Ethnography 101

Overheard (many years ago) in a ladies restroom

Woman 1:   What's Thai food like?
Woman 2:   It's kind of like Chinese food, but more authentic.

Obligation versus inspiration

My father was a counselor at my high school. As a school employee, he was required to arrive at school by 7 am, much earlier than my fellow students. As a school employee's daughter (with no other means of transportation), I was required to arrive at the same ungodly hour.

Making my dad late was not an option. If the span between waking up and walking out the door didn't leave me with enough time to get showered and get dressed, guess who was going to have a very embarrassing day at school? It took some serious hustling to avoid arriving on campus with drool caked on my face.

Unfortunately, I was not much of a morning person back then. I should have know better than to hit snooze again and again in the morning, but I didn't. I often had to rely on a "real" alarm -- my father's audible footsteps echoing down the hall on his way to the kitchen. Yikes! This meant I had to jump out of bed, zoom in and out of the shower, and throw clothes on all in the time it took him to have breakfast and pack his lunch.

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One morning, for no reason I'm aware of, I woke up early. With plenty of time left after getting ready for the day, I decided to pack my dad's lunch. When he made his way into the kitchen, we had breakfast together then headed off to school.

I had enjoyed that. So the next day I tried hard to wake up early again. It was difficult, but I managed to get up with enough time for a repeat performance of the morning before. The third day was even more difficult, but I dragged myself through it. Ta da!

Then, on the fourth day, my teenage need for sleep outweighed my intentions and I was back to my normal routine. On our way out of the door, my dad asked "Where's my lunch?"

My heart sank -- suddenly the thoughtful little "bonus" I had offered as a gift felt like something I was obligated to continue. Where was my praise? It wasn't until then that I realized I had been expecting praise and was kind of resentful I hadn't received any. I didn't say anything, but I didn't pack his lunch again either.

I decided then that a gift should only be out of selfless inspiration. As a friend, a daughter, a partner, a good citizen there are plenty of things I do that have the weight of obligation tied to it. There are also plenty of things I do where I expect something in return. But, it's only when my sense of inspiration outweighs any sense of obligation or expectation that I consider something truly a gift.

Looking back, I realize it wasn't much of a gift I had offered my father.

Telling the whole elephant

I would love the ability to demonstrate the difference between reading a story and listening to it. Recently, I was talking to a friend about one possible way to approach this: I could create a written version of a story I normally tell then post it along with a link to a polished, recorded telling of that same story.

"You're going to kill it." she warned me. She went on to describe her experience with this. A story that she once told with ease had become awkward and stilted after she captured a version in writing.

That made me nervous, but I decided to try my hand at it anyway. To be cautious, I picked a small story, something I typically tell as a little anecdote, that I wouldn't fall apart over if I stopped being able to tell it. Writing it was enjoyable, though it took longer than I expected. It felt as if every line I started was actually part of another, bigger story. After trimming those parts out (and placing them in a notebook for safekeeping) I was done!

This last Tuesday, I had a chance to tell it. Awkward and stilted, I stumbled through the beginning. Something was different. I could hear the words coming out of my mouth, but it didn't feel like a story. Usually, when storytelling (even when I'm flubbing it) I feel a connection to the story and to the listener -- I feel as if I am a conduit of some sort. But this time, I felt like I was just speaking. I glanced at the story (sat with it a moment, in my head) and noticed it was just a thin sliver, there was no room for me to walk around! It hit me then, I was thinking about the slice I had captured in writing.

When writing, I am like one of the blind men in the blind men and elephant story. In my opinion, this is fine for writing (or at least, for my level of writing). On paper, there is only so much I can chew or hold up to the reader at once. For this reason, putting on the blind fold helps me focus.

What I learned on Tuesday was that I need to remember to take off the blind fold. I need to tell the whole elephant.

Strangers in the Living Room

My sister and I had full run of the house, which was a pretty rare event. With our parents off at the yearly "Black and White Ball" and our other two sisters out with friends, we were going to make a night out of it.

Which meant we plopped down in front of the boob tube.

Our goal was to stay up late enough to watch Night Tracks. Perhaps not the most inventive or awe-inspiring ambition, but we were dedicated. Until one of us wandered into the kitchen and reported the discovery of Little Debbies in the cupboard. Our mission was aborted.

We spent the next few hours leaving Little snack cake residue on all of our playing cards and board game pieces. When the sugar high started wearing off, we made our way to the far bedroom (the cool bedroom) that belonged to one of our absent siblings. We could tuck ourselves in and sister-talk until we fell asleep. So much for well laid plans.

Sleepiness set in heavier and heavier and our chatter began circling in the space between our pillows like a dog trying to get comfortable. Eventually our conversation rolled to a non-eventful stop. That was when we heard it.

Voices. Of strangers. In the living room.

The voices were muffled, but we could tell they were unfamiliar. As much as we strained to hear what they were saying, we couldn't make out any specific words. Given the lack of decisive information, we did what was natural.

We totally freaked out.

My sister, the one in charge, came up with our only idea: prayer. It seemed reasonable enough. We settled on "Our Father" since every little Catholic kid knows it by heart. Or so we thought. It turns out that, when you're very young and very scared, all the energy you put into not wetting your pants is energy taken away from remembering the Lord's prayer.

We started falling to pieces, but once again my sister pulled us together. She had a new plan: we would investigate. Taking my hand, she led our way in the dark (to avoid detection) through the house (to get into better earshot). From the den we could see a strange glow coming from the living room. From the dining room, it all became clear.

We had left the television on.

Something to Carry in Your Pocket

In sixth grade, I had a theatre arts teacher named Mrs. Stuart. I wasn't crazy about her -- she had a nasally sharp voice, seemed a bit snooty, and didn't seem that crazy about me. I remember her first name, Sue, because it turned out to be appropriate; It seemed that anytime a kid accidentally bumped into her she would scold them "You could have really hurt me. I could sue you, you know."

Despite this, Sue managed to teach me something I consider pretty darned useful. My guess would be that she had no idea I would take what she taught me and use it the way I do. I'm pretty sure she'd be even more surprised to learn that I regularly think about her, with gratitude, as a result of this little something I carry around in my pocket.

To someone who is 11 or 12, everyone over 20 looks ancient. Given that my memories of that time were filmed using 'tween lenses, I can't really say for certain how old Sue was. It's very likely she was around the age I am now. In honor of this, I'd like to share. Kudos to Mrs. Stuart, by the way.
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Our class was set on the cafeteria/auditorium stage; our cue was the bell and we made our entrance through the black curtains, upstage right. The setup was minimalist -- three fold out tables and a number of fold out chairs gathered around them set the scene.

To be honest, I remember little else about the class in general. Instead, almost all of my memory revolves around the time that Mrs. Stuart taught us about method acting. I don't think that's what she called it, but based on what I know now I would say she was teaching us what's referred to as "emotional recall".

She asked for a few volunteers and, after asking them to act sad, demonstrated how sad really looked. She then went on to explain what she was doing. In essence, she was recalling a time when she genuinely felt the emotions she was trying to portray, then letting those feelings charge up her portrayal.

The lesson over, each student returned to their folding chair to work on a class assignment -- sadness. We were to think of times in our lives that we were very, very sad. Looking around at all the furrows and frowns, I could see we were getting somewhere. In fact, after reaping my short life's collection of sorrowful woes, I found I could bring myself close to tears with little effort. Then came our next assignment -- happiness. Again, after hand picking some choice funny moments, I found I could easily bring myself to a grin, a smile, or even to laughter.

She gathered us once more to review what we had just learned. As she described what a powerful tool this was and explained how it could be used to infuse our acting with the emotions of our choice, I had an "Aha!" moment.

Why not use it to infuse our everyday lives with happiness?

At that moment, I committed to collecting positive memories and storing them in my pocket for easy retrieval. It worked! Whenever some negative thought had its grip on me, I could shake it loose by dusting off of my pocket collection. At first I started with funny memories, but over time expanded to include happy, proud, grateful, competent, loved... anything that might help remind me out of whatever dark corner I might find myself in.

If you've ever experienced the dark of a power outage, you know how much easier it is to make your way around if you have access to some sort of light source. The same goes for life's dark places.

Take this second to place a happy memory in your pocket. And, when you're done, practice fishing that happiness out of your pocket and using it. Guess what? Now you have a little flashlight.

Image picking

I have an inkling there is some background process in our brain that is constantly rummaging through the endless stream of images collected via our peripheral vision. Like a thief picking through a poor college student's dorm room, it's trying to determine, out of a ton of meaningless chotchkies, what's even worth bringing home to the big boss.

toss....toss.....toss....WTF?!....toss...toss....hmmm, toss....toss...toss....bingo!

The other day, while walking past a food court, I spotted a middle-aged man and woman sitting and chatting. Just when this image was about to get chucked, the little thief-like-process noticed something interesting:

The woman was sporting a little round bandaid on the inside corner of her left eye.

Not super interesting, but interesting enough to put in a request for the collection of at least a one, quick, central vision snapshot (for further analysis, of course). I obliged, and as a result noticed something that piqued the big boss's curiosity:

Her conversation partner had the same kind of bandaid smack dab square in the middle of his forehead.

I started wondering. Did the injuries happen at the same time? Was there a sale on little round bandaids? Were the injuries similar, or were those the only kinds of bandaids they had on hand (ala "when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.") Could it be that only one of them actually had an injury but was embarassed and the other, to make them feel better, placed a bandaid in an equally eye-catching location to say "here, now it won't just be you."

I hate that I'll never know. But I kind of love it, too.

the North Pole

Today at work, management let all non-essential employees out early due to a power outage. Upon hearing the news, I waffled a little -- work is about half way between where I live and where my after-normal-work-hour plans required me to be. It didn't help that I felt no strong pull regarding what I should do with myself. I considered finishing up a few things for work (my laptop still had some juice) but eventually settled on finding a cafe that offered wireless internet access so I could write for a bit.

In contrast, most of my co-workers hightailed it as soon as they learned they could go.

For some reason, noticing that reminded me of a time I was hanging out with my friend Anna. We were looking for a parking spot when she pointed out a dog that was walking by. He was looking straight ahead and, as he crossed the lot, he never moseyed off the straight line that was his path. "He's definitely going somewhere," she said, "and it looks like it's a very specific somewhere."

Even the dog knew exactly where he wanted to go.

During a visit home a few years ago, I planned a short road trip for my mother and myself. At some point during our trip, I asked her what she would like to do. She kept suggesting things she thought I might want to do. But I didn't need for anything. I was a blank slate and had no preference for any destination or activity; My only desire was to spend time with her, and unless she opted for time alone, I would be getting exactly what I wanted. It took some time, but the moment I convinced her of this, her eyes lit up and she literally blurted out what she wanted to do.

I had never dug past enough of the "I'm your mother, let me take care of you" strata to get to this particular layer of hers. If I'd had any inkling that this layer was there, of course I would have dug sooner! How could I not have guessed she might have that sort of drive, that ability to think of an activity to do and then crave doing it?

Because I don't seem to have it myself.

I first noticed this about myself the summer after my junior year, while on a plane headed toward Boston. This was something I wanted, something I knew I would enjoy. But I felt no giddy anticipation, it was as if the only moment that existed was the one I was currently in. I remember sitting on the plane and wondering if it meant anything. Was it a premonition? Could the reason I couldn't imagine and look forward to the future be because the plane was going to crash? Over time I've learned that although there are many, many things I enjoy doing, my anticipation button is just a little broken.

Last year, my friend Dan and his wife Linda planned a trip to Hawaii, inviting one friend each to join them. Dan invited me and, when I saw how much it would mean to him for me to say yes, I said yes. He was excited about the trip. On occasion he would ask me if I was looking forward to it. I reminded him of my weird quirk. I tend to not look forward to activities, milestones, or events. I don't mean that I dread them, I just mean that I don't feel that sense of anticipation, that sense of "this is going to be great!" excitement, even for activities I know I will enjoy.

The only caveat I can think of has to do with activities that revolve around a good one-on-one conversation. (The kind where someone learns something new about the other or about themselves, or where ideas volley back and forth, allowed to change shape with each catch and toss, or where someone is listened into a better place, ... )

My theory is that my non-linear life path is a direct result of this.

Other people seem to have a North Pole out in the world, and a big magnet tucked inside them that craves that big North Pole and pulls them in a straight line toward it. I'm coming to believe that instead of a magnet, I have a little north pole inside. And it craves not things or milestones or places, but that magnetic tug of other people.

Hold a true friend with both hands

I've been contemplating regret an awful lot.

A good friend got married last year. After the ceremony, in the big tent listening to toasts and being served dinner, I watched 3 years worth of her pictures projected on a screen. Dinner party after dinner party, birthday celebration after birthday celebration, outing after outing flashed by. Although I had been invited to most of the events, I was in only a small handful of those pictures.

I was working on a renovation project that turned out to be a much bigger job than I had expected. I was traveling quite a bit for work. I was working around my partner's schedule to be supportive. I was looking for a house to buy. I was balancing my checkbook. I was sleeping. I was being an absolute idiot.

None of these are excuses. They are just little snapshots of the things I had let balloon so large that other things were set aside for later. Not that I thought these other things weren't important. I just didn't realize how much time was passing. And how fast.

That slide show was a wake up call for me. The way I spend my time should be a strong reflection of the things I value. My friend and I spent much of this last year making time for each other -- I am very grateful for that. She moved away this morning and though I am filled with regret at all the time I lost, I look forward to the time that's yet to come.

Regret

My parents made a point of raising their kids with the concept of regret. Not in a morose kind of way and not about all things. I believe it was important to them that we regularly consider how we might feel in the future about our current actions when it came to the people we loved.

Whenever I acted disrespectfully, my parents would remind me that they wouldn't be around forever. This must sound morbid, but they didn't bring it up in that way. They weren't threatening, they weren't whining, they weren't trying to guilt me into "behaving". As I grew older, I understood more and more about what they were doing -- they were coaching me. By prompting me to reflect, they were helping me clear a path toward an adult life with less regret.

This part of my childhood is probably one of the reasons the hospital scene in Terms of Endearment caused me to bawl my heart out. In this scene, the main character is in the hospital, dying of cancer. She is with her two boys, saying her goodbyes. Her oldest son Tommy is being very distant. She says to him:

I know you like me. I know it. For the last year or two, you've been pretending like you hate me. I love you very much. I love you as much as I love anybody, as much as I love myself. And in a few years when I haven't been around to be on your tail about something or irritating you, you could...remember that time that I bought you the baseball glove when you thought we were too broke. You know? Or when I read you those stories? Or when I let you goof off instead of mowing the lawn? Lots of things like that. And you're gonna realize that you love me. And maybe you're gonna feel badly, because you never told me. But don't - I know that you love me. So don't ever do that to yourself, all right?

What sort of grace enables you to look beyond your own hurt and offer such a gift? I can only hope it's the sort of grace that I can pick up piece by piece as I grow and learn.

Even as a teenager, I didn't roll my eyes whenever my parents' reminder made its way into our conversation. I could hear the personal experience in their voice, I could sense the regret they were sheltering me from.

The Piano Story

My first storytelling feature was August 20, 2002. Surrounded by friends and family, I introduced the set of stories I was about to tell by telling "the piano story". My parents were in the audience that day. They flew to Boston from Texas because I let them know how much it would mean to me if they did.

Now, whenever I think of this story, I remember the experience of having told it to them. Because of this, it's become one of my favorites.

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A number of years ago, I decided to learn to play the piano. As one who works extensively with computers, I went about this in a way that made the most sense -- I bought a computer program.

With some regularity, I would perch my laptop atop the piano, run the software, and walk through exercise after exercise. On this day, the lesson was "Joy to the World". I was terrible -- I couldn't play to tempo and I was missing quite a few of the notes. Then my mom called. She asked what I was doing and when I told her, she was very enthusiastic.

My mother loves music. Loves loves loves it. It also makes her sentimental. Since her brothers were very musically inclined, music reminds her of her family growing up.

When she asked me if I could play for her, I had to be honest. "I can't. But I will." I put into practice what I had just been learning and again, it was horrible. I was slow, I was off, the tune was hardly recognizable. But I could hear that my mother was listening with her mother's ear. "Oh, that's so beautiful" she told me. I knew her well enough to know she wasn't lying.

Shortly after this episode, I learned that my parents had started referring to me as Liberace. My father would ask my mother "How is Liberace doing?" and my mother would respond with something like "Liberace is busy today." I took this as permission to launch a little joke campaign of my own.

I decided to have my friend Rich who can play the piano (really, really well) sit at the keyboard. I called my mom and said "Hey, I've been practicing." You must realize, only two weeks had passed by this point. I asked my mom if she'd like to hear what I've been up to. I told Rich to hit it, he started to play -- it was a rich, beautiful, complex piece and he was performing it perfectly.

I was expecting my mother to guffaw. But no, she was just listening. She called out "Honey, honey come to the phone!" Suddenly my dad was on the line too, and they were both listening!

A joke just isn't funny until someone gets the joke. I had to interrupt. "Mom, Dad. That's not me! Of course that's not me!"

They paused for a second before admitting, "well, I guess that would make more sense."

When I hung up the phone, I realized something about myself. I grew up with this unfaltering faith in what I'm capable of. On one hand, it's an incredibly strengthening source. But on the other, I have no idea how many times I've disappointed my parents. (I can still hardly play Joy to the World.)

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This is a link to a poor quality recording of that first, 2002 rendition. Critics, please note this was my first feature and the first time telling in front of friends and family. In case you're wondering what the hiccup sounding noises are, that's my mother sobbing!