Whoops – The Understory and Next Theme

Here’s Rob McRay’s understory from February 2019’s theme “Whoops.”

Tonight, Nashville, was a big “Whoops!”

The apex of our athletic career came crashing down in a humiliating case of the yips. After being exiled to right field, we now avoid throwing darts and skipping rocks, and the only throwing we do is up.

In college the only thing that kept us going was skiing. A relationship she wanted to be more casual than we wanted only made it worse. But after an apparent third strike with a cautious brunette, and many years of happily married, we’re going home to her tonight.

Our efficient moving plan was upended by an all-expense paid trip to sing “Ring My 66 - whoopsBell.” We consulted a higher authority, frantically packed boxes and cars, and arrived late for our departure. But thanks to a suitcase in a wheelchair, we made it.

A precisely-measured 3’ 10” hole led to panicked gasps, screaming “Steve,” 11 hours in the ER, an unnecessary pregnancy test, “Broken Femurs United,” and a gay fan club.

Our final summer with our best friend since conception involved estimating the odds of two gorings, turning as red as our neckerchiefs, and imitating a Mexican game show host in a gynecologist’s office—but we earned a B+!

We took a 7th grade field trip to a sulphur processing plant with an eyelash-eating girl, an exquisite farter, a Liberace fan, and a frighteningly beautiful pigeon-toed gazelle. But a disdainful sniff that released a slow-motion snot rocket still makes us cringe.

Playing basketball at 55 was a mistake. Playing kickball was a bigger mistake. Not listening to our brother was a mistake. And we’re afraid that admitting it in front of him in public could prove to be the biggest mistake of all!

The relationship between the jello-shot queen and the tie-died pot distributor started with a rescue kiss and led to whip-its and tequila in a hot-tub in a country commune…and a long smelly drive home.

Our first time on public transportation alone led to missed stops, looking for change in cinderblock buildings, and carrying a soda bladder on the bus. We may be a tonta, but we made it home.

Whoops, Nashville!

Thanks to all our wonderful storytellers—Ty, Malinda, Rob, Steve, Sarah, Bill, Jackie, Holly, and Tom! Join us next time for “Sorry”. Got a story? Let us know here!

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The First Time – The Understory and Next Theme

Here’s Rob McRay’s understory from January 2019’s theme “The First Time.”

Tonight, Nashville, was our first time.

We spent our first Southern Christmas without oddly wrapped socks or a “What’s-a-Jew-65 - The First Timeto-Do Party.” But we helped Nanny with the gravy, opened an athiest’s search for Jesus, and cherished her favorite cookbook.

We went to our first Hanukkah party on a jaded road trip with a pornstar, where we had a God-arranged date to Abilene, and got a goodie bag from a surprising place…that seemed to surprise no one.

We had our first psychedelic experience at the legendary hippy refugee camp, where our spiritual awakening turned out to be hurling zucchini; and we left the disappointed Deadheads to go listen to CSN in the a/c.

We remembered our first images of beauty, when we saved our lunch money for a magic hair potion and learned that being “black black” wasn’t attractive. But in time we learned to wear our natural hair and agreed with his compliments…even if he was kind of stupid.

We took our first joy ride in a stolen family minivan, when we tore up the yard and raced around at an astonishing 15 miles-an-hour! But our new sense of self nearly cost us our greatest ally—and it wasn’t worth it.

In our first year of teaching, a gallon of cheese balls revealed that 7th graders lack integrity. We struggled through a culturally insensitive kimono hole and gave Spanish instructions about finding trash—only to hear again that fateful chant.

After growing up in a very Baptist town with no bars or Catholics, we experienced our first Mass, wearing highly inappropriate footwear and being inappropriately grateful for the moon-sized wafer. But we have learned to receive a gentle blessing and say, “Amen.”

For the first time we took charge of our own happiness and reversed societal roles—then hid in the Phantom’s darkness. Rereading the Instagram led to a roller coaster ride of emotion, but now we are content waiting for the right person.

The first time we had a gun pulled on us we were on beach just 50 miles from horror, when a creepy soldier invaded our space and questioned our vocabulary—and we came to wonder, “What is an acceptable reason for war?”

Thanks to Natasha, Paul, Josh, Sally, Emma, Deena, Karla, Brad, and Jenny for such great stories! Join us February 25 for our next night, with stories on “Whoops.” Got a story? Let us know here!

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Something Unexpected – The Understory and Next Theme

Here is Rob McRay’s understory for our November 2018 theme “Something Unexpected.” 

Nashville, tonight was unexpected.

She used to hug strangers in the stuffed-toy aisle, wear hair helmets, and take naked 63- Something Unexpectednursing home strolls. But when the pinpoint was gone, she could still sing that love song…and we missed the crazy.

We loved Hee Haw and theme parks and trivia on the Nashville channel, and dreamed of DJ glory…till the cheese slipped off our cracker, and we were married by Fat Elvis—who turned out to be our teenage crush.

In the Swipe Life of Vancouver, we met a girl who liked “chocolate”, and invited her to come dodge bachelorette parties on Broadway. But on a Sunday morning in a month that sucks, three bullets made us choose how to live and give.

We wanted to seize the day before the day ceased, but we ran out of our flip flops when a face in a ski mask was no nightmare. Fear followed us to Marrakesh and Caroline’s, but supportive friends and tapping pressure points helped us “Fear not.”

In the conciliation-present house, where the baby got the balcony, we were really scared of the attic door knob and Mom’s ugly crying. But we peeked out from the covers to watch our gun-toting grandpa free Coco—who needs to learn to meow!

Our two-year-old refused to swallow her breakfast, and we had a flashback to cat pee under the floorboards, and meat-eating flies in the chimney, and mold forcing us out of the nest. But projectile eggs helped us see we were parenting ourselves.

In Colorado we searched for legal brownies and found a kite store, where we remembered a boy who wouldn’t let girls fly kites. And everyone enjoyed our niece’s butterfly kite—everyone but the child!

We saw the most beautiful girl in the world, but she was waiting for someone special. We got revenge with the “sucko monster incident.” When we learned the revealing truth, we were too absorbed with our own pain to hear hers.

We spent Christmas with our family and a boyfriend whose breathing we couldn’t stand. But we were pleased with the kale-induced body changes that improved our highly toxic wasteland. And we are still loving our 4-year-old present.

Thanks for Daniel, Cindy, Marilyn, Ty, Shana, Rebecca, Gayathri, Brad, and Karla for their stories! Join us December 10 for 9 true stories of “home.” Submit your story proposal here!

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All In a Day – The Understory and Next Theme

Here’s Rob McRay’s understory from Monday’s October stories on “All in a Day”. 

What a day, Nashville!

We spent the day at the beach on a “real vacation,” where we took pictures while 62- All In a Daythinking, watched a hippy resuscitate a shark, and thanked a redneck for finding our son. But our breathing returned to normal watching the sun set over the marsh.

We spent our 18th birthday scraping ice, breaking up, causing a traffic jam, and losing “Big Dog.” But an ugly cry in the shower and a family dinner at Cheddars helped…a little.

It was the first day of school after the year of heartbreak and choosing the guy in the red flash truck over our best friend. But the coach encouraged us to jump off the pedestal into a new school—where we broke up again.

The day started without our tea and with a rush to get to work—where we got a call that stunned us into vulnerability and a surprise offer from the boss. But the bigger surprise came when our office bestie gave the watch he loved to the person he loved more.

We made a lasting impression on the day of our flu game of marketing, when we shipped a transcendent Brad Pitt meme that was shockingly misinterpreted as a bomb threat—but at least we didn’t go to federal prison.

We spent the day driving four hours to Memphis and back to decide against buying a car from a guy who switches license plates and sells dope. We made it back safe…but missed a good time at the dog track.

We spent the day leisurely paddling down the Harpeth, until a low guttural nowise led to multiple efforts to rescue an uncooperative calf. We adopted our T-ball-ready stance…and watched as Coach carried it to safety—but that doesn’t prevent someone from claiming to be a hero.

One June day in Chicago we got all busted up running into fences, falling off chairs, breaking beds, and frantically searching for an armed toddler—who was having a party with the Chicago police.

What a day, Nashville!

Our thanks to Annette, Kristen, Jacquelyn, Tamara, Kristen, Steve, Jeremy, and Becca for such wonderful stories! Join us November 12 for “Something Unexpected.” Got a story? Pitch it here!

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Nashville – The Understory and Next Theme

Here’s Rob McRay’s understory from our 5-year anniversary theme “Nashville” in September 2018. 

Tonight, Nashville, we were in Nashville.

In Nashville, we got to know our 101-year-old spitfire Gram—shopping for the Lexus of 61- Nashvilledouche bags, discussing proximity theories, and revealing descending dove tattoos. And in the end…we fed the ducks.

In Nashville, we arrived with a dream and discovered how much we love salsa dancing and matzah ball soup. We fished our keys out of the dumpster and attended a barbecue party for the wrong Mark. And we learned to be careful about bragging too soon.

In Nashville, we left a boring party in a strange part of town, when Cinnamon Girl ran low and a call for help didn’t help. But T with his slim jim overcame our stranger danger, and we stared the handshake that connects.

In Nashville, we came for her dreams but found long days and abusive nights and sleeping alone at the holidays. We finally left when the flinching fear became reality. But we’ve found family and learned to love the place we hated…boots and Elvis statues and all.

In Nashville, we took our master’s degree in sewing and made clothes for elite families and costumes for a burlesque show. Then shopping for notions led to Dolly’s designer and a very challenging career. And we learned to be very careful where we stick the pin!

In Nashville, we met a friend who almost drank himself to death, and almost drown in the park, and almost died of some duck disease…and we still don’t know the answer to his question.

In Nashville, we saw her gliding in an angelic sundress through the ethereal light—and we forgot our raisin’! But our baby-doppelganger plan didn’t work, and now we dream we don’t have to observe the 500-foot buffer zone.

In Nashville, our glowing reviews slowly unraveled before our eyes. The mysterious bad guy from “Taken” helped us make our home, and we shared the struggle of our precarious status. But a new job and a new guy led us to like our new self better.

In Nashville, we met him on a blind date…with someone else, while we were semi-engaged…to someone else. Twelve dates, countless romantic letters, and 62 years later we said our final good-bye here—and through it all we listened to the music of the moonlight.

Thanks to all the storytellers for a wonderful night—Rose, Rob, Ty, Annette, Mercedi, Christy, Sally, Iisha, and Emily! Join us next time for stories that take place “All in a Day”. Got a story? Pitch it here!

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Almost – The Understory and Next Theme

Here Rob McRay’s understory from August 2018’s theme “Almost.” 

Almost, Nashville, almost.

We almost hugged a biker cop the night we almost got a D.U.I.—on our scooter—when 60-Almostour legally sufficient lie could not cover for our irresponsibility.

We almost didn’t get to fulfill our drinking fantasies in the only country that gets attacked by aliens. But a D.M.V.-like bureaucrat suddenly gave us a break for his lunch break.

We were almost about to be kind of a big deal, working with a director we’ll call “Andrew” on a British-Chinese-South African documentary about America. But the doomed negotiations with communists did lead us to a new friendship—and that’s kind of a big deal.

We almost bled when we were bullied, and unheard, and got a ticket to eternal torment for lipstick and rap and failing to obey men. But a light took us to a new place, and now we love life and pranks and our son…and the next adventure.

We almost got the girl, when we visited the solitary trailer with unrealistic expectations of the “Number One Crush.” After nearly getting shot by Redneck Rambo, we returned home alone to the strains of “Love Fool.”

We almost gave up on our novel about 7th-grade Abbie’s almosts. But minor accomplishments led to an Abbie-like editor whose decision to publish encouraged us to never give up.

We almost kept our secret in the basement of our souls, when we were invited into his “special club.” We told no one to protect our parents, until our husband revealed it and our mother apologized she couldn’t protect us.

We almost won a dream contract from that label, but our geek army playing anime conventions were told “Asians don’t sell.” But we won a Supreme Court case and inspired a generation of kids to fight for the voice of our community.

We thought we almost died from chlorine poisoning, which led to compulsive handwashing, and tapping on tiles, and an irrational fear of decapitation or being stabbed by a toy. But Lawrence died, and we smoked, and it stopped—and even after the swine flu, we didn’t have to worry about Chucky.

Almost, Nashville.

Thanks to all our tellers—Steve, Caroline, Pratik, Joshua, Kerrie, Simon, Raj, Kat, and Drew! Join us for our 5th year anniversary September 24 for our annual theme “Nashville.” Got a story? Let us know!

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Regret – The Understory and Next Theme

Here’s Rob McRay’s understory for July 2018’s theme “Regret.” 

Nashville, tonight we had regrets.

We celebrated our 20th anniversary in a bubbling fish tank, where we enjoyed a large red Cosmo that sent our body on journey past the potted plants and the upright Sunday School teachers, with a stop at the gravel lot. We released the shifting anvil and collapsed in a vague resemblance to the ending we had hoped.

In our Ralph Lauren High School we choose one crush between rival brothers. We became a thing at the playground when we were scared to speak our truth. And we wish we had known it was okay to say, “no.”

An ill-fated ski trip with no conditioner led to an ill-conceived plan for an eternal, growing, secret, half-pound golf ball. But our decisive aunt shuttled us to the E.R. salon, where our elaborate like finally hit the floor.

A leap of faith led to an encounter with Barney, Floyd, and Aunt Bee, three ambulance rides, and membership in the Sufferers Club. And maybe we can finally say that we no longer regret our biggest regret.

After repelling on our first date— “Not-Naked & Afraid”—we married our Indiana Jones husband. He took us camping in Destination Hell, ignoring warnings, and waivers, and mating gators, where we became “Cybil of the Swamp.” But never again!

We roomed with A.A.R.P. aunt, who thinks we’re not that young. Despite that April night when she selected the only channel she knew and we watched 2 ½ minutes of rhythmic body parts, she’s still the best roommate we ever knew.

She was bilingual, and we were…dangerously equipped. We awkwardly used the present tense, and confused fear and feces. But that was nothing compared to ordering male-member soup from the star QB waiter—and everyone who loves the Lord knows about it!

At the nursing home with Great-Grandmother Bitc— …uh, Great-Grandmother, we met him eating flesh-toned paste by himself. We became pen pals, till 12-year-old life intervened, and we never answered his last letter. And now we just want to say, “We’re sorry, Mr. Kimbrell.”

We celebrated her bachelorette party with a cucumber massacre, and Wishbone advice, and sober streaking with former home-schoolers. We escaped the cornfield led by Pregnant Rambo…but Mom is glad we would never do anything like that.

Thanks to all our storytellers—Rebecca, Jacquelyn, Cynthia, Melissa, Ty, Steve, Mary Margaret, Elly, and Alexandra! Join us August 27 for our annual partnership with The Porch Writers’ Collective. Our theme is “Almost.” Get in touch here with your story proposal! If you missed the stories, check our podcast page in a couple weeks to catch up on all the goodness!


Pratik Patel – Report Card

Here’s Pratik Patel’s story from June 2018’s theme “Parents.” 

When I was a senior in college, I was paid $50 to write an essay for an international student’s English class assignment. I don’t want this to be an exposé but rich Arab students at private colleges can buy off assignments if they have the means for it. They usually have the means for it. $50 was a sizable amount of money for me back in 2005. I also wanted to fancy myself as a writer so getting paid for my so-called skills seemed like a good way to test them out.

I wrote this story in which my dad pulled a prank on me by scaring the hell out of me about my 2.43 GPA on my high school report card. Throughout the story, he pretends I have bad grades. But I don’t have bad grades! I have a 3.61 GPA! And everybody ends up happily ever after at the end. It had sentences like this:

  • My father caught me examining the envelope, and put the most horrible thought into words. “Your report card for this semester.” My father had said it in the simplest way possible. In spite of the simplicity, I felt the vibes of unpleasant intonations disguised in that statement. I was trying to get my client a good grade.
  • My father could’ve been a great suspense director if he chose to. But instead of applying that talent to celluloid, he preferred to practice it in real life.
  • And this was how I ended the story. I pulled out my report card from the envelope. My father had neatly circled the GPA. In large, bold, black letters, right in the middle of the red circle, imprinted was the number 3.61. He had also left a little note for me: “Just having a little fun!” That is my father.

I re-read that story recently and honestly, I’m not impressed with my writing skills. But back then, I was pretty impressed. So impressed I submitted it two months later for an online writing competition. Mostly for kicks. It was 2005 and the Internet was still trying to find its identity. It was acceptable, fashionable even, to submit stories for online competitions nobody had heard about.

Now you’re probably wondering if I’ve spent time in pIagiarism or copyright jail. I have not. I got away with it OK? And I hope my … client got away it too. Ok, I admit that my ethics are really really … questionable, at the very least. I took money under the table for completing another college student’s English assignment. And then I published it online under my own name. If you think I’m a small-time criminal, I won’t take offense. We’re on the same page.

So anyways I submitted that story for the writing competition. And to my surprise, it won Story of the Month. I was pretty psyched. So psyched I shared it my with father. And he loved it too! So much that he shared it with his friends and colleagues. They replied back to him with nice things about my writing. Nice things like:

  • This is the most successful part of any parent’s life, when they are respected for the good cause which their children have done.
  • Another said: When you look back, you probably must’ve even recollected that particular day and would have developed a feeling of nostalgia!!

My father was an instant hero amongst his own posse.

He emailed me later. He said: “Pratik, it is excellent work done. You should try to pen more and more stories like this. Thank you a lot for centering me in this story. In fact, I lived up all those moments. I kept on smiling while reading it, and everybody in the office kept on asking about it. Keep it up.” Unlike me, he was never good with words.

It had taken $50 and two small-time crimes for that email to land in my Inbox. That email should’ve made any son proud ….. Right? But it didn’t. The trouble, you see, is the story I wrote about my father was … fictional; it wasn’t true. He never played a prank on me. He never pretended I have bad grades. It never happened. In real life, I got yelled at for my average GPA; occasionally, I got smacked. By the time, I graduated high school I knew I wasn’t ever going to live up to his expectations. And it got worse in college.

I shared that story with him for a purpose. I wanted him to know what was going through my mind when I was a student. I wanted to see if, given the opportunity, would he feel sorry for what he made me go through? I wanted him to wonder if setting such expectations was worth it in the end. I wanted a reaction. Any reaction. Any reaction but compliments for my writing. I just wanted an honest moment of truth. It hurt that he never gave me that. I was disappointed all this passing of time hadn’t softened him. And most of all, I was disappointed that my story wasn’t able to get through to him.

I thought that by sharing it with him, I would get closure so we could start from a clean slate. He’d say “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go through that.” And I’d say “I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.” And then we’d move on with life. Maybe even become good friends and save the father-son relationship for another time. But that hasn’t happened.

And so, here I am, left with as many unanswered questions as I had since I shared the story with him. I hope I find some answers eventually. You know, just so I can write another story about it. And if I do, it’s OK if I’m not paid $50 for writing that story.

Kerrie Cooper – People Smile and Tell Me I’m the Lucky One

Kerrie Cooper’s story from June 2018’s theme “Parents.”

We were 32, my husband and I, when we decided to start our family. In doing the math, that gave me 72 chances to get pregnant before I turned 38. It was a seemingly endless amount of possibilities.

We wanted a girl most of all. We had already named her Isabella, and hoped with all our might that she would have his curly hair and my brown eyes.

Because I was certain it wouldn’t be long before I was pregnant, I turned my focus to how I would surprise Michael with the news. I decided to sing him Danny’s Song by Kenny Loggins. It held special meaning to us both. We would drive around in his jeep with the top down on some winding country road on a summer day with no particular place to be and no particular time to return; singing it out loud, unabashedly attempting some harmony around “even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you honey…” and I would have to stop singing for the tears that closed my throat. It was the perfect choice.

During an annual exam I mentioned to my ob-gyn that I had stopped taking birth control and we were trying to get pregnant. She congratulated me and asked how long it had been. “Over a year,” I said. She paused, looking over her clipboard and said, “Well if that’s the case we need to run some tests to make sure you aren’t infertile.”

I didn’t hear anything after the word “infertile.” My ears started ringing – high pitched and thunderous at the same time. I blurted out “Ok” but I was farthest thing from ok. First comes the denial. Then fear. It’s the fear that will get you.

Although the tests were inconclusive, I was given the label “unexplained infertility,” and advised that the best way to get pregnant was through medical intervention. And this began what would be eight years of infertility treatments and drugs; and thousands upon thousands of dollars to have a baby.

The journey shattered everything I had hoped to believe in: Like a body that works; insurance that wouldn’t fail me; a medical system that cares; and doctors who have all the answers.

I had no option but to trust the course in front of me, because why pursue it if I am not going to believe with every fiber of my being, with every wish on a candle, with every silent prayer, with every tearful plea, in its success? It was a game that offered no preparation but I agreed to play anyway to achieve one of the most desired outcomes that two people who love each other often want: a baby. To create another human life. To do with our bodies what they were intended to do.

I began to go through a vicious cycle. Daily injections and scheduled sex and blood draws and the grand finale of semen into a jar, hyper-spun and cleaned and then injected inside of my uterus with hopes that these super swimmers would find my plethora of jacked-up eggs, collide and stick around to grow as one.

Then I waited for the phone call with the results of my blood test. Even though I had, of course, snuck in two home pregnancy tests, my eyes bored onto the strip of paper willing a line to appear, and when one does not, I convince myself that it was too early anyway. The phone call from the nurse is all business, “Sorry. It’s negative.”

I didn’t recover easily. As it went on, I actually didn’t recover at all, only I didn’t realize it. We averaged six cycles a year for eight years. I had eleven surgeries. Insurance stopped covering anything below my boobs. Not that they were paying any of these expenses anyway. It was all out of pocket.

I could no longer be in the presence of babies. Most times I would merely tear up, but others I would sob uncontrollably, and I had zero control over it. People either got the woman with tears dropping quietly or a crazy lady crying the ugly cry with snot dripping down her nose. I couldn’t walk by a Baby Gap in the mall and I sent “regrets only” to every baby shower I was invited to. Everywhere I looked I saw babies and babies saw me, staring right at me, their beautiful innocent eyes looking right through me. Not one of my friends with children understood – how could they? It was the single most isolating experience of my life.

Slowly, my husband and I drifted apart as if on separate rafts in the ocean riding two different currents. Undetectable at all until we looked up and saw how far apart we actually were.

Questioning everything, we began to explore anything. Fertility goddesses, healers, diets, vitamins – anything that held promise. I went to a Maori Indian healer from New Zealand, asking for Papa as I had been instructed to, only to be informed, “Papa only goes where he is needed.” At the end of my session I would find myself surrounded by every healer in the room, Papa at my feet. My body was vibrating so strongly from their energy I could have sworn I was levitating.

I called a priest, an acupuncturist and a psychic in the course of an hour one day and I met with each one. From the priest I asked forgiveness for divorcing my first husband. Still under the sway of my catholic upbringing, I had convinced myself that I was being punished by God for the divorce.

The acupuncturist, who I went to weekly for a year, gave me the type of period she said women are supposed to have: pain and symptom free.

The psychic gave me hope: telling me I would not be denied a child; there was a little girl coming to me and she is beautiful and lively. She would be an answered prayer, but comes to me in an unexpected way. I hung onto her every word. I so wanted to believe her.

Depression hit me hard, but when I came out of it, I wanted to pursue adoption. Michael was still grappling with his emotions. Once we worked through the collateral damage of the years preceding we arrived at this one irrefutable fact: we wanted to be parents. We attended adoption conferences and met with agencies, one of which took our deposit but rejected us, and lined up an attorney to help with the search. Five months later, I got a phone call from our lawyer: “There’s a woman in Pennsylvania and she has chosen you to be the parents of her unborn baby.” And then, “Kerrie? Kerrie? Are you there?” On the other end of the line all I could do was nod my head silently, I was crying too hard to answer.

We flew out to meet her. I wanted to know the woman who was making this ultimate sacrifice for us. She lived in a poor area of town. It was sobering to take in her reality—heartbreaking really. After a few awkward exchanges, we suggested lunch and headed out to Ruby Tuesday, one of the only “sit-down” (her words) restaurants in the area.

Michael and I made nervous chatter in the car. I kept stealing glances at her. She was tiny, really tiny, and her belly was huge. I had to fight the urge to touch it. We stopped outside the restaurant so she could smoke. It crushed me to watch her.

As we entered the restaurant, Michael approached the hostess stand. I took two steps towards him and stopped dead in my tracks. Michael turned back to look at me and saw my distress. My face had contorted in way that was all too familiar to him and tears started falling. “Honey, what’s wrong?” I could only say his name, “Michael.” I grabbed his hand, squeezing it hard. I felt like everyone around us froze like a still frame in a movie as Michael and I stood there, facing each other and holding hands. I didn’t need to say anything else. It took him just a moment to cock his head upward and hear the music: “People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one. Life’s just begun. Think I’m gonna have a son. He will be like you and me, as free as a dove…”

Here in Lebanon Pennsylvania, 10 years later, we are with the woman who would give us a child. And Danny’s Song, the song I had wanted to sing to my husband to tell him the news about our baby, was playing in the restaurant.

We moved her in with us for the last months of the pregnancy. I couldn’t imagine not caring for her; she was giving us everything we dreamed of. After three months, Michael and I watched our daughter, Isabella Maria DeMay, being born here in Nashville. Her middle name to honor the woman who brought her to us. She has my husband’s curly hair and my brown eyes.

Finally, exactly the way it was always supposed to be, we were parents.


Kerrie L. Cooper is the founder and author of Kindred; building an online library of true stories to heal, inspire and encourage. Kindred is also an online shop full of merchandise that collects profits for one-to-one giving to those who find themselves in an unexpected time of need.

Ty Powers – Better Late than Never

Ty Powers’ story from June 2018’s theme “Parents”. 

Had my father, Charles, been a superhero, his tagline might have been: Mild-mannered Nazarene preacher by day! Mild-mannered Nazarene preacher by night! Dad was kind and gentle and funny, beloved by his church members, but not always the most adept at dealing with his own family.

It makes sense. As many PKs (preachers’ kids) will tell you, that “service to others” thing can be a real problem for the pastor’s immediate family. Early on, my two brothers and I realized our emotional needs often took a back seat to the needs of others. Oh, did I say “back seat”? Sometimes we weren’t even in the car: Mildred broke her hip stepping off a curb; Darryl’s toenail is infected—he’s diabetic!; Tina’s daughter has taken up smoking pot and even worse, dancing; Brother Smith is seeing a Satanic face in the tiles of his bathroom floor. You know, typical stuff.

Sixteen years ago, my marriage was in shambles. The shit had hit the fan, or as I say when children are present: “The ship has hit the sand.” Even though my dad and I didn’t really have a “spill your guts to me” type of relationship, I needed someone to talk to. Even though I resented his parishioners for stealing him away from me for all those years, surely all his counseling experience was not for nothing,” so I called him.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Ty!!!!!” He always sounded like he was either super surprised, or trying to prevent me from falling into a hole.

“I need to talk to you about something. Can it be just you and me, so maybe not at the house?” I wasn’t ready to loop in my stepmother just yet.

“Sure!” he said in that professional “Welcome to our church; please fill out a visitor’s card!” sort of way. “Come on over and we’ll drive somewhere!” My dad loved Buicks. Big ones (“I like big Buicks, and I cannot lie!), so when I got to his house, we got in his big Buick and hit the road.

I was terrified.

“Why don’t we go to Trevecca and talk there!” my dad suggested. If you’re a Nazarene in Nashville, you can’t help but be linked to Trevecca Nazarene University in some way or another. He had an office on campus.

“Yeah, Dad, that’ll work.”

We made small talk in the car, which wasn’t talking, per se, but rather, my dad reading road signs, as was his habit. “Piccadilly Cafeteria!” he would announce as we drove past. “Fessler’s Lane!” said the street sign. “Hair club for men!” declared the billboard, or my favorite: “Vasectomies!”

It was a warm, clear, beautiful afternoon, and I was sweating profusely. At Trevecca, we circled the tiny roundabout. This was before they installed the Jesus statue there. It’s a tiny Jesus on a giant pedestal. It sort of looks like a second-place trophy hiding in the hydrangeas. Just past the dorms, we found an empty pavilion. We sat down at a picnic table. I remember the sun casting shadows behind my dad’s head.

“So, what’s up!” As you may have noticed, all of my dad’s sentences ended in exclamation marks, even the questions.

I looked at him, his elbows propped up on the table, his hands clasped under his chin. I wanted to hem and haw, but I had been hemming and hawing all my life, and I was exhausted.

“Dad, I’ve been having an affair. I’ve been cheating on Gabby.”

It wasn’t surprise on his face, but sadness. Tears welled up. He had always been awkward around my wife. This was the man who suddenly blurted out over dinner one night, “Gabby! We just want you to know that we don’t think any less of you just because you’re from a third-world country like El Salvador!” Geez, Dad. Now we know what you haven’t been thinking about. For days on end. Now THAT was an awkward ride home.

So, here he was, devastated. The thing I remember most was his eyes, the way they were reshaped by his heart that was breaking, for both his son and the beautiful daughter-in-law he loved. I’m not sure what I was seeking from him then, but it wasn’t justification. I didn’t want him to condone anything. Maybe what I wanted from him was something like shelter, protection from what was crashing down around me.

So, that was Bombshell #1.

Bombshell #2: “Dad, it was with a man. I cheated with a man.” Now, THAT revelation brought a surprise to his face, and again, what I remember most was his eyes, full of heartbreak. And confusion.

I had been baffling my dad for a long time. I thought of one summer when I was 11. We were spending a week at the Nazarene Campground in Anadarko, Oklahoma. Trust me: a Nazarene campground in August in Oklahoma is its own special kind of hell. Ratcheting up the misery was the fact that I was being bullied by two older kids. Every time we crossed paths, they would beckon me with an overly lilting “Hey, Ty, come kiss my hand,” an exaggerated flick of their wrists, and a swish of their hips. It was so relentless, I eventually refused to leave our cabin.

Dad knew what was going on, so he sat me down and gave me an awkward tutorial on how to hold my hands under my chin (like this, not like this), so I wouldn’t appear so feminine. That event and other encounters from my formative years caused something to lodge itself somewhere behind my heart—the notion that derision from others was likely my own fault, that this thing I didn’t quite understand about myself must’ve been evident to others, scrawled all over my face—it definitely was something that warranted dismissal and rejection. Even hatred. I know now, in his own fumbling way, that Dad was just doing the best he could, but I wore that shame for a long, long time.

Anyway, back at Trevecca, all of that was roiling around in my head as I cried, “Dad, I don’t know what to do. I’ve been leading this double life, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“Well, why don’t we do this,” he said, no exclamation marks this time. “Let’s pray,” which I realize now can sometimes be a preacher’s sneaky way of avoiding the topic at hand. But that’s what we did. I don’t recall exactly what he prayed, but I do remember what he did not pray: there was no “getting right with God,” no “lead him out of this phase into the arms of his wife again,” no “God, just help him like sports.” Actually I did love football. All the spandex.

He just prayed for healing, and who doesn’t need that?

After the prayer, he said one more thing as he hugged me: “Hey, Ty. I want you to know something. I love you. Ann and I love you. We always will. We always have. We love Gabby, too. We’ll get through this together.”

So, there you go. My awkward dad surprised me at one of my life’s most crucial moments.

The “together” part didn’t quite last. The marriage sputtered out after another six years, including a stint in a misguided counseling approach akin to reparative therapy—what I call, in retrospect, “Homo No Mo’”. I don’t recommend it.

Gabby and I went our separate ways. She finally found a real man.

And so did I!

Dad and I never talked about my gayness again, which says as much about me as it does him. I never told him who his youngest son really was, deep inside. He was gone before I could say, “Dad, I am a gay man.” I never got to show him the shame-free version of myself. I never had the chance to introduce him to the guy I’ve been known to eat ice cream with. On that guy’s couch. In that guy’s house! Scandal!

But I did get that one very special afternoon with him, praying under that pavilion, his hand on my shoulder, the heat of the day swirling around us, the shadows lengthening, the fireflies hovering.

There was distance between us, yes, but the uncrossable chasm that I thought would open up between us when I told the truth simply didn’t happen. Every now and then, I can feel him just across the table, simply loving me.


Ty Powers grew up in Oklahoma, Texas, and Mississippi and has been a Nashvillian since 1994. An editor for the Lord at a local Christian publishing house, he whiles away the hours coming up with innovative ways to undermine family values.