Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 152

Objects have stories, too. I just can’t hear them.

As Charlie and I made our way from the second hole to the third at Buena Vista, the golf course where we play, I looked right and noticed a tire sitting in a small clearing in the woods, far away from any road.

“How did that tire end up there?” I wondered, which is something I wonder a lot. More than I’d like to admit.

As a person who is interested in stories, attracted to stories, and slightly obsessed with stories, it’s not uncommon for me to become deeply curious and slightly tormented by the desire to know the stories of objects as well as people.

What is the story of this tire? Where did it come from? Who owned it? How and why did it end up in a clearing in a forested portion of a local golf course?

These thought plague me. I saw this tire more than two weeks ago, but I still find myself thinking about it from time to time.

I also wonder – more than I’d like to admit – about the fate of objects no longer in my possession:

My mother’s plastic cookie jar. A letter written to me by Kamie Norris. My black Huffy Racer. A stuffed animal named Roscoe who disappeared at Scout camp. The glass butterfly I gave to my mother for Christmas as a boy.

Many more.

Objects of importance in my life. Objects lost and never found. The unknown fate of these objects – their stories – roll around in my mind all the time. Plague me.

Like the tire. How and why it landed in that clearing in the forest will never be known. It’s story will be forever untold.

It makes me a little crazy.

Memories of Hurricane Gloria

Hurricane Gloria was the last hurricane to make landfall in Connecticut, back in September of 1985. I was living in Massachusetts, but our region was also hit hard by the storm. I was 14 years-old at the time, just the right age to be excited over a hurricane without any of the adult concerns attached to a damaging storm.

My memories from Hurricane Gloria include:

1. Immediately after the storm, my brother and I went into the woods behind our home to find fallen trees, probably risking our lives from the threat of falling limbs with every step. There were many downed trees, some with exposed root systems two or three times my height. I remember touching the tippity-tops of trees that stood more than 100 feet tall just the day before.

2. As soon as our road was clear of debris, we all piled into the station wagon to drive around town the survey the damage, which included downed power lines, homes split in two by fallen trees, the side of a classroom sheered off by a fallen tree, and a small house fire.

3. The Blackstone River, which runs through the center of town, was raging just a few feet below the bridge that bisected the river on Main Street. On a normal day, the river was 15-20 feet below the bridge.

4. Laura Branigan’s “Gloria” played on the radio constantly for more than a week.

5. The hurricane hit on a Friday, so we enjoyed an extra long weekend, not returning to school until Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week, giving me lots of time to ride my bike all over town, taking note of the damage.

6. A pair of jeans was  blown into the tree at the foot of our driveway from points unknown. Those jeans remained in that tree for years.

7. My parents allowed by brother, sister, and me to run around the house in the middle of the hurricane. Every now and again, we would sprint around the house in the driving wind and rain, laughing and screaming the whole time.

It was fantastic.

Not sure if Elysha would permit similar behavior today, but I’m confident that my children would refuse, even if it was permitted.

Kids are the worst these days.

Tony Hawk’s ER visits vs. my ER visits

During an interview on the podcast Smartless, skateboarder Tony Hawk said that he’s been to the emergency room at least 15 times.

I thought, “I think I have that beat.”

I was right.

Many of those trips were made in the back of an ambulance.  At least seven, including two since I’ve been married to Elysha.

Here’s the list. 18 emergency room visits that I can recall or have a record of in my baby book.

I’ve got Tony Hawk beat.

Who has me beat?

1971: Swallowed a bottle of paregoric/stomach pumped
1972: Bronchial pneumonia
1972: Head wound/stitches
1983: Bee sting/anaphylactic reaction (ambulance)
Circa 1983: Smoke inhalation during house fire (ambulance)
1985: Dog bite/stitches
1986: Bee sting/anaphylactic reaction (ambulance)
1987: Punched in chest/two broken ribs (ambulance)
1988: Head injury while pole vaulting/concussion
1988: Car accident (ambulance)
1991: Head wound/staples
1992: Head wound, broken ribs, broken fingers resulting from armed robbery/stitches
1996: Head injury/concussion
1997: Knee injury/surgery
2000: Hit by car/concussion
2001: Pneumonia
2008: Bay leaf caught in throat (ambulance)
2018: Suspected heart attack (turned out to be pulled chest muscle) (ambulance)

Emergency room sign

My immunization record and the good old days

I can’t help but wonder…

When my mother was getting me vaccinated and recording those vaccinations in my baby book 50 years ago, do you think she was behaving like a whiney, stupid jackass?

Do you think that she was outraged over the denial of my Constitutionally protected American freedom?

Was she angry over the heavy hand of government impinging upon my liberties?

Was she disgusted by the repudiation of my God-given right to become infected with whooping cough or polio?

When John F. Kennedy Elementary School required proof of vaccination before I could enter Mrs. Dubois’s kindergarten class in 1976, lest I risk infecting my classmates with measles or the mumps, do you think she attended a school board meeting and threatened board members’ personal safety in an effort to prevent my forced vaccination?

Do you think the governor of Massachusetts at the time, Michael Dukakis, enacted executive orders protecting me from the tyranny of vaccine mandates?

I really don’t think so. My mother passed away 15 years ago, so I can’t be certain, but I suspect that she behaved like a rationale, reasonable parent and patriot, doing what was best for me and the people around me.

Back then, in the good old days, vaccinations were seen as an integral part of a binding social contract. They represented an enormously successful, collective effort to rid the world of terrible diseases that maimed and killed millions of children and adults.

Vaccines were scientific achievements. The development of a new vaccine was lauded as historic and miraculous.

No one back then was so stupid as to politicize public health.

No one back then was so cruel as to encourage Americans to risk their lives and the lives of people around them to score political points.

No one back then saw vaccination as a representation of personal freedom, identity, or an indication of support for a political position or particular politician.

Back then, newscasts weren’t peppered with Americans who had refused a vaccine, pleading on their death bed for others to avoid their same stupid mistake.

Back then, people weren’t rejecting vaccines because of their emergency authorization status only to then demand experimental treatments under the same emergency authorization.

None of this nonsense happened because nearly every American in those good old days – my mother included – acted responsibly and in accordance with science and the advice of their doctors.

I love this record of my immunizations. I love the way my mother recorded the dates of my vaccinations in her own hand.

I’ve considered adding my COVID-19 vaccination to my baby book, inserting a new line like my mother did for the German measles and the mumps.

Both of those vaccines – mumps and German measles – were first released to the public in 1971, prior to the publication of my baby book, thus necessitating the added lines.

Lucky me. I was part of the first cohort of babies to receive those new vaccines.

Do you think my mother threw a fit when she found out I’d be receiving a brand new vaccine? Do you think she acted like a whiney, stupid jackass?

I don’t think so. I suspect she felt grateful that her son would be protected from those diseases, similar to how I feel today about my COVID-19 vaccination.

Lucky me. I get to be in the first cohort to receive this new vaccine, too.

It’s how we all should feel about this scientific triumph.

I’m not saying that the good old days were perfect. In many, many ways, they were decidedly not. But when it came to vaccines, Americans like my mother behaved like rational, responsible parents and patriots, all pulling on the same rope, ensuring a healthy life for their children and everyone around them.

Those were the good old days. I really hope we can get back to those days again. Soon.

Speak Up at the Hill-Stead Museum

Last night Elysha and I produced our first live Speak Up storytelling show since February of 2020. It was an outdoor show on the beautiful front lawn of  The Hill-stead Museum in Farmington, Connecticut.

As the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, our audience of more than 200 people listened to stories about birthing unicorns, epic romances, a complex negotiation in a Turkish rug shop, the tragic end to two Egyptian freedom fighters, an attempt by Chelsey “Sully” Sullenberger to save grandparents lost in a hurricane, and a spoon of power.

A fantastic collection of stories told by skills and amazing storytellers.

Elysha was, as always, brilliant. Funny, charming, and pitch perfect in what she said between stories. As we drove to the show, she told me that she was nervous because she’d been off stage for so long.

I knew her concerns were unwarranted.

It was also the first time we simulcast our show to audience members at home, which is something we may look to do again in the future. The pandemic expanded our audience nationwide and worldwide as we moved our shows online. It wasn’t unusual to see a people from a dozen different states and a handful of countries occupying those Zoom squares as we told stories from our dining room table.

We’d love to give those folks an opportunity to continue listening in the future, wherever they may be.

Earlier this year, as the pandemic receded a bit and before the rise of the delta variant, I competed in a story slam at the New Haven Arts and Ideas Festival, and more recently, I’ve competed in a couple of live Moth StorySLAMs in New York, but this was the first time in 19 months that I found myself standing in front of a live Speak Up audience.

I had forgotten how good it feels to just tell a story, absent any time limit, scoring, and the incessant, never-ending strategy that I employ in an attempt to win a slam.

I’m a competitive person. I love an opportunity to declared the best. For most of my storytelling career, my favorite stage has been a Moth StorySLAM and GrandSLAM. I’ve thrived on the opportunity to compete against the best in an attempt to be declared the winner.

But after 19 months of pandemic, I found myself so happy to simply stand in front of an audience, absent the ticking clock, the teams of judges, and the mental machinations that go into competing, and just tell a story. I had a tear in my eye before I even spoke a word of my story. Part of me didn’t want to speak at all. I just wanted to stand on that veranda, looking at people gathered to listen, and not let that moment ever end.

The challenges, heartache, and pain of the pandemic, it would seem, have managed to dampen my competitive spirit a bit and make me more appreciative of the opportunity to simply gather with others in a shared space and tell stories.

I think I might be a little less of a competitive jerk.

Shocking.

I’m sure it won’t last, but I have to admit, it’s not a bad place to be.

 

 

My very first stage, I think.

While visiting Yawgoog Scout Reservation during Alumni Day, I took my family into the Sandy Beach dining hall, where I spent many a summer day eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

It’s been a long time since I set foot in this dining hall, but as soon as I saw the stage, my mind was suddenly flooded with memories. Things I had forgotten about until that very moment.

I suddenly remembered that I spent a lot of time on that stage. An enormous amount of time on that stage. In fact, it might very well have been my very first stage.

The camp director of Sandy Beach was always looking for boys who were willing to take the microphone and lead the Scouts through the camp song, instruct them about the meal, make announcements, tell jokes, report on something amusing or interesting that took place over the course of the day, and more.

I was often that person. I volunteered whenever I could.

I would lead the Scouts in a song. Tell stories from the day. Solicit jokes from the Scouts. Make fun of Scoutmasters. Insult the chef’s cooking.

I was a combination of storytelling, stand up, sing alongs, and more. A variety show of sorts.

I had completely forgotten all of this.

Then we made our way to the Harold Williams Amphitheater, where the entire camp would gather on Saturday night for the famed Saturday Night Show. Parents and other invited guests joined the Scouts for a night of comedy, songs, and jokes.

Standing on that stage, I suddenly remembered that I was an integral part of these shows, too, inventing and performing in skits for an audience of more than 500 people.

Then on Sunday afternoons, the entire camp would gather on Tim O’Neil Field for a dress parade, and I would be responsible for reporting on the attendance of our troop. Most Scouts would stand before their troop and shout something like, “Troop 5 Anywhere Town, Massachusetts is all present, sir!”

But seeing an opportunity to do more, I would instead shout something like, “Troop Baden Powell, Sandy Beach, the greatest troop in all the land, the troop that soars higher than the clouds, the troop that cannot be beat, the finest looking Scouts in all the land, the Scouts who can knock down trees in a single blow, the fastest, strongest group of Scouts ever assembled, the best of the best, the finest of the finest, the coolest of the cool… Troop Baden Powell all present, sir!”

I had forgotten all of this, but the memories came roaring back as Elysha, and the kids, and I toured the camp.

I couldn’t believe it.

I used to say that I began my storytelling and speaking career ten years ago on a Moth StorySLAM stage in New York City.

Years later, Elysha heard me say this in a workshop and quickly corrected me, saying that I began my career in 1988 when I started writing seriously and haven’t missed a single day of writing ever since. She added that my career as a wedding DJ, which began in 1997, and my teaching career, which began in 1999, also contributed a hell of a lot.

And I agreed. I’ve been writing stories, essays, jokes, political cartoons, memoir, and more ever since I was 17 years old. Every single day.

I have journals dating back to 1989.

I started writing online when the internet was comprised of localized BBS systems with a few hundred users at best.

I’ve been writing a blog – this blog – since 2003 without missing a day. 6,627 posts and counting.

Yes, all of that writing certainly helped my storytelling and speaking immensely.

And yes, working as a wedding DJ for 25 years…  speaking to hundreds of strangers every weekend, directing them, motivating them, and leading them, all unscripted, definitely helped, too.

And yes, my 23 year teaching career… speaking to students all day long, leading school wide assemblies, hosting parent meetings, offering professional development within the district, and constantly standing in front of human beings small and large most assuredly helped, too.

Bur it turns out that my career might’ve started even sooner, at a Boy Scout camp in Rockville, Rhode Island, where for reasons I still don’t quite understand, I was always willing to be the one standing on stage, speaking and performing.

Make sentences interesting all the way through

I’m listening to NPR report on a series of intense thunderstorm that had passed through the area last week. The broadcaster says that strong winds have knocked down trees and power lines. “More than 10,000 residents were left without power.”

I hate that sentence. It clangs in my head when I hear it.

Do you see why?

If you’re listening to a story about intense thunderstorms knocking down trees and power lines, then the broadcaster says:

“More than 10,000…”

You know what the rest of the sentence is going to be. You know that it’s residents without power.

In storytelling… Hell, in all of writing, and when possible, in all of speaking, don’t construct sentences with obvious endings. Don’t say things that your audience – whether it’s one person or one million people  – already knows.

A better sentence – a far superior sentence – is this:

“Power was knocked out to more than 10,000 homes.”

When you construct the sentence this way, there is engagement all the way through. Yes, you know a number is coming when you hear, “Power was knocked out to more than – ” but you don’t know the number. You may not care if the number is 10 or 10,000, but at least you don’t already know what is about to be said.

The words are not predicable. The second half of the sentence is new information for you.

I know this may seem like a bit of a nitpick, but this sentence really did clang in my mind like a cracked church bell. It sounded loud and awful and wrong. Maybe you wouldn’t have noticed it like me, but string enough of these kinds of sentences together and you’ll stop paying attention. You may not understand why or be able to explain why you changed the station, but when people say things that you already know, conversation gets boring. News reports get boring. Storytelling gets boring.

People get boring.

This is why we should avoid cliches whenever possible.

Don’t let the door hit you…

We’re not laughing at you. We’re…

Someone woke up on the wrong…

Every cloud has a…

We know the ends of these sentences. We already know what’s coming. So don’t say these sentences.

Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin once said, “The worst thing a writer can do is say something that the reader already knows.”

It’s asking a lot to monitor your everyday speech using this rubric, but if you did, even a little, your sentences would be come more interesting. Your conversations would become more interesting.

You would become more interesting.

But if not in everyday speech, we can at least be wary of this kind of sentence when writing. Even if our everyday speech is littered with predicable sentences and clauses, our writing need not be the same.

Someone at NPR wrote that news report about thunderstorms knocking out power. Someone wrote that rotten sentence.

That someone can do a lot better.

Obscenity from the office of the Utah governor

Utah Governor Spencer Cox received a letter last week from an angry constituent who argues that his last name is obscene and should be changed immediately.

“Us decent people here in Utah will not stand for it. The honorable Republican party will not stand for it.”

The person threatens protest and a recall vote. “This is not a communist dictatorship. THIS IS THE GREAT STATE OF UTAH! We don’t accept sick jokes to run rampant in our civil institutions!”

I initially thought the letter was a joke, but upon reading it, I’m not so sure. It sounds sincere. Either that or the person attempting to prank the Governor is tragically unfunny.

Dreadfully unamusing.

The only possible signs that the letter is meant to be funny are the salutation “Dearest” and the valediction “Love.” Other than those two words, there isn’t a drop of satire, sarcasm, or whimsy in the text.

Whatever the intent, I’d very much like to meet this constituent to see what they think of my last name. Then I’d like to introduce them to my father, Les Dicks, my late uncle Harry Dicks, and my late great uncle Harry Dicks.

Even my late uncle Neil Dicks might be interesting.

The Governor’s response to this letter came via Twitter. He wrote:

“Really grateful for the criticism and constructive feedback I get from constituents that demand I… *checks notes* …change my name? [image error][image error]”

Not bad.

The letter was signed “A very concerned citizen.”

In other words, anonymous.

Having once been victimized by a cowardly, ineffective losers who made false and libelous claims while hiding behind the cloak of anonymity, I’m opposed to anonymity in almost all cases. When asked to assess the efficacy of a session of professional development or provide feedback on the performance of a presenter, I often find myself with a form – paper or digital – designed to allow me to remain anonymous while reporting on my opinions.

I always include my name anyway.

We’re adults. If you have constructive criticism, report it politely and specifically. This is what responsible, mature, grown-ass professionals do.

“A very concerned citizen” should’ve done the same, both because it’s the right thing to do and because I would’ve loved to reach out to this person to find out what makes them tick.

Love you, too

I’d like you to watch this.

Ernie Johnson is a sportscaster in TNT who works with NBA greats Charles Barkley, Shaquille O’Neal, and Kenny Smith.

Earlier this week, he was asked by coach Nick Saban of the University of Alabama to speak to his players.

I think it’s the kind of thing we all need to hear.

Where you lives matters more than ever before

Your quality of life in the United States, in many ways, is often dictated by where you live, but the pandemic has made this true like never before. Of all current COVID-19 hospitalizations in the US, eight states’ combined totals make up 51% of all patients, even though those states account for only 24% of the nation’s population. Those states: Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, Nevada and Texas. Or how about this astounding data point: In the past week, Florida has had more COVID cases than all 30 states with the lowest case rates combined. Let that one sink in for a moment. Also, Florida and Texas alone have accounted for nearly 40% of new hospitalizations across the country. Dallas county has run out of pediatric ICU beds. Mississippi has run out of all ICU beds altogether. Of course, these are also states where mask mandates and vaccine requirements are not being implemented or have been made illegal by asinine governors. Masks are worn far less often, and vaccination rates in many of these states are low. Americans in these highly infectious states admittedly have their freedom, but they are also importing ventilators from the federal government, airlifting children to hospitals with ICU capacity, and setting up mobile refrigerated morgues. By contrast, I went to the grocery store earlier this week. Every single person inside that store was masked. I picked up a slice of pizza for lunch yesterday. Every single person who wasn’t eating was masked. I stopped for milk at 7-11 last night. Every single person in that shop was masked. None of these locations are mandating masks. At least not yet. I simply live in a community where the vast majority of citizens care about one another, trust science, and support public health. The results are easy to see. Texas and Florida’s positivity rates are currently 20%. Oklahoma and Mississippi’s positivity rates are above 50%. Connecticut’s positivity rate is less than 3%. In fact, every New England state plus New York has a positivity rate under 5%. This doesn’t mean that my community is perfect. There are still people refusing to get vaccinated despite the risks to themselves and others. Their reasons are varied. They may think that they’re healthy enough to fight off the infection, even though healthy, unvaccinated people are getting hospitalized and dying because of the Delta variant every day. Also, even if you fight off the infection, you can still infect others while doing so. Hubris, it turns out, can kill. Or they don’t think they need a vaccination because our state’s positivity rates are so low, which is in large part because our vaccination rates are so high. These are essentially freeloaders, enjoying the benefits of a vaccinated community while refusing to become vaccinated themselves. But 3% positivity isn’t 0% positivity. There is still a chance of infection, especially if they are unvaccinated.  Rolling the dice, it turns out, can also kill. Or maybe they don’t believe in vaccines, even though almost every single one of them has already received more than a dozen vaccines that have protected them from polio, small pox, the measles, the mumps, and many more diseases. Their parents did the right thing by protecting them years ago while contributing to the common good, but these people are far too smart, way too special, or simply too pristine to repeat that vaccination process again for themselves. As Elysha Dicks has said, no one likes bringing their babies to the doctor to get vaccines. It would be great to rely on everyone else’s vaccination status to eradicate polio and small pox while avoiding the jab for yourself and your own child, but that’s not how decent human beings behave. It’s not ethically, morally, or even medically sound. It makes you a sucky person. A sucky person who might actually contract polio or the small pox someday. Still, these people are in the minority in my state and my region. Our infection rates are low because vaccination rates are high, and when the Delta variant caused our positivity rates to climb from less than one percent to 3 percent, most of us donned masks again, because we were advised to and because it made sense. The quality of life in the United States has always been dictated by where you live. The quality of your child’s education is determined in great part by the neighborhood in which you live. The quality of the air you breathe is determined by the industry in your city. The quality of your medical care is determined in part by the hospitals in your region. The pandemic has made this even more true by making some parts of our nation far safer than others, not because of economics or industry but simply because of human behavior.  It’s a damn tragedy.