then, a year later, London insisted on elevators again, ignoring all the panic-induced screaming she’d done in the past.

For the last few years I thought we always let London have what she wanted when she asked for it because she asked for so much less than Lowery. Then we theorized it was because she was the second born and this was a common birth order default. Or maybe our concessions were just sheer laziness. Later we hypothesized that it equaled out because they both got the same amount, it’s just that Lowery got less than she asked for; London got more. Finally, we agreed that we were—as usual—over thinking it, so we threw a bunch of cookies at both girls and laid down for a nap.

But no matter how much we give in or stand strong—and obsess why and when we do either—someone is always asking for something.

There is so much asking, begging, pleading, demanding, and whining that I’m not sure my children know how to speak sentences without their voices going up at the end to make it a question. On one end is Lowery, asking for everything. On the other is London, holding out for bigger asks.

Answering all of their asks has not just made me a fairly irritated person, it has also taught me the power of asking.

At home I’ve utilized the Lowery method of asking, by demanding the children do a lot of things for me. For example, I now ask that they take their dinner plates to the sink (though sometimes they land on the floor); I ask that they clean their rooms (though they technically leave them messier); I ask that they let me pee alone (although they think talking to me through the bathroom door is a good compromise). But I just keep on asking. The odds are, I’ll get something I asked for.

And I’ve embraced the London method of reverse asking, by changing my mind any damn time I please about what I want. For example, I never minded where the girls did their coloring, but then recently changed my mind, only allowing it at the kitchen table (they were coloring a little too far outside the lines); I insisted they had either Jim or me outside with them while they played, but then later both of us refused to go outside with them (that’s Oklahoma in the summer for you); I once promised them I would read any book they brought to me at any time, citing the importance of reading, but later changed my policy to exclude a few choice titles (Clifford the Big Red Dog, Green Eggs and Ham, Frog and Toad). But I kept asking for change when I got a better grip on what I wanted.

I’ve also adapted Lowery and London's approaches into my professional life.

Having just wrapped up my summer class, I’m aware I asked a lot of the students. They read through two entire books and more than 35 peer-reviewed journal articles; wrote a total of seven papers; and prepared and delivered a presentation, all in the span of three weekends. And this isn’t uncommon. That’s an acceptable work load for a graduate student (I mean don’t ask them, they are still tired and cranky) but I recognize that even though it’s acceptable, it’s asking a lot. It’s asking them to give up three weekends of their summer to come to campus and sit, in fluorescent lighting and brutally cold air conditioning, while we collectively work through all the course material. It’s asking them to be away from their families, give up activities, and miss out on sunshine. On top of all those asks, I keep making even more asks. Notably, I ask for no cell phones or laptops during class. Of all the things I ask for, that might be the biggest. Pokemon run rampant through campus.

I ask for all of this in every class I teach. Happily for me, everyone always complies. And this summer I had yet another ask, an ask I never made because I was fully aware of all the other asks I was making of them: I asked they obey my new policy--no late papers. Now, this seems like an obvious ask—get your assignments in on time. But with graduate school, it’s not always that easy. All of the students have full time jobs at which they have a great amount of responsibility. Many are married, some have kids. A handful are commuting long distances just to attend class. So for those reasons, my policy has always been that late papers will be accepted (often for points deducted) on a case-by-case, better-have-a-damn-good-excuse basis.

But this summer, I decided I wasn’t going to allow late assignments for the first time in nearly 10 years of teaching. As I was drafting up the syllabus in late spring, I realized how much I was looking forward to the summer break. The more time I spent grading, the less time I would be able to spend doing regular summer activities in Oklahoma, like taking pictures of the thermometer on my dashboard. Delayed assignment submissions always prolong my ability to finish up grading, or at least draws it out into times I’d rather be doing anything else.

Surprisingly, not a single student complained about my new ask. Even those who have taken four or five courses with me and had benefited from the occasional extended deadline. I wasn’t exactly expecting a coup. But I was expecting more push back. Yet the class went as smoothly as ever and every assignment was turned in on time. By every single student. And aside from the group collectively trying to push back deadlines in jest, no one privately attempted to ask for an extension.

I guess my hesitation in making the ask was only because I was worried I had asked for too much already, and that it was too late to make an ask that was such a departure from what I’ve always accepted.

But Lowery assured me that was ridiculous, reminding me I can ask for every damn thing I want and then some, for good measure. And London reiterated how perfectly acceptable it is to change my mind and make asks that accommodate.

Despite it all, asking for what I really want--what I really need--is difficult. Maybe because there is potential to not get what it is I want. But then I remember, that never stops Lowery. She just keeps on asking and asking and asking. Even when I ask her to stop asking. And I think of London, who realigns her asks when her needs change. The right time to ask for more, or to ask for a change, is the exact moment I feel I need it.

Which means no matter how much I begged for—and have grown accustomed to—the noise, it’s ok to ask for the sound of silence.