I like a good story. Even when my idea of a good story was a Baby-sitters' Club book (Logan Bruno, where are you?), I could usually be found with my head in a book, or eavesdropping on my parents and their friends talk about the old days, or making up something close enough to truth that my friends would probably believe it.
When I worked at The Freedom Archives, so much of my work was about connecting stories of struggle and resistance to the stories we were living in that moment. The idea that we could learn directly from someone else's stories and use that wisdom to change the stories our decendents will tell about us is what made me feel so solid in that work.
I get into trouble sometimes because I sense connections between other peoples' stories and my own - except the connections are sometimes stronger in my mind than they end up being on my lips. One of my goals for myself, especially given my recent vocabulary challenges, is to get tighter on my stories and connections, if nothing more than to make it easier on the loved ones who are listening.
Today I heard a lot of good stories - Spanish-speaking pitbulls, strawberry-blonde raccoons, BART-starers, 90s Detroit TV commercials, and Hawaiian mold. I'm sure I'll find myself repeating them sometime soon, vaguely connected to someone else's story. But that's what keeps us connected, reminded that we're not running solo out there, and there's always something to laugh about.
This rambling message is brought to you by 3:14am, cerveza Sol, and accidental late-afternoon naps. Word.
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