Stories Are Meant To Be Shared

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⏱️ 2 minute read 🎥 

While preparing to release my first book, I sent in a few of my chapters to SHE Caribbean Magazine. I knew that my writing resonated most with women, and I believed that my proposal for an inspirational column in the magazine, would be a perfect fit.

I ran into an editor of the magazine a few weeks later and asked for an update.

‘Oh!’ She said ‘You’re the Storyteller.’

‘Storyteller? No.’ I said. ‘I write inspirational pieces.’

‘Yes. The stories.’ She countered.

‘No. They are not stories.’ I insisted. ‘They are really, real life inspirational pieces.’

‘Ok. Whatever you decide to call them. But in any event, they are not a good fit for us. Sorry I didn’t get back to you.’

She walked away, leaving me very confused. And angry. What was she talking about? They were a perfect fit for her audience. The very definition of SHE, is woman. And why didn’t she look at the pieces for what they were? They were  bursts of inspiration. Why did she insist on calling them stories?

I went back home and retrieved the email that I had sent to her. I read through the samples and sure enough, they were all stories. Stories of my life, tied with an inspirational bow. Chapter after chapter, creating one long intricate story.

I was, ‘A Storyteller’.

Over the years, I have realized that all our lives are made up of stories. I share mine on paper, some share theirs on social media, while others verbally with friends and strangers.

But we are all storytellers - constantly, consciously, or unconsciously, sharing.

We may or may not realize though, that the most important stories, conscious or unconscious, are the stories that we tell ourselves about who you are. These are the origins, of every life story. These are the stories that deserve to be told.

In the meantime, I’ll tell you some funny ones, most of them true and based on actual events and a few others to warm your heart.

Story Key:

Every story will follow a key to help you get a feel for the content - keep an eye out for the below:

Random Thoughts 🦉

This Absolutely Happened – 75 to 100% true. Stories inspired by actual events. Names, locations and slight details may have been changed. 🎥

Saltwater – Up to 60% true. Stories of healing, also inspired by actual events. Acknowledging that saltwater, (tears of joy or sorrow), heals everything. 💧

⏱️ 5 minute read  🎥💧

As I covered my niece with the AA blanket, I realized how new it still looked.

I recalled that December afternoon about twenty five years before, when my father spotted the American Airlines logo on the blanket in the laundry. Seeing that I had flown in on American the day before, he asked. 'Do they give these away now?' He knew that as a student, I could not afford to pay for it.

'No.' I said. 'I swiped it.'

‘You swiped it?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘What does that mean exactly?'

'I... took it off the plane.' I said quickly, and tried to turn away.

I watched my father slowly turn grey.

'Are you trying to tell me, that you STOLE the blanket?'

I could not face him. The ‘theft’ seemed so senseless to him. Why would his daughter feel the need to steal a blanket from a plane?

He sat next to me, picked up the blanket and proceeded to spend the next half hour expressing his disappointment in me. That was not how he had raised me. No matter how small or insignificant something was, if it was not mine, I had no right to STEAL it. I challenged that it was a promotional item and that the airlines actually expected travelers to walk away with a few blankets. But he insisted that I was blurring the obvious. I had stolen the blanket. And that, was unacceptable.

I sat there shrinking to my ten-year-old self. Because parents do that. They make you feel small. No matter how old you are.  

So, I confessed my sins and promised to return the blanket on my return trip.

Of course that never happened. As I landed at Heathrow, I knew that, that AA blanket would be a most valuable piece of my wardrobe. And so, I packed it into my rucksack and walked off the plane.

My AA blanket did not disappoint. As a ‘poor student’, it ended up being the perfect red scarf on a cold winter day, a light cover up on autumn nights and extra seating for group study projects in my bedroom.

Years later, as I packed my belongings to return home, I wrapped some of my breakables into my AA blanket for safe keeping and stuffed it into a barrel bound for Saint Lucia.

I made a mental note to always keep it hidden, because while this was not the first time that I had ‘swiped’ a ‘promotional item’ from an establishment, it was the first time in my adult life, that I had disappointed my father. So still, a hint of guilt remained.

Many years have passed and I've moved several times, but my AA blanket has always remained a bright red spark in my linen cupboard. (They don’t make them like they did back then.)

I have lost count, of the number of times, my guilty conscience has tried to pay for the blanket, by purchasing overpriced, unnecessary, items from the American Airlines inflight magazine.

But nothing can replace the deep connection to my AA blanket. Like many items of sentimental value, it holds treasured memories. Not only from my years as a student in London, but from my daughter’s childhood – It was her favorite blanket growing up. She would drag it all over the house. And today, I smile as I see it being a source of comfort to my niece.

I just can’t seem to let go. Sorry Dad.

⏱️ 4 minute read  🎥💧🦉

It was October 2015. I was selling cultural themed t-shirts at a national event, when a homeless man came up to me and asked if I wouldn’t mind giving him one of the shirts. I shook my head, tried to avoid eye contact, turned my back to him and busied myself, hoping that he would go away.

‘Please miss’, he begged. ‘Can I just have a shirt? Even if it’s not my size. I just want to feel clean.’

My heart sank.

He just wanted to feel clean.

I looked him over. His clothes were torn and worn. His shirt, once white, was now beige, with so many stains, it almost looked like a pattern. His pants were way too short. Even with the frayed opened hems, they were mid leg. These clothes had not been washed in weeks.

I knew that even if he got a proper shower, it would be near impossible to feel clean in these old, torn, worn out clothes.

I began to look through my pile, searching for a slightly defective shirt, or a slow selling color. Unfortunately for me, every item on the table was spanking new, and all best sellers.   

I tried to ignore him.

‘Please miss.’ He kept begging.

I looked again at the 'man' in front of me. If life had been kind, he would have been good looking. His teeth would have been white and his smile perfect. He would have smelled like aftershave and would have probably winked my way as he walked past. Or, better still, he might have stopped, and purchased a t-shirt from me with ease. 

I looked him over again, dug through my stock and picked a t-shirt in his size, in my most popular color.

When I handed it to him, his face lit up in surprise. He was so used to being told ‘no’ that he was about to walk away.

‘Thank you! Thank you, Miss!’ he said and I smiled as he gently took the shirt from my hand.

I knew that this was going to be a moment that I would not forget.

But the smile on my face quickly turned to horror, as I watched the man slowly wipe his dirty face with the new t-shirt that I had just given to him.

I thought he had wanted to wear it! That he wanted to feel clean! Why on earth would he want to soil a perfectly clean shirt!

I was literally about to scream at him, when I noticed, that what he was actually doing, was holding different parts of the shirt to his nose and sniffing. He was smelling the t-shirt! It was the smell of ‘new’. A smell he probably hadn’t smelled in… years.

He continued to smell the shirt for a few seconds more, before he turned to me grinning. ‘I’m going for a sea bath and then I’ll put it on. When I am clean.’ He emphasized the last sentence, his eyes sparkling and smile wide. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much, Miss!’

I watched him walk away with the blue t-shirt draped over his shoulder.  He looked like a happy schoolboy, smiling and proud. Occasionally, he would turn to his shoulder and sniff.

I stood there with tears brimming my eyes. For the rest of the day, and maybe even for a few days after, that smell alone, would be enough to bring a smile to that man’s face. I knew that he often got used clothes, old clothes, or perhaps would have to steal clothes, to keep himself clean and clothed. But today, a brand new t-shirt didn’t just make him feel like a kid again. It made him look presentable. It made him feel normal. It made him happy.

Be kind. You never know how much a small act of kindness can change someone’s life. Or yours!