Writings

 I am proud to say that I have mastered the art of humiliation. I started with small accomplishment: walking out of a bathroom with toilet paper stuck on my foot, teaching a full-day workshop with my shirt on inside out, hopping in the wrong car at the shopping center, you know, the regular stuff that we all do. And eventually I graduated to more sophisticated humiliations. Let me tell you about Chuck. 

 In late 1980 there was a devastating flood that impacted several Native villages in Interior Alaska. I was living in Fairbanks, serving as the Director of Economic Development for the Fairbanks North Star Borough, and in my role I was invited to a planning session to determine how the State and local government could assist with the recovery efforts. The meeting was held in a large conference room at the airport.

When I walked into the room I realised it was all men (not a woman in sight), in suits and ties, looking at me as if I had inadvertently come into the men’s bathroom. My nervous meter went sky high but lucky for me I saw a fellow across the room that I had met at a conference, months ago, in Sitka. So, I made a bee line for him, threw my arms around him (he was tall, so my head hit just below the knot on his tie), and said, quite loud and full of confidence “Chuck! It is so good to see you!”

There. 

How fortuitous! 

That ought to make it clear that I had a right to be here!  

 Unfortunately, it wasn’t Chuck. 

He stood there, arms held stiffly at his side, and said “I’m not Chuck” with just as much conviction as my claim that he was Chuck had held. Now, that in and of itself would have allowed me to substantially advance in the art of humiliation. But, oh no, I felt the need to go after my Masters Degree. I then backed up and tried to convince him that he was, indeed, Chuck. 

I know what you are thinking. Why? Why would you do that? All I can say is that my mouth wouldn’t stop, and my brain wouldn’t work. So, for the next four hours of that interminable meeting I kept referring to this fellow as Chuck, accompanied by a little chuckle each time to demonstrate I knew he wasn’t Chuck (or was he?).  

 When I could finally leave, I headed down to my car, slid in with as much dignity as I could muster, slammed the door, grabbed the steering wheel and said over and over, “oh no, no, no, no.” I then drove to my son’s school to pick him up, and when he got in the car I said, “Oh my god Sage, you won’t believe what I just did.” And I proceeded to tell him the story. About half way through he put his fingers in his ears and said “Don’t tell me any more, Mom! Please don’t tell me any more!”

I had officially received my master’s  in humiliation. And if that had been the end, an isolated incident  I wouldn’t be writing this.  

Having lived in Alaska most of my life, I have a tendency to pull down my pants and pee whenever I have to go. Obviously this only happens in remote areas, like when I am camping, or in my driveway.

I started my first business in a little hovel located about 12 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska, tucked into the taiga forest, sitting precariously on a hillside. According to Webster, a hovel is a small squalid or simply constructed dwelling. Personally I think calling it a dwelling is giving it too much credit, but squalid was an apt description. The hovel had no running water, hence no indoor bathroom. Electricity was provided via a very long extension cord that we plugged into a pole about 75 feet up the hill (not sure whose  electric bill covered that).

 In my third year of business, I decided I should get life insurance (not because of the hovel situation, though that might have been a factor). In order to get a life insurance policy you have to undergo a few tests: answer some questions, get a little prick of the finger for blood tests, and provide a urine sample. It was a rainy fall day when the insurance agent called and said she would be driving past my road on her way home, and could she just stop by to do the questionnaire and get the blood and urine samples?

No problem! 

 She shows showed up later that afternoon, comes came  into the hovel, we did the questionnaire, she took the blood sample, and then handed me the little cup to pee in. I let her know we have no indoor bathroom and I’ll have to run out to the outhouse to do this job. 

No problem!

Off I go, out the door, and of course I’m not going to walk up to the outhouse, a good 25 feet away! when there is a perfectly good driveway right in front of me, so I whip down my pants, and start the process, and since it is slightly raining I start singing “I’m peeing in the rain, just peeing in the rain! What a wonderful feeling, I’m happy again.” Finish the job. Pull up my pants. Stand up. Look at her car, which was parked about 10 feet from me, and there in the car is her husband, her kids, and her in-laws whom she’d just picked up at the airport (Welcome to Alaska). I smiled. Waved. Headed back  into the hovel, thanked the insurance lady, and hoped I’d never see her again.

I was now officially in the doctoral program.