Santaland Motive

As much as I have been ranting playfully about my Santaland tryouts, there was a very important point that drove the entire mission. It was a simple idea that I hoped would be true. Having just navigated one of the worst years of my life, I decided to give every ounce of hope, compassion and joy to a group of strangers. Maybe by focusing wholeheartedly on bettering the human condition, I would also better my own condition. I needed to remind myself and all those around me that it was ok to dream. I needed to remind myself that even when I felt like I had nothing, I held the ultimate gift, the ability to inspire.

So I used that inspiration in every way possible. I encourged stressed Fathers to join their families, I sweet talked jaded school kids into being a better friend. I asked eight year old girls to cut themselves some slack and to be happy about what they look like rather than wishing desperately for blue eyes. More important than the inspired talks was the listening part. I managed to share enough of myself to allow people to let their own guard down and talk. So I listened and listened like the big man himself.

Today I poked my head in my favorite thrift store to continue my mission of outfitting myself for the city workforce. On the wall were three things of note. First a print of Mr Luther King Jr where he noted to live up to your calling no matter what that calling is. He referenced that if you are called to be a streetsweeper, be the best one you can be. Next to it was a needlepoint noting that sometimes in persuit of a dream, another dream takes flight. And lastly there was a linen angel that was stained and simply marked "as is." There was a poetry there for me to see.

I like to think that I gave it my all this holiday season. I dug deep and gave of myself, trusting the world even after a year of loss. I walked away with the ultimate gift, a co-worker turned friend. That was my gift from Santa, a friend that accepts you for who you are. Thanks Santa.

Santaland part 3

So Jingle Jangle boy seemed to get us all threatened, including a miniature trio of Latininis who flaunted their lack of stature. "I am soooo ashamed to have to like write 4foot eight for height." Show off. I was monsterous compared to them. I felt like I was back on the public bus in Padangsedimpuan, Indonesia with a chicken on my lap. Rolling around on a pile of coconuts because I was deemed "Basar." Which I believe transates to 'grace of an elephant.' I wanted to be svelt and elfinlike but not around these three whose giagantic earrings made them appear even smaller. They pushed their way to the front of the Santaland line up stating loudly and repeatidly, "I can't see. I can't see anything." Yeah we got it the first time.

A drill sargent of a manager yelled at us, "who believes in Santa!" She scared the heck out of me but I managed a hand up. She obviously didn't see it or maybe just wanted to show the torture she could let loose on a non believer. I noted that I did in fact raise my hand, so she retorted by making fun of how I raised my hand. Wasn't merry enough, I guess. Should have poked out my neighbor's eye in the name of Claus. I gave thought to jumping at her feet and yelling "I believe! I believe! Amen!" But then I pictured her tying me to the creepy talking tree and leaving me there for the season as Jingle Jangle and the three amigas threw candy canes at my head. Better let her have this one.

I skated through the tag team interview, speaking as loudly as I could. I was judged elfin enough and put into a top secret survey room. Jingle Jangles was nowhere to be seen. Did he get lost in the maze? I mean it is a one way system, but his earlier panic had me concerned that he might have accidently got his head stuck in a dry cleaning bag or something.

to be continued...

Secret Santaland Thank You

It would have been far easier to just write David Sedaris a thank you note, but that isn’t my style. Instead, I decided to do a silent act of solidarity by walking in his shoes through Santaland. I am not, by all means the first to do this. I was in fact at times up to my elbows with elf hopefuls clutching copies of ‘Holiday’s On Ice,’ and mugging in front of Envy’s or I-phones. Anyone doing a solitary pilgrimage that seems like martyrdom would hope that his or her reasoning is unique, and I am no different. My reason goes back many years to my graduation from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Mr. Sedaris was our commencement speaker and an alumnus of our school. Only an alumnus of our exceptionally conceptual school would be able to see the humor in our present situation: we are being sent into the world with very few real world skills, but an amazing ability to not only notice, but also to discuss the quality of ambient light. His examples brought us through stories of all of his dead end jobs that he did to make ends meet while he kept making his art. He made us belly laugh at our nonconformist ways. We were a unique group, and we should not change now that we are entering “the world after art school.” We laughed and cheered as he made us all feel like we had made the right decision to follow our hearts. Our parents shifted uneasily as he spoke of economic hardships and looming student debt, but in the end he functioned as a catalyst as only a humorist like he can. He was a hero to all.

You see many of us were nearly or completely disowned upon entering the ranks of art school. It does not matter that it is a well-recognized school with famous graduates. It is a sizable thorn on many a family tree and mine is no exception. I made the move from an otherwise stable double major in business to skidding out of control to the most conceptual art school in the nation. How does one shift from economics to art? Well, you could point the finger at many of my observant professors who encouraged my studies in the areas of philosophy and art history, but it was that damned art appreciation teacher who was the straw that broke the camels back, or in this case broke the piggy bank on my Wall Street career. I was well on my way to being a business suit wearing wonder woman before that teacher came along.

I used to play banker as a child, raiding the monopoly money for the vault. I would give advise to our family lawyer about money market accounts by age 12. While in high school, I predicted that the stock market would crash due to insider trading. The week I turned in my term paper a sobering headline said it all, my prediction had come true. My AP Composition teacher didn’t know whether I was a prophet or an inside trader, but regardless she made me sit down and write a disclaimer. I was expecting a hero’s welcome as I sauntered into class Wall Street Journal in hand, but instead I was made to write an excuse letter. I was supposed to play dumb. Had I missed the point? No, I think I got it loud and clear.

The question of ethics reared its head again after I had put in a couple years in University. I sat through my Business Ethics final watching “our best and brightest” cheat their way through the exam. That pretty much told me all I needed to hear. When that art appreciation teacher made note of my passionate words about art and coaxed a painting out of me, she then turned to me and asked the fatal question, “What are you doing in business school?” I know that is the question she asked, but what I heard was “run for your life! If they are cheating in an ethics class you are screwed!” So that took me merrily down Michigan Avenue to SAIC.

I think you can guess what came out of my Mom’s mouth, a few things that I would rather not share on this otherwise festive night. Next came the deathly guilt ridden silence that seems to run in our Irish veins. The silent guilt lasted me through art school up to the graduation that she nearly boycotted. That is where our dear friend Mr. Sedaris comes in again. Most of us in the graduating class had worked our tails off and our families were mad at us. There is no hoopla to go along with art school, and especially not this one. You either understand why you make this life choice or you don’t. It is as simple as that. Mr. Sedaris got it and was making something of it. He was a bridge between our families and us as fledgling artists.

So this 36-day act of martyrdom is a small price to pay for the help he gave us on graduation day. I will save my Santaland saga for Christmas day, as tonight I am still nursing a cold that doesn’t quit. Merry Christmas to all and to all…