"My Late Father" by Emily_Fairy1432

As usual, he was late. I stood on the line marked with the number 7 and watched as the once completely full parking lot became increasingly less and less full. As each car drove by me and out towards the road that would take them home, I became extremely irritated by the fact that I should be sitting in the warmth of my dad’s car with my usual peppermint mocha in hand, but instead, there I was standing in the cold with the other lost and forgotten children. I had actually gotten to know those kids quite well as some of them were regulars to the late line just like me. As each minute passed by, my backpack got heavier and my legs got colder as I had made the not-so-smart decision to wear the short socks that day instead of the long ones. I could feel my plaid skirt blowing up from the wind and I watched as it happened to every other girl standing out there, we were all exactly the same, just how St. Joe’s liked it. I waited and waited until finally, twenty minutes later, I saw the oh so familiar red ford escape skrrt around the corner and speed into the now empty parking lot. I would say it took him a brick to get there, but it felt more like a brick and a half to me. I looked at my teacher, who knew the car right away from the amount of times she had seen me get in it late, and she gave me the go-ahead nod for me to proceed, with caution of course, to my ride.

I hopped into the car, took a sip of my coffee, and said, “Well, while we’re still young! Get me out of this prison or convent or school or whatever you people call it these days,” and on that note, he took the usual route and zoomed off towards the road. I was planning on yelling at him, but I did that yesterday and I was so exhausted so I just asked, “Was it golf or a conference call?” to which he answered, “Both.”. Did I know what he meant by this? Of course not, but I didn’t have the energy to care either. This routine was getting very tiring and also very cold as we were just about to break up for the “Holiday” Break (it used to be called Christmas break until the principal realized one Jewish family went to school there so they changed it to Holiday). I told my dad his new year's resolution should be to stop being late when picking me up and he just avoided the topic and told me to go change the radio station to Alt Nation. That’s one thing I will never understand.  How could someone be twenty minutes late to pick up their only daughter, not bring her food, and then tell her change the radio station… TO ALT NATION?! Preposterous. Nowadays, I don’t mind a little Alt Nation here or there but way back in the good ole 7th grade days, I would have rather ripped my ears off. We finally got home another ten to fifteen minutes later and my coffee was already finished. I sprinted inside to take the medieval looking plaid skirt and dark green sweater from hell with the small St. Joe’s logo on the front off of my body. Wow, made it before 4:15, impressive. I finally sat down on the couch in my sweatpants and sweatshirt, did my homework, and ate dinner. Then all of a sudden it was 5:45 and I had to get ready for soccer practice where this would happen all...over...again.

Of course, every time my dad was late I was angry. Who wouldn’t be? But looking back on it now it was something I overlooked. His punctuality wasn’t the best, but it was part of who he was and I have recently realized that his punctuality is also a part of who I am. I, like my late father, am never on time for anything, and when I say anything I mean anything. I’m sure people get just as irritated with me as I did with him, but I can’t help it because it’s just they way I work. My dad and I were always closer than my mom and I were just because we were so similar in so many different respects. It was always us two that held us back when we were trying to leave for vacation or one of us that would forget something crucial at home when going somewhere with a time limit. Then, when he died, it was just me. Now it wasn’t us two forgetting something at home, it was me forgetting something at home and having no one to understand where I was coming from. Of course now, my mom and I are extremely close and I know she loves me immensely, but she doesn’t understand me or how I work because she’s not the same. My mom is the type of person to the be the first one at the family christmas party or get to the gate at an airport before the plane even gets there. I on, the other hand, am the type of person who would show up to the family christmas party just as people were leaving and barely make my plane if  I do at all because as the White Rabbit said, “The hurrier I go the behinder I get,”. I never realized how much I needed someone there like me to understand my thought process until that someone wasn’t there any more. So yes, back in the day I got a smidge annoyed, but I would do anything for my dad to pick me up twenty minutes late with no snacks blasting Alt Nation again.

"Fog" by July 3rd

November 29th. Dense fog blurred my vision. The bright christmas lights, once so merry, were dimmed in constrained joy. A mist coated the light hairs that stood straight up on my arms. I didn’t feel the cold, yet I saw my breath coming out in harsh puffs. The stone steps were soaked, feet pruney. I felt my hair curling as I waited, waited, waited. Neighbors began to step outside, staying under their front stoop. Quick, loud, panicked sirens neared.  A blazing red flash appeared at the top of the street. My eyes welled. I waved my arms, frantic to be unveiled. Pulling to the side, the ambulance squealed to a halt. I dashed up the steps into the brightly lit hall. .Neighbors doors began to close, privacy. A mere 15 feet into the house felt like a long stretch of treacherous hills. The stretcher caught on the steps. The futon was pushed out of the way. The file of life was handed over. Dashing to the medicine drawer I plucked the eight bottles.

Short tests were given, dad failed them all. Hushed whispers and pleas erupted from the corners of the living room. I sat down, reluctant to take my eyes off of him. Shuffling to the head paramedic, I answered the basic questions.

The cabinet, a dark wood with a glass door full of Christmas cheer was now the housing for all of the medications. All of the bottles lined up, a transparent, obnoxious orange. Unpronounceable names, botching them all.

Our quite large living room was spilling with people. Some paramedics filtered out into the hall or the family room. More wandered into the kitchen to scope out the extra meds. Two trucks were outside, full of the equipment. I could still see the brightly lit red fog peeking through the blinds.

First they tried the wheelchair, then the stretcher. He ended up at Reston, transferred to Fairfax. Nonetheless, he was at the hospital and being taken care of, something I could not do.

December 2016 Statistics Report

November Statistics Report

HWC Tutor Alum Emma Gallagher's Reflection on the National Storytelling Festival

HWC tutor alum Emma Gallagher had the opportunity to attend and perform a spoken word piece at the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee, this October. Emma is now a first-year Architecture major and Creative Writing minor at Virginia Tech. 

I was lucky to get the chance to attend the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee from Friday, October 7th to Sunday, October 9th. Jonesborough is a quaint town that belongs on a postcard with the sun setting and a couple walking hand in hand towards their happy ending. The town’s population hovers around five thousand and it is known as Tennessee’s oldest town. The immediate area that the storytelling festival was held--Historic Jonesborough-- wasn’t sullied by a McDonalds or a Subway or even a Starbucks. The arguably biggest building in the area was a United Methodist Church, which seemed to be a bit bigger than the school. A walk along the main road would take you to a few locally owned coffee shops, a bunch of boutiques and a lot of antique shops. You passed a ginormous town hall (quite possibly bigger than the church!) and many shops that sold “I <3 Jonesborough” T-shirts or cookies that showed with a little heart where in Tennessee Jonesborough was. In total, walking through this town I got the feeling that everyone knew everyone and town gossip spread faster than the plague.

When I walked into Jonesborough, the second thing I noticed, after than the absolute quaintness of the town, was the sheer number of people who were packed into the streets, on the steps of the town hall and in the tiny antique shops and candy stores. International Storytelling Center President Kiran Singh Sirah said that by October 2nd over eleven thousand people had registered. That’s more than twice the number of people that live in the entire town! So as I walked down the streets, finding it impossible to not bump into people and be bumped into, I marveled at the number of people who still find the first form of history, the first form of entertainment, the first form of communication, important and enjoyable in this day and age.

The way that the storytelling festival works is that there are sessions--time slots-- throughout the day. There are five tents and a theater and you choose which storyteller you want to hear and you go to the tent that they are in during the session that they are there. At the end of the day, you have gone to six or seven different storytellers. The tents that the sessions are held in are huge, white tents fit for a carnival, and they are packed. Some of the tents where the more popular storytellers perform are so packed that people are standing in the back and sitting on the cool ground where the aisles are supposed to be.

The first session that I went to was to see Antonio Sacre share a piece called “High Five Daddy!” This session turned out to be my favorite session of the weekend! Antonio relayed the story of how he met his wife, how she took him out swing dancing, but he was only used to salsa since he was Cuban, so he was bad at that. Then he took secret dancing lessons for three weeks to impress her. He then merged into a story about how his then girlfriend (future wife) loved camping and so he took what he called “secret camping lessons” and spent a fortune on camping supplies and took her not only camping but backpacking. Of course, many mishaps ensued and laughter filled the audience as we related to his mishaps and swooned over his love for his wife. Then he spoke about having their first kid, first family camping trip when the boy was only two years old. He spoke about the second kid and her first camping trip. He spoke about the many camping trips that followed, some rugged, some luxury, some with just the immediate family, some with the entire second grade class. He spoke about the burritos they had for dinner and, of course, the leaking gas that followed. He spoke about the sweet moments like singing their children to sleep and the catastrophic moments like when the clumsy girl tried walking with the last s’more.

What I enjoyed most about Antonio’s stories was not that he could relay in perfect detail the journey to the top of the mountain where the campsite was located, but that he somehow made me wonder, even as I was sitting, listening to his excited voice swing up and then fall gracefully down as if it was traveling the mountains itself, watching his animated body carrying the invisible two-ton backpack and dance a swing-salsa fusion, I still wondered if he was going to make it to the top of the mountain, and if he did, would it kill him to get back down. The way that Antonio told his stories created surprises in the little moments. He uncovered layers of his life and his family so that you felt joy in each detail he revealed.

Going to the storytelling festival changed my perspective not just on storytelling but on writing and living and, mostly, listening. Listening is such a powerful thing in the modern world.  Today, many people listen just to add or reply, but at the storytelling festival, you listen to hear. The only interruption was the train rumbling by. There was not one-upping or comparing of scars. You hear the words of the storytellers and accept them. You hear the words and feel them. You hear the words and are grateful that you got the opportunity to be there when they poured or streamed or shot or oozed out of the storyteller’s mouth.