The Moth, the ocean, and the field
Telling stories on a stage in front of three hundred people and swimming in cold water have a lot in common. In both cases first you dread it, then you do it, and afterwards you love it.
Over the last six months, I’ve put my name in the hat at The Moth’s Story Slam and been picked to tell a story four times. One is never guaranteed a slot on stage, and so each time I come prepared to tell my story, but also resigned to the possibility of my name not being called. You may sit through other people’s stories with your story untold. Like when preparing to enter cold water, when sitting in the audience with your story rehearsed and ready to go, your heart races in anticipation of the shock of hearing your name called.
Moth events have a particular structure. Five minutes. No notes. Have to be true. And have to be you. The Story Slams have a particular format as well. Ten people get picked at random out of a hat, and each is scored by three sets of judges. Scoring is on a scale of one to ten, but nobody gets below a seven. “They’d go home crying,” I overheard someone say when explaining the rubric to a set of people who’ve volunteered to judge on one particular evening. To say I’m competitive is to state the obvious, like declaring that the sun will rise in the morning. I came in to the world weighing ten pounds eleven ounces, so big the doctor called his wife and said, “honey, you need to see this baby.” They thought I was twins. A big fat package of fighting spirit, just ask my brothers.
On my first try at The Moth, I scored over a nine with one set of judges, and finished second on the night. The eventual winner crushed all comers, but I got a taste of performance storytelling and haven’t looked back. I was runner-up that first night, and have now been runner up three more times since — bridesmaid each time, losing to better stories, more emotional stories, tighter stories. The most recent time, I came within a tenth of a point of winning. “You were robbed,” one audience member said to me afterwards, a pun because my story was about the day our house was broken in to.
Telling stories in front of a large audience and playing in a final game of an ultimate tournament also have a lot in common. There are stakes when telling a story, and stakes when competing in any sport. In Ultimate, the horn goes off. You line up to receive the disc. You’re prepared. You’re name called and now you’re on the line. Heart pounding. Palms sweating. Disc in flight, here we go. Like with storytelling, you might be nervous during that first point, but once in it, one tends to find a rhythm and it all flows naturally.
Playing various sports played to my insatiable desire to be the best. During my time playing ultimate, I didn’t understand what to make of this drive, thinking the goal of a successful season must be to win a National Championship. It would take me until the last few years of desperately trying to win to finally embrace all of it, and not simply a result. Towards the end, I came to appreciate the days and days of practice, the grueling track workouts, and the tournaments leading up to that one final game. With The Moth, I want to win, of course, but I love all the work that goes into preparing to tell a story in front of an audience of perfect strangers. I’m getting lost in the process and have become as excited about the possibility as with the result.
Like training and preparing for a tournament, I approach each storytelling event with a practice schedule. Each Slam is themed, and this next one is themed ‘First Impressions’. With a theme in mind, memories often just pop into my head and I think, “that’s perfect!” Then, I write a short piece before reading it into my iPhone. Over the next week or so, I’ll listen and rehearse the story out loud. I also make a graphic picture of each scene on a single sheet of paper, so I can picture it in my mind. I don’t memorize the words, because I can’t. Instead, I just attempt to make the story part of me, and then should my name be called, get up and let it flow.
In many ways, we trained this way to prepare for tournament play. We invented a ten pull drill, ran it over and over again, religiously, until valuing the disc became second nature. I rehearse my story over and over again, until it becomes part of me, but also ammunition to offset the nerves sure to follow me on to the stage.
I don’t like losing, and we lost way more than we won during our time on the field. Our Boston teams were essentially runners up for twelve years at one point, winning in 1982, but then not again until 1994. And yet each year, after each crushing defeat, I was able to regroup and come into the next season sure we would win it all. One day, we did, win. It took until those last couple of years to embrace the totality of each season. Only then did I feel like every day, every practice and every game was part of the win. I came to love running intervals as much as I loved throwing passes.
Tomorrow (Tuesday Jan. 9th), I will again put my name in a hat at The Moth Story Slam here in Brookline. And yes, I will go in with the goal of winning. Maybe I’ll get picked, and maybe I’ll win a chance to compete in a Grand Slam in front of a thousand people. (Careful what I wish for.) But I will also attend with the goal of letting go. The Moth, cold water, and running across a field all offer this same feeling, an appreciation for being alive and in the moment.
(Note: you can me join me in person this Tuesday, Jan. 9th at CitiSpace on Com Ave. in Brookline, and/or you can listen to lots of other storytellers with The Moth at www.moth.org)
Tickets for Jan. 9th StorySlam: https://themoth.org/events/first-impressions-boston-2024
