you are here.

You know when you are at a mall or an amusement park or anywhere that involves a map because it’s so huge you will lose your way without guidance? Well. You are here.

It’s the beginning of your freshman year of high school. You’ve made it through a lot to get to this point – relationships. breakups. drama with your mama and with your best friend. drama with your ex-best friend. failures. successes. wins & losses. heartbreak. hope. despair. apathy. determination. All of these emotions & experiences culminate into an epic journey only YOU can complete. This begs the question: where do you go from here?

The answer? Anywhere.

Here’s the thing, though – you gotta remember where you’ve been.

Is this hard? You betcha. More often than not, it’s excruciating. You know this already. If it weren’t, you wouldn’t be so against writing your story. Putting on paper (keyboard, screen, whatev) what makes you…you. No – remembering where we have been is often the hardest part. But, it’s what helps us get to where we want to be.

The baseball player will often think of the grueling practices and painstaking drills when faced with 2 outs and missing the lead by 1 point in a championship game. It is those practices that have gotten him where he is. It is those practices that will push his team to a win – clenching the title.

The dancer will often think of the bloody toes and pinched feet right before her audition with Juliard. It is those moments of pushing through the pain that have given her the strength to pursue her dream. It is the diligence of practice that will allow her to excel & exceed any expectations.

These are just a few minute examples. It could be applied to anything, really. The girl with a broken home and an abusive father will remember the drunken nights when faced with a night of studying for a test that could make or break her graduation. It is those nights, in all of their pain & uncertainty & hopelessness, that forces her to push for a brighter future. It is those arguments that reveal to her the absolute necessity of studying for this test – so she can become something better than her upbringing.

Where you come from? What you go through? These things are important.

Which brings us to today.

You are here because your stories are important. You are here because your stories – all of them – need to be shared. Once everyone has submitted their stories on to the site, there will be almost a hundred stories of people just like you who have survived a tumultuous 16, 17, 18 year span. Some will be hilarious, others will be heartbreaking, still others will be thought-provoking & challenging. Submit your story. Read what others have written. But most importantly? Take this seriously. For some of you, this is the first time someone (or multiple someones) have even been remotely interested in who you are & where you’ve been. Be honest. Be gut-wrenchingly transparent with yourself & the others who will read. Why?

Who wants to read a fictitious autobiography? Why do you think stories hold such meaning? They speak of characters rising out of their circumstances – being a hero in a seemingly hopeless situation. You never know whose life will be changed by reading your story of hope despite difficult situations. Life isn’t pretty – most often, it’s pretty messy. So be truthful. And know that light is most beautiful when reflected off of broken glass.

Tell your story. Declare yourself. Someone will listen.

A Life Well Lived

Every one has a story.

I was reminded of this a couple months when I opened up my e-mail and saw a message from one of my favorite professors – a man I deeply respect for his authenticity. He opened the e-mail with a simple phrase – “a writer must know things” and challenged us to consider what we know from what we have read and what we have done. He suggested creating an inventory of these things – a detailed list, a mental note, something. At first, it seemed a bit like the typical brainstorming exercise. But then I read his list. Short in length, weighted with emotion, his list mentioned simple things –

– slept on the grass of Central park

– ate a steak in Chicago

– bought a mum for a girl in high school

His list mentioned heavy things –

– sat in typing class and listened to the announcement that Kennedy had been shot

– stood in formation on the grinder in the early morning darkness during boot camp

– walked across the University of Maryland campus while it was being occupied with armed soldiers

His list mentioned all of these moments that belonged to him alone – until he shared them. Isn’t this the life of an artist? Virginia Woolf speaks of the writer as someone who is free to think and feel and do. Writers typically don’t mind the status quo, but we notice the importance of moments. We know that although it seems silly, we can’t help but watch the young boy falling asleep in the pew in front of us, or the man stopping cold in his tracks when high heels crash against the concrete floor of a garage, or the way the sun splits the morning sky in a vibrant show of color. We notice these things. Most importantly, we remember these things.

I’ve always wondered why. I think I am beginning to understand – people need their story told.

At the end of his e-mail, he told us to take part in the inventory. People immediately began sending him their lists. Within two hours I had received about three more e-mails from him of other lists – moments in time that were now shared. Some brought back tears; some brought back laughter; a few brought back pain. Today the lists are still coming, and I can’t get my mind off of the importance. I received another e-mail just now encouraging us to send more – to declare ourselves – to speak because someone is bound to listen.

I’m still not sure exactly why this has impacted me so much, outside of the simple realization that these moments are meant to be spectacular. We never know when what we do could change a life. At least, we never know if we never share our story.

My list?

• ridden bareback in the Sawtooth mountains of Idaho with my great grandfather
• Fallen in love with the scent of Haiti – a mix of burnt marshmellows and freshly cut grass
• Sang in front of my nana and papa’s congregation when I was little – a mixture of about ten white-haired members, mostly relatives.
• Sang in front of my home church, a congregation of about 1,000.
• Watched the towers fall in my dorm room of OBU, right before my first New Testament exam of the semester. I failed.
• went stargazing in the bed of a truck in the middle of a baseball field, and actually looked at stars
• went searching to crash a party on Frat Row in Norman, only to find no one home because of a game
• walked across town in College Station singing at the top of my lungs and dancing with friends
• heard my first drive-by when I was in middle school
• Experienced the death of a close friend at 21
• cried over someone who didn’t deserve it
• forgave someone who didn’t deserve it
• Had my first kiss in the back of a band bus at the age of 15
• Stayed up until the wee hours of the morning after hearing about the Columbine shooting my junior year of high school to write a poem that was later published in the SA Express News
• Had a Haitian women wipe tears from my cheeks
• danced with the owner of a karaoke bar in OKC while he serenaded me “Brown Eyed Girl” (I guess he  didn’t see my eyes were blue)
• got into said karaoke bar when I was only 19 because the owner saw my friends and I walking down the sidewalk and invited us in….not the smartest decision but certainly one of the most fun
• read Poisonwood Bible
• made it through my masters
• eaten pig’s feet
• serenaded my husband after two weeks of dating (first time to sing for just one person)
• Was told by a student I was not only a teacher, but a mentor, a mother, a sister and a friend
• Cried in front of students
• felt completely naked when I shared my writing for the first time in college
• spent the week in Wimberley with my family – got sunburnt, an in-grown toenail, and the scar on my chin but met a man from India who changed my life.
• Wrote love on a student’s arms
• felt the chill associated with a witch doctor’s property
• bought into the idea of the American Dream
• realized there is so much more than the American Dream
• married Russell
• read Fanny and Zooey
• Met some of the most innovative and revolutionary minds while spending a weekend in San Diego last year
• became a history maker
• learned early on that joy can be found in a sunrise
• created routines with cousins and siblings to Free at Last
• swam in the Caribbean
• was chased by a Havelina in the jungles of Haiti
• seen the sunset over the Pacific
• experienced how something can ruin your life in the best possible way
• watched Dirty Dancing five times in one week
• read Irresistible Revolution
• stayed at a hippie commune in Biloxi while doing relief work after Katrina
• baked Santa cookies
• watched Beauty and the Beast
• watched MTV incognito with my teenage uncle (when they actually played videos-I remember Video Killed the Radio Star)
• found my words in Brooke Fraser’s “Albertine”
• learned how to walk like a giant
• met a homeless man named Derrick who lost everything in Hurricane Ike & is now living under a bridge in downtown Ausitn
• met a homeless man with no tongue named Bird whose favorite ice cream is Amy’s chocolate.
• read The Things They Carried
• saw Slumdog Millionaire which intensified my desire to a)travel to India and b)adopt

And there’s more. I think this may be the beauty of this exercise, actually. I sent Dr. Peterson my list months ago and have been processing what I wrote and my own additions since then. I would hope that my list only grows larger, as my writer’s mind continues to pay attention to what others can’t see – the lady nervously scratching her neck during an intense conversation, the deaf couple laughing at an intimate joke, the barista greeting a familiar face with a smile and casual conversation.

There are stories to be told. People aching to be heard and seen.  Go ahead. I dare you. Think about your own list. Declare yourself, as Brady Peterson says. Someone will listen.

this thing called story

What is this thing called story?

From the beginning of time, people have created and spoken and passed on stories of our past in a desperate attempt to awaken something within the community. Ancient Greece used well-known mythological stories as backdrops to the Greek tragedies. For a short period of time, thousands would gather and take part in the religious act of emotional purging and catharsis.
In the novel The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien mentions stories are “for joining past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can’t remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.”

To me, stories bring hope. Life can get pretty messy sometimes. For all of us, disappointment lurks in the corner waiting to make his appearance. Stories remind us of the good – of those who push through conflict despite the messiness around them. It may not always end with a bow tied neatly around a happy ending, but characters within stories are noble and fight for what they know is right. They are flawed – just like us – and even through mistakes make something beautiful. This is the hope.

Last summer, sitting in a coffee shop in Nairobi, Kenya, I thought about how I would accurately tell the stories of those I met in Kibera. I wanted to return to school and let you guys know just how lucky you are to gain a free education. I wanted to make it clear that flushing toilets and central heat and air and the excess of paper, pens, books, pencils, markers, crayons…these things aren’t guaranteed. I wanted to share about the two kids writing their numbers on a metal pole with chalk – only to lick the pole clean in order to start again. I wanted to share about Rose who is orphaned but finding a way to raise funds for school through her grandmother’s business. I wanted to tell you of the poster hanging in the headmaster’s office of what to do if you are raped…
Why?

…because I needed to remind myself of hope.
There’s a fine line between experience and storytelling. I found it in Kibera. And sitting with these kids as they each shared with me their background and hopes and dreams, the dichotomy of my world and their world collided within my chest, creating a discord not easily removed. Coming home and sharing my experiences wasn’t an option anymore. I needed to find the link between what I witnessed and what I hope for these kids. Walking down the dirt path lined with sewage holding the hand of Rose or Adah or David or Benjamin – I realized the grotesque beauty of storytelling. You may or may not be moved by what I say or the stories I share. But does it really matter? The thing about this fine line between experience and storytelling is that it’s my experience – my story. It matters to me. It moves me. And in sharing it, I hope it moves you – but I know if it doesn’t, it’s okay. 

….because  in sharing, I’ve reminded myself of hope. And late at night, when I’m trying to remember how I got from there to here, this is all I need to know.