My final day working in the office at the Ballet is quickly approaching. Bar none, the part I’m going to miss the most is going to be my relationship with the girls. So many of these dancers are my former students and/or Party Girls, most of them I’ve been in their life for the majority of it so far, the youngest having been in my class at 3-years-old, and one was 2-years-old when I met her in the lobby while she waited for her sister to get out of class before she was old enough to join ballet herself. My oldest former students are Juniors in high school this year, and my youngest are nine. Even in the Party scene of The Nutcracker, after this year I don’t think I’ll have any more former students cast in the role. We’ve hit a milestone I have known would one day arrive, yet nothing really prepares you for it.
As of the day I’m writing this, I have 31 days until my last day working for the Ballet. This is my fourth Nutcracker in the office, making it 3.5 seasons I’ve been there. If you think about it, that’s technically longer than I was a Company dancer, since I got three full seasons under my belt before my health tanked and I had to quit. Part of me wonders how I’ll do transitioning back to being “just” a Party Mom, but I know that I’ll be fine. I know this is what I need to do and that things are temporary, no matter how long you have them.
I missed rehearsal the weekend before last for a school thing and coming back to everyone’s reaction warmed my heart. Time and time again, I was told how everyone could feel my absence; there was an energy shift and it just wasn’t the same. I found this both endearing and curious, as I missed two weekends last year for different weddings. I was missed, yes, but that felt more out of necessity: they missed me because they had stuff to turn in or questions to ask and I wasn’t there to help them. This time felt deeper, as if people are starting to realize that I won’t be in the office forever and what that means for them, what having me there actually does to help things along, and how different things will be starting in the spring.
My absolute favorite is the dancers—my babies—who will come find me and ask me if I can come watch them run their group’s rehearsal. I can feel the security they receive from my opinion and corrections but more-so from my encouragement. I’ll tell them what to fix, sure, but I also tell them what they’re doing well and often times that isn’t something you’ll hear often in these sort of environment, not because people aren’t doing well but because its assumed you’ll know you are doing well and if you aren’t we’ll tell you what to fix. Assuming I don’t have anything pressing that I have to do, I go in and I watch. Seeing the dancer look for me as they’re dancing, seeing that I’m doing what I said I would do, and then finding me after—it feels like when little kids will shout out to their grown up on the playground, “Watch me! Watch me! Hey look at this! Are you watching?”
But these are pre-teens and teens. These are middle and high schoolers. These are kids “too grown” to put their phones down long enough to talk to their parents or whatever stereotype is out there. But you know what? Deep down, they’re still those little kids. They still want and need someone to see them, to validate them, to show up for them and be consistent. And don’t we all? Don’t we all crave someone to see us? To care about what we care about? To care about us? Sometimes these kids will invite me to their school events or other various things they have and if I’m able to, I go. I can’t always because of scheduling, but I do my best. Sure, they may seem blasé at the fact that I’m there, but I know inside they’re that little kid, beaming with pride that I saw them do whatever newest trick they taught themselves and are proud of.
People are people. We’re all doing our best out there and at the same time hoping that our best will leave us feeling loved and fulfilled. That someone out there will care enough about us to see us as we are. Getting to be that for the people in my life as I’m able is truly the greatest honor I think I will ever know in life. That level of trust is something money can’t buy.
I have one more weekend at the studio, as I’m missing the last rehearsal before we’re in the theater. That’s one more weekend of “Watch me!”‘s until I’m no longer here every time they are. I hope they all still know how proud I am of them and how much I want them to succeed in whatever it is they do. I hope they know I beam at the thought of them as if they were my own children or nieces/nephews. I hope they know how much they truly mean to me and that I’ll be rooting for them until the day I die, even if I don’t get to be there every weekend to show them.
I went to a private Christian school from kindergarten through 8th grade when my parents pulled my sister and I out the summer before freshman year. We homeschooled, and then after one year I begged to be put in public school. My friends were in public school now, and I wanted to be with them but really I needed out of my house. I was completely suffocating having nowhere to go other than church and it didn’t help that we lived 20 minutes outside of town. I ended up going to public school, but not the one I wanted. The one I went to my parents suggested because it had a legendary drama program and I really loved acting. I had no idea how much that decision would impact the rest of my life.
High school was so hard, but that’s normal right? Adolescence is rarely easy, however I was navigating this extra added layer of the culture shock of coming from one unique world and suddenly being thrust into this brand new one where everyone else was familiar with the lingo and each other and how things worked. As if being the new kid in a terrifying new place wasn’t enough, home life was really difficult, church was borderline abusive yet to me it was my safe place, and then I was being abused by my former youth pastor and adults didn’t believe me. I think back on high school with a different view than I used to. Before thirty, there was a lot of guilt and shame attached with it. There wasn’t necessarily regret; moreso I wished I could have been better. I put the blame squarely on my own shoulders, thinking that I just wasn’t enough somehow to be everything I wished I could have been. In spite of all of that, I managed to accomplish much, all things considered and deciding to go to public schools remains one of the best decisions I ever made, even with it being absolutely terrifying.
I joined theatre, and as such joined speech and debate. I wasn’t very good but I believe a lot of that was because I didn’t really try. Of course then I wouldn’t have said that, but with this 20/20 view of hindsight mixed with heavy doses of therapy I can now see how I actually was smart and capable, but the overwhelm of everything else going on was so overwhelming it consumed all of my spare energy that I normally would have dedicated towards actually trying. It wasn’t until I enrolled in college this summer that I realized I am smart and ironically have also been given a chance to redeem myself with speech and debate as well, having been recruited for the speech team after my public speaking class this summer. My teacher could tell from my first 2 minute speech in class that I was trained by my high school speech teacher, Charlotte Brown, and convinced me to join the speech team. It felt oddly full circle and at the same time I fought so many different thoughts and emotions I didn’t necessarily expect. I was such a different person 20 years ago, yet so much of me remains the same; the good bits, I’d hope.
Today was the celebration of life for Ms. Brown, who died in August of this year. I don’t think it really hit me until today, I could have sworn she was immortal. I was especially bummed that I never got to tell her about joining the college speech team as no sooner I joined we learned her health was starting to decline. I’d like to hope I know what she’d say to me about it. It helps, too, that my college speech teacher was also trained by and did her student teaching with Ms. Brown. She gets it.
It’s because of her I had the guts to go today. I knew I wanted to go, but my anxiety was spiking, in part knowing I’d see people I hadn’t seen in 20 years. I was never bullied in high school or anything like that. The other kids on my squad were nothing but wonderful, even if some were more wily than others. We were all high schoolers, going through our respective teenage experiences, coping the best we knew. However, despite all the horrors I was told in certain religious circles that I would experience in a public school, I found nothing but support there while the bullying came at the hands of my fellow church youth group members. I wasn’t necessarily expecting to be shunned or anything by who I’d see there, more just uncertain of how I would feel.
Many of these people were people I looked up to back then. I was drowning, struggling to keep my head above water with everything life was throwing me, but I didn’t even know it. I thought this was normal—privileged, even. In my efforts to tread water, I looked to those I respected, and many of them responded in kind even though I can’t imagine it was necessarily easy to deal with me. I know that when I’m in places like this, especially haven’t been there in decades and now adding in being surrounded by people who were also surrounding me 20 years ago, I tend to go right back into feeling like I’m 15, 16, 17 years old again. It wasn’t as extreme as I expected, thankfully, but it was jarring. What do I even say to these people? They, for the most part, grew up together, at least to an extent. They have remained main characters in each other’s lives, while I was and remain a sort of background extra. Of course, I’m over thinking everything I said, as one does. And I can’t help but wonder; do they know I’m the me I am now? Can they tell? Could they back then? Surely we’re all different simply because we’re older, right? But I was different different, even though bits of me have carried through. Did they still see me as that little lost kid? Will I always be a little bit of her, no matter how much time passes?
What I do know is I was met by each of them in kind. They hugged me, said it was good to see me, some even invited me out to whatever plans they had afterwards. I might have gone had I not been needed back at the studio. Part of me really wishes I could have gone because maybe then they would see who I am now.
I know I don’t have anything to prove. Most of these people I’ll probably never see again, which is a weird feeling in and of itself. And I know I’m a background character to their high school experiences, but do they know that in each of their subtle ways, they helped shape the person I have become? Do they know that I learned from their kindness and patience and show it to others? Do they know they were the first person to foster my love and dream of dancing, which became a major player in my life? Do they know I still occasionally quote bits of their HI’s even though no one has any clue what I’m saying or why? Do they know that when I look back on my life before 30, I don’t remember much of it, but there’s patches that stand out and even though high school was extremely difficult, and my senior year with Ms. Brown amongst the most difficult, that they stand out as bits that I can’t forget? Do they know they aren’t in the part my brain has hidden to protect me from the pain of my past?
Do they know the gift that is?
Probably not, and I don’t know if they ever will, and that’s okay.
It’s extra weird to process all of this while still living on the land I returned to every day after school. I may be different, but my surroundings are much the same. I’m still in this town surrounded by people who I hope to avoid most days.
And yet, here we all were again on this day, and I’m reminded of the good that can be even and especially when days seem most dark.
On Wednesday, I took one of my dance babies on my walk with me. She has gone with me before and has dubbed them my “hot girl walks.” I was excited when she agreed to join because I wanted to bring up a rather difficult and sensitive topic with her—one which has come up and has me keeping an extra eye on my “nieces”—and was going to do it at the studio, but when this opportunity arose, I realized how much better this truly is. We can be uninterrupted, I won’t have to potentially kick people out of my office which makes it “a thing”, I won’t have to speak in whispers in case someone is snooping in the office next to mine, we won’t be rushed when she has to get back into the studio—so many potential problems I was trying to figure out how to navigate were solved by going walking.
I honestly can’t remember how I actually brought it up when we parked. I know all the different scenarios I had in my head of ways I could bring it up, but when I look back on it, I can’t remember which one I actually went with. This was something I wanted to get right. I wanted to make sure that I was sensitive to what the potential answer could be, and also supportive no matter her response. I didn’t want her to feel like she was exposed or I was micromanaging her existence or any other list of things that someone could feel with something like this. I think what I did was say I had a question, then a spiel, but I’d ask the question first so she wouldn’t be stressing, then give my spiel after, and she could answer or not—whichever she was most comfortable with. To my surprise, she answered immediately. I wasn’t surprised that she had an answer; I guess I was mainly surprised and honestly moved that she trusted me so much to not even hesitate. Her response was also said in a way I knew to be genuine, and she didn’t sound like she was anxious about it or anything I was afraid of. I still gave my spiel, at this point mostly to just let her know why I was asking something like this. I wanted her to know she wasn’t in trouble or being accused of anything or suspicious, and also to know that I’m here for her.
Being a teen is so hard. It was hard when I was that age, and I feel like it’s only gotten more difficult with time. Then you add in the added pressures of school and any extracurriculars they do, then various family situations, and countless other things—it all adds up. I spoke to that, and also to some specific things for her, wanting to give the space and opportunity to discuss things she may not normally have the chance to, or may not know is okay to talk about. So often we can be afraid to broach difficult topics, choosing instead to hold it inside and wonder if we’re alone in this, you know?
And it did go well; we went on a walk and she asked me questions about my experiences and I answered in ways that were honest yet appropriate. I’m not here to trauma dump on literal children, but I do want to be honest so they know that these things are okay to bring up, and I’m navigating these conversations knowing if it gets to be out of my wheelhouse or if there’s cause for concern or more a professional opinion is needed I can help them talk to their parents about finding a therapist.
I’m open with them about the fact I see a therapist, mainly because I had someone at bible college who was open with me about seeing a therapist, even though that was a pretty taboo thing for that environment. That person was someone I respected to no end, and I knew she was telling me in confidence, and a few years later when things got really dark for me and I sought professional help, I was absolutely terrified, but I knew if she could do it, so could I. That one bit of conversation was arguably one of the most positively influential things to happen in my life, and has stuck with me for 18 years so far. By talking about it, I want them to know that if they ever feel they may benefit from help like that, that it’s okay and someone they know has had success with it.
The conversation wasn’t all serious, though much of it was on the deeper side. We got dinner before I took her home and we talked about different life updates or things we were excited about or drama we’d heard. The entire evening felt so affirming and went just about the best anyone could have hoped it would go. When we got to her house, she looked at me and said, “Thank you for asking me about that, no one’s done that before” and she mentioned how it felt good to be able to talk about it and she knew she could trust me and had never been vulnerable before like she was with me today. She also wants me to write a book, having been on the receiving end of my “sage advice and wisdom” I tend to dole out. I’m all for talking about feelings and if the opportunity ever arises I like to let these kids know that everything they feel is okay, you know? So we joke about my figurative book, but really, writing a book is something I’d love to do. What would it be about? No clue. Who would actually want to read it? At least her and my therapist. I remember in high school my senior year we were asked in one class something to the effect of what is one thing we really wanted to do in our lives and I gave an answer that actually surprised even me, “I want to publish a book of my poetry.” I think it surprised everyone else, too, but it was the first time I remember being that honest with myself in that way. I also didn’t have long term plans for myself, so to even imagine something like that wasn’t something I would have expected of myself.
While listening to my favorite podcast, We Can Do Hard Things, I had a thought today that I’ve never really considered: this whole time, I’ve been writing as if it were to be read by people my age or older. Why do I not write with those younger than me in mind? How have I not done that already, given the fact that I take my influence over my babies so seriously? How is this the first time I’m considering this when so many of my posts or journal entries or poems come from conversations I’ve had with them? It’s still something I’m thinking about, and probably will be for a while, but I definitely found it curious.
Maybe I’ll publish a book one day, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just write all this for me, share some of it with the interwebz and let whoever finds it find it and leave my journals to whoever is bold enough to keep all of them. Maybe they’ll all be thrown away after my body is in the ground. What control do we really have over any of it? If every word I wrote was deleted and destroyed, would that make it any less valuable? Would it be any less important that I write them?
I don’t think so.
I think most of the value lies in the act of the writing and anything more than that is an added bonus. For our words to outlive us? That’s an unimaginable gift.
So speak. Write. Express. Do whatever it is with your one wild and precious life that makes you feel the most alive, because the act of doing it is where the value lies.
you send me pictures of the two of us and my mind instantly tears myself apart; ‘Look how huge your arms are, your face is terrible these days, you should be ashamed.’ But you say, ‘These pictures make me so happy.” All you see is arms holding you, and a face that is happy to be there— you look at these pictures and see love, and comfort, and safety. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know how to exist in a body that looks like this, all that matters is I’m here.”
Last Thursday was slated to be a day that had me all over the place: work at the courthouse at 7:30, leave for class at 8:30, whenever class ends (supposed to be 11:30 but it can vary) take the hit on my time getting back to the courthouse so I can let the dog I’m watching out of his crate and cross my fingers he isn’t stubborn, back to the office whenever that’s done, find an empty office for therapy at 1, as soon as that ends get dressed for the event, then head to the hotel where I’ll be there until “9” (I left at 10pm) then rush back to Hank (the dog) and hope he’s not too mad at me for gone the entire day.
Sometimes my brain works in my favor and this time was, thankfully, one of those times. I asked my boss if I could take Thursday off to eliminate the biggest factor in all of that since I’d hardly be in the office anyway, all things considered. She approved, so my day then became leaving for class at 8:30, coming back when it ended (early, I was back by 10:30) and hanging out with Hank until therapy at 1, then getting dressed and leaving. Hank was a big fan of this decision, as well. (Hank Tax will be at the end of this post)
When I got to class the day before, my teacher asked if I had gotten the email from the Deaf Center. I had not, but she told me it had more of the details for the next day which she then told me. She asked if I could be there at 2:30 if possible but if not 3 was okay, that I would be helping set up, I would get to eat there, and when I showed up they’d plug me in wherever needed. This is what I was expecting, but it was a relief to hear it confirmed. Still, when Thursday rolled around, I could myself incredibly anxious. Now I’m an anxious person on my best day, but this felt next level—as though my skin was crawling and I had to stifle the urge to somehow rid myself of said skin. I could tell that I felt like crying, but tears wouldn’t come, so I assumed this was from that 6-year-old self making herself known.
I worked on embroidering pillowcase cuffs for Nutcracker while watching Scandal to try and distract myself (let me tell you, this is a wild time to choose to watch Scandal) and for the most part, it seemed to help. Then we started narrowing in on it being the time for therapy, and I like to know what I’m going to bring up ahead of time so we can make the most of our 50 minutes. While doing this, all the anxiety found me again, having been sitting there waiting for me to stop being distracted for long enough to grab me by the hand. In thinking about what I’d discuss, I didn’t even think there was “all that much” to bring up. I was so convinced I even considered cancelling the session, but my therapist is my favorite person in the world and honestly, I wanted the excuse to spend 50 grounding minutes with her like a little kid hanging out with the “big kid” they look up to. There’s 6-year-old Emilee again.
I updated her on various things that aren’t really a big deal but seem to be a continuing thing. These are what I tend to discuss when I jovially refer to therapy as my “shit talking session”; honestly, a nice reprieve from the typical horrors that persist. (It has been suggested by some that know me that I have enough life experience to fill many volumes of best selling novels, but I digress.) Then, to avoid what was at hand, I brought up a different issue I had been avoiding not because I don’t trust her with it but rather because it’s so difficult to talk about. I think that fact was made evident to her by my reactions while getting the words out, but of course she met it with such gentleness and professionalism. Once that was done, I introduced her to 6-year-old Emilee who had been in the room with us the entire time. I told her about what brought her there with us that day and my fears with it all. I told her how I was so anxious, even though when I’m in class or talking to my teacher about going to the event I feel excited and extremely peaceful, which tells me that this isn’t some sort of premonition of impending doom but instead “just” anxiety. I told her, “I know that I want this more than I’m scared of it, which must mean I want it pretty badly because I’m absolutely terrified.”
Realistically, I knew I’d be fine. Realistically, I knew there was absolutely nothing to be scared of. I knew I was safe and that this event wouldn’t cause me any harm. I knew when I got home I wouldn’t have any regrets about going. I knew how much this would benefit me and how happy I would be that I went. And yet, my skin still crawled. And yet, my brain wouldn’t stop spiraling even if it didn’t actually give words to the spiral. And yet, I felt like crying which if you know me you know that doesn’t happen often. And yet, everything in my being wanted to text my teacher and send my apologies.
But somewhere, deep down, I knew I didn’t actually want that. I knew I wanted to go, to learn, to experience. I wanted whatever was on the other side of this proverbial line in the sand. Maybe part of me was afraid to take this step because then if I fail or if the other shoe actually dropped and I wasn’t able to continue it would be way more disappointing than where I’d been up until this point. I think I knew that this was a huge step forward towards a life I’ve been dreaming of for the last two decades that didn’t feel possible even a year ago and that I’m still afraid I’ll somehow lose since that happens so often in my life.
Because my therapist is fucking good at her job, she didn’t tell me any of those things that I knew. Instead, she let that child version of myself make herself known and she acknowledged her and sat with her and gave all the space she needed until I got to the point where I could say, “I want this more than I’m scared of it”, then she gently encouraged me in that.
When we logged off, I immediately cried. Unprompted, unable to ignore, the sobs finally escaped and my tiny self was fully realized. Hank immediately became concerned, rushing over to me with a face that said, “Human??? What is wrong Human??? Here, pet my butt, it’ll help I swear” and in that moment I missed Honey so much, yet was also so grateful that this happened when I was there with Hank and was able to have his comfort—a privilege I haven’t had since Honey died over a year ago. I gave myself a moment, then took a deep breath and got changed and headed towards the event.
I left early enough to park on the side street, which was a relief since I didn’t know what the parking garage or valet situation would be and ya girl doesn’t have money for these sorts of uncertainties. I sat there a moment, then gathered all of my resolve and walked in. Everything still felt squirmy, yet at the same time I knew I could do it and I knew it was the right thing. I walked into the lobby and took in the space. The front desk had a huge line, so I couldn’t ask where the event was. (Not gonna lie, this was a bit of a relief as I hate asking questions. Little me rejoiced.) I saw signs saying there was event space on the third floor, and I saw the ballroom on the first floor had a sign for a different event, so I walked up the stairs to the third floor. There, I found my teacher, who took me in and introduced me to the person I’d be helping first.
And here we have my first challenge that I didn’t expect. I’m terrible with names on a good day, usually relying on other people repeating the name in order to actually remember it. I take it in when I’m first told, and then it’s as though it enters some black hole in my brain, never to be seen again. Now I knew working with dDeaf people that I wouldn’t have what I was used to in being able to overhear names repeated, but there was an added step I didn’t think of before. When you meet someone, they finger spell their name to you and then if they have a sign name, they show you. So now I’ve met many dDeaf people, and if I do remember their sign name, I have completely forgotten what they finger spelled to me. So while I may be able to identify them to others with their sign name, if it were written down, I’d be hard pressed to identify it. I need to get better at this.
Another volunteer arrived, Alex, whose name and sign name I remember somehow. gotta count the wins where I can, I guess. She and I helped finish decorating the tables and putting out the name plates for each according to the seating chart. When we finished that, we joined others in helping set up the silent auction table. This was a great undertaking as there were many silent auction items—so many that we had to request two additional tables! It was a wonderful problem to have, and all of us worked to get everything set up efficiently. During this I met lots of people from the dDeaf community, as well as other volunteers. Everyone was so nice and welcoming which made me feel at ease.
Once we had everything ready to go for the night, the main five of us volunteers that I had gotten to know all hung out a bit. The keynote speaker, actor Daniel Durant, arrived and we all stood around giggling from nerves and excitement at getting to meet someone we all admire. I got to know each of the girls a little better, one of them being one of the interns in my Intro to Interpreting class, Makayla. She actually sits right next to me in class, but we’ve never met largely because I was too nervous to do anything other than what I knew I was there to do. It was nice to talk with her and the others. Our teacher came by and introduced us to her sister who was there and we went around and told her about our progress with ASL and interpreting. It was then I learned that I was the only volunteer who wasn’t either dDeaf, an interpreter, or an intern. My flabbers were ghasted. Somehow, my brain—who I’ve named Brian when he’s being a dick—didn’t betray me and list out all the ways I don’t measure up to the others, instead it let me just be in the moment and learn as much as I could from every experience.
Throughout the night I was asked 3 different times if I was an interpreter. I’d say, “no but I know ASL”, and each of the times they asked me to assist them. The first was a man who asked me to tell the Omni worker he wanted black tea with milk and sugar, hot, when his meal came out. I communicated the back and forth (what kind of black tea do they have? I’ll bring you the tea now but the hot water when your meal comes. That’s great, thank you) and everyone went on their way. One of the other volunteers, Taylor, was standing next to me when this happened. After it was over I looked at her with eyes wide like I’d just had a celebrity sighting. She said, “you handled that really well!” and I gave her the sign I’d just learned last week to show that my confidence has expended with that interaction. Then I said, “I think I’m on a high.” Seriously. It felt like all the dopamine and serotonin I don’t have on a good day found their way from whatever caves they hide and rushed my system all at once.
One of my classmates whom I really like, Marisela, attended the even with her aunt who is Deaf. I was so excited to see her. She told me she was attending with her aunt and I told her Linda (our teacher) asked me to volunteer. She said, “Linda really likes you” and told me how she’d asked her to volunteer a few years ago and it was a lot of fun. Marisela has been so kind and encouraging to me in class, I was extra glad she was there. I also saw a set of dance parents I like from the studio. Their daughter was one of the four girls cast as Clara this year in The Nutcracker and I’d wondered if they’d be there once I saw their business had donated to the silent auction. There was also a man I’d seen earlier who definitely looked like he was related. I was glad I was right, and it was great to get to talk to them for a bit.
The five of us volunteers handled the silent auction table and during such I got to meet a few dDeaf people who were asking various questions. One such person was the kindest person I think I’ve ever met. She was so excited and we joked about her staking out that particular item to make sure she had the final bid. There was one of the workers from the Deaf Center who was in a bidding war with her and once they realized it was quite a hilarious and joyous moment. In the end, the worker relented and my new friend won as she’d hoped. She was so happy she hugged me really tightly. At the end of the night I brought her her winnings and we celebrated again. As we parted at the end of the night she hugged me again, said it was so great meeting me and said, “thank you so much for learning sign! And for being here!” and that made me want to cry tears of joy. I told her I absolutely love it and loved getting to meet her as well. (This is where Brian really betrayed me by not letting me retain her name, even though she finger spelled it AND I had seen it on the silent auction form. I can’t even remember her sign name. I’m so mad about it as she was so kind to me the entire night and I really enjoyed her company! I do know it started with an L and I’m hoping that over time I’ll be able to ask someone or even herself.)
I also got to reconnect with Deb, a women I’d met 3 years ago when she reached out to the Ballet to see if a couple dancers would come to their Nutcracker themed Signing with Santa event. We had such a great time and I’d been thinking about her so I was glad to see her again there. I told her I’d wanted to invite them to our School Show with discounted tickets and also see if she needed dancers again for this years Signing with Santa if it fit the theme. She was so glad I’d ask and we’re going to discuss it this week.
At the end of the night, Taylor and Makayla asked me if I got a picture with Daniel Durant. I didn’t know we were allowed to and they said they had all just done so and he was super nice, so I asked the two volunteers from our local high school if they had and brought them with me. We were all so excited and he was so nice.
I left the event at the end of the night feeling all the things I knew I would feel, yet I had none of the guilt or belittling I usually have towards myself for having been so anxious beforehand knowing everything would work out. It was a great lesson, helped by my therapist, in giving ourselves grace for all the survival mechanisms we learned in childhood and giving space to work through them at our own pace.
Yesterday was the first class I’ve had since the event and when I got there, Linda told me that she saw me throughout the night and I did great and worked so hard. I thanked her and told her I’d had so much fun and loved being there.
I’m so grateful to have been given this opportunity and for all the people and factors that went in to me being able to find the courage to take the opportunity and make the best of it, leading to such a wonderful and fulfilling experience. It’s such a privilege to be able to be among this community. I’ll never not be grateful.
At this point, we’re fully a month and change into the autumn semester of college. I’m only taking two classes this semester, which is by design as I’m currently still working two different jobs. The other classes I could have added in don’t have to be done in any particular order, so it’s easy enough to delay them to next year when I’ll have less on my metaphorical plate.
Everything started off well enough, and then as I tend to do I started to really begin to doubt myself. It wasn’t absolutely glaring and weighty; more of a sort of still, small voice creeping in, asking me things I didn’t dare voice out loud. “Who do you think you are?” “What makes you think you’ve going to be good enough to be an interpreter?” “Honestly, this isn’t going to be everything you expect it to be. Might as well just get used to disappointment now.”
So much is riding on my success, but in different ways than people might assume reading this sentence. It’s not like a typical-college-aged-person’s set of pressures, my parents don’t have any set opinion of me on this, honestly I don’t think they ever expected me to go to college but that’s a whole other post. My pressures are wholly personal. If this doesn’t work out, I can’t afford to move into town in a house that is mine and not in my parents back yard. If this doesn’t work out, I won’t make enough to do more than just survive with the way the economy is going. All the hopes and grand visions I have of living entirely on my own that would have seemed impossible even just 5 years ago are just waiting on my finances to catch up, but without this degree and the possibilities it allows, they will remain out of reach. And while I’m grateful for the tiny house on my parents land, mentally this isn’t the best situation for me. I’m trying to make the most of it, but there’s only so much optimism can do for a person, especially one who seems to be living an existence that could inspire many different plot lines of quite intriguing books such as mine.
In all this, I told myself to just keep going. You’re already here, you’re doing the thing, you might as well keep going unless or until it gives you a reason to stop. You’ve barely begun and there’s so much left to experience that could surprise you. Do your best and see what happens and take it all in stride.
No sooner I did, I had a week where two of my three classes left me feeling like I’ve made the right decision. The first happened on Monday’s ASL 3 class when I walked in and my teacher asked me if I could help her. She had a call she had to take at 9am, which is the same time our class starts, and she asked if I could lead the class in reviewing the unit we were on. She said it shouldn’t take long, but if we get through all of that, she gave me the papers for the project we were to work on afterwards. Now I’m not sure why she asked me. I’m typically the first or second person in class, so it’s possible it was simply because I was available. Whatever the reason, she knew she could trust me to do what she asked and also that I was capable enough to handle doing such. I was nervous not so much for the task—the program we use has videos of Deaf people showing the proper ways to do each of the signs—but mores of my fellow classmates opinions. I don’t know many of them enough to recall their names (I’m trying!) and I think I’m the only (or one of the only) one(s) without a connection to the Deaf community already. I tried to keep my brain quiet, and everyone was kind and attentive, asking good questions and pointing out if I had my hand wrong (thanks, Roland!) When our teacher finished her call, she let me keep going, until she had stories she was telling which had her going to the front of the class to be seen by everyone and then she went ahead and took over as it was most logical. When I sat down, one of my new friends, Taylor, gave me the sign for cheering, which was really nice. When we left class, my other friend Drea told me that I did a really great job and my signs were very clear and understandable. It was really nice to hear, especially as that’s something I’m typically concerned about internally—that my signs aren’t clear or don’t make sense. Leading the class in the review made me feel similar to how I felt when I first started teaching ballet classes. I noticed then that it made me a better dancer as I was having to think more critically about each step I was doing in order to properly teach it to my students. With this, I was having to think more critically, paying attention to the NMM’s (Non-Manual Markers) and hand orientation than I may have typically. Really, I was grateful to have been given the opportunity to challenge my thinking in a way I hadn’t attempted yet.
In Thursday’s Intro to the Interpreting Profession class, I was the second one there and again my teach came up to me shortly upon arrival. She asked me where I worked and I told her I worked at the Courthouse and the Ballet Studio. She asked me if I’d be interested in volunteering the following Thursday (this week) at the Deaf and Hard of Hearing Center’s annual fundraiser event. I’d need to be there from 3-9pm and wear all black. I told her yes, that would be great! I get off work at the Courthouse at 3 but I could leave a little early and my ballet job is only on the weekends right now. She was so relieved. Again, I’m not sure why she asked me and my brain can come up with numerous conclusions, but the fact remains that in asking me she is giving me a vote of confidence in my abilities to be successful in volunteering at such an important event to our local Center. This will also be my first real time among our local Deaf community, having missed out on the previous Friday’s “Deaf Chat” event I was hoping to go to.
Now that the event is two days away, I’m nervous as hell. I don’t have too many details about what to expect, only where to be, at what time, and what to wear—which, arguably, are the most important details. I’m sure I can figure out where to go and who to report to once I get there, but the childhood version of me that was too afraid to ask an adult I was familiar with for a glass of water when I was thirsty has made herself known again. There’s also the added uncertainty of if the person I will figure out I need to report to will be Deaf or hearing; I’m going to err on the side of signing as that makes the most sense in regards to respect.
I know one day I’ll look back on all of this with a completely different view that can only come with experience. Just knowing that that version of myself is possible for me to imagine gives me the bit of courage I need to face all of the anxieties that scream at me and would normally result in me cowering under the covers safely in my bed instead of facing whatever it is. I want this more than I’m scared of it.
This was a thought I had to myself as I copied the introduction to my POI (Program of Oral Interpretation) from my working document into the final document before sending it over to my Speech director, both the POI and the introduction feeling like such impossibilities that if I was still for long enough, the anxiety I felt toward it was all-consuming.
*Record Scratch*
You may be wondering how I got here:
The last post, if I recall correctly as I don’t typically go back and read over things I’ve written, I wrote of how absolutely terrible I felt after my second speech for class and how the words of one of my classmates made me cry real, actual tears. That was only half way through the semester. Since then, I have given my Informative Speech about Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, on which I made a 99, points only taken off because I said my points in reverse order, and my Persuasive Speech on the Children’s Bereavement Center of South Texas, on which I made a 101. (This was a class-voted competition to see whose non-profit would get the class donation. I was pretty competitive with it, but after the first day’s speeches it was very evident that I had a very good chance of losing to one of my classmates, Carlos. It came down to a coin toss, which he called and I won. If we hadn’t been allowed to vote or if he voted for himself, he would have won—a win he totally would have deserved. Hell, I almost voted for him, talking myself down last minute. [“Don’t be noble, Emilee!”] A wild, fun time.)
Since that last post, my speech teacher, Sarah, emailed me to ask if I was interested in joining the Speech Team. I met with her to see about what kind of a commitment this is, considering I’m currently working two jobs and not entirely sure what to expect as far as how much school work I’m going to have. College Forensics (not, like, CSI style, y’all) is different than the High School circuit I’m used to. Here, you don’t have to place at certain levels a certain amount of times to qualify for State or Nationals. As long as you are enrolled in enough classes and have the required amount of different events, you’re good to go. You also don’t have to go to every tournament. If I have to miss one, I don’t get eaten alive like I used to in High School. Back then, Theater basically owned your soul, but now it was much more forgiving. I told Sarah about my schedule and how things stood, and it all seemed doable with enough tweaking.
Also in that time, my High School speech teacher and coach, Charlotte Brown, died. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it definitely was shocking. The timing of it for me is absolutely mind blowing and makes the grieving process a bit more complex as I’m already finding myself in an emotional tailspin, joining a speech team again and sorting through the emotions that have come with that. It’s almost felt as though I’ve been given an additional do-over—first in school, and now in competitions—that I didn’t expect to be given. I wanted to tell Ms. Brown about it, but waited to message her as they she was moving to San Antonio. No sooner she got there, she was gone. I know she would have been thrilled for me. Especially learning under Sarah, who did her student teaching with Ms. Brown and is a force in her own right. I also learned she’s the mom of one of my former teammates from high school. I don’t know who is writing this season of my life, but they sure are having a great time of it.
I had intended on sticking to what was familiar—Poetry and Prose—but after my first meeting with the team I realized that POI sounded pretty cool and the next day in class, Sarah told me some ideas she had about what could be a good one for me. I went home and thought about it, looking through some of my old Instagram story posts for inspiration and landing on an idea. I brought it up to Sarah the following day, and she loved it.
Yay! Great! An idea!
The only problem is, I’ve never done a POI before. Further, I’m an anxious mess and I knew if I wasn’t careful, this would consume me and I would end up a copy/paste of 14-year-old Emilee, too terrified of failing to even try simply because I didn’t fully understand what I was doing. Sarah gave me examples of POI’s, as well as showed me where to find recordings of past Nationals winners. I had all the information I could ever need, and still I felt ill-equipped and unprepared.
I wasn’t, though, I just had to try.
Slowly, I started putting together things that made sense. I tried to not think about the end goal, but rather just the next step I could see and taking it. I didn’t force it if I wasn’t having a good brain day, but I still kept the reality of the fact I couldn’t wait too long to get this done at the forefront of my mind. Grace, and action. Last night I couldn’t sleep from the anxiety of not having fully figured it out yet, and somehow I found the presence of mind to tell myself, “You know what to do. You can’t do any of that right now. You will do it in the morning, and it’ll be fine. You’ll finish it and send it off to Sarah, and if it sucks she’ll tell you and then you’ll know and learn how to do better.” And that helped me fall asleep.
This morning, I did just that; I finished it, sent it off to Sarah, and waited for her thoughts. Wouldn’t you know? She loved it, the only changes she made being structurally to give it a more impactful flow and cutting out one sentence. Next up was coming up with my Introduction. I asked her if there was anything specific I needed to have in it, and she sent me over some examples. I felt just as nervous for this as I apparently don’t think I know what I’m doing unless someone is standing over me telling me I’m doing it right (is this my problem with math?) but I told myself if I could do the POI, I could do the intro, and who knows? Maybe I’d surprise myself. I started on the steps I knew I could do, started compiling parts of it, and then just wrote. I read it over, added an extra sentence, then put it with the piece. I sent it over to Sarah—and am currently still awaiting her opinion—and as soon as I sent it, the overwhelming sense of being capable washed over me.
Who have I been to assume I can’t do things?
Where the hell did that even come from?
I’m sure if I tried hard enough, I could pinpoint it, and I’m sure it’s from my super-fun childhood that’s job security for my therapist, but I don’t feel I need to. What’s important is that I realize I am capable, and being gentle with myself to guide her through these opportunities where I’m stepping into it all.
Hopefully she likes the intro, and if not, I’ll learn from it and try again. I still have a persuasive speech to write (and memorize…el oh el.) but I feel a little more secure in that since I’ve done one before and have some semblance of understanding with it.
Now that I’ve got it assembled, I hope I do this piece justice.
1988- 