Story Slam-Off

There's a fantastic event in our city called "Story Slam".

Participants come up to a mike and have five minutes to tell a story. It must be an original story. Judges randomly picked from the audience rate the story from 1 to 10. A final score is given based on the total of the three middle scores (top score and bottom score are dropped). If you go over five minutes, you lose points. Each audience member throws five dollars into a hat (for the fantastic entertainment) and the winner gets the money. On some nights, we've had a prize of $500.

I love the dynamic created between readers and writers at events like this. An intimacy is created between the audience and the storyteller. Unlike any other performing arts event I go to, there is free flowing dialogue between the listener and the writer after the event. And the writers can be beginners or experienced. And there's no telling who wins!

Two months ago we had the semi-finals: the winner from each month competed in a story slam. Last night, we had the finals - the Slam-Off. The top six had to read two stories instead of just one. I was one of the top six.

I gave it my best. During these last months of writing and preparation, I felt quite competitive but I arrived at the event last night and realized how privileged I was to be among these talented writers. It didn't matter if I won. I was just happy to be participating.

Here are my two stories. I came in third. I got a little bit of recognition and a little prize :) It was a great night.

(If you're interested in creating a Story Slam Event in your community, let me know. I help support the organization of this event and can put you in touch with the person who started it in our city.)

Story One

Growing up, I was taught that dying was a natural consequence of everything I endeavored to undertake. My mother was endowed with a special hormone that creates unnecessary paranoia that allowed her to connect jumping on beds, running fast and eating more than two cookies with dying. It’s a miracle I’m standing here before you.

However, as I developed my own reasoning skills, my mother learned to be a little more realistic with the consequences she foresaw. And instead of death, I heard warnings like: “Wear a sweater, or else you’ll get pneumonia and go to the hospital” or “If you don’t wear makeup, you’ll never get married.”

With this in mind, I dreaded, at the age of eighteen, telling my mother what I had planned for the May long weekend.

“Camping?” she said.

I replied, “We went camping with you and Dad when we were kids.”

“In a motor home,” she answered. “You want to camp in a tent?” She was disgusted. “It’s not safe, honey.”

I mentally reviewed our weekend plans. We had thought about going to the mountains but camping elsewhere would be fine, I decided.

My mother was still talking. “It’s dangerous because of the … “

“Yes, I know. Bears,” I interrupted. “But we’re going to the lake. There’s no bears there.”

She answered, “It’s not bears, I’m worried about. You know why it’s dangerous … you know what’s there?”

My mind raced. What crazed news story had she read about now? Wolves? Mountain Lions?

“What, mother?” I asked.

“When convicts escape – you know the first place they’ll go to, don’t you?”

I tried to keep my jaw attached to the rest of my face. “The campground?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, eyebrows raised. “The campground.”

I was at a loss. My mother didn’t want me to go camping for fear of escaped convicts. I grasped for a solution. I convinced her there would be a huge number of friends – and strong boys – on my trip. She felt comforted.

The problem was, it was a lie. There would only be three of us – and all girls. But, why worry? The campground would be packed with people. Imagine my surprise when we discovered that it was so early in the season, nobody else was camping at Ma-Me-O Beach … except for me and my two friends, Sue and Leanne.

But, I took it all in stride. As the night wore on though, I felt a strange transformation taking place. Worries appeared unbidden in my mind, shadows grew, sounds magnified. I ignored them though until we had tucked ourselves in for the night, snug in our tent, buried in our sleeping bags.

Then, … crunch, crunch, crunch – footsteps. Someone was walking outside. My god – who would be walking out here without a vehicle – except for … an escaped convict??

“Do you hear those footsteps?” I whispered.

Leanne was still awake. “Yes,”

“Oh oh.” I continued. “I think I left the ax outside.”

I had to think on my feet. I prayed Leanne would catch on. In a loud voice, I said, “Could you ask Bob to move over? There’s not enough room for me.” That’s what we needed, a big man in the tent.

In her brilliance, Leanne improvised and said, [read in a deep man voice] “Alright, I’ll move over.”

Sue spoke up. “Who’s Bob?”

Panic engulfed me. Sue would be the end of us. If I died because of this ex-convict, my mother would kill me for not listening to her.

Leanne ignored Sue and said “Bob’s moved over, you should have enough room now.”

After a long pause, Sue said, “Who the hell is Bob?”

If the escaped convict was going to strike, he was going to do it then.

But, no one attacked us, and we never heard the footsteps again. After the delirious giggles we collapsed into - out of relief more so than humor – we finally fell asleep.

After that, I was a little more merciful with my mother. It seemed I was stricken with the affliction myself - this overactive imagination. My mother uses it to feed her worries and I use it to feed my stories – Bob being my first creation.

Now when my mother warns me of death, bankruptcy, or spinsterhood because of my haircut, my expensive shoes or how much time I spend in the sun … I just smile and nod. It’s really a blessing. In a sense, because of her worries, I’m standing here before you.

Story Two

Words – they echoed off the walls. Words from my mother’s language -- comforting, rhythmic, familiar – words I do not understand. In these words, my mother’s family recovered their home, talking faster, complaining louder, laughing harder. Words flew around the room during family reunions, where my mother’s siblings and their families totalled at least sixty people.

But, in January of 2004, my families’ words were colored by a different hue for we had gathered because my grandmother had died.

My grandmother was the axis of our chaotic family. A true matriarch – a Dona in my mother’s words. The funeral ceremony was to be everything she deserved, showcasing her greatest pride - her family. So every role in the funeral – whether it was handing out programs, holding flowers, singing songs – were to be evenly distributed between representatives of our families. Our own personal United Nations.

And because my talent was with words, words that could be molded and shaped – it was decided I would give the eulogy. I agreed. You don’t disagree with a request like that. But what words would disguise the fact that I never knew my grandmother?

She didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak her dialect, so our conversation consisted of phrases like “how are you grandma?” “love you grandma” and “time to eat, grandma”.

I had vivid memories of her visits to Edmonton – summer nights of our house overflowing with company. Windows open, fans whirring, and all of the adults unnaturally generous and patient. And, of course, the kitchen. Always warm and full of wondrous scents … magically churning out delights without end – like her homemade sausages, or Filipino desserts full of ice shavings, coconut, jello and fruit – or my favourite – ensemada – a sweet cheese-filled bun, with sugar sprinkled on top.

But those words would not be sufficient for her funeral – to say that I would miss my grandmother’s sausages? My words could describe what I found remarkable about my grandmother. How she never went to school, but ran a farming business. How she married twice – both husbands much younger than her. And how she was equally religious and superstitious, always carrying her rosary (for protection) and bullet shells (for good luck). You can imagine which got her into trouble at the airports.

But what I loved most about my grandmother were her kisses. She leaned into my face and I would feel her soft, wrinkly skin on my cheek, and then she would take a big breath in, as if my very scent brought her life.

But, I knew my family. These words were not respectful – thought they carried the truth of what I loved in her. I had shaped words in the past to fit the occasion. But, it was my grandmother, distortion here seemed wrong. And she was dead – she would know if I was lying. Worst of all, I had not shed a tear since I had heard the news. I loved her, but I did not feel that gaping hole that leaves so many breathless after death has touched their lives.

So when it was my turn to speak my words, words that were scattered into the wide church aisles, touching the bottom of the stained glass windows and breezing through the flower petals that rested on my grandmother’s coffin, it was the first time – ever - I felt that words could not live up to their task.

My words could not capture her – her greatest fear, her favourite color, her most cherished memory. My words could not keep her in the world that I knew – the world of sight and touch and smell. So, I spoke words that described what I knew for certain. The impact she had on me. On my mother, my five year old cousin, and my fifty year old aunt.

After I had finished my eulogy, I walked back to my seat, and slid onto the bench beside my sister. We all knelt for a moment, in silence. And in that empty lonely space, I broke down and wept. My grandmother didn’t need words. She never needed words. It was a most precious lesson – embodied in who she was and how she lived, and in how I said goodbye to her. It’s not in the words, it’s - ....

[hand on the heart – in silence].