Five-Minutes

It's May 2010. I'm 32 years old. I hear "Lily!" yelled over the mic. I scan the room to cheer on the other Lily in the room. My eyes lock with my friend, who I reluctantly agreed to meet at this jewelry store open mic. She yells from across the room, "B, that's you"! Me? What? Why? I didn't agree to do this. I'm here to get my mind over the pirate dude I allowed to live with me for almost a year rent-free while he got his life together, ONLY to have him rob me blind and drive me to a mental hospital. I did not sign up to perform, is what I was thinking.

What actually came out of my mouth was a bunch of less than colorful language. Most of it resisting the idea of speaking on a mic in front of a bunch of strangers. The host interrupts our back and forth by saying, "it's only five minutes, everyone here is family, no one will judge you." No one will judge me? Family? Lady, do you even know my family? They're the most judgmental people I know. Do you know the emotional and psychological damage that can be done in five minutes? Why do you think I left home when I was 15 years old? Of course, I didn't say any of this either.

Instead, I take the mic while the encouraging words of both of these women fade into the background. I look up at the audience, terrified. What am I possibly going to talk about? A story? Storytelling? What does that even mean? I don't tell stories about my life. I am a nobody, so why would anyone want to hear what I have to say? Look at them judging me. They've most definitely noticed the fresh vertical scar from my left palm down my wrist from three months ago. Or not, I don't know. In any case, it's whatever, I mean, look at me, I'm not traditionally beautiful.

My teeth, ugh, my teeth. They look like someone punched them out from the inside. My mom could never afford to get us dental care. Immigrants working in factories aren't afforded the luxury. Then I got pregnant at 16 and never got around to it for myself. These people definitely don't want to hear me talk. Even if they find it in their heart to do so, their focus will be on my crooked teeth. So they won't even be listening to me, or worse, they'll just tune me out and pretend they are. Who wants to listen to ugly, poor me? Let's not even get into my body. I'm riddled with stretch marks on my stomach that I'm hiding under this top, which is also meant to hide how big I am. I can't even get my hair to look good. I flash straightened it to conceal my frizzy, curly hair, and now you can see all the dead ends. They're all judging you. Get off the stage, loser. No one wants to hear what a poor Mexican woman from the West side of Chicago has to say.

What felt like an hour of thoughts barreling through my mind is only seconds. But then, I'm interrupted by my friend reminding me that I tell great stories. "Share the one about your son," she yells from across the room.

My son, I miss my son. He lives with dad. Maybe none of this would have happened if I had never let his dad take him when he turned 13 last year. I would have never felt the need to get a roommate, and that roommate would not have stolen all the money I had so he could buy drugs he planned to sell. I have to get out of here. It's only five minutes. Here goes nothing. The worst that could happen is that I fail and go back home to my depressed state and wait for the world to swallow me whole or that I die of malnutrition. I lost all faith and hope and had checked out of life. I was just waiting for it all to end.

I speak…fast. I share a story about my son putting cat feces in the bag of a bully who spits into his food during their 8th grade trip to Washington DC. She continued to pick on him. After no one would come forward as a witness to her bullying my son, he took matters into his own hands. He together with a team of other bullied kids decided to concoct their own Oceans 11 type scheme where they were able to get these feces into her bag. Now, because the story had to be about me, I shared with the audience how I came to discover the news of this happening and how I got to curse in the principal's office defending my son's actions. He was a straight-A student, and I was not about to let them expel him that day, mere weeks before his 8th grade graduation. I ended the story by saying how much I love my son and how happy I was that I did something else in my life that mattered to someone besides me.

I handed the mic to the host and ran out the door. I was followed outside by a woman who wanted to thank me for sharing that story. Then another came out, noticed me, and told me how great that story was. It felt good. They didn't care about the scar on my wrist or teeth or frizzy hair. They all wanted to connect with me, this poor Mexican woman from Humboldt Park. I decided right then and there that I would return the following month. I shared stories religiously for two years before producers of other shows came to seek me out to share stories at their shows. Before I knew it, my life had changed. What I felt about myself changed. Thoughts of not being enough stopped taking up so much space in my head. My relationships with people and the world around me became better. I learned to respect and set boundaries and, most importantly, to meet people where they are in order to understand them better. Storytelling didn't just change my life; it saved it. Which is why I'm forever committed to it. Storytelling is that citizen that pushed me from in front of that train that was sure to kill me. I'm forever indebted to it. Therefore, I live to help people discover their stories and share them in any containers they see fit.

As a story editor and producer (what!) I make it a point to help people tell the stories that will show the world who they are and WHY they are who they are. If my life could be drastically changed by discovering why I have to believe more people like me are scanning rooms, they don't think they belong in, unaware they have so much more to offer the world. One day, I will be selling out stadiums where I'm featuring all of these voices. Or better yet, they will discover their voices and live abundantly from them; however, they decide they want to start to share their stories after taking my classes or listening to my podcast. There is nowhere I go where I don't leave people better than where I found them. I don't squander opportunities, and everything I am is a direct result of that. For Pete's sake, my son is a scientist! I made that, with NOTHING to my name but my name. Imagine what I can do given a little something to work with. I could be of service to and save more lives.

A membership to memberful will only help me get to where I am going a lot sooner. This, in turn, only allows me to reach more people before they decide they too decide they want to check out. Let's save the world together. One story at a time.