In January, my dad sent a text saying that Bae and I “were made for each other.”
It’s the kinda thing the best man says during his wedding toast. I could practically hear John Legend in the background singing Made to Love. (It’s the kinda thing a writer learns from listening and observing.) I was curious about my dad’s take on my relationship.
Me: How can you tell?
Dad: By the way you guys were huddled under the blanket watching a movie in my living room.
Snuggling with Bae is something I’d done hundreds of times at home and never thought about it. Well, except for that time we watched a movie with another couple and they sat on opposite sides of the room and didn’t even share the same popcorn bowl.
I tried to see what my dad saw. With a wide-angle lens, we probably looked like a scene from a romantic comedy. We were all cozy under a huge, comfy blanket on dad’s leather couch with the fireplace cracklin’ in chilly Atlanta.
You need a macro lens to know that I’m all about invading the personal space of my loved ones. It’s my thing. It’s part of my character, if you will.
I pinch my mother’s big ole butt in public.
I TRY to hold the No. 1 Son’s hand when he’s checking out girls at the park.
I kiss my niece’s forehead then hold her hostage in a bear hug.
So it’s really about the lens, the angles. What we see. What we don’t see. What we hear. We we don’t hear. Context.
Listen. Observe. Listen. Observe. Listen. Observe.
I thought about how I process conversations I’ve overheard, describe moments and learn from observing people’s actions.
I listen like I have a FBI-sanctioned wiretap.
Nosey, much? Nope. I’m curious. There’s a difference.
People say incredible ish in line while buying a box of munchins at Dunkin Donuts. Even 30 seconds of a convo in DD provides quick insight into someone’s personality.
If you don’t believe me, follow Overheard in NY on Instagram. I started listening to strangers’ conversations when I began riding public transportation solo at 11 years old. I think that’s how I learned to write dialogue.
When I’m in a crowded elevator, I listen to what people say and how they say it.
Does she have an accent? Does he have a lisp? Does he drop F-bombs between every other word? Does she mispronounce the name of a French designer, who’d be pissed to know she owns eight fake handbags?
I listen for what’s said, but more important, what isn’t said.
I stick around for the climax.
It’s not enough to see how a man gently brushes hair out of a woman’s face. I gotta stay until the end. Does she blush? Does she smack fire out of him for ruining a perfectly good hair whip courtesy of God’s wind machine?
The funniest clip circulating on social media a few weeks ago was The Trumps: A Love Story. Or as I like to call it: Get Your Damn Hands Off Me, Donald. During a series of appearances Trump reaches for Melania’s hand and she swats him away like the whole world isn’t watching this artic chill.
My favorite moment is during inauguration. Melania is outfitted in a powder blue Ralph Lauren dress and standing next to The Donald like a soldier ready for battle, while Barack and Michelle lovingly hold hands like high school sweethearts.
See what I mean about angles?
Oh, and a word about sticking around until the end: Remember the Oscar’s Best Picture debacle? Yeah, the one where Faye Dunaway announced that La La Land had won when Moonlight really earned the trophy?
Just sayin’, Scribes. It ain’t over until the fat lady sings.
I scan the crowd for my Uncle Lovell.
True story: I’m at a funeral and my Uncle Lovell is pissed because everyone is commenting about the “wonderful job” the mortician did with The Deceased.
Random Bereaved Person: Doesn’t The Deceased look sharp! Oh, and his hair is slicked back just right!
After a few minutes of nonstop compliments unc had enough.
Uncle Lovell: FORGET ABOUT HIM, WHAT ABOUT ME? HOW DO I LOOK?
Me: (cackling in the corner)
Yes, he’s pissed that they’re ignoring his live body to fawn over the guy in the casket.
My point is this: It’s easy to get caught up in the moment of the occasion—a graduation, funeral or wedding—and believe everyone is experiencing the same emotion. Exuberance. Grief. Bliss. Or that everyone is on the same page. (See my Uncle Lovell.)
Think about it, at a wedding you expect guests to smile as the bride makes her way down the aisle. But if you scan the crowd with a periscope, maybe there’s a woman giving the bride the ultimate side eye.
Then you can’t help but wonder: What’s her deal?
Remember Whitley and Bryon’s wedding on A Different World? The happy couple stood at the altar ready to recite the ’till death do us apart script and nobody saw Dwayne (Whitley’s ex-bae) standing in the aisle. Why?
’Cause the guests expected the usual wedding protocol: vows, kiss, reception, dance, cake. In that order.
Nobody expected Dwayne to walk toward Whitley and yell: Please, baby! Baby, please!
Dwayne disrupted the whole situation and stole Byron’s wife-to-be.
I ask myself, is there a story here?
In my mind, EVERY snippet of a conversation overheard on the No. 4 train, a quote I read on Twitter or a line from a movie can be the start of something.
I collect juicy tidbits and save them for later. Sometimes they make it past my pretty notebook or notes app on my iphone.
In HBO’s docudrama The Wizard of Lies, Andrew Madoff (son of the infamous Bernie Madoff) met with a writing class at Princeton and one of the students asked why didn’t he work harder to:
1) clear his name
2) convince the world that he and his brother didn’t know anything about his father’s $65 billion Ponzi scheme.
His answer was all kinds of honest: “I don’t know if I’m that sympathetic of a character. I’ve lived a life of great wealth and privilege… It’s hard to tell our story, there were just three of us, and there were thousands of victims.”
Exactly. Save your tissues. Don’t cry for him Argentina.
The Madoff sons had lavish homes, unlimited funds and prep school educations, while I ate Ramen noodles in college and repaid federal student loans with entry-level wages. So no the Madoffs don’t get any boohoos from me, even though I do believe Bernie kept them all in the dark about his shady investments.
Andrew (may he rest in peace) knew there wasn’t a story to tell—or at least one that the public or Bernie’s victims (like holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel) could digest without violently throwing up.
Now, it’s your turn. Tell me what you observe about people or couples when you’re out and about.
Listen intently, stay for the climax and scan the crowd.
What did you see from your vantage point? Is there a story waiting to take shape?
