Acceptance is an easy word to say, but it’s a difficult concept to put into practice. The thought of traveling halfway around the world excited me, but made me a bit nervous, too. Would I be able to communicate? Would I fit in?
My newly purchased cultural handbook prepared me for walking around in public: the Japanese would catch my eye from a distance, and then glance down and away when we became ‘too close’. This might be true on the street, but it certainly is not the case on trains.
A good many of these people stare holes right through me.
The Marine doesn’t believe me when I tell him this, but I remind myself that he doesn’t notice such things. I’m an oddity here, and the natives don’t mind if I know it.
Granted, I am tall, even by Texas standards, so I qualify for giant status here. When I board the train, do they applaud the fact that an American managed to get on the right train, all by her big-girl self, despite a complete lack of English instruction? No, sir. They gawk at my feet, my hands, and my face. Eventually, they look away, but sometimes, we play the staring game to discover who will give in first. I usually win, until I get bored, then I look at their feet or the ads I cannot read.
With seven more stops to go, my daydream cinema starts playing Godzilla-style movies: upon arrival at the station, the car doors slide open to reveal a red-headed behemoth (that would be me). Pandemonium erupts on the platform as the crowds are seized with terror. They run for the exits, screaming as my size tens stomp down the city streets, crushing tiny cars and toppling giant skyscrapers.
I would like to say we don’t do that staring thing back home, but it’s just not true.
Before our departure from DFW airport, as I removed my shoes to go through the metal detector, I noticed everyone around me was fixated on something behind me. I turned to discover the object of their curiosity: a teenage dwarf was speaking with a security guard. Ignoring the onlookers, she most certainly was accustomed to being the center of attention.
Now here I was, on the receiving end of similar stares.
Seriously, most of the Japanese women over forty are less than five feet tall, and that’s with their shoes on. Many of them reach just past my elbow. That would be, what, about four feet, five inches? Wow. I’ve seen nine-year-olds taller than that. The older men have a couple of inches on the women, but I could take ‘em in a fight. I doubt that will ever be necessary – - they seem to be a passive people.
In Kamakura, after visiting the Great Buddha, I strolled to the plaza and turned back once more toward the spectacular work of art, trying to imagine a time when it was covered with gleaming gold. I snapped a few souvenir photos, reluctantly spun to leave, and almost mowed down a little old woman with a cane.
I screeched to a halt about six inches from her and apologized profusely, hoping the tone in my voice could be interpreted as “I’m-so-sorry-I-almost-killed-you-please-don’t-whack-me-with-that-walking-stick”. Her poor back was bent so severely she resembled an upside down U. She could not have been more than four feet, three inches tall. Her wizened face said she was closer to one hundred than to ninety.
She stared at my feet. She’s wondering, “W here on earth do they make shoes that big?” Slowly, very slowly, her gaze traveled to my ankles, shins, knees, dwelling on each body part with laser-like intensity. I stood at attention for her inspection, knowing it was going to take awhile. She lingered on my hands, and gasped a little, genuinely not believing her eyes. She is comparing me to the Great Buddha. With tremendous effort on her part, the study continued up my stomach, bosom and neck.
When her eyes at last met mine, her wrinkled visage broke into the most wonderfully wide grin, sparkling with joy and beaming like golden sunlight. Maintaining eye contact, she leaned hard on the cane and giggled merrily, right out loud, and held her belly with her free hand. I giggled right back with her.
There, under Buddha’s serene approval, this tiny, ancient Japanese woman and I wordlessly exchanged the ultimate in acceptance. The experience made my day and is a memory I shall never, ever forget. I have no doubt she remembers me, too.
On the train ride back to the hotel, I didn’t mind the stares anymore – - I simply returned each one with a big, foolish grin.
A few of them even smiled back.
One of my favorite sayings is, “If you want to see your dreams come true, wake up!” It’s been my experience that there is nothing quite like international travel to blast one from one’s slumber. The rewards for distancing yourself from your comfort zones are tremendous: horizons are expanded, basic survival skills are tested and the mind is opened.
The Marine approached me a few weeks ago in his no-frills style: “Do you want to go to Tokyo?” Well, there was a question I’d never considered.
Normally, I jump at the opportunity to accompany him on business travel, but I hesitated this time. First of all, Japan isn’t on my bucket list. Second, I only know two Japanese words, sayonara and arigato, and thirdly, although Japanese calligraphy is intriguingly graceful, it’s Greek to me. Furthermore, after hearing horror stories from former colleagues who routinely traveled to Asia, I deduced that Americans had a hard time ordering from menus, which led to my next thought: “I’ll be so afraid to put anything in my mouth that I’ll lose weight!” That was all of the prodding I needed.
“I’m in”, I told the Marine.
Our arrival at Narita Airport (after a 14-hour flight) was unremarkable, except for my trip to the restroom. There was no space underneath or above the stall. The idea of complete and utter privacy was appealing, but no one could hand you toilet paper under the divider, either, should the roll be empty.
Upon opening the door, I was confronted by a rectangular porcelain fixture, sunken into the floor. “What the hell is that?” Was it a urinal? The potential splatter factor grossed me out. I couldn’t set one foot in there. I mildly panicked and turned back toward the exit: surely my fatigue had caused me to misread the international symbol for “Women”. As I rounded the corner, the Marine, who was guarding our luggage, quizzically raised his eyebrows. I whispered my concern in his ear as I glanced sideways to verify I’d entered the ladies room. He explained the fixtures’ purpose and I reluctantly went back in. I opened another stall door and was relieved, no pun intended, to see a standard-issue toilet.
We managed, in spite of ourselves, to purchase tickets for the bus that would drop us off at our hotel. The first thing I noticed about driving in Japan was that they drive on the left side of the road. Most of the vehicles are so small, Smart cars look normal.
About an hour later, we arrived at the beautifully appointed Sheraton Miyako Hotel. Tiny, polite young men and women in black suits bowed as they greeted us in soft voices. “So this is what it feels like to be the Queen”, I surmised. The Marine and I towered over the petite girl who insisted on wrestling our suitcases onto a luggage rack. He is 6’ 2”, and I can easily achieve six feet in heels. “Let us help”, I protested, “two of you could fit into my suitcase alone.”
She smiled up at me. “No, sank you. It’s weird, I know, but this is considered woman’s work in Japan.” Alrighty, then, who were we to deny her? We trailed behind as she leaned in and pushed the cart with all of her might to our room.
“You like I show you around your room?” I quickly assessed the accommodations. Even though the furniture looked as though the legs had been sawn off, and I predicted needing some sort of pulley system to get out of the chair, it otherwise looked normal. Wait. Check the floor in the bathroom. Whew. No holes in it. “No, thanks, I think we’re good.”
Before she left, I wanted to make sure I didn’t offend her. “Is it customary to tip the hotel staff?”, I inquired. “No. No tipping anywhere in Japan. Not in hotel, not in restaurant.” Wow. I already liked this country. Very much.
Our petite porter bade us goodbye. We unpacked, made ourselves comfortable and began getting ready for bed. I entered the bathroom, feeling secure in the knowledge that I could accomplish all of the necessary tasks in there. What’s that remote control panel on the side of the toilet for? I bowed, Japanese-style, to get a closer look at the numerous buttons, which were marked with unmistakable symbols indicating their use. They were also helpfully labeled in English: Warm Seat; On / Off; Deodorizer; Stand By (For what? Men only?); Water Pressure; Bidet; Spray and Stop.
I was feeling more tired than curious: I simply wanted to do what I needed to do, take a shower and get some sleep. Better familiarization with the facilities could wait until morning. All went well until it was time to flush.
There was no obvious handle. I twisted around to look behind me. Nothing. I studied the panel more intently. Hmmmm. I pressed Stop. Nothing happened. Maybe this toilet was so smart all you had to do was get up and it would do the job automatically. Hopefully, I lifted up a bit. Nope. That wasn’t it, either. Did I have to meditate in a Zen-like fashion and will it to flush?
O.K., I can figure this out, I thought. What logic had gone through the mind of the toilet’s design engineer during the prototype phase? Perhaps it would finalize the process after one of those other buttons was pressed. There were two different water spray buttons, each of which would direct a gentle, warm stream toward a very specific area to be cleansed. I cautiously pressed a button and experienced a marvel of ergonomic micro showering. ”Well, isn’t that special?”
Impressed, I realized I was in the presence of greatness. These folks truly thought of everything. I want one of these, I determined. But it still wasn’t flushing. The Marine, awaiting his turn, asked, “Is everything O.K.?”
Sheepishly admitting my inability to perform such a fundamental job, he responded with a been-there tone in his voice: “It’s the big button on the side of the counter”, he advised. Oh, that huge, chrome toilet-lid shaped thing that says “FLUSH HERE”? That would be the one. Happily, it worked, and the evening was saved.
Having better luck in the shower, I washed the long trip down the drain and crawled into the wonderfully comfy bed. Worn out from travel and hygiene horizon-expansion, before you could say Oyasuminasai (Good night), I sank like a stone into much-needed sleep.
I marked the end of my yearlong unemployment experience with something no sane woman would do to herself – - I purchased a session with an image consultant.
My life bears little resemblance to the one I had in 2008. Then, I had an office to go to every day. Now, I climb the stairs to the loft that has become my home office. Then, I had expendable income. Now, I watch every dime like a hungry hawk watches a quivering mouse. Then, I had loads of self-confidence. Now, I do not.
Has it really been a year? Let’s see: twelve months of well-meaning folks asking me how the job hunt is going; 52 weeks of submitting resumes; 365 days of listening to less-than-hopeful news about the recession. Yep, it’s been a year. Realizing the toll that 2009 has taken on my normally unflagging spirit, I knew I was going to have to do something more than repeat my Mind Over Middle Age mantra or embrace all of the positive self-help contained in the books at my bedside. I was officially at the stage where, if I heard one more diatribe regarding abundance, I was probably going to shout, “What a load of crap!” It’s not that I’m in the throes of depression, it’s just that I’m feeling, well, beaten up, and my image could stand a little polish.
As a trainer, I stand before groups of people who expect me to teach them something. As a writer, I often interview clients who expect me to say something wonderful in print. My talents, skills and abilities are still intact – - no one can take that from me – - but my feelings about my looks and the image I project has suffered. In order to reinforce my self-assurance, it would be necessary to bring in the big guns, thus I enlisted the help of an expert.
Prior to our meeting, the consultant sent me an eight-page questionnaire. Seriously? I wondered.
On the surface, my answers to her inquiries seemed glib, but digging deeper, one would come to the same conclusion I did: I don’t have a clue what my ‘style’ is.
Looking as forward to her visit as I would a trip to the dentist, I tidied up my closet, as she had already informed me she would be ‘debugging’ it. Upon her arrival, the fashionista and I exchanged pleasantries, then began the psychological profiling. Yes, she had a copy of my smartass answers to her questions and we revisited them. She wasn’t accepting my poor attempt at humor to avoid the painful truth.
The next phase was the color matching. Was I Warm and Clear, Warm and Soft, or Soft and Warm? My mind began to follow the path those adjectives had engendered. Daydreams of soft, warm, chewy brownies with fudgy centers ensued. The very patient professional informed me “You’re a challenge”. “I warned you”, I retorted. After stepping into the backyard to get a better look at me in the sunlight (big fun), she decided on two color swatches and announced it was time to look at my closet. The moment of truth was upon me. Anything that was not ‘my’ color or didn’t fit would be tossed. Happy happy joy joy. Not.
Marching quickly into the master bedroom, I threw open the closet door and steeled myself for battle. Me against my wardrobe (and it’s a stretch to even call it a wardrobe). There was only one strategy to use against the rag-tag band of opponents assembled before me – - cry like a baby.
NO! Said the image consultant, a little too emphatically, when I hopefully held up the sleeveless, kelly green dress with white polka dots.”It’s not age-appropriate, let it go”, she gently but authoritatively commanded.” “But, but, I got it at SAKS”, I stammered. “For seventy-five percent off! And I love it.”
“What do you love about it?” I said “It reminds me of June Cleaver in her pearls.” The consultant stared at me blankly. Oh, yes, I am dealing with a thirty-year old. She doesn’t have a flipping clue who Barbara Billingsley is. I had to try to make her understand. The image of feminine beauty that I grew up with rapidly changed during the 60s, 70s and 80s, and my first memory of domestic elegance was Beaver Cleaver’s mom.
“So, who’s that?” she asked, pointing to a gauzy frock with palm leaves and hibiscus flowers scattered over it. “Hippy Chick”, I chirped. I loved the sixties, Spirit in the Sky, peace signs and all that business. “OUT!” Ouch.
“And that?” A fuchsia suit jacket. “The last suit I wore to an interview”, I mumbled, knowing what was coming next. “You are never wearing that to an interview again. Not only do you not wear pink to an interview, it’s not even your shade of pink!” Uh oh. I guess I was in need of more help than I knew.
The diagnosis? My closet had multiple personality disorder.
After the pile on the bed had grown to about twenty items, we stopped. If we went any further, I would have to go shopping or go naked. Since I am income-challenged and no one wants to see me au natural, we accepted the remaining items as OK until I can afford a trip to the outlet mall.
In a few days, I will receive a ‘color fan’ that contains all of the shades that supposedly will make me look younger, feel more confident and send a message of ‘me-ness’ that I never bothered to convey before. I am supposed to take this color fan with me when I go shopping from now on, and it will help me make better choices.
I’ll keep you posted on how all of this turns out. My friends, if you decide that, in this era of ‘personal branding’, you need an image consultant, it seems to be worth the money. It’s a bit too early to tell.
I can, however, offer a piece of salient advice: when your trusted advisor leaves, grab the wine you shrewdly chilled beforehand. You’re going to need it.
Last September, I attended a sermon that was a bit of an eye-opener. The pastor painted a picture by asking us to imagine ourselves showing up at the pearly gates, pulling a Red Radio Flyer wagon behind us. The wagon is loaded to the point of spilling over with beautifully wrapped, beribboned presents of all shapes and sizes.
Greeted by a smiling God, He welcomes you, and then looks down at your little red wagon. “Hey!” he exclaims in wonderment, and then asks, “Why didn’t you open your gifts?”
The scenario implanted a compelling visual in my head, and played throughout the rest of the day, and occasionally over the course of the next few weeks. My gifts?
Unemployment has forced me to look at almost every aspect of my life from a different perspective: relationships, daily routine, finances and dreams are all up for reevaluation. When you cross the bridge from job to jobless, little wrinkles in life’s fabric appears. Some old friends drift away. Others rally to your side. The guilt of not drawing a paycheck manifests itself by cleaning the guts out of closets, drawers and the garage, or by any other flurry of busy-ness. Dreams of summer vacation with the kids evaporated as quickly as Windex sprayed onto a westward-facing window on a July afternoon. Looking for a job becomes a full-time job.
It’s obvious by now that transformation will take place, with or without my permission. Change is inevitable. But if I want to have a say in the matter, where, oh where, to begin? I’ve read about the gifts of the spirit, almost finished The Purpose Driven Life, and have taken numerous personality and skills profiles. And here I sit – - just turned forty mumble – - realizing I probably haven’t torn the wrapping off most of my presents.
My first job, at the age of fifteen, was at a Dairy Queen, dipping cone after curly-topped cone into a vat of molten chocolate. My second job found me herding preschoolers in a day care. My third job in a copy center led me to the world of technical documentation, which, in a roundabout way, led me to the world of training. Thirty years later, in a troubled economic environment and rapidly changing workforce, I find myself standing in the virtual version of the unemployment line, next to other, highly-qualified and experienced people.
Believe it or not, there are blessings to be found in being jobless: new circles of acquaintances form; new opportunities present themselves; personal growth with humility is discovered.
I enjoyed what I did for a living, but had I really tapped into the sweet spot of fulfilling my purpose in this life? I read the first line of the aforementioned Purpose Driven Life: “It’s not about you.” Well, as powerful and as true as that statement is, I still have to do a lot of thinking about ME to get to MY reason for being. Writing is my passion, but is it my purpose? I honestly don’t know, but for now, I am going to sit down in front of my little red wagon, start writing and see what happens.
My five year old step-daughter was going through a difficult time: her dad and I had recently married and she was getting used to two new homes – - a pretty tall order for someone so young. No matter how low-key we tried to keep her surroundings, bedtime was a real struggle. One evening, after trying to calm her down for about three hours, I was exhausted and she was still going strong.
Realizing my patience was about to snap, I went into my bathroom and reached for the Peace and Calming. I rubbed two drops on my upper chest, closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. The aromas of tangerine and orange, combined with ylang ylang, patchouli and blue tansy, delivered a powerful olfactory message of encouragement and groundedness all at once.
Walking back into her room, I sat down on the bed, where my new little angel was still crying uncontrollably. I stroked her head with the hand I’d used to apply the oil. In seconds, her sobbing ceased and I asked if she would like to sit on my lap. Reluctantly, she agreed. About a minute after laying her head on my chest, she asked “what’s that smell”? “A new perfume”, I replied. “It smells funny”, she announced. Then, just like that, she fell asleep in my arms.
This scenario played itself out several times before bedtime became a routine. Each time, I made a beeline for Peace and Calming at the first sign of anxiety. I had to find clever ways of applying it, and even tickled her feet as she tried to kick me away. It worked every time.
The last time I used it for this purpose was a particularly stressful night. As I approached her with the now-familiar smell she associated with going ‘night-night’, she angrily glared at me and commanded, “And don’t put any of that stuff on me that makes me go to sleep!”
I grabbed her feet and held on…
Now, imagine a shaky Elmer Fudd reading that line: “If it wuhnt fowah dwuuugs, dwuuunks and stooopuhd peepuhl”…
When I see, hear or experience ridiculous things, my mind automatically tunes in to its very own cartoon network. I suppose this is my brain’s way of taking the sting out of those moments when I’m just embarrassed for someone else, and they seem to be just fine with the way things are.
A few evenings ago, I was half-watching the news, half-reading email, as a reporter recounted the tale of two young thieves who’d helped themselves to $59,000 and some jewelry during a robbery and then went on a crazy spending spree.
Lt. John Williams of the Euless, TX police department said the pair bought new clothes, jewelry and a sport utility vehicle. They also purchased a Cadillac, marijuana and gold teeth grills and stayed at expensive hotels.
The bragging and cash-flashing came to a halt when a masked man tried to rob one of the robbers (poetic justice?). A gun battle ensued and now those people are in jail. Thank goodness.
But what’s bothering me is the statement Lt. Williams delivered in an interview following the arrest. He seemed pleased to announce to the cameras “If it wasn’t for drugs, drunks and stupid people, we wouldn’t have a job.”
Really?
The idiot box had captured my full and undivided attention. “Thank goodness I can rewind live TV”, I thought, as I sped back to the officer’s moment in the sun and listened again. Yes, that is what he uttered. Again, I pressed the back arrow, just to be sure. And once more, to fully appreciate how satisfied he was with his proclamation, only by now, Elmer Fudd was speaking to me.
God help us all if addiction and a lack of intelligence are becoming the only criteria for making an arrest. What message was conveyed in that declaration to identity thieves, scam artists, “white collar” criminals, serial killers, habitual child molesters and rapists and other, brainier-than-average criminals?
Rest easy?
I was reminded of a story someone shared with me last year about an eighteen year-old, mentally challenged boy who was serving time in Lew Sterrett county jail. The other prisoners said he was doing time for smoking dope, but he himself wasn’t sure. Childlike and playful, he covered himself with a sheet and ran around the cell, asking the other prisoners, “Who am I”? One or two of the twenty-plus men in the crowded TV room indulged him. “Who?” they asked. “CASPER! The friendly ghost!” The spirited boy giggled and ran off to play his little joke on another inmate, completely unaware of the web of legal complexities he was trapped in.
Right here in Big D and across the nation, our jails and prisons contain addicts, alcoholics, the mentally ill and the mentally challenged. If you walk into a local jail and talk to some of the folks waiting to visit a prisoner (and I have), it becomes obvious that the low-hanging fruit is easily plucked from the streets. No doubt, people make stupid decisions while under the influence of alcohol or drugs (or both), and those decisions lead to arrests. More often than not, when it comes to drugs, it’s the user, not the dealer, behind bars.
And jail isn’t rehab. Jail is BIG business. It boggles the mind to consider the costs of processing and incarceration: court costs, attorney’s fees, drug testing, cash payments to probation and parole officers (hmmmmm), out-patient programs and the list goes on. A collect call from an inmate reveals that even the phone companies are milking this cash cow: some phone services contracted by correctional institutions charge $12.95 for the first three minutes and 75 cents for each additional minute. They happily accept debit or credit cards from the inmate’s family and friends.
“So, what’s your point?” you’re probably asking. The point is that I’m deeply saddened by a society that preys on the weakest and the poorest of its members to present an illusion of safety to its other citizens. Don’t think for a moment I condone robbery, violent behavior or illegal activity of any kind. That couldn’t be further from my mind. I think the young men mentioned at the beginning of this story should pay for their crimes.
I’m just a little ticked off that my own tax dollars are being used to perpetuate a false sense of security. I don’t feel assured that our jails and prisons contain the most dangerous of people who are out to do us intentional, serious harm. Is it too much to ask to raise the bar when it comes to making arrests? Or do we have to rely on drugs, drunks and stupid people to fuel an entire industry?
More people are incarcerated in the USA than in any other country. If you are interested, the Bureau of Justice Statistics home page can be found at http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/
“Welcome back to the cult”, someone merrily Tweeted the afternoon I won the Mac. “The cult?” I wondered. A couple of hours later, another Tweet: “Welcome to the cult!” I knew Apple was way cool, but the fans seemed even more jazzed than I was. What did they know that I didn’t?
The box lay quietly on the dining room table, waiting for me to overcome my fear of the unknown. It seemed too light to actually contain a computer. Several thoughts ran through my mind: Was it going to be confusing going from PC to Mac to PC? What about all of my documents, spreadsheets, email, contacts? Would I have to use my PC for business and my Mac for play? Ugh. It made me tired just thinking about it.
Until I opened the box.
The notebook’s soft, silvery luster was smooth and cool to the touch. It felt solid and reliable. As a former electro-mechanical drafter, I fully appreciated the work that had gone into the design and manufacture of the aluminum unibody chassis. Elegant is the only word to describe it.
“Even the power adapter is cool”, I noted. Two enclosed booklets, Everything Mac and Everything Else, would prove to be of actual value.
Literally, within minutes of turning on the computer, I was up and running. OK, I was up and playing. My step-daughter and I were soon hamming it up for Photo Booth – - riding a roller coaster (hands up, of course) and warping our faces into aliens. Big, big fun. We happily wasted a couple of hours exploring just how silly we could be as virtual talk show hosts and video bloggers.
The two days at WordCamp had turned me into a Far Side cartoon character: a not-the-brightest-bulb-in-the-box kid raising his hand: “May I be excused? My brain is full.” It was late Sunday evening and time to vegetate.
The Marine and I decided to test the Mac’s proclaimed battery life (up to seven hours, the Apple website promises). Experience on long, international flights had taught us to carry an extra battery if we wanted to watch a movie on the PC. Figuring I would drift off early, I told him to choose the films. It was no big surprise when he returned with Lethal Weapon and Lethal Weapon 2. Yes, I’d be asleep in no time at all. Zzzzzzzz. Side note: I was awestruck by the simplicity of the Slot-loading Super Drive. Again, what superb engineering!
In the morning, I awoke to find my new electronic pal on the nightstand. I checked the battery life and pleasantly discovered there was plenty of juice remaining. I wandered into the kitchen where the Marine was making coffee. “Did you make it through both movies?” “Yep.” He replied. “I like that Mac. Maybe I’ll take it with me on my next trip.”
Hmmm. We’ll just SEE about that. You’re talking to a cult member, now, buddy.
I usually try to maintain an ‘attitude of gratitude’. Not claiming to be wildly successful at all times, but the key word is ‘try’. (Sorry, Yoda – - it appears in my vernacular more often than you would approve of.) Having journeyed through the land of unemployment and self-employment for the last ten months, some days, being thankful requires conscious effort. Today, there is no try. ‘Thank you, Lord!’ is the headline banner scrolling across my forehead right now.
I had no expectations as I entered WordCamp 2009. I was given a name badge, a T-shirt and a raffle ticket. Two weeks prior, an Aromatherapy Meetup event led to a discussion about technical writing. (Go, networking!) “You should go to WordCamp”, the woman who organized the meeting told me. I gave her my card. The next morning, my inbox contained an email from her with all of the pertinent information. Even though I didn’t fully comprehend (from the presentation titles) what exactly a WordCamp was, in a purely visceral moment, I registered for the almost-free-for-you-today price of $30.00.
A year-long desire to start a blog was tempered by a couple of practicalities: I don’t know diddly about publishing online and what would I write about that anyone would want to read, anyway? Maybe this would kick my tail into high gear. Perhaps I would meet fellow writers and expand my network.
After finding a seat in the crowded, too-warm auditorium, realization dawned in a what-in-the-world-am I-doing-here? moment. Unfamiliar terms and acronyms were hurled at me full-throttle: ‘tag cloud’, ‘CMS’ and ‘irresistibly sticky’. Excuuuse me? Early on, I acknowledged the vast hole that was my website creation ignorance and decided to let each speaker’s words wash over me. Perhaps something would eventually make sense. “I really, really love my pen and paper”, I inwardly whined.
Presenter after presenter stepped onto the stage with the ruthless intent of reinforcing my aforementioned ‘lostness’. More than once, I vowed to leave ‘after the next one’, but these folks were not only passionate and knowledgeable about their topics, they seemed like such nice people. The kind of people you’d want to visit with afterward, even if you might not understand one flippin’ thing they said. Niceness is a universal language that erodes language barriers, even geek speak, and I was charmed.
The day ran long. I was worn out from sponging up all of that new information that I feared I might never use. I kept looking at my watch. Again, I told myself I’d leave after the next presentation. But that felt so rude.
The noisy room hushed when the event organizer announced it was time to raffle off a MacBook Pro, donated by TaylorMark, one of WordCamp’s sponsors and an ‘Apple-focused information technology professional services company’. A red ticket was pulled from the bowl, and each number was slowly teased off. Wait a minute! The first five numbers were matching those on my stub. I blinked. Wow. I actually had a chance! My adrenaline level pumped up a little. I once won a gift certificate to a spa. There was that one hundred dollars on a scratch-off that came in handy shortly after I was laid off. But a Mac? No way.
FIVE! That was the last number. I think. Then my name was called out. The rest is a blur.
My heart raced. My goose bumps had goose bumps. I was so flustered that I actually walked in front of the video cameras that were live-streaming the event – - not grasping my faux pas until later. Mark Taylor handed me the coveted white box. A round of applause erupted. I was grinning like a fool, and photos exist to prove it. Me? Who hadn’t touched a Mac in ten years? The one who didn’t know XAMPP from WAMP? I quite literally floated back to my seat, red-faced from embarrassment and excitement.
Earlier in the day, driving to WordCamp, I’d asked for a sign that I was fulfilling my purpose and to let me know when I was going astray. Lately, I’ve felt as though I’m swimming through mud to get back to the land of the employed. Am I moving in the right direction? Yada yada. As I turned out of the UTD parking lot, I glanced at the white box nestled into the passenger seat, (did I mention it was a MAC???) along with my new T-shirt. I was struck by the generosity behind the gift, as well as the thoughtfulness, openness and intelligence of the community I’d just been introduced to. The door to a new world was opening up for me.
“There’s yer sign”, I giddily marveled. There’s yer sign.
