I Told Them
Six hundred eyeballs stare back at me under the fluorescent lights of the school gym. They belong to the entire study body and staff at Harrison Middle School in Yarmouth, Maine. The microphone crackles as three eighth graders introduce me as a CEO and head back to their seats. It’s go-time. I am the Keynote speaker kicking off career day, one where the kids will attend sessions to learn from veterinarians, lawyers, doctors, firefighters and, and and….
And me.
And what exactly am I? Am I a businessperson? An entrepreneur? A small business owner? A Mom? A failure? A success?
At 51, I’m still not sure, and I’m still very okay with that.
On my first slide is an image of a Styrofoam plate of fried chicken, rice and beans. No logo from my company, no bright colors, no moose, no copy, nothing. As the kids begin to settle in, I thank the girls for my intro and then tell them I have a slight correction. I explain that while I do own a business, I’m actually not a Keynote speaker. I am a storyteller.
I tell them about when I was 10 years old a South American woman held my plate of fried chicken hostage until I answered one question.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I had no answer, so I stared speechless into her face—mere inches from mine-- as she bent over and held my extra crispy drumstick just out of reach. She stood up, hand on hip, and glowered disapprovingly at my parents. My mother feebly replied that it was not a question they asked us, my brother and me.
In a thick, French Guyanese accent she asked, “How are they supposed to figure it out if no one asks the question?” She had a point.
I asked the kids in the audience to stand up if they knew exactly what they wanted to be when they grew up. A few popped up quickly, nervously. Then I asked them to get up if they had any idea of a career they might be interested in pursuing as an adult. More stood up. They watched closely as their peers decided. Lastly, I asked whoever had no clue what they wanted to be, to stand. The bleachers were full of standing adolescents. Fidgeting, giggling, present. Perfect.
In a small Maine town, with well-lit sidewalks, a barber shop and bookstore on Main Street near the historic brick library, I broke it to the kids that they didn’t need to know. That was the fun part, the messy middle, to explore, to research, to find out. To not know. I had no idea how my message would land, with kids, parents or the administration who had invited me, but winging it and doing things my way had served me mostly well, so I went for it.
They sat down and I jumped in. I told them that the seemingly grown-up woman standing in front of them was not who they might think. I told them my father died when I was twelve. A few looked up. I told them my mother was an immigrant. More peeked. I told them my single mother struggled with mental illness and was left to raise me and my brother on her own. Quiet swept through the bleachers. I told them that I had undiagnosed anxiety and ADHD until my 40’s. I felt their eyes bore into me. There.
I told them I swore off math and science in fourth grade. No matter what. I told them my story of finding a lip balm recipe when I was in college. I had failed a math class and was retaking it so I could get my degree. In Anthropology, a random major. I told them about my brother who had money framed above his bed and had big ambitions of building a big life. I told them about the tapestries our father wove, the foreigners who sat around our dinner table for hours, sipping wine and discussing injustices in the world. I told them how I made my first batch of lip balm for fun and how I gave some away and was finally convinced to sell some. It was supposed to be a project, not a career. I wasn’t a businessperson, I told them.
I was a smart and curious kid with endless energy. My mom may not have had all the tools she needed to raise me and my brother, but she was a pro at bringing in the pros. She was also able to see who I was clearly and get me what I needed. I was in high school when she saw me flailing, distracted, and boy crazy. She found every alternative program offered and signed me up for college classes, encouraged me to get a part time job which got me out of school by 11am every day. While my peers were taking American History II and Algebra, I zoomed around town. Off to work or off to UMass for French class. I was free!
I told them how I built a company and life from the crumpled cash in my waitressing pouch, and the wood from a local coffin factory used to make displays. I told them about the people along the way who felt like magical gifts, cheered me on, educated me and steered me to the next building block of my life. I told them about selling lip balm from the trunk of my car to stores that later became Whole Foods Market. I told them how when I got married and had kids, I still didn’t know where I was going, what the goal of the exercise was. I told them that the one thing I knew more than anything was that being a mother was the most important thing I would ever do, and everything else had to revolve around that. I told them I knew I would figure it out eventually. Whatever it was.
I told them the one thing I always knew was I could trust myself. There was a little voice inside me, and that they had one too, and that little voice guided me, and I trusted that if I should steer a different way, or stop with the whole lip balm nonsense, I would know. I told them that it turned out I was good with numbers, and math, and actually loved seeing my business in spreadsheets.
I told them my kids had grown up and turned out to be good humans. I knew I had made the right choices even if my company had ups and downs and hadn’t turned into Burt’s Bees. I told them there was still time, and that I considered everything I had accomplished a success—especially the most important task of all: motherhood. I told them I was writing a book, sharing my story with others--and yes--growing my business now that there was time. I told them, despite what they might think, I still had plenty of time.
Before I left the kids, I told them I had something for them. After not sleeping for two weeks in preparation for what felt like the scariest storytelling of my life, I felt like we had transported to a sacred bubble together. I had their attention, and they had all the things I told them. Folded and smooshed and filed away in their little middle-school brains. Now, they wanted to know what gift this grown-up-who-sounds-like-a-kid had for them.
I told them they had a basket. Every one of them. And that their only job, today, at career day, and in life, was to put things in the basket that made their eyes sparkle, time disappear and their heart sing. I told them they would know the feeling when they had it, but they had to be on the lookout. I told them it was okay to not know, to wonder, to be worried. I told them that being in a place of discomfort and unknowing is what makes us strong and capable. I told them to fill their basket with those things, and to take that basket out when they had decisions to make. Clubs to join, sports to play, friends to hang with, colleges, and yes, careers. The basket never lies. I told them adults spend about 100,000 hours of their lives at work, and wouldn’t it be amazing if everyone had meaningful, productive and fulfilling work built from their baskets? I told them to look around the room at the teachers and parents who gave up their day to share stories and their winding paths. I reminded them that within their families and school community they had everything they needed for their journey. I told them to ask for help and to share with others when they didn’t feel okay. I told them to trust themselves, to pay attention to their basket and not peek into others and most of all, I told them to be okay with the unknowing, even when it felt hard and scary. I told them I still had my basket and was grateful for that plate of fried chicken and that good question with no one good answer.
