It was early summer, 1977. . .
. . .when I stood blinking in the movie theater after the final credits rolled. I wore cork platforms. I had a Toni home perm that I was trying to grow out. My date’s name was Clay. I’d been home fewer than 48 hours from living most of that past year in Austria. Maybe that fact – that I’d been out of the US loop for a while, residing on another planet, playing lonely goatherd near Salzburg – is the reason I said the following words as Clay and I got ready to leave the theater:
“Well, hmmm,” I mumbled, “I can tell you one thing: that thing’s never gonna catch on.”
Clay cocked his head, trying to check if I was joking. “But you didn’t even think those. . .those Stormtroopers were–?”
“And not even Princess Leah?”
“What about Han Solo? Don’t you think he was-?”
Contorted, noncommittal, wrinkled Calvinist librarian grimace.
“Oh, come on! Not even that little – what was his name? C3P0? But that was pure genius!”
Dead pan glare.
“Mark my words,” I said with disdain and self-assurance, “The soundtrack’s good, yeah. But the rest? It’ll never catch on.”
Forget that my flippancy was an insult to my date who’d just paid for my opening night ticket. Forget that I made him awkward. That I then felt awkward. I squirmed a bit in that windy gape of silence, teetering on my cork platforms, fluffing the frayed ends of my Toni perm.
1977. My first time in Paris. My last perm.
Forget all that. The real deal, the reason this moment has stuck with me, is that I. Hadn’t. Gotten. It. I hadn’t gotten something really big, important, sea-changing, intergalactically cosmically epic.
Seven episodes, 25 Oscar nominations, (10 Oscars), video games, Halloween costumes, books, spin-offs, a global cult following and an oribatid mite genus named darthvaderum later– and I’m chawnking on my words.
What Else Have I Not Gotten?
I just don’t seem to get the genius of some things. And a lot of those things end up spinning the planet.
For instance, I remember 20 years after Star Wars when a friend told me that the “next wave, Melissa – watch for it, it’s coming fast – the next wave,” she said, “is technology.”
“Aeck,” I said. “You really think so? Aeck [again], I hope not.”
In those days, I wrote (by hand, on onion skin paper, with special pens and in gorgeous calligraphy) epistles to my friends. I resisted my first computer. My second one. My third. When friends’ responses to my handwrought letters popped up on my PC screen, I thought they looked as personal as ingredient lists on a cereal box. Sterile, generic, dehumanizing sound bytes.
I clutched my fountain pen in defiance. I licked postage stamps until I got drunk on the glue.
But it didn’t take long to realize that as a writer, my quaint Thoreauvian methods of communicating just weren’t going to cut it in a rapidly changing world. So I capped my pen, shelved my envelopes, plugged my nose, and dove into email.
(So you know: I dove like Jacques Costeau. Ask my friends. They call my emails “Melissives.” I write dense emails. Daily. )
And Then There Was This Thing Called a BLOG.
“Melissa, listen: You just have to start a blog!”
This was my technobility friend, one whose career has kept her steeped in that cyberocean since the days it was no more than a puddle. For years, she’d been following our global life through me (on parchment, then, when I caved, via email), and was trying, I dunno, to oil me up for the 21st century.
I balked. Blog. BLOG? It sounded like a bloated trunk of a hacked down Sycamore rotting in an eddy of the Mississippi Delta. Never on your life. It couldn’t be real writing, I protested. Besides, from all (the 3 blogs) I’d sampled, it was too exhibitionist, intrusive, prone to much-too-long daily dwelling in one’s own head. (Don’t these folks have jobs?, I thought. Families? Obligations? Water meters to read?)
Then my publisher, Christopher Robbins, crash-coursed me about authors’ blogs. Today’s serious authors maintain robust blogs. I scoured dozens of them. They’re packed with great practical material, some truly fine writing, tips on the craft, and links to (you guessed it) more blogs.
And so here I am. And here you obviously are. I’m doing this blog thing with conviction and exuberance, while also doing my job, loving my family, fulfilling my obligations (like significant ones I carry within my beloved church). And I’ve not yet neglected our water meter.
“Alors, Qui Ici N’est Pas Encore Mon FRIEND Sur FACEBOOK?”
As with Star Wars, email and then blogs, I initially winced at the drug called Facebook. But now I’m a dealer. At church. It was last night, in fact, in our church parking lot after a big activity with my sweet Swiss and French charges, that I called out: “So, who here’s not yet my Friend on Facebook?”
Nearly every last person was. Facebook’s become not only the mechanism that keeps my personal self interconnected globally, but it’s also the portal through which my professional self shares her voice and gathers a readership. (You). And it’s where you can offer me feedback and invaluable reader’s insights. You cannot fully appreciate how much I love your feedback!
(Haven’t visited the Global Mom: A Memoir FB page? Bah, voilà: Click right here and be sure to “like” it.)
My little Twitter avatar. Thanks again for the photo, Luc.
Crystal, Kim, and Chirpster
Email? Blogs? Facebook? How far can a former technophobe possibly slide down the slippery social network slope?
My two PR mavens have taught me. Crystal and Kim at BookSparks are the minds behind my book’s summer release campaign. (Still pinching myself, honestly, that there’s a team so invested in making my words fly. And yes, I fawn all over their expertise). They have events in the works for NYC, Utah and LA, and have hoisted me onto various social media platforms. This is why I’m now linked to Chirpster (Oh. You call it Twitter? Hm. That’s cute.) And am cuckooing every day. Join in, if you want, at MDBGlobalMom.
Between this blog, the Global Mom: A Memoir FB page, and Twitter, you’re bound to bump into me on a daily basis. I’m signing off here so I can go work on some promotional pieces I’m writing for Crystal and Kim, and so I can also go edit the first installment of my Global Moms vlog series, which you can access on my YouTube Channel or the Global Mom: A Memoir FB page.
As long as you’re here, how about a vlog clip? Watch. Leave a comment. Tell me what you think, what you would change to improve this piece, and what questions you would ask mothers like myself who live this kind of internationally nomadic life.