Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 145

Unexpected delights

After returning home from surgery, I took a seat on the couch, reached for the remote, and promptly fell asleep for about five hours. When I awoke, the remote was still in my hand, and my wrist had been leaning on the remote control holder so long that I had a long, deep, red indentation in my skin that took a day to disappear.

I also had a gift awaiting me.

Somehow, the parents of my students had managed to deliver a gift while I snoozed, including a delicious edible fruit arrangement, generous gift cards to two of my favorite restaurants,. and a signed copy of Seth Wickerhsam’s It’s Better To Be Feared, a recently released book about the New England Patriots (and perhaps my classroom management style).

I can’t tell you how much this meant to me.

I’ll be out of school for two weeks, and I’m going to genuinely miss my kids during that time. Knowing that they (or at least their parents) were thinking of me meant the world to me. And somehow managing to land that gift on my doorstep just hours after my surgery was damn impressive.

The following day, my friend, Tom, arrived at our home with an unexpected lunch for me:

McRib and fries.

Pretty glorious.

I found out later that my client and friend in San Fransisco was in the process of having a McRib delivered to my home via DoorDash when I sent her a photo of Tom’s delivery.

I’ve never been a huge gift person. When you lose all of your belongings to homelessness, you lose your emotional attachment to things. Objects become transactional and temporary. I know people who have experienced homelessness who feel the same.

But admittedly, I’m starting to feel value in things again – especially those pertaining to Elysha and the kids – but it’s still not close to the nostalgic joy that my family feels about so many objects in our home.

But when real thought is put into a gift – both in terms of the choice of gift and its timing – it can mean a great deal to me.

Last year, a student handed me a letter on the last day of school, just before leaving the classroom as my student for the final time. It may have been just a letter to her, but to me, it was a gift to be treasured. An extraordinary note from a student who will miss forever.

Just recently, she came back to the classroom to say hello. I told her that the letter remains in my bag, atop a collection of papers and cards that I remove from my bag every day.

It’s the first thing I see when I sit down at my desk, and I reread it often.

She told me that a letter I sent her last year is pinned to her bedroom wall. She rereads it often.

She gets it. I’m not surprised.

It’s also why Elysha is such an extraordinary gift giver. None of the gifts that she has ever given me are ostentatious, overly expensive, or bedazzled. They are simple things:

Commissioned paintings of my childhood home, my grandparents’ home, the map of my Boy Scout camp, and my dog, Kaleigh. Toys and trinkets that I use in my classroom every day. A signed copy of a Kurt Vonnegut novel. A sand wedge.

No fancy watches. No electronic doodads. No cashmere sweaters. Just simple, meaningful objects with enormous thought behind each.

There was a lot of thought behind the gifts that the parents of my students and Tom delivered to me post-surgery.

The fruit was delicious, and post-surgery, it seemed better than ever, like my body was craving something fresh and good.

The soup from one of the restaurants was a perfect post surgery dinner.

The first five chapters of the book have been excellent, and the inscription from Wickersham is pretty great.

The McRib – once the onerous pickle was removed – was extraordinary.

The gifts were lovely. Yummy and perfect in every way.

The thoughts behind them meant everything.

Post surgery observations, including a car accident and an impossible kiss

I had surgery yesterday. Umbilical hernia. Basically some muscle and fat popped through my belly button. My doctor explained that everyone is walking around with a hernia. We all have a small hole in our bellies where the umbilical cord once ran. Sometimes, through either via exertion or trauma, muscle or fat will leak through that hole, resulting in a very large outie of a belly button and a lot of pain.

I’ve been dealing with the pain since April, thinking at first that it was a pulled muscle. When it finally popped through my bely button, I went to see the doctor, who wanted it surgically repaired as soon as possible –  late August. This would’ve meant missing the first week or two of school, which would not have been good. So I postponed until yesterday. I’ve been gritting my teeth and dealing with the pain for months now, so I was happy to finally have the surgery.

But damn! It hurts! I thought I’d be back on my feet and normal in a day or two, but the doctor warned me that “It’s going to hurt like a mother#$%@%#$.”

I appreciated his candor. And boy was he right.

And because it’s me, yesterday turned out to be fairly eventful. It actually began earlier in the week with the following comments and well wishes from certain friends and students, including:

One of my clients: “You’ll be fine. I really need you on Monday, so don’t worry. You need to be fine.”

Student: “Who will be our teacher if you die?”

Student: “I hope you’re not as terrified about this as I would be.”

Student: “You should probably be more scared.”

Student: “Can I have your bobbleheads if you don’t make it?”

Father-in-law, who had the same surgery: “My naval never looked so good. I’ll send a photo.”

Friend who clearly doesn’t get it: “You’re so lucky. Two weeks off.”

Friend: “Who knows. Maybe this will improve your driving distance on the golf course.”

People say the damnedest things to surgical patients.

I spent the last month worried that I wouldn’t awaken from anesthesia, which I know is exceptionally rare but also very real. You’d be hard pressed to believe how often I thought about the possibility of this routine surgery killing me. Dozens, if not hundreds of times per day.

But that’s not probably surprising if you know me.

The day started out well. The nurses told me I won the award for the most sensibly dressed:

Loose fitting sweatpants and tee shirt. Nothing in my pockets except a cell phone.

Some of the people checking in ahead of me were better dressed than I have been all year. Pants and belts. Button down shirts and jackets. Handbags and jewelry. A backpack. Where did they think they were going? In five minutes, they would essentially be naked.

I also won the award for the easiest check-in, my nurse said. No medications. No piercings or dentures. No pain. No diabetes or organ diseases of any kind. No high blood pressure. No previous surgeries other than the ones following my car accident in 1988.

He had me feeling good.

Even so, the surgery never really became real to me until the nurses lifted my gown to begin washing my belly, and I started to think, “My God, they are going to cut me open. Someone is going to stick a knife in me and slice me open.”

Inside, I started to panic even more. For a second, I wondered if I could call the whole thing off.

The nurses were preparing me for nerve blockers: Four shots – two into each side of my belly, that were being added before I even went to the operating room for general anesthesia. Being terrified of needles as a result of my bee allergy and years of self-administered injection before auto-injectors were introduced, my level of panic spiked.

Not having Elysha there was pretty awful, too. Stupid pandemic.

My nurse, Juan, saw my panic, I think, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m going to give you a sedative. It’ll be like downing a couple six packs of beer in ten seconds. You’ll be completely relaxed.”

“I don’t really drink,” I said. “Haven’t had a beer in 30 years, so your six pack analogy is lost on me. Can you please just make sure I’m sedated before sticking me with the needles.”

That’s the last thing I remember before waking up in post-op, surgery complete, writhing in pain.

I remained in post-op for about an hour as they struggled to control my pain.  When it was finally manageable, they called Elysha, and a nurse came to help me get dressed, which wasn’t easy.

Getting dressed this morning wasn’t easy, either.

As the nurse helped me with my underwear and pants, so turned her head to offer my some privacy, which just complicated things, so I said, “I think we’re well past you seeing me naked. Right? You’ve probably already seen me without most of my clothes on already, so it’s fine.”

She laughed and turned to help me.

Naturally, as I was rolled out via wheelchair to Elysha’s car, she was hit by a van shuttling patients to the hospital. Quite literally, as I was attempting to climb into the car, the van clipped her front bumper, because that is how I roll.

Perfect end to my hospital visit.

But I also saw this, which was the best thing I saw all day:

The man waiting in line in front of me for admitting was an older man, accompanied by a similarly older man. Since I was behind them, I heard the intake nurse say that his birthday was in 1945, making him 76 years old. After the intake process was complete, the nurse told the second man that this was as far as he could go.

“We’ve got him from here,” the nurse said. “I promise he’s in good hands.”

The two men stepped back from the desk, embraced, and then kissed. One man said to the other, “I love you, honey.”

They kissed again, then the other said, “I love you so much. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll see yo soon. You’ll be fine. Okay?

Then they hugged and kissed again.

Born at the very end of World War II, I couldn’t help but think how far the world has come since these two men were born. The affection and tenderness that I witnessed was incredible, and yet it shouldn’t have been anything but normal. It’s tragic that moments like this took so long to come, and in some places in this country, I’m sure these men would’ve felt a lot less able to share this moment together.

Those places and those people really need to grow up or shut up.

I also found myself thinking of John Cummings, telling me that he kisses his husband in public with his eyes open in case some bigot lashes out at them.

These men’s eyes remained open, too.

But damn, it was the perfect way to start my day. A little hope for this world. A little love in the air. Something beautiful to think about when the pain in my belly is raging, as it is right now.

I’ll go lie down now. The cats will surely pile atop me. Ever since I returned home, they have been all over me like never before, never leaving my side. I know it sounds a little hokey, but I think they know I’m in pain. I think they know that I need them.

Is that possible?

Not that long ago, the prospect of two men expressing their love in public also seemed impossible, so I guess that almost anything is possible.

I hope.

 

SAD

Am I the only one who finds it a little too convenient that the acronym of seasonal affective disorder is SAD?

Seems a little too convenient to me.

Not storyworthy, not ideal, but not too shabby

My friend, Kaia, and I went to The Moth in Boston last night, only to find that the show was the following night.

Tonight.

For the record, the date on my ticket was yesterday, October 27.

The email to which my ticket was attached read yesterday, October 27.

The event that was automatically added to my Google calendar after purchasing the tickets read yesterday, October 27.

Yet when Kaia and I finally arrived, the doors were locked, the venue was empty, and no one else was waiting by the doors.

This appears to be a conspiracy targeted solely at me.

Needless to say I was frustrated. Not only had we just spent 90 minutes on the road, driving to Boston, but the traffic and parking around the venue was the worst I’ve ever seen. We were forced to park more than a mile from the venue and speed-walk as fast as my hernia would allow to arrive on time.

Only to find the doors locked and the venue dark.

I was angry and upset. Not only had we wasted all that time on the road, but we would now be wasting an equal amount of time turning around and driving home. I had worked hard to craft a story perfect for the night’s theme, and I’d missed out on all the things that make my afternoons and evenings so delightful:

Dinner with the family. Reading to the kids. Talking with Elysha. Petting the cats. Reading. Writing. Maybe a game of poker or Exploding Kittens with Charlie. Holding Elysha’s hand as we try to squeeze in half an hour of television.

I hadn’t even seen Elysha before we hit the road.

I was so angry.

“It’ll make a great story,” Kaia said as we trudged back to the car.

“No, it won’t,” I said. “Nothing about this night will make a great story.”

As we climbed back into the car, we decided to work on the musical that Kaia and I are writing and will one day perform onstage. We haven’t found much time to work on the project lately, so maybe talking through some elements of the show would at least be a good use of our otherwise wasted time.

Fifteen minutes outside of Boston, we stopped at a rest area for gas and food. I planned on ordering my customary post-show vanilla shake and French fries, but as I approached the counter at McDonald’s, I couldn’t believe what I saw:

A sign advertising the McRib. It was back. The McRib. At the very moment I needed it most.

I was joyous.

The next 90 minutes passed in a blur as Kaia and I worked out the first half of our musical, beat by beat. We established the philosophy of the show. Identified sonic themes that would run throughout. Decided upon how each scene would be written and presented. Identified places in the show for songs, storytelling, props, and scenes.

Kaia taught me about principles of musicals that I had never learned.

I taught her about the comedic power of call backs.

Not really.

My goal had been to perform on that stage last night, telling a story about a student who holds a special place in my heart. I wanted to see my storytelling friends who will undoubtedly be there tonight. I wanted to do one of the things that I enjoy most in this world.

Instead, I spent four hours in a car with my friend. I ate a McRib while driving home – not an easy feat. I worked on a project that I am thrilled about creating and one day performing. Made more progress than ever before.

I’m still annoyed by this bizarre snafu in ticketing. Frustrated and disappointed that I won’t be onstage tonight, telling my story. Saddened that I lost an opportunity to take a stage and entertain.

I was right. Nothing about the night makes a great story.

But thanks to a limited time only menu item, the company of a friend, and time well spent working on something of meaning, it wasn’t bad either.

It doesn’t make for a great story, but it made for a productive, memorable night with a friend, and that’s not so bad.

Sleepy comedy

I’ve been writing SNL sketches in my sleep for the past three nights. By writing, I mean dreaming that I was writing the sketches but awakening with the concept and dialogue for each sketch fully formed in my mind.

This has been far more productive than the bowls of cereal that I often eat while sleepwalking but not nearly as productive as the 500 words of fiction that I once wrote while sleepwalking.

Those 500 words can still be found in my most recent novel The Other Mother.

Still, writing comedy in my sleep is a good way to spend those frustrating hours that I’m forced to spend in bed, prone and unconscious.

At least two of the skits are very good, I think. All are serviceable.

Do you think it’s too late for me to get a writing job on Saturday Night Live based upon ten years of storytelling, a dozen stand up sets, and a handful of comedy sketches written in my dreams?

How did this happen?

On Friday night, Elysha, Charlie, and I watched the film Galaxy Quest.

Underrated movie, by the way. Elysha had never seen it but loved it.

Wait until she sees Last Action Hero.

Anyway, as our Galaxy Quest heroes arrive on an alien planet, one of them moves to open the hatch of their spaceship. Another shouts for him to stop, afraid that the planet might be inhospitable to human life.

Thankfully, conveniently, and because it’s a comedy, the planet’s atmosphere was perfectly equipped to support human life.

“Must be a Goldilocks planet,” Charlie said.

“Yup,” I said.

Elysha stared at us, furrowed her brow, paused the movie, and asked what the hell we were talking about.

Charlie then explained the concept of a Goldilocks planet to Elysha. Probably better than I could’ve.

Earlier that evening, our dinnertime conversation centered on the Great Molasses Flood of 1919 that killed 21 people in Boston when a large storage tank filled with 2.3 million gallons of molasses burst and collapsed. The resulting 40-foot high wave of molasses rushed down Commercial Street at an estimated 35 miles per hour.

No joke.

Residents of the neighborhood claimed for decades that the area still smelled of molasses on hot summer days

“Wow,” said Charlie.  “And right after the 1918 pandemic, too. Bad times in Boston.”

“The 1918 pandemic lasted long after 1918,” Clara said. “More than two years, in fact.”

Charlie nodded. “Right.”

While I was at the Patriots game on Sunday, Elysha sent me this text:

“Charlie is talking to me about strange matter and Clara’s going on about how much she loves research.”

“Does Charlie mean dark matter?” I asked.

“That’s what I thought,” Elysha responded. “But he said no.”

When I got home, I typed “strange matter” into Google. Turns out it’s a thing.

We’re raising giant nerds.

Dave Chapelle’s special “The Closer” was a lot of things, but worst of all, it wasn’t funny

Dave Chappelle is being criticized for his most recent Netflix comedy special. Specifically, he is being accused of bigotry towards towards, among others, transgender people and the LGBTQ community in general.

Some have referred to Chappelle’s critique of transgender people as transphobia, but I don’t like this word at all. A phobia is a fear. While the source of bigotry is often fear, I don’t think labeling hatred, cruelty, disrespect, and in some cases, violence toward a certain segment of the population as fear is accurate.

Bigotry is a far better word. It encompasses the possibility of fear but also more accurately identifies the behavior, belief system, and intentions of the bigot.

But I digress.

I watched Chappelle’s special The Closer – twice now – and have decided to wade into these treacherous waters with two simple observations entirely unrelated to Chappelle’s possible bigotry.

Whether or not you  feel that Chappelle was expressing bigotry of any kind in his special, he was punching down quite a bit, which I find unappealing, easy, and almost always wrong. I was not impressed.More significantly, I didn’t think Dave Chappelle was funny.

I often think Chappelle is exceptionally funny and have enjoyed much of his comedy for years, but not this time. Beyond the possibly bigotry that he expresses, this is where his special ultimately fails for me. There are many things that a comedian can accomplish while performing onstage, but the first is to be funny, and I don’t think he was funny at all.

I did not laugh during Chappelle’s performance.

This isn’t to say that his special was objectively unfunny because humor is, of course, subjective. So if you thought Chappelle was funny, then he was funny for you. And you’re certainly not alone. The audience members in the special seemed to find him funny, though I might argue that they were oftentimes cheering in support rather than actually laughing.

These two things are very different.

But if you thought it was funny, then it was funny.

I simply didn’t think so. You and I clearly find different things to be funny.

I thought the special was the least funny thing that he has ever produced. I thought is was a failure of comedy.

As for Chappelle’s possible bigotry, I’ll say this:

I would never say many of the things that Dave Chappelle said during his special about members of the LGBTQ community because I don’t think they are true, don’t think his comments were amusing in any way, and am sure that many of my friends in the LGBTQ community would find them offensive.

I can’t imagine ever saying or thinking some of the things that Chappelle said during his special.

Does this make Dave Chappelle a bigot?

I’m honestly not sure.

But it made him unfunny, which was enough for me to consider this latest effort a failure.

Dave Chappelle: The Closer. c. Mathieu Bitton

Bad guy tropes

Dear filmmakers,

Here’s a couple tropes that I think we can dispense with forever and ever:

The craziest of the bad guys kills all of the other bad guys, thus leaving the good guy with only one bad guy to defeat.The craziest of the bad guys kills off the only wise, forward-thinking bad guy of the bunch, thus leaving the bad guys without a reasonable plan going forward.The bad guy has jet black hair, the blondest possible hair, or is completely bald.

Let’s stop doing these things. Okay?

If your bad guy needs to kill off other bad guys, maybe you had too many bad guys from the start.

Neckties No More

Good news:

The pandemic appears to have accelerated the death of the necktie.

People have been predicting its end for a century, but recent data indicates that it might finally be happening.

Necktie sales peaked in 1995 at $1.3 billion, but by 2009 had fallen to $418 million ($300 million in 1995 dollars).

The pandemic has sunk those numbers even further.

The decline of the suit — another ridiculous relic that needs to go — has also impacted the market for neckties. The purchase of suits was down 8% from 2015 to 2019, and the pandemic has certainly impacted suit sales precipitously as well.

As for me, I have only worn a necktie three times in the last decade. Each time I was officiating a wedding ceremony for a friend and was asked to wear one. But I’ve attended weddings and funerals during that same time and didn’t wear a necktie.

No one cared.

More importantly, if someone cared, I didn’t care.

I have no desire to strap a ridiculous floral noose around my neck. Not only is this bit of ornamentation pointless and uncomfortable, but there is evidence that even a loosely worn necktie restricts blood flow to the brain. A study published in the journal Neuroradiology used magnetic resonance imaging to demonstrate what happened to cerebral blood flow when men wore neckties.

The results:

A reduction of blood flow to the brain of 5.7% to 7.5%. Also possibly an increase in ocular pressure, which increases the risk of glaucoma.

Neckties are also responsible for more deaths per year than sharks, which shouldn’t be surprising. A necktie can function just as effectively as a noose given its ability to tighten around the wearer’s neck to the point of constriction, so if you get one stuck in any kind of machinery, you’re in a lot of trouble.

Worse than all of this, at least for me, is what neckties represent:

Conformity, subservience, and blind adherence to needless, elitist, foolish cultural norms.

If you want to wear a necktie because you like wearing a necktie, go right ahead. You should absolutely wear what you want within reason. I think neckties look stupid, but who cares what I think? I’ve also made it a policy to never speak about physical appearance, so fear not. You’ll never hear me criticize your necktie, even if you’ve chosen one that expresses support for the New York Jets or Boston Red Sox.

It will be hard for me to not say something, but I promise I won’t.

But in most cases, neckties are not worn because they are beloved. They are worn most often because a person is expected to wear one. Their particular workplace demands it, or certain social or religious settings expects one to be worn, which strikes me as the dumbest reason to strap one of these things around your neck.

Requiring someone to wrap their neck in silk or a polyester blend in order to do their job well or properly celebrate a friend’s nuptials, worship their God appropriately, or demonstrate reverence at a solemn occasion is illogical and silly.

I avoid it whenever possible. No one ever cares.

Years ago, I was attending the wedding of a friend. I was the only man in attendance not wearing a necktie.

Happily, Elysha almost never has issue with what I wear, including on this particular occasion. Also, I never have issue with what Elysha wears. We are oddly respectful of each other’s personal preferences in what way.

At one point in the evening, a man approached and asked, “How did you get away with not wearing a tie?”

“I didn’t put one on,” I said. “And even though some people like you may notice my lack of a necktie, no one really cares and absolutely no one will remember my lack of a tie a week from now. And some people – like you – will admire my lack of a necktie.”

The man immediately removed his necktie. Then he wondered aloud what his wife might say.

While I was able to help this man alter his outfit to something more pleasing and comfortable, I was unable to assist him in marrying someone who respects his personal clothing decisions and would not criticize his lack of a necktie.

Some things are simply beyond my control.

Three most important decisions of your life

A recent Quora question asked, “What were the three most important decisions of your life?”

I’ve been debating this question for almost a month, and I have finally settled on three. While many decisions could have occupied these three spots, I decided to favor the toughest and most unlikely decisions of my life rather than the ones that were easy and obvious.

For example, deciding to marry Elysha is probably the most important decision of my life, but it was barely a decision. Who wouldn’t want to marry Elysha if given the chance? It was a no-brainer.

Instead, I found three extremely important decisions in my life that could have gone either way and changed the course of my life forever.

It was a fun exercise. I highly recommend it.

1. Maintaining my innocence when charged with grand larceny and embezzlement.

While being questioned about a crime that I did not commit, police officers almost had me convinced to confess to the crime and take their deal rather than risk a trial and a lengthy prison sentence. I spent a couple minutes in an unlit mop closet in the basement of the police station, pondering that decision, and I ultimately decided to stick to the truth, but it was a close call. The police can apply a great deal of pressure in these moments, particularly when you are a 21 year-old kid without any parents, any money, or an attorney, and you’ve entered your fifth hour of questioning.

I was arrested, jailed, and eventually released to await trial. This led to homelessness, sharing a room with a goat, and more than a year spent working more than 80 hours a week at two different jobs in order to pay a $25,000 attorney’s bill. While working one of these jobs, I was the victim of a violent armed robbery that has left me with post traumatic stress disorder.

It was the hardest two years of my life, but at the trial, I was ultimately found not guilty.

Had I confessed and accepted that plea deal offered by the police, I would’ve had a felony of my record and could not have become a teacher.

My life would’ve turned out very differently.

2. Choosing West Hartford Public Schools over Newington Public Schools.

In the summer of 1999, my hometown of Newington, CT had offered me a permanent position as third grade teacher in one of their elementary schools. I asked for a day to consider their offer, but the wait time was merely perfunctory. I was taking the job.

During that 24 hour period, I received a call from Plato Karafelis, a principal in West Hartford requesting an interview. Out of curiosity more than anything else, I agreed to speak to him that day. Three hours later, he had offered me a one year position covering for a second grade teacher on maternity leave.

The permanent position in Newington would have been the wise and sensible choice. It was in my hometown and would provide me with long-term stability in a time when teaching jobs were hard to find. But I was impressed by the principal, his commitment to children, and his support for the arts. After much debate, I decided to take a chance and accept the one year position in West Hartford, hoping it might turn into a permanent position.

Today, 23 years later, I am still teaching in that same school.

That decision changed my life. I met my wife, Elysha, while teaching at that school. I met many of my closest friends while teaching, including Plato,  who has since retired but remains a close friend today. I met my son’s and daughter’s future godparents while teaching at that school. Many of my former students eventually became my children’s favorite babysitters, and some are my friends today.

I officiated the wedding of one of my former students two years ago.

Thanks to Plato and the culture of the school, I was given the freedom to create a classroom environment that placed reading, writing, and theater at its core. I developed a teaching philosophy that has led to much success. I was named Teacher of the Year in West Hartford and was a finalist for Connecticut Teacher of the Year.

I started playing golf, a game that I love beyond all others, thanks to the friends I met at that school, and ultimately wrote a book about it that I hope to sell soon.

The school’s community, teachers, students, and parents, have become a second family to me. When my job and my future were threatened years ago, they rallied around me in ways I could have never expected.

It’s hard to imagine where I might be here today had I accepted that safer, more secure job in Newington, but I know I would not be nearly so happy as I am today.

3. Saying yes when my friend asked me to start a wedding DJ company with him.

In 1997, I was attending both Trinity College and Saint Joseph’s University full time, working on degrees in both English and elementary education. I was also managing a McDonald’s restaurant full time and tutoring students part-time at the college’s writing center. I was writing for the college’s newspaper. I was the Treasurer of the Student Senate.

I was busier than I had ever been in my life.

Then my friend, Bengi, called and asked if I wanted to be a wedding DJ, even though we had no experience, equipment, or knowledge of the industry.

I said yes.

Almost 25 years later, we remain in business. I have entertained at more than 400 weddings. The DJ company has provided me with much needed income through the lean times of my life.

I met Shep, one of my best friends, while working as the DJ at his wedding, and that friendship has led to me becoming a Patriots season ticket holder and attending games with him for the past 20 years. Shep also led me back into writing when I had given up hope on ever becoming a novelist and professional writer.

I would not have a writing career today had it not been for him.

As a DJ, I unknowingly gained years of public speaking experience, which allowed me to step into the world of storytelling and public speaking with unexpected ease and success. I won my very first storytelling competition – a Moth StorySLAM – and I’ve won 52 StorySLAM’s and 7 GrandSLAM championships since, thanks in part to my ability to speak in front of others without any nervousness or fear.

Today, I perform on stages all over the world.

Telling stories for The Moth led to Speak Up, the Hartford-based storytelling organization that Elysha and I founded in 2013. We produce shows, teach workshops, and produce a podcast on storytelling. We’ve met some of our closest friends through storytelling. We’ve spent time with some amazing people. Our lives are infinitely more interesting thanks to storytelling.

As a result of my success while teaching storytelling, I wrote a book – Storyworthy – and have another on the way. Today, I consult with Fortune 500 companies, attorneys, clergy members, entrepreneurs, filmmakers, authors, universities, politicians, comedians, and many, many more on storytelling, communication, and messaging.

None of this happens without my success on stage, and that might never have happened without my years of public speaking as a DJ.

The DJ business also led to me becoming ordained as a minister after a client asked if I could also officiate their wedding. I have presided over more than 20 weddings, one baptism, and three baby naming ceremonies, and I have worked at the substitute minuter at three different Unitarian Universalist Churches when their ministers were on vacation.

Saying yes to becoming a wedding DJ back in 1997 was a risky decision given all that I was doing at the time. Launch a business while already working full time and enrolled in two full time degree programs at two different schools was a little crazy, but that unlikely yes has changed my life forever.