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.