Storyworthy. Matthew Dicks

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       CHAPTER THREE

       Homework for Life

      I’m eating dinner with my family. I’m sitting at the table with my wife, Elysha, my daughter, Clara, who is five at the time, and my son, Charlie, who’s almost three. We’re all enjoying our meal except for Charlie. Charlie is not eating his dinner. Charlie never eats his dinner. Tonight we’re having chicken nuggets, and as I hand him a nugget, Charlie throws it onto the floor. Every chicken nugget that I place in front of him ends up on the hardwood, and we have the only dog in the world that won’t eat table scraps. She’s sitting at my feet, watching these tiny poultry bombs land all around her. She stares at them blankly.

      I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my mind because my daughter, Clara, has never thrown a piece of food in her entire life.

      She’s perfect. She’s just like me.

      But Charlie is not. For whatever reason, Charlie throws food at every meal, and it doesn’t matter if it’s chopped liver or chocolate-covered chocolate. It all ends up on the floor. So I turn to Elysha and I ask, “What are we going to do about Charlie and the food?”

      Elysha tells me that she’s taking Charlie to the pediatrician tomorrow for his regular checkup, and says she’ll ask the doctor for advice.

      “Great,” I say. I love it when experts solve my problems.

      Twenty-four hours later, we’re back at the table having dinner. Tonight it’s peas. It turns out that Charlie is an Olympic pea-throwing champion. It’s as if he’s somehow turned them into antigravity peas. He can make them roll from the dining room to the kitchen with ease, and he thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world.

      I think he could probably roll peas upstairs if I gave him the chance.

      Once again, I’m losing my mind, so I turn to Elysha and ask, “What did the doctor say about Charlie and the food?”

      Elysha stops eating. She puts her fork down and takes a deep breath. I sense that something important is coming. I steel myself.

      She says, “The doctor said that when Charlie throws food, we have to take all the food away from him, and I know that’s going to be hard for you.”

      She’s right. It’s going to be hard for me to take all the food away from Charlie, but I don’t know why she would say something like that. I’ve always been perfectly capable of punishing my kids when needed. As an elementary-school teacher, I understand the value of painful consequences.

      “Why do you say it’s going to be hard?” I ask.

      She takes another deep breath. “I know that when you were a little boy, you didn’t always have enough food to eat, so taking away food from Charlie is going to be hard for you.”

      This is true too, but I’ve never told Elysha about my childhood hunger. I’ve never told anyone that when I was a boy, I was hungry most of the time. It’s a secret that I’ve kept close to my heart, hidden away for decades, because when you’re poor and hungry, the last thing you do is tell anyone in the world that you are poor and hungry. It’s a source of great shame and embarrassment, especially when you’re a child.

      But my wife has spent almost ten years with me. She’s listened to me talk about my childhood. She’s heard my stories. She’s figured it out. She knows my secret.

      Then she tells me that every morning, when I put together Clara’s lunch for school, I pack more food into her lunch box than a child could ever eat in a single day. Then after I’ve left for work, Elysha comes downstairs and unpacks the lunch box. She’s never wanted to tell me this, because she knows how important it is to me to send my kids to school with enough food every day. More than enough food.

      I’m sitting at my dining-room table, staring across at my wife, when I realize that she knows me better than any person in the world. She probably knows my heart better than I do. It’s a moment I will never forget.

      Here’s the thing about that story: We experience moments like this all the time. This one may sound special and unique and maybe even beautiful, but only because I’ve crafted this particular moment into a story. In truth, these moments are everywhere. They exist in multitudes for all of us. They’re like dander in the wind. They exist all around us. More than you could ever imagine. The problem is that we don’t see these moments. We fail to notice them or recognize their importance, and when we happen to see one, we don’t reach out to catch it. We don’t record it. We don’t save it. We fail to keep these precious moments safe for the future.

      Years ago, I found a way to recognize and collect these moments, and it has changed my life. It’s turned me into a storyteller with an endless supply of stories. Stories that don’t rely upon near-death experiences or unlawful imprisonment or homelessness to be effective. It’s also made me a happier person.

      Let me explain. Back in 2013, I was becoming desperate. I’d been telling stories onstage for almost two years, and I was head over heels in love with storytelling. As I continued to perform night after night, I realized two things:

       1. I needed more stories. If I was going to continue to perform, I was going to have to generate more content.

       2. The stories that my friends initially thought would be great — the near-death experiences, the arrest and trial for a crime I didn’t commit, sharing a bedroom with a goat — are all good stories. Audiences love them. But the story about Charlie throwing his food and my wife uncovering my childhood secret — a tiny story СКАЧАТЬ