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].

progress

It's a Tuesday night.

It feels like Fall. The nights are chillier and I'm often hauling my sweaters out of my closet. My toes are cold if I wear sandals and I'm turning the lights on in my living room earlier and earlier each night. Darkness descends around 8pm now. Gone are the northern long days of summer when the sun sets at around eleven.

Traffic is busy. Kids are back in school and the University area is always crowded. Even my friends without children -- they are caught up in the season. New night courses, fitness classes, September resolutions. A time of new beginnings. Everyone and everything is preoccupied. And even if we aren't starting something new - we're trying to finish what we can before the snow falls.

It will be soon.

But tonight, it rains. Drops splatter on the windshield as I make my way to kickboxing. No classes yet, just meeting some friends in the park to train. I hope. Maybe the rain will stop.

Turning on the heat, I stop at a traffic light and see it to the left of me. I almost missed it. I glance in my rearview mirror. The driver catches it too and is transfixed. I look ahead; the man in the Volvo glances back and forth between the traffic light and out his window. I look to the car beside me. Her head is tilted in admiration. She catches me looking at her and smiles at me.

Is she thinking the same thing as me?

Is she grateful? I am. I'm grateful to discover that when people see a rainbow, they still take the time to stop and look. And see. Even amidst all of this activity we call life.

We haven't lost all of our wonder. Yet.

ful-fill

calling, calling
I have heard
the whispers too long
deaf to their demands

they shift their form to
rustling of the grass through my fingertips
crunching of broken leaves under my steps

and I remember
I’ve missed listening

truths they speak
power of expression
humility of a gift
challenge of capturing
that one moment
that one breath

chiding, chiding
bestowing a blessing
a responsibility

creation

create

care
about the calling
that I alone cannot answer

until my words connect to
another
and complete
their purpose

so I can complete mine

Ode: Collective Heritage

I've always grown up thinking of my home city as this little town in the middle of the prairies. Our population of one million people seemed so small compared to the busy cities all over the world. I remember looking in awe around Lima, Peru thinking "this single city has a third of Canada's population."

The great thing about Canada though, is the diversity of cultures. Despite our rustic reputation, one of the most attended festivals in Edmonton is "Heritage Days". Cultural community associations gather and use the opportunity to proudly demonstrate their heritage. Each country has a tent where they sell some of their most tempting wares - art, clothes, jewellery and of course - their mouthwatering food. (This is where you learn that people universally love fried dough or meat on a stick). Most countries also have a stage where they demonstrate the music, song and other forms of performance art from their cultures.

I've been going to this festival since I was a little girl. It's the only one I never grow tired of. There are always new people coming to Canada and cultures re-discovering aspects of their heritage and integrating them with the new. This year, I got to hear rap in Swahili! Our festival boasted a new number of pavilions - 52 countries represented here in our city.

What a wonderful celebration!

Collective Heritage

searing August sun
trampled grass
hazy orange light that slips
through tarps to fall in strips
on wares carved
by distant hands in skilled lands

all senses assaulted by a
cacophany of delights

the thundering seducing beat of drums
challenged by soft powdery promise of
sweet sugar dust, melting on warm dough
boistorous shouts of rosy-cheeked dancers
and the elegant art of orient assaults

overwhelming
intoxicating
familiar
this messy mosaic of Canada

release

she Worked through it all
stabbed her Anger
wept her Fears
Reasoned with her options

and at the end
of a long cool night
Brave enough to
peel back the layers
of Regret and Shame

she finally gets to the Heart of it
and there,
to her surprise,
It still Beats

Sadness

listening

it is not because
they tower above the horizon
reaching their boughs to the sky
bristling in the breeze
seeing what the falcon sees

it is not because
they plunge into the earth
funnelling through rich debris of life
tasting the currents of water beneath
mired in cool patience

it is not because
they connect in ways we cannot imagine
each tiny cell of every leaf
to the furthest reach of its roots
responsive
ready

it’s because
for every finger that traced a pattern on its trunk
for every head that’s taken pause in grateful shade
for every sigh that’s muttered
tears that’s shed
secret whispered
love proclaimed
laughter echoed
beneath their branches

they are privy to the stories of that soul

syllables of emotion
etched into their leaves

i like to think
that is why
the trees are wise

More than Words

I have nothing against technology … most notably in the current context (what you're reading) for communication.

I use the internet to stay in touch with friends and family who don’t live in my city ... and new blogfriends too. I use the cell phone to call for help when I am silly enough to lock my purse and keys inside my car. In open view. In the inner city.

But when techno-communication starts replacing human interaction, I worry. A documentary on CBC last month talked about the role of the cell phone in Japan. Apparently, on Japanese subways it is considered rude to talk -- you might disturb others who are watching videos on their phones or texting one another.

It’s rude to talk in public?

(And since I am always working in different cultural contexts, I’m really trying to see the cultural side of this).

And, Don’t Feed the Pixies rightly laments in one of his postings over the fact that one of the pre-programmed messages arriving with new cell phones today is "I love you too."

Alright. I'm a romantic. And a writer at that. But the expression of love and all that comes with it – vulnerability, acceptance, steadfast presence – has no place in a text message.

There's a point – where words, if used too much, –become meaningless.

Sure, we have instant communication – anywhere and anytime – but at what price? Frankly, it’s changed the face of dating. Last week, my younger cousin asked me for advice about a love interest in her life. “He texts me every day to say good morning – do you think he likes me?"

I was speechless. I was going to go into an analysis about how if he actually takes the time to painstakingly put in each letter – maybe … but if it’s an automatic message he can program … then, no. And, then I stopped and realized how ridiculous that would sound.

Call me crazy, but I like to see someone’s expression on their face when you share your day with them, whether or not they lean in when you’re close by, or how they look when you enter a room. Whether or not they show up when they say they’ll show up and if they’re listening when it’s your turn to talk.

I understand how “currency” works – people like love expressed in different ways. Quality time, affection, gifts, or (my favorite) service. When I lived in the Philippines for six months, young men used to bring over candy or carry my books to the bus. In Costa Rica, romantic interest was measured by how many times he asked you to salsa or whether or not he walked you back to your residence. Different ways, but expressions *in person* nevertheless.

More than words.
And definitely not a pre-programmed message that you could send while driving your car at the same time.

Certainly, I don’t expect someone in this day and age to come to my window and serenade me.

But, I suppose – if a text message is not enough for me – you could call me old-fashioned.

foibles and friends

(as told in a storytelling competition last summer)

In University, Imran was my best friend. You know how friends bring out the worst and best in people? Well, Imran was my best friend because he was best at bringing out my worst.

The other thing that brings out the best and worst in people is camping. Sharing a tent and communally making meals tells you a great deal about a person’s character.

So, one weekend after the not-very-bright idea of bringing Imran on a camping trip, and surviving the multitude of arguments that ensued -- on the long drive home on Highway 2 -- my other friend, Julia, and I shared the observation (out loud, of course, to Imran himself) that Imran was a closet chauvinist.

Imran’s response was a big, snorting guffaw.

“Look,” I said. “You’re Mr. City Boy who’s camped - maybe twice in your life - and yet, who insisted that they should build the fire?”

Campfires. Now, there’s another good personality test – right up there with Myers-Briggs. Julia and I had baptized Imran with his new name — Prometheus — after the first night for bestowing his gift of fire to us lowly girly-girls.

“As if you’re not a city girl,” he retorted. He picked on me, cause he he knew Julia was untouchable. She had grown up in Stettler.

My back stiffened. “I am not,” I defended myself. In the nineties, I was granola through and through — way before it was hip to be earthy.

“I’ve certainly spent a lot more time outdoors than you,” I said. Imran was not the tree-planter type. The man was an expert on color-coordination, lived on chocolate covered coffee beans and regularly called me up to say “need to cancel for tomorrow, gotta skip town, someone slashed my tires” or some variation on that. If anything, Imran was part of the brown mafia, but not the boyscouts.

He challenged me. “Oh yeah – and what kind of stuff have you done outdoors?”

I dove into the litany of the weekends I spent at my aunt’s cabin, picking saskatoon berries, going on tractor rides and catching toads so we could race them. I reviewed the camping and fishing trips with my family, squishing minnows onto fishhooks for bait, skipping rocks on the lake and burning my tongue with charred marshmellows. I was so-NOT a city girl.

“And?” he snapped. “A couple of days in the whole year. I say you’re still a city girl.”

I felt the blood rush to my ears. What kind of friend was this? Trying to tell me that he knew me better than myself?

(Of course, this is what real friends do, but I didn’t know that so early in my adult life.)

That’s when something inside me turned.

“I have a zoo degree, mister. I’ve had to climb trees, collect worms, and work my way through canola fields,” I pressed. He looked unimpressed. I clenched my teeth. “We even had to sleep overnight there.”

Julia piped up. “Canola?”

“Canola,” I said with finality.

“Oh, fine,” Imran said, defeat in his voice. “Sleeping in canola fields. I guess you’re not a city girl after all.”

“Thank you,” I said indignation vibrating in every part of me. And in no way, regretting that every word of the last sentence spoken from my lips had been a complete and utter lie.

I had wanted to climb up the trees, but my classmates insisted that I record the data. Sure, I collected worms – from my petri dish. And the canola field? Inspired by my view out the window.

It just took over me. I didn’t give it a second thought. The primal part of me (the part that felt five years old) wanted – no, needed – to win that argument. And it decided to disconnect my brain from my mouth and short-circuit it to something else.

Who said those words? I thought. And, then, it didn’t matter – it was eclipsed by the satisfaction of winning the argument.

It took a whole week to actually feel badly about the lie.

I confessed to Julia first.

“I was wondering about that,” she said. “Canola’s really itchy. I wasn’t sure how you could sleep there.”

Imran was not so forgiving. He wasn’t mad, just triumphant. And then, quite delighted to point out how, I – Roxanne – the Ms. Righteous Social Issues Activist — who sees the world in such clean lines of right and wrong -- had so easily descended into lying to win an argument.

The next couple of times we fought, he’d always counter with, “and how do I know you’re not lying about that?” … which lasted for about two years.

I’m not so harsh on liars anymore – politicians, movie stars, family and friends. There’s always popcorn gallery talk like “how could they lie like that??” and I’d respond with a simple “it happens.”

Who knows what “it” is… passion, fear, pride. The emotional prefix to a lie.

Sometimes, when I drive along Highway 2 and the bright shock of yellow canola fields break the monotony of green along the horizon, I remember my little indiscretion and I smile.

And, then, I always start to feel a little itchy.