Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 194

He's back!

Six days after we nearly lost him, Pluto is finally home.

His brother, Tobi, apparently doesn’t recognize him because all he does is hiss at him constantly. A combination of the shaved backside, the cone, the absent penis, and the myriad of new smells have the poor guy confused, but hopefully he’ll come around soon. And that cone was quite uncomfortable when Pluto nuzzled his head into the crook of my neck for most of the night, but it’s all fine.

He’s back.

The doctor and nurse who discharged him yesterday evening were both in the ICU when I brought Pluto in on Saturday. Both of them could not believe that I was bringing him home today.

“He was dead when you brought him in on Saturday,” the nurse said. “Dead. I didn’t think he had a chance opf getting him back.”

The doctor told me that they were calling him the miracle cat. “Even if he survived, I never thought he’d be so healthy and normal again.”

I guess it’s true. Cats have nine lives.

It also turns out that Pluto and I have something in common now:

Near-death experiences. I’ve had two and he’s had one. Hopefully his last.

Thanks for all of the kind words and well wishes. It’s meant a lot. He’s got three weeks of this cone before his suture removal in mid-July, so it’ll be a little annoying for a little while, but he’s sitting across my forearms as I type these words, his tail occasionally swishing across the keyboard, slowing me down and causing the occasional typo, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Tell that kid that he sucks.

While playing golf, one of my friends explained that years ago, when he and his friends played golf together, they had a rule:

If you don’t hit your tee shot past the lady’s tees, you have to play with a pink ball for the rest of the round.

“That wouldn’t be consider very woke by today’s standards,” I said.

Another guy - a middle school teacher who had joined us for the round, said, “I have a student who told me that if you say that you’re woke, then you’re not woke.”

“Really?” I said, seething. There are few things I despise more than assumed authority. “Do me a favor. When you see that student in the fall, please tell him that anyone who has decided that they are the arbiter of wokeness is just a stupid, arrogant, useless jackass. A real waste of a human being. Okay?”

“I understand your point, but I might not use that exact language,” he said, a little taken aback.

I was surprised.

Why teach middle school if you can’t speak directly and honestly to those little monsters? Someone needs to tell them how terrible they are. Right?

Trademark!

About 18 months ago, when Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling, was landing in bookstores, a reader suggested that I trademark the name “Homework for Life” and the process that it describes.

If you’re not familiar with Homework for Life, you read chapter 3 of Storyworthy or watch me describe it here.

I thought the idea sounded silly and unnecessary and moved on.

A few months later, after our podcast, Speak Up Storytelling, was launched, a listener suggested the same thing. I still thought the idea sounded silly, but by then, I was receiving emails, tweets, and messages via Facebook and Instagram every day from people all over the world who had committed themselves to Homework for Life. Thousands of storytellers, parents, military personnel, college students, retirees, artists, and more had begun doing Homework for Life after reading my book, hearing me on a podcast, or watching my TED Talk. School teachers began reaching out, telling me that they were using it with their middle and high school students. Parents who were separated from the children by distance or divorce wrote to tell me that they used Homework for Life to stay in tune with their child’s life.

Even though I still thought that a trademark sounded a little silly, I decided to research the process and determine how difficult and expensive it might be.

It turned out to be neither.

Time consuming? Yes.

Complicated? Yes?

But doable? Also yes.

So I decided to give it a shot. While I thought I might someday be grateful to own the trademark on Homework for Life, I also thought that pursuing a trademark would be interesting. It might be fun to actually own a trademark in the same way Apple and Pepsi and the New York Yankees owned their trademarks.

It was also going to be hard, and I know that choosing the hard thing is almost always the right thing.

One year later, after a great deal of time, effort, and research, I was awarded my trademark. The paperwork and certificate arrived last week.

All that time and effort spent in the pursuit of the trademark was instantly forgotten,. as it often is when we achieve our goal.

I’m the proud owner of the trademark on Homework for Life.

Onto the next hard thing.

Pluto

I’m running on the treadmill on Saturday morning when the phone rings. It’s Elysha.

“Matt, come home now. It’s Pluto.”

Pluto, our almost three year-old cat, had been acting strange for quite a while. For almost a month, he had been peeing in the bathtub and alongside the bathroom sink. But our vet had determined that this was a behavioral problem, so we had begun to take the recommended steps to help him. We bought a cat fountain to increase his fluid intake. Installed an enormous scratching tree to make him feel safer. Changed his food to prevent crystals in his bladder.

We thought he was annoying but otherwise fine.

When I arrived home a few minutes later, Elysha told me that she had found Pluto in the litter box, unable to move. I raced to the basement and found him still lying there, nearly unconscious. I reached down to grab him so I could put him in his pet carrier, bracing myself for a fight. He’s always been a cat who refuses to be lifted off the ground. He’s almost impossible to get to the vet. But as I wrapped my hands around his body and lifted, he didn’t move at all. It was like lifting a rag doll.

I was sure that he was already dead.

But as I slid his body into the carrier, he managed to look up at me. His eyes were glassy but open.

I placed his carrier in the passenger seat in the car, buckled it in, and raced to the animal hospital, which is about 15 minutes from our home. I shortened that time considerably by driving well over the speed limit, running two traffic lights, and laying on my horn at one point, forcing a large man in an even larger pickup truck to pull over so I could pass.

When I entered the hospital, I shouted for help, screamed for help. and a woman took the carrier from me almost immediately. I tried to explain that we had found Pluto in the litter box, nearly unconscious, but I could not speak. I couldn’t breathe. I was panting like an overheated dog but unable to get enough air into my body. I collapsed in a chair in the waiting room and began to cry as they took Pluto away.

Another woman appeared a moment later to get my contact information, but I still couldn’t speak. I couldn’t get enough air into my body, and every time I tried to speak, I started to cry. She waited, encouraging me to slow down and relax, and I finally managed to give her the information she needed. I was then moved into a private room, where I sat down and began to cry.

A few moments later, Dr. Kubis entered the room. She didn’t recognize me, but I know her well. In the 18 years that Kaleigh, our dog, was alive, we spent an enormous amount of time at this hospital, and Dr. Kubis had treated Kaleigh many times. But this was my first visit to the hospital in more than a year since Kaleigh had passed, and I hadn’t seen Dr. Kubis in a long time.

She asked for permission to administer CPR if needed.

“Oh my God,” I said. “Is he gone?”

“No,” she said. “He’s obstructed. He’s probably been obstructed for a long time. This has caused urine to build up in his body, and as a result, his potassium levels are so high that he’s in heart failure. I’m going to try to save him, but you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing my friend.

Tobi and Pluto came to us more than two years ago by way of Egypt, and though I love both cats dearly, Pluto and I have always had a special connection. He’s a skittish cat, frightened of strangers and exceptionally slow to warm up, but it was always different with me. For reasons I’ll never understand, he was comfortable with me almost immediately, lying on my body at night, demanding my attention constantly, and draping himself across my forearms while I sit at the computer.

I wrote an entire book with him resting on my arms.

After losing Kaleigh, my best friend of 18 years last summer, I couldn’t begin to think of losing Pluto.

Elysha arrived shortly thereafter after having found someone to watch the kids. We sat together and waited for the news. I cried quietly and prepared for the worst.

Elysha is kind of amazing in moments like this. When our children or animals are sick or injured, I almost always fall apart. I become useless. Other than cutting the drive time to the hospital in half, I was a mess. I always am in these circumstances.

Elysha, on the other hand, becomes quiet and laser-focused. She manages logistics, asks the right questions, and ensures that all factors are accounted for. She was so composed on Saturday that she later told me that she worried that I wouldn’t think she loved Pluto enough because she wasn’t a puddle like me.

She had nothing to worry about. I know how much she loves Pluto.

By the way, you should marry someone like this. It’s a very good thing in emergency situations like this.

A few minutes later, Dr. Kubis returned to room. She sighed. “We have a cat,” she said. “We’re not out of the woods yet, but he’s alive.”

She explained that five bladder stones had gotten caught in his urethra, and he had been unable to expel them. Once they managed to remove the largest one, the rest came out almost immediately. “It was close,” she said. “He was probably about five minutes from dying when you arrived.”

It’s been four days and Pluto is still recovering in the hospital. If he’s doing well today, he will undergo a surgery to prevent future obstructions. Essentially, they will be removing his penis, which is where these potentially deadly blockages happen in male cats.

Pluto is already a Muslim refugee from Egypt. Now he will be gender non-conforming, too.

Trump would hate this cat.

But he will be alive and happy again, and that’s all that matters.

I love Pluto and miss him dearly. He’s now being treated by Dr. Kubis and Dr. Cox, who we also know well. Dr. Cox treated Kaleigh for canine scabies years ago and knows us well. The surgery will be performed by Dr. Lindgren, who performed Kaleigh’s spinal surgery more than a decade ago.

These are all good people and outstanding veterinarians whose children’s college funds we have contributed to mightily over the years. They are taking great care of our little friend.

Days later, I’m struck by how quickly life can change without warning. I was running on a treadmill on Saturday morning, listening to Springsteen, and looking forward to an Egg McMuffin.

An hour later, I was sitting in a plastic chair in a small room, weeping, waiting to find out if my friend would live or die.

About six hours after that, I was standing under a pavilion adjacent to the Boston Museum of Science on the Charles River in Boston. Our friends were celebrating their wedding. The evening was perfection. A cool breeze coming in off the river. Sun setting behind us. A fantastic band. Great friends. A perfectly planned party.

I was doing the thing I love most in this world:

Dancing with Elysha.

Life can truly turn on a dime. Sometimes for the best and sometimes the worst. I got a taste of both on Saturday. Though we will be several thousand dollars lighter by the time Pluto arrives home, our friend will be home soon, and I’ll be so damn happy to see him.

My memories of that unforgettable day will include a devastating moment at a litter box when I thought my friend was dead, an adrenaline-fueled race to the hospital, hyperventilating in a waiting room, a veterinarian saying, “We have a cat,” and an evening under the stars in Boston, dancing with the woman I love.

It’s not surprising that I was exhausted the next day. Or the day after. We don’t often experience so many highs and lows in a single day.

Thank goodness.

Speak Up Storytelling: Mark Scerra

On episode #55 of the Speak Up Storytelling podcast, Elysha Dicks and I talk storytelling!

In our follow up segment, we discuss some exciting news from the world of the parent and trademark office and from a recent Moth StorySLAM. We also hear from a listener who identifies an unfortunate verbal tic that Matt must now excise from his lexicon.  

STORYTELLING WORKSHOPS 2019

July 27:  Storytelling workshop (advanced), CT Historical Society

July 29-August 2: Storytelling bootcamp, CT Historical Society

August 17: Storytelling workshop, Taproot Theater, Seattle, WA

October 4-6:  Storytelling workshop, Art of Living Retreat, Boone, NC

October 25-27: Storytelling workshop (beginners), Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health

December 6-8: Storytelling workshop (advanced), Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health

STORYTELLING SHOWS 2019

August 10: Great Hartford Story Slam at Hartford Flavor Company

August 17: Solo storytelling show at Taproot Theater, Seattle, WA

September 7: “Tests” at Real Art Ways

In our Homework for Life segment, Matt talks about how storytellers are constantly trying to make connections between moments in their lives in order to understand life better and tell better stories. 

Next we listen to a story by Mark Scerra. 

Amongst the many things we discuss include:

Authenticity thru the avoidance of memorization

The power of nostalgia in a story

The variety of constructs that could be used in telling a story

The identification and preservation of surprise

Metering out character description throughout the story

Making sure that hard-to-imagine elements of a story are made as imaginable as possible

The effective violation of Matt's cultural reference rule

We then answer listener questions about storytelling in technology and pitching stories to Speak Up. 

Finally, we each offer a recommendation.  

LINKS

Purchase Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling

Purchase Twenty-one Truths About Love 

Homework for Life: https://bit.ly/2f9ZPne

Matthew Dicks's website: http://www.matthewdicks.com

Matthew Dicks's YouTube channel:
https://www.youtube.com/matthewjohndicks 

Subscribe to Matthew Dicks's weekly newsletter: 
http://www.matthewdicks.com/matthewdicks-subscribe

Subscribe to the Speak Up newsletter: 
http://www.matthewdicks.com/subscribe-speak-up

RECOMMEDATIONS

Elysha: 

Chompers: https://gimletmedia.com/shows/chompers

Matt:

When the World's Most Famous Mystery Writer Vanished by Tina Jordan: https://nyti.ms/2Y7C1Sv

You must watch this video. Or avoid it entirely. I'm not sure which is better.

This video will do many things to you:

Frighten you

Astound you

Fire up your curiosity

Ignite your skepticism

Likely send you down multiple Wikipedia rabbit holes

Convince you that the world would be a much better place without the existence of submarines

Watch at your own risk.

Is Exploding Kittens Jewish?

I was sitting with Charlie in the cafeteria of his school last week, eating lunch with him and his friends.

At one point I was telling his friends about Exploding Kittens, a game that Elysha gave me for Father’s Day. I said to his friends, “Charlie and I played Exploding Kittens all day on Sunday. It was great.”

One of his friends squinted his eyes, cocked his head, and asked, “Exploding Kittens? Is that a Jewish thing?”

As far as we know, Clara and Charlie are the only Jewish kids in their school, which means that their classmates probably know very little about the Jewish religion except for what they learn from our kids.

As a result, you can get questions like, “Is Exploding Kittens a Jewish thing?”

I understand this well.

I grew up in a small town in Massachusetts, and as far as I know, there weren’t any Jewish kids in my school, either. After high school, I managed McDonald’s restaurants, and as far as I know, I never employed anyone who was Jewish.

Later, I was homeless and then taken off the streets by a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Still no Jews.

There were certainly Jewish students in my classes when I finally made it to college, but by then, I was working a full time job and a part time job while earning degrees at two different colleges - Trinity College and Saint Joseph’s University - simultaneously. I was also writing for the school newspaper, working in student government, and launching my DJ company.

I didn’t have time to notice anyone.

It wasn’t until I started teaching in West Hartford that I started to meet anyone who is Jewish. But even though I work in West Hartford, which has a large Jewish population, I work on the south end of town. I often don’t have any Jewish kids in my class.

Oddly enough, Elysha was my first Jewish friend.

Today, it’s not uncommon for me to be the only person in a room who isn’t Jewish, for for the first 30 years of my life, I really didn’t know anyone who was Jewish.

So when that boy asked if Exploding Kittens was Jewish, I understood why. He knows Charlie is Jewish, and since he probably doesn’t know anything about being Jewish, he simply assumed that something entirely foreign to him like Exploding Kittens might be Jewish.

You, for example, probably know very little about Sikhism, which has twice as many followers as Judaism religion worldwide. And you probably know nothing about the Bahá'í faith (unless you read Rainn Wilson’s memoir), which has about half as many followers as the Jewish faith.

Judaism is as foreign to Charlie’s friend as Sikhism and Bahá'í probably are to you, even though millions of people around the world identify with these religions. And since that boy is seven years old, he doesn’t yet possess the context clues and cultural understanding to know that Exploding Kittens is probably not related to religion.

I’m glad.

It made for a very funny moment, and it reminded me about all of the times when I was equally confused about Judaism (and sometimes still am).

You hate you when you say this...

If you brag (or even comment overly enthusiastically) about your child’s remarkable ability to enjoy eating almost any food, please know that the vast majority of parents who hear these comments at best don’t care but more than likely hate you very much.

My recommendation to you

On Tuesday night, I told a story at a Moth StorySLAM in Cambridge, MA and won.

It was my 40th victory in a Moth StorySLAM.

When I think back to my very first Moth StorySLAM - back in July of 2011 at the Nuyorican’s Poet’s Cafe in New York City, it would’ve been hard to imagine that 8 years, I would win 40 StorySLAMs and 6 GrandSLAMs.

I like to win, so it feels great, and I love entertaining audiences with stories of my life, but there were even better, more impossible-to-imagine moments from that night:

The person who accompanied me to the slam was a friend named Kevin. Kevin and I grew up in the same small, Massachusetts town on the same street - just one grade apart - yet we were never friends while growing up. But we managed to reconnect on Facebook years later, and back in 2013, when Elysha and I produced our first Speak Up show at Real Art Ways in Hartford, Kevin surprised us by driving from his home in Massachusetts to attend.

Since then, he’s attended several Speak Up events. I’ve appeared on his podcast. We’ve become friends. I never would’ve imagined becoming friends with someone from my childhood so much later in life.

Even better, the host of the StorySLAM and two of the storytellers who made it to the stage on Tuesday night have also appeared on a Speak Up stage, and two of them have also been featured on our podcast.

Moth royalty meets Speak Up.

Even better, there were at least eight people in the audience on Tuesday night who I had taught in one of my storytelling workshops. At least six of them were introduced to storytelling and The Moth via my workshops, and at least two of them had put their names in the hat.

As a teacher, it’s always thrilling to see your students engaging with the world, taking risks, and trying new things. Sitting amongst them and performing for them was a gift.

But best of all, as I was pulling open the door to my car at the end of the night, I was stopped by a young woman who had been sitting in the audience. She told me that she’s seen me perform many times in Boston, and that my stories convinced her to call her mother after years of estrangement. It wasn’t a story about my mother or anything related to parents or children that helped her make the phone call. It was just my willingness to share so much onstage.

“I figured that if you could tell stories like that to strangers, I could call my mother.”

That was the best part of the night.

In July of 2011, I went to a Moth StorySLAM in New York City with the intention of telling one story and never returning to the stage again. Instead, impossible-to-imagine things have happened.

Recently, while being interviewed for a podcast, the host asked me where I see myself in ten years. I told her that it was a ridiculous question.

Last year I was teaching storytelling on a Mohawk reservation to Native Americans. I was substitute ministering at Unitarian Universalist churches. Elysha and I had a United States Senator telling a story on our Speak Up stage. I went to work as a storytelling consultant for one of the largest advertising firms in America.

I could’ve predicted none of this.

Just this year I’ve taught storytelling at Yale, MIT, and Harvard. I had people drive from Kansas City, Maryland, Toronto, and Philadelphia to attend my workshops. This summer two people from China and a person from San Diego will be flying to Connecticut to attend my storytelling bootcamp.

It’s crazy.

Craziest of all, a young woman living in Belmont, Massachusetts is now talking to her mother again because I told some stories onstage.

There is no predicting.

But what I know for sure of that none of this happens if I don’t find the courage in 2011 to take a stage in New York and tell a story. I won my first StorySLAM that night, and as satisfying as it was to win my 40th slam on Tuesday night, the victories are a lovely bonus to a life transformed and made immensely more interesting and meaningful thanks to a stage, a microphone, and a story..

Thanks to engaging with the world. Taking risks. Trying new things.

I can’t recommend it enough.

This place that I love will soon be no more

In just a few days, the school where I have taught for 20 years will finally be bulldozing the “portable” classrooms that were affixed to the end of the building long before my arrival and had become decidedly less portable than originally intended.

This is a big deal to me because it means that they will be bulldozing Elysha’s old classroom, where we first met and fell in love.

I hate this.

I proposed to Elysha in Grand Central Station because she once told me that it was her “favorite room in the world. ” But I also chose it because I knew it would still be standing decades after my proposal. I wouldn’t have to worry about someday pointing to the site of some former restaurant and saying, “There it is, kids. I know it’s a sex shop today, but 18 years ago, that was the site of a lovely little Italian restaurant where I proposed to your mom.”

Grand Central will be standing for a long, long time, but Elysha’s former classroom, which for me is just as important, has only a few days or weeks left before it will be turned to rubble.

I stopped by the school yesterday to spend a few minutes in the space and take some photographs. The memories came back in waves.

The time - long before we were dating - when Elysha asked me to help her with her taxes. Wanting to date Elysha but never thinking it possible, I remember sitting beside her at a table in the back of the room, taking far longer than necessary to complete her 1040EZ just so I could spent a few extra minutes with her.

The afternoon when she first read to me a series of letters that she had collected from years before from a pair of overly-involved, possibly mentally ill parents who wrote the most hilarious, ridiculous, outrageous letters to her on an almost daily basis. Listening to her read and breathe life to these unbelievable parental requests and ridiculous protestations is something I will never forget.

The 2002 holiday season when I had paid money to a colleague to manipulate our annual Secret Santa so that I could be Elysha’s Secret Santa. I hid presents around her room, each beginning with a letter of the alphabet that eventually spelled my name.

She later said that she knew it was me from the very first gift.

After we were dating, the many times when I would leave her messages to her - on her white board, chart paper, hidden beneath papers on her desk - professing my love for her.

Those beautiful memories and so many more.

But the memory that I will always remember most took place the morning after Elysha had professed her affection for me for the first time in the parking lot of my apartment complex. Because I had just ended a relationship, and because she was ending one, too, I wasn’t sure what to say when she told me she liked me - mostly because I’m stupid - so when the girl who I already loved said those incredible, impossible words to me, I said, “Thank you,” and allowed her to drive away.

Realizing what I had done about five minutes after she was gone, I called her desperately, repeatedly,, but in those days, Elysha was famous for never turning on her phone, so every call went to voicemail. Absent the ability to send a text message or even an email, I left a voice message pleading for forgiveness and professing my affection for her, too.

“I like you! I like you! I’m sorry! I like you, too!”

The next morning, I raced to school and met her in her classroom before the school day began. As I charged into her classroom and approached her desk, she stood and handed me a letter.

“Did you listen to your voicemail?” I asked.

“No,” she said. Then before I could speak, she said, “I’m sorry. I know that was awkward last night. I hope we can still be friends.”

“No!” I said, snatching the letter from her hands. “I was stupid. I like you, too. I reject this letter. I was so stupid. Forget everything that happened last night, except for the part when you said you liked me. That was the only good part. Please forgive me for being so stupid. I like you, too. I like you a lot.”

Happily, Elysha was willing to see past my ridiculous, terrible, unforgivable “Thank you,” from the night before. We began dating.

It was March 31, 2003.

Eight months later, on December 28, 2003, I took a knee at the top steps in Grand Central Station while two dozen friends hid amongst the throngs of travelers below and proposed to the love of my life.

I never read that letter. I threw it into the trashcan as soon as I left her classroom, never wanting to see the words.

Now the room where all those wonderful and amazing things took place will be no more. Someday soon, I’ll find myself pointing to a spot in a parking lot and saying, “Look kids. See where that Toyota is parked. In that spot, a long time ago, your mother forgave me for being so stupid and gave me a second chance.”

It just won’t ever be the same.