Technicolor

In the 80s, I had the belt. Maybe you did, too. You know the belt, right? Light brown filigree leather overlayed onto a darker brown leather, snaps on one end to attach either a purchased or won buckle, I can only be describing a western belt. Having done nothing to earn a buckle, mine was store bought. In the world of western buckles, there was but one feminine version, the barrel racer. I had not, then, nor have I since, ridden a horse with the goal of rounding barrels in a timely fashion. In fact, I mostly rode my neighbor’s mule, but that’s a topic for a day when laughter is called for. Back to belts. The pinnacle of western belt design rested in the posterior view. Is a western belt even a western belt without your name on the back of it? Mine didn’t say Dina, if we’re basing it on how life has gone for me over the past 5-plus decades. Mine said something far more ominous. Sucker.

In 2009, fresh out of cancer treatment, I was asked to speak at a couple of Relay for Life events. I suited up in a purple t-shirt that positively swallowed me. It was my fault. I asked for a large size. I hoped the new, post-mastectomy body I had not yet grown to love would disappear behind swathes of fabric. I neglected the heat. It was too hot for long pants. I resorted to the only shorts that fit me. They barely peeked out from under the massive tee. With my little boy burr hair grow out, I looked like one of my own sons in those precious young years when they begged to sleep in their father’s shirts. But, speak, I did. I was terrified. My heart raced. I was nauseated. My hands were sweaty. Voice was too shrill. Speed was too fast. Volume was too loud. No one laughed at my jokes. In defense of the audience, cancer humor isn’t all that funny. “That’s it,” I said inside my own head. “Stick a fork in me, I’m done.” I can’t ever seem to say no, but I was willing to commit to never again. I have stood by that no public speaking rule, until this year.

2023, for me, has been painful. It has been terrifying. It has also been beautiful. Technicolor. You know the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and Toto are back in Uncle Henry’s farmhouse as it spins in the air surrounded by Mrs. Gulch on the bicycle and a random cow, among other things? That scene is a study in gorgeous, saturated sepia tones. Movies in that era were only black and white, you see. But, this movie, largely categorized as colorless for the first 17 minutes and 34 seconds, is technically black and white, but not really. It’s like those brown images are warning us that deep jewel tones are coming. And, boy, don’t they. That’s what this year has been like for me. I’d been living in a black and white world– the colors you cling to when you’re just barely surviving. When did the days turn to sepia, I wonder? I had no idea someone was about to hit the light switch. That’s how God works, I think. Much patience is required. But, boy, when He turns the lights on and dials the dimmer to the brightest setting, the color is stunning. That’s how I wound up saying yes to speaking in public, once again. I was sitting at a table, trying to act slightly less nervous than I felt. I had almost been late, which never happens in my world. My stomach had revolted as I’d tried to walk out of my front door, causing me to race to the bathroom. Yet, I made it on time wearing another assigned shirt. This one fit far better that the purple version from years ago. I had all my speaker accoutrements ready to go: bulleted notes, water, box of Kleenex. I started thinking about other random items we call by a single brand name instead by their function. Coke means all soft drinks. Band-aid means any type of bandage. Google means an internet search on any engine. Kleenex means any brand of tissue. Such is the world of deonyms. I heard my name announced. There it was, displayed on 2 large screens next to each side of the stage – my name in very tall letters. All of my speaking rules began circling in my head. Don’t lisp. I tend to develop sudden onset lisp when I’m nervous. Talk slowly. For heaven’s sake, don’t squeak. Watch your tone. Try not to cry to the point where they can’t make out what you’re saying. So many rules. The steps up to the stage seemed to be 10 feet tall. The podium was nearer to my shoulders than my waist. The microphone was heavier than I expected. It felt dead in my hand, like a weight I was destined to drop. One last mental pep talk. “You can do this,” I told myself. “This is different. These people are expecting you to tell them what it feels like when a child dies. Who better than you” – that was me still, just talking to me. “Who better than you.” That speech ended with silence. I saw two women place their heads briefly on the table in front of them, their tears impeding their ability to see me anymore. As I exited the stage, down those incredibly steep steps, I felt equal parts despondent and elated. Emotionless. Spent. Triumphant. “We did it,” I said to either myself, my daughter, God, or all of us together. “We did it.” It’s time to retitle the belt, to realign the letters like an anagram or a turn on a Scrabble board. What’s the deonym for a sucker? Please don’t say Dum Dum. Just don’t.