STORYTELLING AS A TOOL AND STRATEGY

When I saw the prompt for this week, I immediately thought of the time my best friend and I attended a workshop meant for little kids (we thought it was for all ages, okay?). I figured it would be a great idea to retell this little adventure we had. Plus, I thought it’d be cool to look back on this in a few years and remember how silly we were.

It all started when my friend—who was also my roommate, but more importantly, my best friend—noticed a sign at our local Indigo that said, “Come join us to build LEGOs this Saturday. You can keep the LEGOs provided.” She immediately told me about it so we could go together, have a fun little outing, and grab ramen afterward. It sounded like a great plan, so I agreed. And—free LEGOs! (Because honestly, LEGOs are so expensive.)

Saturday rolled around, and we showed up, only to realize the workshop was being held in the children’s section of the store. We thought, Oh, it’s just because it’s for all ages—that’s why it’s here. But as soon as we arrived, we discovered it was, in fact, a workshop just for little kids.

Our first instinct was to leave immediately and head back home, but we figured we were already there, so we might as well stay. (I’m pretending I’m telling this story to an audience right now, so I feel less lonely, by the way.) Anyway, we stayed. We awkwardly sat next to a little girl and her parents. I was so embarrassed I wanted to disappear.

A few minutes later, a lady walked in and sat on this big throne in the middle of the room. She welcomed us to the workshop, and at this point, my friend and I were shaking with laughter. The lady announced that she was going to read a few stories before the LEGO giveaway began.

I don’t remember most of the stories, but there was one about a kid who drowned at the end. It wasn’t explicitly stated that he died, but it was pretty clear, and no one seemed to care. This story really shook me because, first of all—since when is death okay in children’s literature? And second of all—none of the kids even reacted to the ending.

After the stories, the lady told us that we (the little kids) had to line up to get our LEGO kits. I wanted to run and get in line because I was so scared of missing out on the LEGOs, but my friend told me to wait until all the kids had gotten theirs. She was right, of course, but I just wanted my LEGOs!

When it was finally my turn, I could feel the judgment from the women handing out the kits (and they had every right to judge me). So, I panicked and blurted out a fake story about how the LEGOs were for my six-year-old cousin, who couldn’t make it because he was in the hospital. For the record, I don’t even have a cousin. I just lied because I didn’t want them to judge me. But it backfired because I’m a terrible liar, and my friend later told me they definitely didn’t believe me.

Anyway, the LEGO sets turned out to be tiny and not very exciting (it was this ugly little motorcycle?), but we decided to build them since we were already there. We moved to a different table, far from the workshop area, so no one could see us building these kiddie LEGOs like the losers we were.

At that table, a little girl and her dad were building together. He was so sweet, and you could tell how much he cared about her. Watching them made me tear up. It reminded me that my dad was gone—that even though I wasn’t a little kid anymore, he’d never get to build LEGOs with me or encourage me or just be there for me. I silently cried as I built that ugly motorcycle, feeling both happy and sad at the same time.

In the end, I had a great time with my friend. It was embarrassing, sure, but it’s something we still laugh about to this day. Definitely a core memory. Anyway, I thought this little story tied into the prompt for this week.