Fox Elementary School Commencement Speech

To start off this morning I’d like to congratulate each and every one of you in the audience today—from the teachers, faculty and staff of Fox Elementary, to the friends, parents, grandparents and siblings here to support their loved ones, to the Fifth Graders themselves, who-- after six years that perhaps felt like six lifetimes-- are here to be honored as they prepare to move on from this big chapter in the book of life called Elementary School.  

There are many more chapters to come, and in each and every one of them you will be the hero or the heroine of your own adventure, creating lifetimes full of plots, characters, details and story arcs that will likely be difficult for most of the adults in this room right now to even fathom. Will you be vacationing on the moon? Typing in passwords that will allow you to teleport at will? Breaking the speed of light? Curing cancer, ending hunger and finding the key to world peace? I hope so. But before I launch into what I think of your stories, I want to tell you just a little bit about mine.

I, myself, am a veteran of elementary school—as well as a few other schools that came along after that and I’m very happy to tell you that now I teach creative writing workshops for adults as well as creative writing after school classes and summer camps for children through a year round program called Richmond Young Writers held at Chop Suey Books in Carytown, home to Wonton, perhaps the most famous black and white kitty cat in all of Richmond, Virginia.

Why am I happy to tell you this? Well, probably like some of you, when I was in elementary school, I was convinced that I was really a princess that had been kidnapped from the Royal Family or at the very least an alien in the disguise of a little girl planted here on earth to steal the secrets of the human race. I just knew that at any moment I would be rightfully restored to my proper place, either in the Royal Palace—or on Mars. I was sure there was some big secret or revelation as to who I really was and therefore what my real purpose was here on this planet.

However, by about the fifth grade when both the spaceship and the queen had failed to come rescue me from my mom’s house in the West End or my dad’s apartment in the Fan, my ambitions changed ever so slightly. Instead of being a princess or an alien I decided that I would have to settle for something just a little lower down the totem pole-- being famous! I wanted to be a famous reader first and a famous writer second but even more than that I really just wanted to be old enough to stay up all night long eating candy. Which I’m also happy to tell you, eventually I did.

Meanwhile however, before I left home, my mother always had a saying for me, “Don’t wish your life away!” because she wanted me to enjoy the perks of childhood--- being able to roam the wilds of my own back yard and my own imagination without pesky adult interruptions like having to pay the mortgage, file taxes or figure out what in the world to make for dinner.

When the time came and I was finally old enough to leave I went as far as I could, looking for fame, fortune and my true identity first in New York, then in Italy, then in Colorado, then in Arkansas and finally in the Last Frontier, Alaska.

While I did meet a lot of amazing people and see a lot of cool things and gather up a lot of interesting experiences did I find fame and fortune just because I’d gotten as far away from home as I could? No. But I did get this: I got a chance to know myself better and, by the time I came all the way home right back to where I’d started--- the house I’d grown up in with just up the street from here I found that just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I’d always had everything I needed inside of me to find what I’d been looking for.  

It turns out, I actually knew at 8, 9, 10 and 11 a lot of the things I sometimes had to struggle to remember in my teens and twenties and thirties--- how to make and be a true friend, how to have fun writing a really weird sentence, how to love animals and plants and the other creatures on this earth, how to get lost for hours in my own minds and between the covers of a really great book. 

Maybe you really are an alien living on earth pretending to be a human or royalty stolen at birth or a witch or a wizard trying to make your way in the muggle world. Even so, your job is not only to find out who you are, but to remember it, to hold what you already know to be true close to your heart, and your mind, and your hands.   

I do believe that on this earth, we each have a mission. It might be to stop the destruction of the magical world by He Who Cannot Be Named like Harry and Hermione or save your sector like Katniss and Peeta or your father from the dark planet of Camazotz dominated by the Black Thing like Meg and Charles Wallace or to get the ring back from Gollum like Frodo and his gang.  Or, it might be to be kind to someone who is being teased, to stand up for what you believe in, to create art, to test experiments, to create inventions, to care for animals or even to simply get to know better and better the person who is already inside of you. 

 So, as you launch into your futures, one that in the next couple of months might look a lot like a big new building with a million different teachers, combination locks and bathrooms with enormous toilets, you may be daydreaming of bigger, better things to come. And they will.  I’m sure in this room we have budding rocket scientists, brain surgeons, herpetologist, concert violinists, private investigators, inventors, computer whizzes, maybe even a future President of the United States….or Jupiter.

            

However, like my father once told me, remember, that an acorn already contains everything it needs to become the most magnificent oak tree. Though you will need plenty of sunshine and water to grow to your most glorious potential, the essence of who you are and who you will be is already inside of you. Your trunks will grow strong, your roots will grow deep and your branches will stretch wide, but that acorn is no less perfect than the tree. 

Though I am certain that each of you will launch, far and wide, I truly believe that you already have everything you need to make that happen. So learn, teach, invent, discover, imagine, travel, blossom and grow but don’t forget what counts. What you already know, right now in this room.

Thanks very much for allowing me to be here today…and congratulations to everyone!

Richmond Arm Wrestling for Ladies + RYW!

Who: RYW + RAWFL

What: Arm wrestling bouts, haiku thumb wrestling, a silent auction and a lot of smack talk

Where: the fabulous Dixie Donuts in Carytown, 2901 W. Cary Street, RVA 23221 (across the street from the Byrd Theatre)

When: Saturday, May 25th, 1-4pm (we are using our raindate!)

Why: to raise scholarship funds for young writers in need

The Richmond Young Writers' spring scholarship fundraiser approaches and trust us: YOU DO NOT WANT TO MISS IT. We're going to be hanging out at Dixie Donuts, cheering on Princess Slaya, Patty Cakes, the Swiss Missfit, Atomic Mom and more - for several bouts of LADIES' ARM WRESTLING! The event is free and open to the public, but come ready to “bet” on your favorite wrestlers and support the RYW Scholarship Fund!

We’re also introducing a new sport that we’re certain will make it to the Olympics one day: haiku thumb wrestling, of course. What’s that, you ask? You’ll have to come find out.

Plus, you'll have a chance to win a Kindle, a writers' pack, restaurant gift certificates and more at our silent auction!

Can't make it to the fundraiser? Donate online! RYW Scholarship Fund.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned Waiting Tables

If you’ve ever woken up in a cold sweat realizing you forgot to bring mustard to table 3B, you may have waited tables. If you’ve ever paid for your own birth control pills with a roll of nickels, you may have waited tables. If you can read faces, memorize legal documents, calculate complex equations in your head, juggle time management for a small empire, run in heels and make the happiness of others your number one priority, you have definitely waited tables.

My first job at the age of 16—beyond my mother’s metaphorical apron strings—was as a Waffle House waitress. I had been in my mother’s employ for some time but she’d gotten the idea that my “attitude” might be improved by working for someone else. She was right. The summer after my junior year I was hired by an actual man named Bubba and even though he’d be busted and fired on drug related charges before the summer was out, I was to learn a lot under his care. For example, almost immediately I learned that it’s possible to smoke through a tracheotomy while frying eggs and flipping bacon, that themed juke boxes are the second cousins of water torture and that you can actually wear a bonnet and an apron at the same time without dying of eternal shame.

 As the months passed surrounded by that smoky orange, yellow and brown décor, I learned some other stuff, too. I’m now of the opinion that just as nursing students are required to attend AA, sociologists, anthropologists and students of the mental health field should be required to work in food service. Because nowhere is the truth of human nature more apparent than between a fork and its mouth. Serving people from every walk of life—or at least those willing to eat potatoes that have been smothered, covered and chunked—I learned how to make small talk, big talk and when to hold my tongue. I learned how to keep my head above water even when it felt like I was drowning in the weeds, what it meant to serve  and the importance of withholding judgment—at least until after dessert. And, as an aspiring writer, I learned how to pay attention to detail, that what I remembered and what I said mattered and how to get by on what I could bring home each day      

My next stints waiting tables were with the aid of a liberal arts degree—on a dude ranch in Colorado, at a five star resort in Arkansas, on a cruise ship in Alaska and then, lastly, at a small tavern within walking distance of my own house back home. Each was a continued education in communication skills, life lessons, gratitude and humility. And when I finally met my future husband I was relieved to discover that he passed muster: he’d waited tables at Pizza Hut on Jeff Davis Highway during Little League season. And I have no greater respect than for anyone who could survive that.

It’s been a long time since I’ve worn an apron, bonnet, tuxedo, cowgirl hat or life preserver but every time someone brings me hot coffee or a plate full of dinner, I know I will never forget what it felt like  when the tables were turned.  

Goodbye, Good Girl

Photos by V. Haggard, Photo Illustration by Joel Smith

We were obedience school drop-outs. Never having been a dog owner before I accidentally enrolled in the Marines when I would have preferred the Peace Corps. The general gave us choke-chains and barked orders. We rebelled, dropped out and did it our own way which was pretty much no way at all-- but did involve lots of hotdogs and licking. Rescued from an abusive situation by old friends, I’d agreed to foster Alizé, the red nosed pit named after a malt liquor for one weekend- nearly 13 years ago. It was 2000, I was 24, my future husband and I had been dating for one month and we’d all just finished reading the first in the Harry Potter series. We renamed her Hermione, though that went through a million permutations: Miami, Mione, Her-me-own-ee, Mayan, a detail that did not escape our attention when we made the heart-wrenching decision to have her put down on 12/21/12, the date the Mayans supposedly proclaimed The End of the World.

For us, in many ways, it was. She had been a flower girl in our wedding, a garland nestled between her short blonde and white locks. She’d adopted first our kittens—allowing them to nurse and knead her-- and then a few years later our son, allowing him to ride her and teach her spelling words. As a couple we had few memories separate from her—from the largesse of holidays and anniversaries to the mundane of the everyday—sleeping, eating, walking from one room to another. She was embedded in the blueprint of our lives, sometimes in the foreground, sometimes in the back, but as constant as the foundation. When I mentioned that she’d ferried me from my early twenties into my late thirties, my eight year old son said, “Think how I feel, mom. I’ve never had a day in my life without her as my dog.”

The impact of this first up close and personal death on our son was profound. Usually disgusted by hugs and kisses he began to seek them out, uncovering a deeply affectionate side of himself that hasn’t vanished since. He elected to orchestrate her funeral, selecting red roses to hand out to each mourner to be placed on her grave. He wrote a eulogy on his new dry erase board: “You were the best sister I ever had. You were so sweat [sic]. I will miss you forever.” My father brought donuts and a roasted chicken. Several friends came with readings for the graveside. My step-father, father and husband wept openly as they shoveled dirt into her grave and through my own tears I was grateful that my son had such remarkable male role models and that every one of us had the chance to love our dog fiercely enough for such grief.

We received a beautiful outpouring of support—phone calls, cards, detailed experiences from others who’d been through this before, an anonymous donor even paid for a portion of our vet bill. Even so, in the days that followed I wrestled with the terrible feeling that I had failed her—not only in her death (a choice I willfully never imagined having to make)-- but in her life. She was the only person I had never once tried to be anyone else around. She saw me at my most selfish, ridiculous, small and ugly--without judgment or recrimination. She was the keeper of my secret selves, a witness to the worst of me—but also at times the best. Discovering what really matters, what’s truly important, what should come first, I feel as if I was just learning how to love her half as well as she loved me and I hadn’t managed to keep her alive long enough to finish learning—in other words, forever. We may have been obedience school drop outs but our dog was one magnificent teacher.

How to Find Love When One Thousand Donut Holes Are Not Enough

Start by learning what love is not. Learn the hard way. Find out that love is not defined by temper tantrums, drunken stupors, screaming hysterics, underpants left fetchingly on anyone’s front lawn or any of the other flu-like symptoms associated with that first rosy blush. Nor can love be ordered, tracked or dropped off by courier on an agreed upon delivery date. Hallmark and the Bible may make stabs at defining love but you’re going to have to live into your own, more particular versions of this word all by yourself.

Discover that no combination of Schlitz Malt Liquor, Carlo Rossi red wine, Old Crow whiskey, Marlboro Reds or little multi-colored pills equal love. Not really. Nor do barbeque potato chips, chocolate éclairs or lemon meringue pie. Glazed donut holes do not good lovers make. You may have no idea if love is an action, a feeling or an ideal, but you do learn that anything you can swallow, ingest or throw back up, probably isn’t love at all.  

Read that in order to truly love anyone or to be truly loved by anyone you must first learn to love yourself. Wonder what that means, exactly. Practice the affirmation, “I love myself the way I am” in the mirror, without sticking your tongue out, gagging or adding any clauses, footnotes or addendums.

Put all of your complicated, unresolved feelings for X, Y and Z onto the page instead of into your mouth. It’s more important to get the next page than to have the last word.

Accept that Prince Charming couldn’t have had more than two or three hundred lovers in his lifetime and that none of them were you. Even Jane Eyre had to wait until Mr. Rochester was blind and broke before they could get it to work. Practice loving your own assortment of imperfect, scarred, tender heartbreaks and misadventures, especially the ones that demanded you tear everything apart before you could build again.

Learn to look for love in unexpected places. Blow a kiss to the man in the elephant nose mask who wishes you a Happy Father’s Day in the dead of winter. Accept a flower from the woman in the wheelchair who looks like she’s been waiting all day just to hand it to you. Bring bittersweet chocolate to friends who have recently suffered loss, illness, heartbreak or tragedy. Recognize when you leave that love attached to your coat and followed you out the door.

Look into the face of the kitten, the child, the old man holding the door open for you at the gym even though he’s older than God and walks with a cane. But don’t clutch at these new, fresh faces of love and try to keep them for your own. They may bite, drool or hit you in the rear if you grab too much, too fast.

Finally, remove “unreciprocated love” from your lexicon. Try on new terms until you find one that fits like a perfectly tailored dress. Eat away your preconceived notions-- along with your donut holes. Be humbled, blown away, changed entirely by the new words that come to define you. But remember, when you feed the ones you love, don’t forget to feed yourself.

Off the Island: A Search for Simplicity

As we approach the time of year when my personality feels most divided, I’m half inclined to shave my head, give away all of my possessions and head for the hills while half of me yearns to hand paint candy canes and beg Mr. Claus to take me as his mistress. I don’t consider myself a Material Girl, but who am I kidding? “Gimmee gimmee gimmee! Gimmee some more,” is my heart’s true song. However, it’s not the stuff I crave so much as the frenzy. In my mind’s eye December is a month of binging and gorging, stuffing it in and packing it on. In January comes atonement, fasting, pumping iron and making resolutions to need less of the stuff I spent the last month hoarding. How much can I do before I feel like I’m finally done?  The answer-- if I’m honest—is never, ever enough.

            So this year I’m hoping to approach things a bit differently. I’ve abolished credit cards and booked writing retreats for two weekends leading up to the Big Bang instead of camping out at the mall trying to determine if this mug full of bath beads will really prove to my (mother/step-mother/mother-in-law) how much I love her (I really do!). I will no longer be dragging my husband to the craft store on All Hannukah’s Eve to start assembling grouted marble sun dials on our dining room table at midnight (apologies to anyone who’s received any such home-made “craft”). I’d like to wrap my mind around this bizarre concept of Keeping it Simple.

            Despite an emphasis on quality time over quality stuff, most of my holiday memories from childhood blend into a montage of What I Got: the longed for Rubik’s Cube, the surprising mix of a Ken doll, walkie-talkies and Born in the USA, the real gingerbread house under the tree that I loved too much to eat and let the cats pee on instead. Still, of all this bounty, the year that stands out most vividly did not center around what I got or gave but where I was and who I was with.

My traveling companion and I were, as usual, nearly broke and, as usual, had no idea where we’d spend the night. It seemed that all of the shops in Europe were closed for Christmas Eve and by the time we found an open hostel we’d finished most of the crust of bread squirreled away at the bottom of our packs. We were, by American standards, starving. The hostel concierge took pity on us, giving us directions to a soup kitchen free for travelers and the homeless. At the moment we were both. I expected the basement of a grungy YMCA, not the medieval banquet hall we stumbled into an hour later. Torches lined the walls; vats of potatoes, platters of meat and carafes of wine adorned the tables. Vaudeville singers danced on the stage and other homeless travelers danced all around. Unbeknownst to us, we had just discovered Christiania, a hippie squatter commune in central Copenhagen fashioned around an abandoned military barracks. Actual heaven could not have been better. We danced and ate and sang and made merry, feeling the holiday spirit—and many other kinds of spirits too. The next day, with snow falling softly all around, we made a pilgrimage to see the Little Mermaid, beautiful and perfectly contained on her rock in Copenhagen Harbor. I wish our Christmas story ended there and not with getting kicked out of our hostel later that night or ending up on a subway with the Hungarian Mafia on New Year’s Eve but that’s another essay. I’m sure gifts were exchanged at some point but I don’t remember a single one of them.

            Now, for better or worse, unlike the Little Mermaid, I don’t live on an island. I live with people that I want to cram full of as much happiness and stuff and cheer as possible—even if it means driving us all mad in the process. This year I’m hoping that giving myself the gifts of sanity and simplicity will be the gifts that keep on giving.