We have to dig way back here for a moment.

It’s 1988. I’m in Kindergarten, and the class is sitting Indian-style (as we called it those days) in a circular formation on the carpet. We’re discussing one thing or the other; I can’t recall the topic of conversation. Fellow schoolmates are telling stories, things that happened to them, and I have something myself that I’ve been dying to share, so I eagerly raise my hand to tell it.

I’ve always been a storyteller, in a sense. If I have something good to say, I’m going to say it.

The teacher smiled as I shared my tale, and when I was finished she said, “Thank you, Angela… but what does that have to do with our discussion?” Nothing, it seems.

I guess I was burned pretty badly at that moment, because no one even appreciated the fact I told them a really good story. So I kind of stopped participating in class for a while (Like, twelve years or so), because similar things would keep on happening.

The ironic part? I still do it.

Oh, somewhere in my head I believe my tales relate to the topic at hand. But it usually doesn’t. And I get the same reaction, if not the question itself—the half-nods, an acknowledgement that people were listening, and someone quickly moves the conversation along. How is it, twenty-two years later, I still can’t figure out how to participate in a conversation? At least now I realize, about halfway through, that my story doesn’t have the proper ending. I don’t really know why I’m telling it. But I still have to finish.

Awkward? Not only for me, but for those forced to listen. I become that antsy five-year-old with her hand waving in the air, hoping that people will like my story because I think it’s cool; I don’t understand why they wouldn’t like it, regardless of whether it has anything to do with the topic or not. It’s called a diversion. I like to think I have poetic license, which basically gives me the right to say whatever I want.

I guess other people don’t understand that. It makes sense in my head, but when I say it out loud I know I’m seen as bumbling and awkward. Just put me in a pair of suspenders and tape up the bridge of my glasses. I’ll snort a little when I laugh, too, if you’d like.

If you ever want to hear a good story, shoot me an email. Don’t call.

Tuesday, 08 June 2010   ♦   general