LeeAnn Prescott - Escape From Nowhere

Fear of Telling My Story

Writing about my life fills me with trepidation. I can tell you my story in broad strokes, and you might be amazed, at least amazed that I got to the point that I am now, writing on my MacBook Air in my tastefully decorated living room with its vintage mid-century furniture. You might never guess that as a child I lived in a VW bus, if you knew my more recent history: that I lived for years in the tony Pacific Heights neighborhood in San Francisco, held a director level corporate job, spoke regularly at conferences, and even appeared on television. Could this person in front of you, with a nice haircut, pretty clothes, and an expensive gym membership could have grown up without a toilet in the house, when she did live in a house? Would my polysyllabic vocabulary, taste for gourmet food, and penchant for fancy hotels clue you in that I was home schooled for a total of four years, and am still the only member of my extended family to graduate from college? Knowing me now, you would not be surprised to find out that I was valedictorian of my high school class, captain of the cross country running team, star of the high school play, and attended an expensive private college in Vermont. But those other facts, the facts of an illegitimate child born on welfare, raised by a resourceful but emotionally closed mother, a restless stepfather who dreamed of being a gold miner, and limited indoor plumbing belie my seemingly pristine and successful life.

This story, the story I am going to begin to tell you, fills me with fear for the telling. It is not that I was abused, or underfed, or did not have a roof over my head. I was fed well, clothed modestly, and had a fairly protective mother who looked out for my physical safety. But therapists have told me I have was neglected, friends tell me I am resourceful and independent, and my mother and stepfather say the difficulties made me a stronger person – after all, I had more than they did in most respects.  So what am I scared of? Why does delving into the memory of a life on the road, a life of good cooking, a life of home school and home made clothes, fill me with trembling in my bones and pain in my heart? Because that was also a life defined by an extreme and profound loneliness and despair at ever having what I wanted for myself. That pain, that trembling, is not for me, now, but for that wide-eyed little girl trying to find just one happiness, a simple joy, something solid and real to hold on to in every uncomfortable, improbable, and unreasonable situation she found herself in.

Telling you this story means that I will have to revisit those places – and there were many of those places - and admit to the world, to my parents, and most importantly, to myself, that I hated it. I did not hate my Barbie dolls, or the houses or clothes I made for them, but I hated not having friends to play with. I did not hate walking through the desert in Arizona at the age of 12 and learning about cacti, but I hated being pulled out of school every other year. I did not hate the clothes my mother made for me, but I hated school shopping at local yard sales, for fear that some one at school would recognize their cast-off clothes on me. I did not hate the delicious vegetarian food we ate, but I hated not being able to have friends over because they didn’t want to use the outhouse. To be sure, there were moments of fun and joy and togetherness with my mother and stepfather, but I hated the constant feeling that we were one mis-step away from a major disaster, which of course did eventually happen. What I hate the most now is that I cannot hate my parents. I know they did the best they could, living what they thought was an interesting and authentic life. They are nice people. They are just not people whose lifestyle I would choose to share for 17 years.

But that's why I have this story to tell, and it's a good one. I hope you stop and put your email address in that box on the corner, and get ready to read about some interesting adventures of growing up in America.

That Shining, Elusive Light When It All Comes Together

Recently I decided to clean out files that I had been collecting since the beginning of my professional career, and came across three pages of writing from 1997 or 1998. As I sat in my office, surrounded by creative briefs, positioning documents, and articles I had saved from jobs long past, and read these three pages handwritten on a yellow legal pad, tears streamed down my face with the pain of every failure, every mistake, every time I saw the right way do do something and was shut down or didn't speak up. I realized everything and nothing had changed in 10 years of working. The Internet changed everything about how people use media and nothing about the interpersonal dynamics of business. As a 26 year old, I was too wise, too insecure and didn't know how to kiss enough ass to get where I wanted to go. It took 10 years of living out someone else's vision for my career to build my confidence up and wear me down so low that I had the guts and the brains to say "THIS IS NOT ME" and leave it to follow my own vision.

Here is my 1998 rant, transcribed and uncensored, but with paragraph breaks and links for historical reference added.

The feeling that it just never ends. Struggle. Something we make one way that goes another. Work, tiresome work.

Caring, not caring deciding whether or not one should care, not caring when you should care, caring when no one else cares. It's all a circle, a series of trade-offs, and somewhere through all that, a product is produced, and money is made. Fun may not be had unless money is made.

We're all trying to get our rocks off, but only those with the vision really can. We can have a moment of brilliance but only those with more moments of brilliance get ahead. It's easy to be cynical, critical, and just plain bored, but you can't get to nirvana without brilliance. That shining, elusive light when it all comes together and you see the way to do it right. It doesn't matter what anyone says, you in your heart of hearts know it's right and you can't stop it from pouring forth and overtaking your very being until you feel you might explode. Usually someone comes along and steers you in a safer direction before you reach that point. That's why the world is safe. Systems are created, and money gets made somehow, and that's the only way.

There's safety in systems and brilliance is not safe. Things aren't risked enough. All brilliant moments become closeted. Ideas are killed and brains are hurt. People are like other people and we drink together on the weekends.

Art beauty passion in a trailer park world. How can it exist? What drives the developer to build a trailer park? How did the Guggenheim get built in a small town in Spain? What person toiled madly for a grand idea, a monolith, a symbol of the human spirit constructed of steel and glass? What did the worker who built the glass structure have for lunch? The toilets must be cleaned.

We try and we don't try enough. How do we know when we're trying too hard? Is that risk or safety? What gets us to the restroom at the edge of the Grand Canyon? Next time I'll take my cell phone.

What can we do if we only have a few years here? How many lives can you personally make a difference in? How many trees can you personally save? Which would you rather do? The trees will get cut down someday and people will die. Your name will not be thought of on their last breath. Whose name will you whisper on your last breath? What chance do you have for a moment of brilliance in a world that strives for safety?

Skydivers know something special. It's OK to look Death in the face, winking, "Ha ha, I've got a parachute on." Can we look Death in the face and say, "I have the will to live, and I know I will"?

The greatest thing that could happen is greater than its antithesis, the worst thing that could happen. Pain is relative, but so is greatness. Happiness is always perfect.

So maybe it's a little wrapped up in the whining and pain and enthusiasm of youth. But the core of who I am and what I am is there, put down on paper for no one to see 10 years ago, and for me and you to see now, to validate my newfound purpose. My own vision, the only thing I have ever wanted to do, is to write. I am starting here, now, with my story. I hope you enjoy it, and I can't wait to hear what you think about it. Stay tuned.