Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Thoughts on Poop, Respect, and Fiction Writing

Illustration by Andrew Gillespie 
 

I’m a word person.
I use words to change perspective. I hope to make frightening or dreary experiences feel brighter. Sometimes I do it for myself, sometimes I do it for others. 
I use words to be funny, to distract, or to organize our lives into something that makes more sense. I describe scenarios that are crappy to remind myself that usually I’ve got it pretty good. And, pretty consistently, I make fun of myself. I have an indefinite amount of material for that because I live with four kids and 7 doofy adults and we’re all quite laughable. Whether or not we’re trying to be.
Unfortunately, this means that most of my stories are not only my stories. My world is tied into other people’s worlds. And being honest about myself involves divulging the nooks and crannies of other people’s experience as well.
Everybody that I love is not an exhibitionist, so there is a lot of diversity in opinion concerning my desire to describe our family’s awkward moments.
It is important for me to acknowledge that it’s easier for me to make fun of myself because the storyteller gets automatic power. Perhaps I make myself look like a fool, but in doing so I still gain power by being the one who described it.
Here is an example of something I wrote earlier this week:

***

The other day one of my kids pooped their pants at soccer practice. I’m not going to divulge which kid it was. It was one of the four. And there is no way you can guess who, because ALL OF THE KIDS GO TO SOCCER PRACTICE. Even the ones who don’t play soccer.
When the kid originally told me they had to poop, I looked out across the expanse of field at the lone porta potty. The distance was probably about 3 blocks. The kid was frantic. “I have to poop RIGHT NOW.”
The porta potty felt like an impossibility. Especially since everyone I know does crisis work on the streets. After listening to 6 years of these war stories, it’s really impossible to visualize an outdoor public restroom as anything besides a haven for infected needles or poop smears imbedded with hepatitis. Even if the potty appeared clean, it probably wouldn’t contain toilet paper.
This left me even less inclined to start running with a kid clenching poop between butt cheeks.
I was also frustrated because I’d been looking forward to soccer practice all day. Soccer practice involves me sitting and staring. Maybe I’ll pay attention to the soccer practice, or maybe I won’t. But it will definitely be the most “mindless sitting” that will occur for me this week, with the exception of the other soccer practices.
So, learning that I was about to face an extensive ordeal including excrement, running, and a lot of resourceful usage of items that were not put on this earth to be potty utensils, left me feeling pretty furious.
I am ashamed to say that after looking at this frantic child, and then across the acreage at that speck of a potty upon the horizon, this is what came out of my mouth:
“Either hold it in, or shit your pants. I can’t do anything about this.”
Of course, after saying that, I felt instantly terrible. The kid looked so surprised and scared.
“OK, fine,” I said. “Let’s run.” I grabbed a small hand and started forward. The kid stalled out. “You have to pick me up! If I run it’s gonna come out!”
I picked the kid up and ran about 5 feet. Then I experienced a renewed surge of anger and put the kid back down.
“NO! You have to run yourself. You’re too old for this!”
We ran six more steps and then they wailed, “It came out! I already pooped!”
I growled. Literally. I growled like a large cat, but it probably sounded ridiculous because I’m a human and I don’t have a lot of practice at growling. It hurt my throat.
Then I yelled “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF THIS! WHY DIDN’T YOU POOP BEFORE WE LEFT THE HOUSE?”
“I don’t know,” said the sad, humiliated kid.
 “Is it in your underwear still? We’ll have to find a place to throw away your underwear and you can just put your pants back on.”
“I’m not wearing underwear.” This response was mumbled, but I heard it, and momentarily everything went black. Probably I just shut my eyes. The urge to go down on all fours; snarling, biting, and shaking things permeated my whole being.
Eventually I opened my eyes and just said. “Walk to the mini van.”
That’s right. I was feeling like a wild-cat-of-death and I had to use the term mini-van. It was a jarring and humbling experience. 
But when a family of 8 shares a minivan, it becomes the most eclectic toolbox you’ll ever find: anything from craft supplies, to camping gear, to snacks, to hygiene products. You probably won’t find exactly what you want, but you’ll find something good enough.
There was toilet paper. There was a water bottle. There was a plastic produce bag for trash, and there was a size 7 kid-shirt and a rubberband.
I cleaned the kid, stuck their feet into the arms of the shirt, and rubber banded the trunk of the shirt around the waste. Then we did the walk-of-shame back to soccer practice.

***

Though it is fun and therapeutic for me to transcribe these moments in my family’s life, it obviously won’t have the same result for the other people mentioned.
I am really coming to grips with how respectful I need to be as a writer. Especially for my children who currently have no idea that I write about them. Not only do I have to respect them now, but I have to respect people they will become… those fragile adolescents, those emerging young adults.  
So many times as a writer or a storyteller I hit a wall. I experience a perfect human-moment, I feel inspired to describe it, and then I wonder: How can I lay out this beautiful, pathetic, hilarious essence of humanity? How do I package this gleaming example of truth… without hurting the people I love?
And the truth is, most of the time, I really can’t do it.
And that makes me feel sad, muted, stifled, and sometimes resentful.
But I’m trying to work through that. I know that every limitation I encounter is an invitation to get more creative.  Basically, I need to learn how to write fiction. The people who write fiction are the ones who get to tell the most truth. So I’m genuinely going for it. I WILL be a fiction writer.
Unfortunately, all I’ve pulled off so far is a slew of weird characters who never do anything but hang out in a Dari Mart. All the while, I'm pretty sure I should incorporate magic and talking animals, because that's what people like to read about. Right?
Pray for me.


Monday, October 19, 2015

Decadence

Illustration by Andrew Gillespie
                 
Decadence
Life is decadent. It feels so rich right now that I’ve got that way-too-sweet zinging that goes on behind my back teeth. The high pitched over caffeinated feeling.

I want to lay it out in words to tame it a little, but it might just be too full-bodied for that.
The adoration, the jealousy, the sweetness, the rage and the oatmeal with raisins and nuts and cream on a rainy morning.
All of it.
The kids and the shoes on the wrong feet. The greasy backpack full of chicken soup that leaked out of the thermos. The jar of water on the bedside table that got kicked over during wrestling and spilled under the dresser.

The food that always needs to be cooked. With love. And the brother that died. All the people who are coming for dinner. And the weed and tobacco on the back porch after kid-bedtime. And the heat and the rain. And the interviews and the neighbors who became the friends we never meant to have. And all the kids. And the explaining about death. And the explaining about sex. And, again, the food making.

And the friends I don’t ever talk to. And the friends I’m managing to still see. And the friends who are angry. And the acquaintances. And the spontaneous music nights.

And the art I’m not doing. And the laundry that makes it through every stage except the folding before taking up permanent residence on the spare bed. And the lice. And the rats who live under kid’s beds. And the pieces of infrastructure that are rotting. And the appliances that don’t work.

And the chocolate cream pie that my girlfriend made which tastes best right out of the pie dish with no lights on at 2:00 in the morning. And the permission slips that need to be signed, and the mail that's started arriving in florescent envelopes because somebody really wants to get paid or for me to fill out a form... or something. Clearly the plain white envelope never grabbed my attention.

I might open this on… Later.

And the insurance and the food stamps, and the leak in the roof.

And the “early reader” books that engage a fight every 3 words, EVEN WHEN they’re starring The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

And teaching someone to wipe. Do you remember learning how to wipe?

And the walks in the rain. And the walks in the dark. And the tiny hand that keeps reaching inside my shirt because the instinct to nurse just doesn’t go away. And the little faces that nuzzle up to me whose breath I love to smell even when it stinks. Especially when it stinks.

And the food again. And the humans who wake up to do another day with me over and over and over again. The one who makes the gravy and the sauces. And the one who opens my florescent envelopes for me, because I guess I just don't like to. And the one who puts a soundtrack behind it all and makes everything seem like a really deep metaphor.

And the love. All that excruciating, gentle, childlike, monotonous, thrilling, wild love.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

The Revolving Wheel of Friends


 
                                                  Illustration by Andrew Gillespie

It’s hard when people who I depend on and consider my family move away or get completely occupied by a job, a romance, a band, a religion, saving at-risk-youth, sewing clothes, or fermenting food. All of a sudden folks just aren’t available in my life the way they used to be. It’s hard and it sucks… but it’s completely normal. I do it to people, people do it to me… it’s a pretty standard experience for anyone whose lived past the age of 7-years-old.
Of course it is sad when people who I consider brothers and sisters are no longer significant players in my day-to-day. But that doesn’t make them stop being my brothers and sisters. My biological brother and sister have lived across the country from me for almost 10 years. But that doesn’t change how important we are to each other.

We all collect humans that matter to us. The longer we live, the bigger our collection gets. And lots of these humans become invaluable to us. Some of them have been working alongside us for decades, and some we’ve known for only a speck in the grand scheme of our lives. And there is just no physical way, by the time we live to the age of about 15, that we could possibly maintain regular contact with all the people who matter to us.

At some point we have to accept that the people we love are just out there – being wonderful – without a lot of check-ins.

I only talk to my sister about once a month. No. That’s not even true. I talk to her less than that. But I know she’s out there being a spark of passion and excitement to the people around her. I know she’s probably lost her keys or her glasses somewhere. I know she might be worried that her students aren’t learning enough. Or she’s pulled off the flip-side perspective and she’s totally aware that SHE is responsible for some little boy loving science. 

I know she’s entertaining people and raising the enthusiasm level as noticeably as the barometric pressure changes in tornado season. And she knows I love her. And that I’m probably doing laundry, or cooking, or blabbing to somebody in the kitchen. And, unless there is some kind of emergency, that’s mostly good enough.

There are people who get really hurt when they never hear from me. There are people who I feel really hurt about not ever hearing from. But, the truth is, we’re all juggling this menagerie of humans in the best way we can.

When I get sad about the people I’m missing, I think about all the ways that new, life-changing humans have entered my life. Or I think about the people who have been integral in my life, disappeared, and then come back again. Both of those experiences are exciting to look forward to, and could occur at any moment.

That’s one of the blessings of getting older: getting to experience life-dances that come around full-circle.

My first best friend, who I met when I was 5-years-old, has lived in 4 different states at the same time as me. Each time we lived within a 30 minute drive from each other. Today I can walk to her house in about 10 minutes. We never moved with the intention of living close to each other… it was just a funny twist in the pattern of life. A coincidence.

The woman who I always have weird eye-contact with in the park might become my best friend in 7 years. Or maybe she will move to Georgia and be an intern on my brother’s farm or the assistant in my sister’s classroom.
And someone who I live with right now, someone who stands in the kitchen in his boxer shorts at 7:30 in the morning, making his eggs over-medium. Someone who I’ve seen almost every day for the last year, or three-years, or 5-years, might move to Shri Lanka or Kansas. And maybe I’ll talk to him 3 times a year. And maybe I’ll just have to imagine that he’s out there, making a different city more beautiful. Probably still eating eggs over medium. Probably still loving me. But I’m just a human in his collection. Just like I’m a human in your collection.
And even if we hardly ever talk, I still love you. I might call you if my family gets head lice so that you can help me think that it’s funny. I’ll send you a message every so often when I’m cooking food that reminds me of you, and if you come to visit I’ll wash the sheets on the spare bed. I really hope that can be good enough for both of us.