Autobiograhy

Chapter 1
Christie Powell

Tell me a story.
The favorite line of my best friend. Probably because he is a good story teller. Filled with
plenty of detail (and I suspect often a little bit of exaggeration) and told with great gusto, he
can make a night of taking melatonin to induce sleep sound like a grand adventure. I, on
the other hand, have always struggled to tell a good story. I remember big sweeping
swaths of time and feelings, but the details of the colors, sounds, sights -- those elements
that make a story come alive for the listener -- those seem to be lost on me for large
periods of my life.
Add to that the time I spent as a teacher of writing reading books about writing -- Stephen
King On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Anne Lamott
Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life,
William Zinsser On Writing Well: The Classic Guide
to Writing Nonfiction wherein many pieces of advice
were contradictory -- such as, you had to just sit
down at the page and begin. Yet, it was also strongly
suggested that stories should have an ending before
you begin. In other words, you should know where
youre going. And so many of my stories have no
ending. Even when they probably should. You know,
the close one chapter, in order to begin another
and one door closes, another one opens, kind of
philosophy. But me? I have always been far too
given to leave all doors wide open. Always learning,
always becoming, always hopeful and always up for
the next adventure, no matter which door it comes
through. Often torn between what I feel I should be
doing (a nod to Glassers personal photo album
theory and rooted in my growing-up years) and the
living-out-loud I want to be doing.
(One door I walked through in Bhaktapur, Nepal)

So, you can imagine how daunting an autobiography appears to me -- this is not just Tell
me a story this is, Tell me your life. So, in the midst of my distress over considering such
a task, I can only go back to the story that led to Lamotts title. As her little brother
panicked over a lengthy bird report hed had months to write, but had not even started, her
father leaned over him and said, Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird. So, here
we go, bird by bird.
Fear, as opposed to courage, has long been a dominant theme in my life. Fear of not
being good enough, fear of living an ordinary life, fear of falling down stairs (I think this has
roots in the plastic-pumpkin-on-my-head dancing incident when I was five or so.) It has,
perhaps, only been luck (with a little influence from my parents) that ensures rather than

being paralyzed by fear, I have always been motivated to push back on it. Sometimes
frenetically so and sometimes outrageously so (think bungy jumping and sky diving), but
taking action is my go-to in the face of it.
This started very young when my big bear of a father, a product of Catholic schools, a
young, single mother, and the very rough-around-the-edges mining town of Butte
Montana, ensured my sister and I knew that life was serious business and sitting still was
akin to sinfulness -- which was a sure path to hell according to my Catholic upbringing.
There was always something that could be done. The 1/2 acre garden could be weeded,
the grass mowed, the dishes washed, the wood that heated our house stacked. At the
end of the day, my father was a kind man, but he didnt know much about fatherhood
having never really had one, money was scarce and laziness was not be tolerated. He
was a teacher. And in the summer, in exchange for half a cow to put in the freezer, he
worked for the farmers whose children he taught.
The industriousness my father instilled in me has always done me more favors than not
and propelled me through a litany of occupations starting when I was eight and in charge
of mowing the church lawns. From lawn mowing to waitressing and short order cooking at
Duttons only cafe (population 350), to a summer job as a school janitor, I learned that
every job was worth doing well and with dignity. Self-respect was rooted there.
The other fear that plagued me growing up was the lot of my mother, a stay at home wife
and mother. I knew from a very young age that my mom was smart. Well-read and wellspoken (though a little too fond of four-letter words for my fathers liking), a bit feisty, and
with hidden talents. She was a speed skater who had her eye on the Olympics in the 50s;
her story could have been one of success and intrigue in far different ways than it was.
Not that she ever really hinted at such herself. In many ways, she seemed content to read
widely and run the house, the local library story-hour, and, in later years, the town paper
out of our living room. Still, for me, I couldnt imagine that being enough.
But for all that, I had no idea what would be enough. While my world expanded over the
years through a flashlight and stack of books, I couldnt name my dream or passion
although I could feel a fire in my belly. I saw, through John Custer, one of my high school
English teachers, what someone with genuine passion and a zestful joy for living looked
like, but I didnt know how to uncover or discover that for myself. I didnt know enough; I
hadnt seen enough; I hadnt experienced enough. And I didnt have enough gumption to
completely throw off the yoke of Dutton or Montana and really explore and/or commit to
the path of the unknown alone (again fear . . . only this time I didnt push quite hard
enough against it). I opted to study Sports Medicine out of high school both because I
loved and participated in sports, but also because it was, seemingly, one of the more outof-the-ordinary options open to me in my quest to lead a life that was enough (whatever
that meant).
Again, my fathers influence was my saving grace in the years ahead while I bounced
around either peeking or boldly walking through whatever door opened. I was looking for
that passion or that dream, but in its absence conscientiously and diligently applying
myself with a fairly high level of seriousness to whatever was in front of me. A job in an
advertising agency, waitressing at Pizza Hut, shoe sales, office work, back to school
(English), Advo-Cat, orientation leader. Working toward? I didnt know. Just working at
whatever was before me. And then it came. The door for me to really step outside and
explore -- the opportunity to complete my student teaching in England and backpack my
way around Europe. Alone. At 23. In 1989 when the Berlin wall came down.

I still have a piece of that wall, and it has more than just
historical significance for me.
To my parents credit, while there was no financial support
during the whole of my journey, they let me be. Whether they
were holding their breath behind the scene and just didnt know
what to say or whether it was a conscious decision to let me
explore in a way they never did, I dont know. This is another
hallmark of my family. While love and respect lives there, so
does an element of polite distance and independence. Casual
banter, news of the day and quiet acceptance rather than deep,
meaningful dialogue, discord or storytelling mark our
interactions. Perhaps that also influenced my storytelling ability
(or lack thereof). We didnt tell stories.
But I have stories now. Lots of stories. Though I still tend to keep them to myself. I still
struggle with the details and it is still true that most of my stories dont yet have an ending,
but I have found enough.
Enough came for me in the form of an amazing
experience in graduate school working with a
researcher and professor who remains a mentor
to me today. Smart, funny and warm, she was
married with children, but she was also
accomplished in her own right professionally. I
needed that as a picture in my personal photo
album. With her I completed my masters thesis
which was published in Communication Quarterly
investigating how psychological climate affects
the development of peer relationships in
organizations. I enjoyed the rigor of it all, but
even more, I loved thinking about how the
climate, or the environment in which we live or
work, affects people and their behavior. While a
requirement for my Communications degree, that
thesis also marked the beginning of a more
tempered, reflective personal journey wherein I
became a little more courageous in consciously
choosing my path. Thoreaus quote comes to
mind, The cost of a thing is the amount of what I
call life which is required to be exchanged for it.
The cost of living out the childhood personal photo album which I had outgrown became
too high.
Enough came for me in a move from Washington State to Cameroon, West Africa where I
learned how to teach, how to serve as a leader and how to embrace change and the
pulsating, living-life-out-loud of the African people. Where I used to run around a calm,
mountain lake, I now ran through leper colonies, past soldiers with AK-47s into booming
African markets and on Mt. Febe toward the Presidential Palace. (Despite the guide book
warning I read before moving to Yaounde: Do not run toward the Presidential Palace, you
will be shot.) I learned that as perpetual learner, I could also be a leader and I began

presenting at conferences and serving on visiting accreditation teams, developing

relationships with amazing educators and building bridges to opportunities that would
come years later.
That enough has followed me through twenty
years of working, traveling, running and living
abroad. Through the journey from teaching to the
principalship, to coordinating and facilitating
curriculum initiatives and professional
development. Through innumerable adventures in
Africa, Europe and Asia and five international
moves. Through a marathon, numerous half
marathons and now, more often than not,10Ks.
Through the birth of two beautiful boys, the
transition into single parenthood, and the wonder
of a new, loving partnership.

(Tristan & Jarrett in New Zealand)

But dont get me wrong; fear still lives and breathes in me. It still has the power to
momentarily stun me and muffle my voice. During one of the more difficult transition
periods in my life, a dear friend of mine gave me a book by Pema Chodron, a Buddhist
nun, teacher and writer. I have returned to her often over the years, particularly When
Things Fall Apart (as they have -- many times).
One quote of hers has always been deeply meaningful to me:
Like all explorers, we are drawn to discover whats out there, without knowing yet if we
have the courage to face it.
I remain an explorer.