Audience.

So, in two months it will be coming out. My story I wrote about my cars. I was so excited when they told me they chose it out of thousands (yes, they receive several hundred stories a week, which means each month a couple thousand or so). First it went on past the "Trash" pile - which I am sure they have a better word for like "Not What We are Looking For" or "Good try", but we all know what is really meant by that word -- to the "Maybe" pile. And then from from the "Maybe" pile to the "Pursue" pile. And then the editing/rewriting/refining process began.

You want to know the story of my life? Ask Nicole at Guideposts. Between the twenty or so emails we sent back and forth, she got answers that nobody else has ever had, simply because she asked questions that nobody else has ever asked. And then they "formatted" my story to fit their style.

In other words, they completely rewrote my story.

Sigh.

Ok, not completely. But out of the words that are there, maybe 50% of them, possibly less, actually flowed from my pen.

At first, I was really sad. I liked my story. It was, in my mind and those who read it, creative. Working backwards through time, casual little connection here, subtle little change there. How can I even put my name on here, if I didn't write this? I asked myself. Without even finishing reading what was sent to me, I closed Word and walked away. I needed time to process this before I read the rest.

In that week that I didn't think, look, or talk about my story, or um, their story, I realized something. It all comes down to audience. I wrote that story not to be published, but for myself. In fact, I only shared it with six friends or family members. And that was because after writing it for myself I wanted to share the meaning of the story with them rather than the words. And for that audience, and that purpose, my story golden.

Today, however, this story has a new audience: the general public. Not only that, but it has a new method of delivery: a magazine. When I wrote it, I alluded to a lot things. And I knew that the six people I sent it two would know what it meant too, because they know me. But the general public does not know me. And so now the purpose changes. I am no longer writing a creative piece, but I am sharing an experience (or four) that has shown me the love of Christ in my life, of His unfailing faitfulness. And for this, yes, maybe the style needs to be different. More clear. Less hints and more facts. Less creativity and more staight-up-ness. Because at the end, what is my purpose? Is it for my this audience to say, "Wow, what a great writer!"? No. Instead, it is to hopefully help someone out there say, "Wow, what a great God!"

So, since the audience has changed the story must change with it. And it did. And I put two cents in here and there and they agreed to my requests, and I signed off on it. I trust it now into their hands because now it belongs to them.

And actually, I like the final product. But I still think my original was better ;)

Unpause.

I am back. At least to my own counrty anyway. As far as me being back to writing, well, I cannot yet make such lofty claims. But I have hit the pause button one more time, this time not pressing it down but releasing it from state of inactivity, where it silently stayed waiting to be allowed back up where it belongs.

(Yes, I am thinking back to the days of tape players and WalkMans. Or would that be Walk Men? I am a child of the 80's. What can I say?)

Pause.

As you might have been able to tell, my project has been put on hold for the Christmas season. There is no need to set unreal expectations just to be disappointed with myself when I won't meet them -- because I won't. But come 2011, I will be back, and in a strong way! I plan to have the rough draft done by Spring Break so that I can spend a few hours each day revising/rewriting.

Wow.

Spring Break seems so close... so much to do. And too soon. I almost don't know if I want this phase to end. Because this phase (the keeping my writing to myself phase) is safe. But I guess I write so I can share, so when I get to that point I will be ready. At least, I hope.

And until then... time to enjoy some hot chocolate and Christmas tunes!

Memory.

I sat down to write today. I knew what I wanted to write about and what I wanted to say... or so I thought.

But as I was writing, I was thinking, "Man, do I even care about this?" The words would not come, and the pictures that came to my mind were, well, boring. So I closed the computer and left it alone.

Later, after I had decided I was going to scratch this part of the story out all together -- I mean, really, who besides me (and maybe Lisa and Zack) would even notice? Nobody.

A few hours later, ready to go at it again, I turned on my computer again, unsure of where to go from there. So I did what I always do when I am not sure what comes, or should come, next: I opened my blog from then.

There, before me, was the first hand account of what I was attempting to write earlier. But this time it was full of emotion, full of excitement, full of life. And this time it was accurate. What I had remembered and tried to write earlier was so different than what had actually happened. I mean, the main ideas were the same, but the details, the order, the emotion... completely different. After reading it, refreshing my brain to the reality that WAS and what I thought it was, I became inspired to write.

This time, the words flowed, the children had faces, the people had voices. And the question that I asked earlier, "Why do I ever care about this?" suddenly had an answer. I cared because this experience had a part in shaping my experience there, and therefore had a part in shaping me.

Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin. ~Barbara Kingsolver

Something New.

I just finished chapter ten, and for the first time, I want to share what I have written. This is the first time I have done this, and probably will be the last time (hey, I want you to get the book for yourself, right???). However, I think ten is a very good number, and so to celebrate, I share with you. Please remember: this is my first draft, not my revised or edited draft. There will be typos, and there are areas to improve, so when you do read my book it will probably look a lot different, but for now, this is how it stands.

CHAPTER 10

I almost killed Mr. Dalupan.
I didn’t mean to, I swear. All I was trying to do was get an honest answer to an honest question, but somehow that turned into something way bigger than I was expecting.
Lisa, along with the student association officers, had planned a banquet for the high school student body. The partition walls separating my classroom from the sixth grade room on one side and the seventh grade room on the other (yes, fifth grade was smack dab in the middle… don’t ask me why, it never made sense to me either) were taken down and a big “multi-purpose room” was created. Streamers and balloons decorated the space and candles lit up the tables, along with confetti and plasticware. A beautiful banquet hall had been created and we were ready to celebrate love, infatuation, and whatever else it is you are supposed to celebrate at high school dating functions.
We girls, as mature and grown up as we were, felt the excitement, too. Clothes were being traded, tried on, and traded again, as we looked for something “formal” in the midst of all our worn out clothes. Instead of donning my usual cotton skirt and simple $7 Old Navy bargain t-shirt, I took a black skirt out of my dresser drawer and borrowed a pink top from Julia. With the right sandals on my feet and a black camisole peeking out from the V-neck of the shirt, I looked more put together than I had in several weeks. Amanda heated up the curling iron (that probably had been used once in the past six months) and opened up her bag of make-up (that had probably been used never since she arrived on Ebeye), and the beauty shop was open. Up-dos, down-dos, all kinds of hair-dos and make-up too; this was a nice change in our routine. Finally ready and needing to go join Lisa to help put the finishing touches on the oh-so-romantic classroom-turned-dining-hall, I headed out the door feeling beautiful for the first time in a long time.
That didn’t last so long.
It started with the first person I passed. Instead of the usual, “Yokwe!” and a smile, I got a stare that lingered long after I passed by. The next lady to pass – same thing. Not to say I didn’t get any smiles, I did. But they were from the men who smiled and stared, smiled some more and stared some more. With my eyelashes black with mascara and my skin smoothed out by foundation, I guess I didn’t look like there. Quickly I rushed on to the school, grateful to be out of the spotlight and into a place where I knew I belonged.
Clearly, the students knew the “warm” reception they would receive on the street if they walked to school all done up. One by one they filed in wearing basketball shorts and t-shirts, carrying plastic bags. And then, as if trained, the boys went in one direction, the girls in another, and they pulled their dresses and slacks out of the plastic bags and helped one another get ready. About an hour after the official start time, the banquet started and the fun began.
Being a faculty sponsor of any teenage activity has its highlights -- watching the hormone-driven young people trying to act smooth despite a rapid heart rate can provide hours of entertainment. But being a faculty sponsor an activity filled with Marshallese teenagers is even better. Take all the hormones that young people naturally possess and drop them into a culture where dating couples never hold hands in public or even share the fact they are dating, and everything (and I mean everything) is secret when it comes to liking someone of the opposite sex, and you have instant fun. To see otherwise confident seventeen year old boys sitting shyly next to the girl they had invited, desperately trying to find a way not be teased by others while still desperately trying to impress the young woman, priceless. Out of all the talent show acts, none could compare to simply people watching. This was true entertainment.
Finally, after the banquet was long over and the students had helped dismantle the banquet hall and turn it back into three respective classrooms, we said goodnight and parted ways. This time, however, it was the basketball shorts in the plastic bags instead of the prom dresses.

“I have a table missing from my classroom. If anybody has an extra one in their classroom that wasn’t there before the banquet, can you let me know? That would be great.”
There it is. My honest request shared at staff meeting the following afternoon. A table that was in my classroom before the mass destruction of classrooms was missing. All I wanted to do was put my already limited supplies back where they belonged. I was expecting someone to say, “Oh, yeah. I have it my classroom. Feel free to come and get it.” Or maybe even, “I think we put in over there…” as they pointed in the direction of “over there”. What I was not expecting was the top of Mr. Dalupan’s partially bald head turning incredibly red as he started leaning forward, his face contorting into a look of pain or anger. Maybe both.
“No table belongs to you. These are not your tables,” he growled. “Nobody stole your table.”
Shocked and utterly confused, I couldn’t figure out what was going on. I had just asked for help in locating the table that was there yesterday and was not there today. One that Abra, the maintenance man, had made per my special request so that my students had a place to work on puzzles in the back of the room when they were finished with their work. Trying to hide the quiver in my voice, I responded, “I understand that the table does not belong to me, but it does belong in my room. So, if anybody knows where it is, please let me know.” Quietly I added, “Thank you.”
Mr. Dalupan, however, was not satisfied with that response. Growing even redder, and with face scrunching up even more (which I didn’t know was possible), he continued on. “You come in here and think these tables are yours, and they are not. And then you put stickers on your tables. You are not supposed to put your stickers on tables! Stickers do not belong on tables!”
Now I was completely confused. First of all, other than the table that was MIA, I had no tables in my classroom. Even if I did, I would never put stickers on them. Surely he must have had me confused with somebody else, right?
“Mr. Dalupan, I am not sure what you are talking about. I haven’t put any stickers on tables. I’m sorry, I don’t think…”
“YOU PUT THE STICKERS ON THE TABLES!”
Oh boy, he was mad. So was I.
“No. I did not. Why would I put stickers on tables? I don’t even have tables except for one, and that one is missing. And it has not stickers on it.”
Drop. Dead. Silence. Around tables in the library, everybody sat quietly, looking down at their hands or picking at tape that was left by some art project in years gone by. Finally Zack broke the silence with a suggestion to pray and dismiss. As I closed my eyes for prayer I tried to go over in my head what had just happened, to figure this out. But I couldn’t. All I could do was think about how wonderful it would be if I could just click my ruby red slippers and be safe in my home, where people do not yell at other about that things that make no sense. But I had no ruby red slippers, and even if I did, this was not Oz. This was Ebeye, a tiny island with 15,000 people crammed together, yet I was alone.
One by one everyone made light chit chat as they filed out of the library toward home. Keeping myself as cool as possible, I laughed a little with Aye and Lisa about the banquet the night before and then bade them farewell saying I had papers to grade which they all knew was a total lie. Quickly I sprinted up the steps, pulled out my key and threw open the door, turning to lock it behind me. I needed some space and I knew this was the only place I could get it. Since the windows were just large squares in the walls with no glass and just wire to keep people and animals out, I could not completely barricade myself inside my classroom, so I did the next best thing. I crawled under my desk, with back against the cool metal and my feet sticking out on the dirty concrete in front of me, away from the open windows so nobody could see. And then I let the tears flow.
I had intended to sit there and cry until my hearts content, which I had expected to last at least an hour. After all, besides my small amount of tears on the beach a few weeks earlier, I had not actually cried since I had arrived. I had not had a reason to. The weight of everything, however, suddenly pushed down on me all at once. The desire to do the best I could for these kids; the struggle as I adapted to new people and new expectations; the longing for people who knew me inside and out, not just a one and half month version of me. All of this combined with the feeling of failure I unjustly felt. I should not feel guilty for something I didn’t do, I told myself. But I did feel guilty. Even though I did not put stickers on tables, I did clearly offend somebody, and I had no idea why.
That intended hour of solitude, crying it out of my system, however, was cut short. “Miss Tiffany? Miss Tiffany, I know you are in there. Can we talk?” There was really no place I could go to get away from everybody. Crawling out from under my desk while wiping at my tear streaked cheeks, I put on my best smile for I was not ready to face public defeat. I grabbed onto the chair in front of me and clamored up to a standing position. There, at the window, was Mr. Batlok, the Marshallese teacher at our school and an important man on the school board. Not wanting to have a conversation through a hole in the wall, I walked over and unbolted the door. “Miss Tiffany,” he began, “you are not here to make everybody happy. You are here to make sure our children on Ebeye get a good education. We see that you are doing that. We…” with that he swept his hand over the view of the ramshackle houses close together. “We are so grateful for what you are doing here. So please, do not let this discourage you. Mr. Dalupan is not from Ebeye, he does not understand. But I will tell you this: if you need your table back to do what you think is best, we will find your table. If we do not, we can build you another one.” Gently, he reached out and squeezed my shoulder. Then he turned and walked away.
Knowing that I could not go back to hiding under my desk, but also knowing that I could not yet go home and face all of the people who saw my public melt down, I went down the stairs and hailed a taxi-truck. For 50cents I found my solitude in driving around the island in circles for about an hour, grateful that Marshallese people by nature are not nosy and everybody pretended my puffy face was normal.

Later that night, after Lisa came and found my in my room with the lights off, headphones in my ears, trying to separate myself from the world for one last moment, I found out a couple of things. First, my table was actually in Mr. Dalupan’s room, and for some reason he thought I knew that and was trying to point that out in my question. This didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I accepted it as it was. And then I took my table back.
Second, by “stickers on tables” he meant “nametags on desks”. That being so, yes, I was guilty of “putting stickers on tables”, and I do not apologize for it. Children like having a place of their own, and teachers like having control over the seating arrangements. I guess it is just a difference between American and Filipino teaching styles.
Last, but not least, I found out that Mr. Dalupan had gone to the hospital. His blood pressure had spiked and they had him under observation to make sure he didn’t have a heart attack. Apparently I was not the only one stressed out after the meeting.
Oops.

Blood.

I just finished talking with my biological dad, second time in the past two months after a break of most of my life. And what do I find out? That this crazy, outlaw biker dude, who has spent most of his life behind bars therefore resulting in me never really having the chance to know him, writes. He is a writer. And what am I working on? A book. And getting short stories published. And then I find out my grandma is a published author. And a chill went up my spine and tears sprang to my eyes. For the first time, besides the love of pancakes, I have found something that I KNOW came from him. And suddenly I love him more.


"The best writing is when nobody wants to beat you up when they finish reading it. That is a good start. But it is really good if they are still thinking about it at two in the morning. Then you know that you wrote gold."
~Arthur "Coyote" Adams (AKA my dad)

Love.

Two Saturdays ago I was asked to share at church. The question to which I was to respond to, with a 8 minute answer, was this: How has Jesus, through others, taught you to love well? And for all my thinking of people in my life and experiences I have lived through, the story of Rickonson (see my last post) was the one that did it for me. That was the story I had to share, and I knew it.

Paulo asked me several weeks ago what I do when I am in the shower. He pointed out that during the rest of the day I am speaking, whether for my job or for my hobby (as we all know that talking is one of my favorite activities ;) ). And well, I didn't know. I had never thought about it. But I figured out my answer. I preach sermons in my head. I say things to myself that I wish I could say to others but do not have the platform nor the guts to say. So, when I was given this task, I formed my talk over several days while I was in the shower.

I think the reason I like to do this is because not only do I get to speak but I get to listen. And God often has some pretty interesting things to say to me.

Like, for instance, with the story of Rickonson... What was his greatest desire? To keep my love. What was his greatest fear? To lose that love. And really, Tiffany, is that any different than any other person on the face of the earth? No. And again I say, No. We as humans crave love beyond all else. More than money, more than fancy food or any food, really. Some people suggest that we seek after love AFTER our basic needs our met. But I suggest that love IS a basic need.

And isn't it amazing that the great desire, the one thing that all humanity seeks after, can be found in only one place... God. Because God is love. Not that he HAS love, or POSSESSES love, but he IS love. Not "loving" or "full of love". No. He is love. Like I am flesh and my dresser is wood, God is love.

Here is where we fit in. With Christ living in us, with LOVE dwelling in us, we have the answer for the great desire of all people. We are the carriers of the Holy Spirit, this Spirit that is manifested in love, and we are to share that love with one another. How dare we call ourselves by the name of Christ if we do not have love! Christ is so clear -- "They will know you are my disciples if you love one another."

So, that is how Jesus used a little boy to teach me how to love others well. And that was the message I shared that morning in church. Afterwards several people came to me and thanked me for what I shared. Someone told me I should be a pastor (Um, no thanks) and others told me that I brought tears to their eyes. I am grateful that God could speak this to me through my experiences and through my shower time so that I have a story to share with others. Someone else said, "That was great! You had plot and a climax, you left us wondering what was going to happen next and you kept us engaged the entire time. You know, you should write a book about these experiences!"

Why, thank you! I think I will ;)