Since I’ve been laid off, I’ve been trying to catch JJ (I call her JJ … it’s an endearment … really!) whenever the opportunity arises. If I’m home from an interview or writing a cover letter, some of what she says floats into my head. She is the queen of the slow-burn, that one. About a week ago, she said “This story is so old I can’t even hear myself when I tell it.”
Brilliant.
Don’t get me wrong, the idea of folks abandoning our legal system to be shouted at by a retired family court judge makes my teeth hurt just as much as yours. But JJ is more than a guilty pleasure. She’s what Richard Hugo would call a Triggering Town. She’s the spark. She sets stuff in motion. Stuff like this:
1. “We all get what we deserve.”
Being a tour actor with the Missoula Children’s Theatre is fairly grueling. You drive into a small town with a tour partner, audition local kids on Monday night, cast 50 of them, rehearse after school for a couple of hours throughout the week, and at the end of the week you and those 50 kids perform a full-fledged musical, come hell or highwater. In every town, you work with a different accompanist. One of the last things you do in dress rehearsal is to teach the kids (and the accompanist) the curtain call. Very simple: the chorus bows, the leads bow, you (and your tour partner) throw a bow to the accompanist who bows. You (and your as-exhasted-as-you-are partner) don’t bow. You bow with the company. Usually, the accompanist would demur in some way. Accompanists are generally shy people. Especially in small towns. But one of my wiser tour partners would always say, “No! You bow! You must bow! We all get what we deserve.” I struggle with this one a bit, frankly. Recently that same man had brain surgery. He’s okay now, but he certainly didn’t deserve that.
2. “I’m not stupid.”
Working at Brush Ranch Camp was one of those magical jobs. Every day I woke up not knowing what type of day I was going to have. I was constantly surprised. Most of the surprises were delightful. In my late twenties I found myself snuggled in the middle of some of the most breathtaking country, breathing really fresh air, being fed three meals a day (and a snack) and every six days I spent a day in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Sign me up, right? My various duties included being a designated driver for the entire outfit. Thanks to my spotless record, and my extensive experience with MCT, I was one of the few staff members who drove the campers, the trucks, the vans and the buses. I also co-ordinated the airport trips. The camp was two hours from the Albuquerque Airport, so every term we’d have a day where we met kids at the airport, packed their bags onto a flatbed truck and transported the campers, sans baggage, to the camp. Their luggage would usually arrive a half-hour later, just in time for them to swim and unpack and settle down for their first night away from home. I usually drove the campers, my friend Mikey usually drove the luggage truck. Except for the time I left the airport with about 20 kids and didn’t realize the key to the luggage truck was in my pocket until I was almost home. This was before the days of cell phones. Two hours back to the airport, two hours back to the camp. The campers were really cool about it. But when I saw my boss, I said, “I feel so stupid, and I hate that.” She said, “If you don’t want to feel stupid, you should stop doing stupid things.” Whenever my self-esteem takes a hit, “I’m not stupid,” becomes a bit of a mantra.
3. “Don’t talk when I’m talking.”
For seven years I taught English at Thomas A. Edison High School—another amazing job. Edison is a small, private school devoted to teaching students with learning differences. Many of the students have auditory processing issues. Some have Attention Deficit Disorder. Edison was the first place I ever encountered Asperger’s Syndrome. I spent hours with kids that had been hit with the double whammy of adolescence and autism. It was one of the more inspirational things I’ve done in my life. The first few days of every school year were the hardest. There’s that awkward first day thing hanging in the air. There’s that awkward “Gee you’ve grown so much I didn’t recognize you,” thing with returning students. But mostly, there’s a lot of ground rule making and breaking. In retrospect, I wish I had a dollar for every time I explained to someone that, if they were talking when I was talking, neither of us would be able to hear the other person.
4. “Don’t lie to me. You’re changing the story.”
Every person who appears on JJ has to write something. She frequently refers to it as the “statement” or “answer.” She’ll say, “That’s not what you wrote in your answer.” She does this when she is trying to trap people in what she calls a lie. And she’s a pretty good lie detector. In fact, she frequently calls herself a “truth machine.” But in these cases, I find myself empathising with the litigants. For the past dozen or so years, my primary challenge in crafting creative non-fiction is to try to justify the story I have in my head with the story I see on the page. Sometimes I get it right. But sometimes I have to change the story. I understand I’m given license to do that. It’s an agreement I enter into with anyone that reads my work. They want a story. I want … well, I want a good story. One that won’t bore them. The problem with the litigants on Judge Judy (and frankly, this gets JJ a little hot under her lacey collar) is that the untruths they tell are patently transparent. And most of them are harmful to either their case or their defense. They are so wrapped up in their story that they can’t see the harm it’s causing. My first rule of thumb … do no harm. We’ve covered this before.
5. “You want this to be fair. Let me tell you something: life’s not fair.”
I’ve been dealing with fairness for a long time—this recent flirtation with unemployment not withstanding. Working in the theater is not conducive to the notion of fairness. Neither is writing, in my humble opinion. And neither is being laid off. No matter how you slice it, being on the receiving end of rejection is just unfair. There is no easy place to lay any blame. It’s just there. It is, in effect, what it is. For the past six weeks I’ve been dealing with a lot of folks who want to tell me how wrong my situation is. How angry they are. How they (they!) feel betrayed. And I suppose if I was a vindictive person I’d be inclined to agree. I’d be angry. I’d be looking for justice. But there isn’t any justice to be found here in rejectionville. It’s just … well, it is what it is. I’m okay with that.
But I have my moments. Even a relatively calm person is allowed a few of those.
The week before I was laid off I had the honor of taking a rather long car trip with an actress friend of mine who also happens to be a marriage counselor. I told her about my fascination with JJ. She was amused, but not enough to watch the show. At any rate, she told me that a very wise colleague has told her that the majority of a counselor’s clients are really looking for judgement of some kind. And her number one job was to not provide any judgement whatsoever. But to listen, offer suggestions, and get the couple (or the person) to move on.
I try not to wallow. I try not to blame. I take the information that is given to me, however slight it may be, and I move on. I think that’s what’s important, actually. To move on. No matter how hard it is.
And I think Judge Judy would agree.