Tonight, a bunch of us Technical Communications types gathered for an evening of networking, connection, food, and fun. Here's a little bit of how it went.
First we got a ride on the bus. Good time to check out the surrounding area and the beautiful Chicago skyline.
From the bus, we could see the Chicago skyline
I will call it "The Sears Tower" forever.
Before we knew it, we were there. The bus driver let us off at the door. Thanks, man.
Second City location
Then we split up into groups for dinner. My group went to Kamehachi. What a great place. Best sushi I can remember.
The STC crew at Kamehachi Japanese restaurant
And the food is beautiful, as well as photogenic. See?
Miso starts the meal
Unbelievably delicious sushi
Delicious and photogenic sushi
The mackerel sashimi comes in its own little house
Some of us had room for dessert
After dinner, it was a short walk to the theatre. Here's a group shot of us.
The STC Crew at the Second City show
And a shot of their menu. More drinks. More food. More fun.
Even the menu was funny
A few words about Second City: the show is the best of its kind. It is no wonder that this organization is so famous for cradling and nurturing the finest comedians on the planet. The material was funny, topical, fresh. The players were engaging, funny, and cute as buttons. The whole thing was fabulous.
In fact the whole evening was fabulous, made all the more wonderful by the fact that I got to hang out with my Tech Comm colleagues.
Thanks so much to Linda Kelley, Paula Ludmann @pludmann , and Linda Jansak @ljansak for putting the thing together.
And a shout out to Betsy Maaks for being just as great in person as she is online.
Now it's late and I'm "on" tomorrow morning at the Leadership event. Come see me if you can.
Day one begins dark and early, leaving our house at 6:30 am. Big thanks to my son, the fabulous Jim Dill, for chauffeuring the car back home after dropping me off at the Dulles Departures area.
Jim and me at the Dulles Departures area
Boarding was easy. I didn't get the bodyscan nor a patdown because TSA was getting backed up and they needed to play catch up. It is bad to let you know I'm a little disappointed? Anyway, I got a nice window seat next to two nice, quiet traveling companions on the flight from Dulles to O'Hare.
View out the window of the plane to O'Hare. I have a window seat.
O'Hare is gorgeous. I loved this artwork over the moving walkway.
Artwork over the moving walkway at O'Hare
I am always so glad to see my suitcase when it arrives. So of course, I took a picture.
Reunited with my suitcase. I have missed you so.
Finding the shuttle bus to the Hyatt Regency O'Hare was a little tricky. Next time, I'm told to go downstairs. I followed the directions from the luggage carousel area and went for quite a hike, just like Scott Prentice. Now he tells me.
The tweet stream about finding the shuttle would have been handy.
So now, I am safely checked in at the Hyatt.
I am safely checked in to this nice room at the Hyatt.
Here's what I look like from space.
And I'm rested. And I've blogged (I set a personal goal to blog the conference).
Follow the Society for Communications 2012 Summit on twitter using the hashtag #stc12.
Tomorrow morning before the rooster crows I will be on my way to the Society for Technical Communications Summit 2012 in Chicago. http://summit.stc.org/
Today, I'm getting ready. As you can see, I've got my boarding pass and a pile of business cards.
my sister in blue on the left, me on the right in pink
This is a first person story I have needed to tell for some
time. It’s a story of two little girls: me and my younger sister.
We were two little girls who grew up in the South in the 1960s
and 70s; two little girls raised by the same family, playing with the same
toys, sharing the same friends, attending the same schools, worshipping at the
same churches, and growing into two remarkably different women. This story is
written to share my personal experience and is for you, regardless of whether
you think that sexual orientation is influenced by nature or nurture.
Boy-Crazy from Birth
family vacation at Watoga State Park in WV
I
can’t remember the first time I was aware that I am heterosexual. I remember
being crazy about boys from the very beginning. Boys were such a mystery and so
fascinating to me. When I was around a boy I liked (and I think I liked all of
them), my heart would race and my sense of reason would fly out the window. I
remember wishing that my Barbie doll had a Ken so she could be happy. I
remember putting my scratchy crinoline slip on my head and pretending to be a
bride with a big veil.
My first crush was on a boy named “Chris” who was from
England just like Davey Jones, and when I was around him I could not think
straight. When I was not around him, I thought about him constantly. Chris had
a younger brother my sister’s age and their play together was so different, not
awkward the way I felt. When I look back on it, my interactions with boys were
different than my sister’s because the way we each felt about boys was
different from the beginning. My sister amazed me by the way she could be so
cool headed and rational about boys when I was absolutely inept.
Our Favorite Christmas Present
in Gretna, LA, sister on the left, me on the right, playing teacher
Christmas of 1967, we were living in Gretna,
LA, a suburb of New Orleans. Santa Clause brought the most amazing doll/action
figure play sets of Jane
and Josie West. I
got the Jane doll because I was older. The dolls came with everything a cowgirl
would need for riding or making a home on the range. So we both dug in and
loved them. When you removed the gear and plastic leather clothing, the dolls
were dressed in denim and boots, not naked and busty like that Barbie. And they
could be whoever they wanted to be, outdoorsy or homie, glamorous or athletic,
or both. And that was exactly what these two little girls needed because we
were both outdoorsy and homie, glamorous and athletic, just like the West
girls.
Coming Out, 1981
sisters in cowboy hats, just like Jane and Josie West years before
So I got to be the first family member to
whom my sister announced her special secret. I remember she phrased it
carefully, as a question not a statement: “What if I told you that I was gay?”
My response was kind of neutral. I said “Well that would be
all right. Are you gay?”
I remember that what I was really thinking
is that I wouldn’t be able to be her maid of honor or Aunt Viqui to her kids.
Looking back on my response, what a narcissistic princess I am, thinking about
how someone else’s situation would impact me before I thought about the reality
of how hard life must be for my sister and how hard it must have been to share
the secret out loud with me. I don’t remember if I hugged her, but I hope I did.
I do remember laughing and feeling happy to have another secret to share with
my sister. After we laughed together that day, I felt good, like we had
survived yet another family drama and come out on the other side together and
stronger.
sister, brother, and me, posing on a family vacation beside the Big Boy
I Was Born This Way
So there’s a piece of my personal story. How I grew up to be
a flaming heterosexual, despite growing up in a house where the same
environment produced different outcomes. I never made a conscious choice to be
straight. I was boy-crazy from birth. My sister was different from me from
birth, too.
It's the last thing Jesus said to us, before he flew back home.
Acts 1:8 "But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth."
I like what he said, and I've been doing a lot of thinking about how to carry it out. He's asking us to be witnesses. Notice how he doesn't ask us to be judges. For some reason, we like to get those two mixed up. Time to focus on being a witness - in my neighborhood, and beyond.
What is a witness? So what does it mean to be a witness? A witness does more than just observe. A witness also testifies. A witness sits in the witness box, waiting for the right time to tell her story.
A witness has to get his story together, sort things out, get them in order, and be ready to share. A witness has to tell his own story, anything else is hearsay. It's OK to talk about yourself, to tell your own story.
I have many stories to tell and I love to tell them, when the time is right.
I am the mother of a brilliant college student. My story had a tough beginning, including the time when doctors told us our child wouldn't learn to talk or return our love. This story has such a happy ending now that I love to tell the story. It's a story of hard work, desperate searching, a mom's blind faith, and a boy's courage.
I am the wife for 23 years of a talented musician and entrepreneur. Our story has many tough chapters. We have been through things that have lead other couples to divorce court, even to commit murder. Yet our story has a happy ending now and I love to tell the story. Our story is about commitment, forgiveness, loving and letting God do the loving for me when I had no love of my own to give.
I am a worship leader to whom God gave a vision long before he gave me a job. The journey takes me on a path straight through churches that had issues with women in leadership, issues with musicians who also performed in the secular world, and issues about doctrinal uniformity. Still, this is a happy story and I love to tell it as it twists and turns. My spiritual odyssey takes me down interesting paths, into strange and wonderful places, and introduces me to the most amazing traveling companions.
So what is your story? Jesus asks us to tell our stories and to be witnesses. Tell the tough stories. Tell the happy stories. Tell all the stories when the time is right.
Be a witness, not a judge. Don't tear down the stories of other witnesses by judging them. Share your own story, your experience, strength and hope. Listen to others as they tell their own stories. Compare notes, laugh and dream. Tell your story.
It is July 24th and I've been looking forward to this moment since the blizzard back in February. I've just sung two of my favorite songs, played bass like a man, and my husband, two microphones away, is about to sing a big crowd pleaser, "The Man in the Middle." The band is hot (I'm so lucky to be playing with these guys), the summer breeze is cool, the sound crew is skilled, the folks at Morgan Arts Council are wonderful. This is a terrific day and a terrific moment to be here and now.
And then in a flash of chance and gravity, things go horribly wrong.
I look up from the stage and see my son, Jim Dill, in horrible pain, and bleeding profusely from a gash in his shin.
A million thoughts and impulses fly through my head like a freight train. My heart leaps out of my chest, across the canal, and into the gaping wound. How did things go so bad so fast?
OK, let's go back in time.
It's February 2010. I'm snowed-in in what will be known as the Snowpocalypse. The phone rings and it's Gordon Macleod from the Morgan Arts Council. He says they want the Dill Pickers to play in their summer concert series. My friend Lynn Greer has helped us get this gig by hand carrying our press kit and I'm so happy for her support. Now, they say they like our sound and we discuss the business end (I'm terrible at this) and schedules and money and such. I grab my laptop and email the other pickers, who are as excited as I am. This is gonna be a great summer.
Fast forward a month or two and add the much prayed for springtime thaw. I'm cyber-chatting with my good buddy Ron Furgerson. Ron has been a Dill Picker supporter from the beginning and has even used our music in some of his youTube videos. Ron would really really really like to have a video of us performing "The Man in the Middle." I would, too, and I think that maybe this summer's gig in Berkeley Springs will be a great time to film it.
And that's how it happened.
At the gig, Jim was hired to be videographer and photographer. He was using my camera to take some stills and some video. I had asked him to be sure to get "The Man in the Middle" on video. Jim was not expecting to have to be filming so early in the set and was nowhere close to the stage when I asked him publicly and into the mic to start the video. Jim's a good photographer and he takes his job seriously so he rushed back to the stage to catch the song from the beginning. And he almost got it, too.
But on the way, he had to cross the stone waterway. One leg makes it, the other leg slams shin first into the edge of the stone retaining wall. *Expletive*
And we got the aftermath on video, because even badly hurt, Jim does what he says he will do. So as the camera runs, you can hear Jim react to the fall, the blood, the wound, and the feeling that his leg may be broken. The video is very hard to watch. For the first 10 seconds, Jim is breathing heavily and groaning in pain. And yet, somehow he continues to hold the camera and continue with the video. At 0:55, he says calmly "That was a mistake." At 1:38, someone off camera comes to help and offers to bring some ice. At 2:14, the folks getting ice alert the wonderful Dr. Matt. Yes, there's a doctor in the house. Hallelujah. The ice arrives at 2:24 and Jim asks for medical attention, initially asking for an ambulance, but getting a better solution with Dr. Matt just a few feet away. Dr. Matt and my friend Kathryn Rack arrive at 3:00, one to check out the situation and then retrieve his black bag, and the other to check out the situation and offer help with the video camera. At 3:30, Jim utters the understatement "I tried to jump the gap."
From 3:30 on, the video looks normal. Kat frames the band, even getting happy footage of the dancing girl on the front row.
Looks normal from the outside, but I know what's happening on the inside. My child is in terrible pain, maybe even terrible danger, and my heart is breaking with worry and guilt. But on the tape, I look fine, sing fine, play fine. You can't tell what's going on inside me. I suppose that's a good thing.
At 4:40, before the song is over, I turn to Frank and ask him to talk for 30 seconds so I can run off stage and check it out. I drop my bass and scurry off to see about Jim. By that time, Dr. Matt is in motion, Jim has shown that he can walk on the leg, and I'm a little bit calmer. Frank is wonderful, chatting happily with the crowd about anything and everything. I'm back on stage a few seconds after that and the show must go on.
Now that it's over, a few words of heart-felt thanks.
Now that it's over and the gig still went well, now that we know that Jim's leg is not broken and he didn't need stitches or an ambulance ride or a tetanus shot, now that we got that Berkeley Springs crowd to dance a little in the 99 degree heat, now is the time for me to express my gratitude to the folks who were so fabulous.
Thanks to my fellow band members, Keith Dill and Jamie Leonard, and especially to Frank Nanna, for holding it together and covering for me while I freaked out inside. I definitely lost my mojo that day and these guys made it all fine with their amazing musical skills and supportive attitudes. Frank's banter while I ran off stage is just another example of what a great entertainer and improvisor he is. I am so lucky to be playing with you all.
Thanks to my friend Kat Rack, who was wearing a MOMS ROCK piece of flair, for stepping in to quietly fill in the mama role. You rock, indeed my friend. I don't think you had to do much, but seeing you there and knowing that you had your eye and your love on things is so greatly appreciated.
Thanks to the Morgan Arts Council for their support, in particular to Dr. Matt Hahn for answering "yes" to "Is there a doctor in the house?"
And thanks to all the kind folks who came out to the gig. We had so much fun and you guys make our work all play. You rock our worlds and we love you like nothing else. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Hope to see you again, maybe next year.
