Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 78

Mean mommy at Alcatraz

While visiting Alcatraz, we took an audio tour around the prison, narrated by former correctional officers and inmates.

At the beginning of the audio tour, it was made explicitly clear that these voices were authentic. Photos of the narrators were also positioned throughout the tour, too. Old, black-and-white images of these men inside the prison, who were now speaking to us via headphones.

It was excellent.

Later, I was in the courtyard when a family walked by me. As they did, I overheard the mother tell her two kids that the voices on the Alcatraz audio tour were actors.

They were not. Absolutely not.

The kids knew it, too. “No, Mom. They were the real people,” one said. “Like an audio documentary,” said the other.

“Don’t be stupid,” the mother said. “Do you think the actors in movies are real, too? You think Superman can really fly?”

“This is different!” one protested. “Those were the real people telling the stories.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the mother snapped.

I wanted to jump in and defend the kids.

I did not.

But boy, did I want to jump into the fray. Boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, did I want to.

When I told my own family about my admirable restraint, Clara said, “Dad, this was the time when you should’ve jumped in.”

I can’t win.

Obscurity begone

I received a text message from my friend, Heather, yesterday.

“Have you listened to this yet?” she asked and attached a link to “Perhaps,” the new Guns N’ Roses song.

I had not. Heather and I attended a Guns N’ Roses concert about five years at Gillette Stadium. Famously, I had pneumonia that day, but it was Guns N’ Roses, so I attended. Gently.

I still can’t believe Elysha allowed it to happen without a protest. Credit to her.

I hadn’t known about the new song, so I gave it a listen.

I texted back:

“Not my favorite. Sounds like Warrant’s “Dog Eat Dog” album.”

Heather’s response:

“You’re right, it does. Reminded me of the whinier songs on Use Your Illusion II.”

There’s nothing better than having a friend who can compare a new Guns N’ Roses song to a fairly obscure 1992 album from a relatively obscure glam metal band that never had a single from that album chart on the Billboard Hot 100.

I feel very seen.

Clara Susan Dicks: Storyteller

Clara performed in the Great Hartford Story Slam last month. Her story wasn’t scored because two of the three judges were her parents, but here’s the thing:

She didn’t tell the best story of the night.

She didn’t tell the second-best story of the night.

But she absolutely, undeniably told the third-best story of the night.

In a field of ten adult storytellers – some with a great deal of experience – she was third best.

Funny. Poignant. Concise. Heartfelt.

She was spectacular. A great story by any standard, but a truly stellar story for a teenage girl.

Here’s the other thing:

She never asked me for help. Never ran her story by me. Never solicited any tips or hints or ideas. Just took the stage and performed.

People pay me to help them with their stories. Companies and hospitals and politicians and attorneys and the clergy pay me to help them with their stories. Fortune 100 companies pay me retainers to help them with their stories. I’ve written a book on storytelling and am nearly finished with another. I’ve won a record 10 Moth GrandSLAM championships and 59 StorySLAM competitions.

Clara knows all of this. She has access to me at all hours of the day. She could’ve asked me to help at any moment. She could’ve asked Elysha, too, who also knows her fair share about storytelling and often helps me refine stories.

Yet she did it all on her own. Rather than leaning on the expertise of her father, she chose to do it by herself.

And she crushed it.

I’m so proud of her.

Dare me to fail. I dare you.

During our recent west coast vacation, I played golf with my friend, Plato, at his country club on Whidbey Island.

A total of 45 holes over three days.

Plato warned me that the course was challenging. It was likely I would score higher than usual.

He was correct.

I shot 116 on the first day. I shot a 110 on the second day. I shot 50 for nine holes on the third day.

But Plato also warned me that the greens were exceptionally challenging. “You will three and four-putt a lot.”

“Four putt?” I said. “I don’t think so.” I may not be an excellent golfer, but I am a better-than-average putter and can’t remember the last time I four-putted a hole.

Even three-putts are a rarity for me.

“Okay, Matt,” Plato said, confident that he would be proven correct.

Over the course of 45 holes, I had a total of five three-putts.

I also had eight one-putts.

I had zero four-putts.

In total, I putted 87 times for 45 holes. Less than two putts per hole.

In short, I putted the ball exceptionally well. In fact, I probably putted better than usual because it turns out that one of the best ways to motivate me is spite:

Tell me I can’t do something, and watch me try like hell to do it.

It’s not my most endearing trait. My love for the words “I told you so” is unfortunate, but it’s real. For most of my life, I have tried like hell to prove people wrong.

When no adult spoke the word “college” to me throughout my entire school career, I decided to prove them wrong for ignoring me and find my way to earning a college degree.

When an administrator laughed at me during a job interview for wanting to someday “Write for a living and teach for pleasure,” I decided to prove her wrong. Today, I continue to teach –  even though retiring from the profession and pursuing my writing and consulting business would be more profitable – because I love teaching and love kids.

I’m happy to collect a paycheck for teaching, but I’m now doing it because I love it.

I teach for pleasure.

I don’t remember that administrator’s name or where she worked, but she’s been on my horizon for years. I’ve been chasing her down, even though she has no idea I’ve been doing so.

On the television show The Bear, Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto becomes the best chef at the best restaurant in the world.

Why?

In Carmen’s own words, his brother, Mike, refused him to work or even enter his restaurant, so he left home to prove his brother wrong and became one of the best chefs in the world as a result.

Spite. The desire to prove someone wrong. It’s a fictional story, but the sentiment and motivation are true to life.

Quarterback Tom Brady was drafted in the sixth round of the 2000 NFL draft with the 199th pick. Six quarterbacks were drafted ahead of him. He went on to become one of the greatest quarterbacks in NFL history.

Brady acknowledges that he played with a chip on his shoulder for most of his career. His draft position – 199 – fueled his fire for over two decades and made him want to be the best.

Spite. The desire to prove someone wrong.

Plato was the same person who told me, “No one can write a good book before the age of 40.”

My first novel, Something Missing, was reviewed favorably in the New York Times, the Houston Chronicle, Kirkus Book Review, and many others. It has a 4.2/5.0 rating on Amazon.

I published that book at age 38. To Plato’s credit, he acknowledged that I had proven him wrong.

Spite is highly motivating, at least for me, and I felt it on that golf course last week. My focus while putting was better than ever, and Plato wasn’t wrong. The greens are challenging. Many of my additional strokes came from approach shots and pitch shots landing on the green and rolling off. I chipped over and back and over again on more than one hole.

I also forgot how to hit the driver for stretches of time, too, and I lost at least half a dozen balls because I lacked awareness of the course. Water that was closer than I thought. Out-of-bounds markers that I didn’t see.

I played poorly at times, which is evident from my scores, but I putted the hell out of the ball over the three days mainly because I am a spiteful jerk. I wasn’t keeping track of my score on any of the rounds we played – Plato took care of that chore – but I was keeping track of my putts.

I don’t think this works for all people. Many people respond differently to doubt or a lack of encouragement. Rather than seeing it as a challenge, I suspect that doubt hurts most people. And I don’t think it’s the best way to increase performance. I would’ve much preferred my parents and teachers to encourage me to pursue college, for example, and had they done so, I may have found my way to higher education sooner.

My desire to prove the world wrong helped me succeed, but support and encouragement would’ve probably produced the same results.

But for certain people, telling us that we can’t do something, we aren’t worthy, or we won’t amount to much can light a fire that can burn with the heat of a thousand suns.

The devil’s music

I’m walking through the Minneapolis – St. Paul airport. I walk past a restaurant playing music loudly enough to filter into the concourse.

It’s 10:30 in the morning, so it’s an odd choice, but whatever.

The song is Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.”

A beloved anthem from my youth.

As I pause to enjoy the song, a woman plows by, dragging two small boys by the wrists. As she hears the song, she barks, “Block your ears, kids. That’s the devil’s music!”

She’s serious. No joke. She’s not some walking-talking Onion article. She’s the real deal.

I want to point out that neither child can sufficiently block their ears while being dragged down the concourse by the wrists.

I also want to point out that “We’re Not Gonna Take It” is a fairly uplifting song. Quite inspiring, even. It encourages people to stand up for what they believe but doesn’t take a position on what to believe. It simply encourages the listener to be themselves.

Hardly the devil’s music.

I say nothing.

Instead, I quietly, gleefully imagine a future where the two boys rebel against the religious fanatism of their mother, embracing the meaning of Twisted Sister’s anthem and causing her to lose her mind in the process.

Incredible discovery

Breakfast cheeseburger?

Where have you been all my life?

Laugh Laugh Laugh Cry

Elysha has said that the best stories I tell are “Laugh Laugh Laugh Cry.”

Many of my stories fall into this formula, meaning:

I tell an amusing and sometimes hilarious story, making the audience think that we are on a joyous journey, but as they laugh, I am quietly, almost secretly, setting up the true nature of the story, which lands near the end of the story, wherein the audience learns that this journey hasn’t been all fun and games. Many of the things that made them laugh were details that created an emotional punch at the end.

They think they are on Funny Street, but then they look up and realize we have been traveling on Drama Street all along. Or Tragedy Turnpike. Or Devastation Road.

It’s an effective means of telling a story. It offers enormous amounts of misdirection and surprise. Laughter also opens up the audience’s hearts and minds. Lulls them into a false sense of security. Makes them like you.

Then you punch them in the gut with what you really wanted to say all along:

A cold, hard, undeniable truth.

Laugh Laugh Laugh Cry.

It would appear that Bob Odenkirk may view storytelling similarly, at least based on the title of his new book.

We started listening on the way home from a Broadway show last night. I’ll know for sure soon enough.

Woman on shoulder and chest

About ten minutes into my flight to Charleston, South Caroline, the woman beside me falls asleep and flops into my seat. Her head lands on my shoulder and chest, where it comes to rest.

I have a decision to make:

Awaken her or let her sleep?

She would almost certainly want to be awakened. To wake up and find yourself asleep on a stranger’s shoulder and chest would be awkward and disconcerting, but to be awakened by a person only to find yourself resting on his shoulder and chest would probably also be awkward and disconcerting.

Maybe even more so.

So should I allow that process to happen naturally, or should I play a role?

Or maybe I should pretend to be asleep myself, then nudge her a bit so that when she awakens, she feels like she’s managed to extract herself from this awkward situation without me ever knowing.

I decide to awaken her.

To allow her to sleep on my shoulder and chest would imply that I was okay with the awkwardness of this situation, and given that she is a woman and I am a man, I’m also worried that she might think something untoward has taken place while she slept.

She was startled when I awakened her. Embarrassed, too, despite my protestations that you shouldn’t be embarrassed by things beyond your control, which is very much true, though sometimes I seem to be the only person in the world to embrace this concept.

Did I do the right thing?

Probably.

Except I’m not sure if there was a correct answer. The kindest thing to do would probably be to let her sleep, which I would’ve been happy to do, but sometimes circumstances do not allow for kindness.

Only appropriateness.

Sam the Free Baby!

I’ve always hoped that my children’s lives are filled with brilliant, joyous adults who make them feel loved, respected, valued, and happy.

The more, the merrier. It truly takes a village, and I’ve always hoped that ours would be enormous.

And so far, Elysha and I have been lucky. Clara and Charlie have so many wonderful adults in their lives. Teachers, coaches, childcare workers, Scout leaders, and friends who make our kids feel like the world is a warm, safe, and good place.

And it doesn’t take much.

Plato – our friend, former principal, and officiant of our wedding – has been making my children laugh for years with Sam the Free Baby, a tiny little plastic baby to whom he has given voice and personality. Whenever Plato and the kids are together, Sam makes an appearance, much to Clara and Charlie’s delight.

And as old as my kids get, they still love it. Sam has even sent Clara and Charlie videos as he has traveled the world.

On our most recent visit to Plato’s home on the west coast, my kids brought two of their own babies, Oscar and Leopolda (thus named by Plato, much to my children’s dismay), to meet Sam.

You can see the joy these little, silly, unforgettable moments can bring.

It doesn’t take much.

Just a willingness to engage children at their level with a little bit of ridiculous, hilarious, focused, and unforgettable amusement.

Payphone in the forest

The visitor center in Muir Woods National Park features an operational payphone. Cell service in the forest is spotty, so a payphone is available if you need to call someone.

Charlie has seen payphones before. He knows what they are. He’s even touched them before.

But he’s never encountered one that works. In fact, this was the first time he had ever encountered a dial tone.

Crazy, Right?

If you’ve never used a payphone or landline before, which is quickly becoming an enormous segment of the population, you may recognize and understand what these devices are and how they operate, but until you actually place a functioning payphone or landline to your ear, you’d never hear a dial tone or even recognize their purpose.

A sound that dominated half of my life is now going unheard by most Americans.

Charlie assumed that the phone was broken because, in his world, phones don’t make a sound until they begin ringing.