What’s in a name
This week Wharf Room Comedy was canceled due to a private function at the restaurant. I decided that it was a perfect opportunity for me to drive to Los Angeles and take in a Moth StorySLAm. I’ve been listening and following The Moth for some time; before I had an iPod or before there were podcasts. http://www.themoth.org/about
As a southern woman with a lot of experiences; storytelling has been my natural outlet. Whether it be here, in a book or, on stage at the comedy club. I’ve been telling stories at cocktail parties whenever I get the chance. Of course these stories are edited in an effort to save the guilty and/or the innocent and to protect my own privacy as a child survivor of poverty, abuse, addiction and homelessness. Inserting protective pronouns and jokes and changing names can be difficult. However, over time as I grew and as I matured I found that outing myself was much more liberating than just carrying around nameless stories. So my blog was born.
I found a hotel in Venice that seemed affordable but Dr. B insisted on cheaper. So, I found a hotel in Santa Monica that was $67 a night. We arrived after a long rainy drive from San Francisco. We found the hotel situated in a quiet residential neighborhood. I knocked on the glass window of the Motel office as instructed by the sign; the sign that also read, No PROSTITUTION and things like that. The guy that answered was sleeping and quite possibly masturbating. Otherwise why would a night desk clerk nap with no pants?
We checked into room 4 of 12 and entered into our teeny tiny room with a double bed, one overhead light and a door that barely locked. How discomfiting is a sliding glass door in a room the size of a prison cell? Very much discomfiting.
We slept through the night uncomfortably. I awoke on Monday in a pissy mood and not quite accepting the fact that I willingly wanted to come to LA. I also was having a hard time with the fact that I might have to perform on a stage where I’ve never performed and, in front of people who do not know me. This is the case most nights that I do stand-up but, for some reason this felt different. I was going to tell a very personal story about how I came to be named Chantel.
Dr. B and I arrived for the event at 6:30 and we were not the first people in line. The doors opened and the Supperclub filled up efficiently. I put my name in the hat still unsure if I actually wanted them to draw my name and I returned to my seat and to my rum punch. My name was called on the third or fourth draw.
So I told my story.
I’ll give you the short version. After a long line of traditional names where all middle names were Lee, or Thomas, or Michael or Kaye; my mother named me Chantel. Then I inserted a couple of musing’s about how its possible I wasn’t even related to everyone in my family because my mother might have been sleeping around while Dad was off in Vietnam. Then I told how my family was upset because it wasn’t a traditional christian white girl name. Except, I said the bad N word. I did it on purpose because its important to the story. Its important in ways that cannot be explained unless you’ve lived in a poor white racist family and been teased about having a N name. The crowd was still with me. I told about some of the hardships I’ve overcome and finally why my mother might have chosen this particular name. She simply chose it because she wanted something different. That’s it, no big story, no extensive explanation. In her heartbreak of losing her husband, leaving her home and being forced to live with her Mother and Father back in Ohio until I was born. Its simple, she just wanted something different. I ended the story in a small tribute to the lady who took over Mom duties for me when I was in my early thirties after my mom died.
The crowd roared with cheers.
Then my scores came down and one judge gave me such a low score it could have only been for one reason. I used the dreaded N word. A word that should never ever be uttered by a white woman who drove here from San Francisco. Too bad, but I still stand by my word choice and the crowd did too because they boo’d the judges. Of course I could have wasted precious storytelling time being PC and beating around the bush of such racial insensitivity. However, I chose, I threw it out there; I took the dagger. Telling the truth is not racists – avoiding those truths often have explosive consequences.
That night Dr. B took me to dinner on Sunset Strip and we ate steaks while watching a mechanical bull riding competition. We are so damn romantic. I had a great time. I made a lifelong goal happen. Dr. B has ordered back to Los Angeles as much as possible to attend Moth SLAms but; there is always a down side.
I have allergies. Allergies that are often stress related but have manifested in food. I return to San Francisco with a burning swollen face, itchy eyes and breathing difficulties. How can I relate to you how bad this allergy is right now? I take 6 Claritin a day or 4 Claritin and 1 Benadryl depending on how bad my face is swollen.
So here I am, on stage, swollen itchy face – saying the N word.
I’m addressing my food allergies starting this week. I’ll be eating plain chicken and plain rice for 7 days. As well as simply avoiding stress inducing situations until my face no longer looks like a nuclear waste dump.
It would seem that I have a nut allergy. After 2 months, hundreds of dollars in allergy medicine, cream, ointment and co-pays – I might have pinpointed the problem. Yesterday I had a sandwich. Yes a sandwich took me down. A sandwich made with oat nut bread. Hey oat nut bread – you’re a mother fucker.