Dirty Words

02.28.25 - Live from the Storyteller's Lounge

At the end of February, I had the great privilege of co-hosting the Storyteller’s Lounge with one of my favorite people, Jessica Amos. The Lounge was sparked to life out of desperation. Deep in the dark winter months, I became obsessed with light, a byproduct of living in the PNW, where we are all vitamin D deprived. However, this wasn't just a quest for sunlight. Something deeper was brewing as I skimmed headlines of the incoming administration, attended psychiatrist appointments with my nephew, and had wild chats with my father who is entering the final stages of his life. The world around me was heavy in half-truths and worse, and I needed to lighten the load. Enter my beautiful friend, Jessica, who always understands these directional pulls and over coffee the Lounge was born. No need to talk about it. It was time to do. A couple of months later with the help of two more storyteller's, Chantal Barton and Christopher Gray, as well as the twangy sounds of Dumpster Joe and the Boys, we took the stage at Offbeat Cafe---a sold out show to honor the light that sparks when we tell the true and silly stories that make us human...that allows others to be human. When we are honest, our stories become a playbook; a way forward.

The following is an excerpt of my story of the night (keep on scrolling). Thank you to all who have reached out for a copy. You sure know how to make a girl feel loved. Before you dive in, I want to share two other works to add to your reading list and some questions to consider for all. Book club time!

Sexy Life, Hello by Michelle Kicherer

This novella is such a damn girl moment. A biting satire of porn addiction and life of the modern educated professional just trying to make it through this life. Here's the angle: An elementary school teacher loses her job. But don't fear! She's found two new jobs: a nanny to babies and as sexter for a porn star (yes, this is a real occupation). Words and care are transactions forward, but at what cost? Do yourself a favor and order a copy here.

The Sons of El Rey by Alex Espinoza

I've always been fascinated by luchadores---the spandex, the hijinks, the masks---an unparalled commitment to living a fiction. This multi-generational story follows a family of wrestlers from 1960s Mexico City to present day L.A. and its unique underbelly. As history does its thang, secrets are kept, norms are sustained, and regrets keep on dogpiling. Will this courageous family learn to remove the mask? Is it even possible? Get your copy here.

Questions to consider:

What do you consider norms of modern day living?
What do we hide and how?
What don't you want your mother to know?
What’s a mere quirk versus a destructive behavior? And do we care?
How do we finance our lives?
What do we value as a culture?
Getting by or thriving?
Ultimately, how do we know how to live?

02/28/25 Storyteller’s Lounge: Dirty Words and Dirty Girls (an excerpt from Junkyard Princess)

by Robyn Saunders Wilson

In 1983, my dad, Harry, decided it would be a great idea to buy an auto wrecking yard. He would want you to know that it was an empire… acres of vintage cars. What he would be less forthcoming about now as he was then is that this empire was smack dab in the middle of the California desert. And because all great dad ideas should be realized, my family moved from safe and sterile, well-manicured Orange County, CA—five minutes from the beach, (I was not bitter)-–to a lawless land overflowing with toothless fugitives, refugees, and drug addicts. Like the desert sand, these were a gritty people. I’ll save my stories of working with them at the junkyard for another night. In tonight’s story, we’re going to honor the ladies.

But first, let me set the stage with some context. Before the move to the lawless land, the boys in our perfectly manicured neighborhood were becoming not boys (and certainly not men), which really meant, very, very, very aware of body parts—theirs and others. It didn’t help matters that cable T.V. was just becoming affordable and for the most part, adults were scarce in the hours after school. Between the Playboy magazines stashed in my friend’s dad’s bathroom and the constant clicking of grainy channels, we learned that bodies have capabilities other than sleeping, walking, eating, roller skating, and playing soccer. We, the girls of the neighborhood, kept our findings to ourselves for the most part, fending off the occasional older brother’s gropey advances or escaping their spontaneous games of garage strip poker. The adults seemed none the wiser of our growing knowledge.

So, it was a surprise and darkly thrilling during the first years of the junkyard to find calendars of scantily clad women posted for all to see in the main warehouse. Sometimes the women were posed with vintage cars; other times with tools. But what remained a mystery is that they were out in the open rather than hiding under a bed or behind a toilet. Harry would make comments from time to time. “Don’t look at the trash,” he would remark with some discomfort, but would never take down the pictures worried that his workers might be offended by his prudery.

Women, in the flesh, were scarce at the junkyard, but when they appeared, my god, watch out. They would periodically accompany a husband, brother, or friend—an accessory for an errand. These women, restless and fawning, were not interesting to me. It was the other ones—the ones who came alone with their own tools and calloused hands—these were my sources of wonder. I didn’t know women like these in my former life where most adult women were stay at home moms, or teachers at school (fierce in their own way, but not this), or the annoying vanilla women at church with their pantyhosed legs, frumpy skirts, matching sweater vests, and soft nice voices. Abstractly, I knew Joan Jett, suited and leathered with a snarl to match; my icon. I knew Debbie Harry, too cool for emotion and tidiness; my other guiding star. Joan and Debbie played on repeat, their power filling my bedroom, but their physical manifestations were obviously out of reach. Instead, these women, the ones with calloused hands and who never wore bras, their breasts dripping down their torsos, side boob creases visible from muscle shirts cut wider—these women, ranging anywhere from 17 to 70 years old, did not cower, take “no” for an answer, or suffer any foolery offered by the yard hands. No matter the age or size, they stood tall and demanded, punctuating their requests by squinting their eyes as if proactively preparing to shut down any stupidity. They would light a cigarette and wait for someone to do exactly as they instructed. As a youngster I would hide behind the corner of the office, observing their profound presence and ability to smoke and talk at the same time.

A couple years later, when I was old enough to help these women, I would try to match their strength and

posture, but would end up fumbling my words, jarred by their imposing nature. They were breathtaking and I wanted what they had. How does one practice being that strong and cool? I started with the basics: cigarettes. When the yardhands weren’t looking, I raided their smoke packs, one cigarette at a time. Slipping into the grimy bathroom, I’d pop one between my lips and stare at my tiny green-eyed, freckled face in the streaky mirror. It would be a couple more years before I light one for real and a few more years until I buy Djarum cloves from Porgie’s mini mart, attempting to light up in the darkness of a park away from potentially ratting eyes. For now I was auditioning, casting the possibilities of leading rebel lady without a cause. What does she look like with the cigarette shifted to the right side of her mouth? A slight squint of the eyes. Remove that earnestness. Now, say hello like you don’t care. Hellooo. No, that’s too much—too many syllables. Heeeeyyyy. Yes, that’s better. Do not let your eyes smile. Squint and glare. There you go. Stop standing like you’re in line for communion. Give those legs some room. Shoulders back. Tilt that chin. Now say it again. Out of the left corner. Do not care. Hey.

Young ladies of a certain age are required to wear a bra whether they need it or not. There are rules. I did not need one being a too tall, too skinny kid stretching heavenward leaving no room for body fat or boobs. But again, there are rules and at age 12 my first training bra was selected from an array of boxed garments designed to adhere to this coming-of-age rule. Once outfitted to my androgynous body, the triangle outline was visible through my shirts, declaring hear thee, hear thee, this girl is now a woman. I hated the way the straps cut into my shoulders. I also hated the way the boys at school seemed to keep a running spreadsheet of the bra girls, a constant inventory of those who had titty holders and were now ready to get busy behind the portables. Lame boys. Why we girls didn’t gang up on them I’ll never understand. We had them in numbers and intellect and yet, more often than not assumed the position of inferiority, enduring their slights and advances. I wasn’t pretty and felt myself slipping away into an in-between state—a strong body, thanks to bike riding, soccer, and general junkyard mischief, with layers of likes and dislikes that more often than not did not correspond to my peers.

Once I broke a few ribs, a freak accident while doing gymnastics from the rafters in our barn. After a few days of recovery, I was ordered back to school. Every time I moved, I threw up a little in my mouth, but I was secretly thrilled. Not by the puke. Of course, not the puke. With all the bandages holding me together, I couldn’t fit a training bra into the mix. An exception to the rule would have to be made. I can still feel the mischievous smirk holding in all the puke as I carefully thumbed through my closet for my first day back. This outfit would need to express my coolness. It would need to explain without explaining that I was a kid who was tough enough to break bones, puke without caring, and still ace today’s math test all without a bra holding my womanliness in place. I knew just the thing. Tight black jeans and on top, the piece de resistance: a soft pink, full zip, sleeveless hoodie. I slowly pulled it all on, careful not to make any sudden movements that would radiate bolts of pain from my torso out. One arm through the arm hole. Then the other. I said goodbye to the layers of bandages as I methodically zipped up and over their bulky constraints, finally stopping mid-cleavage. Only vanilla girls zip all the way up. I took a look at myself in the mirror. Not bad. But I wonder if…a quarter turn to the left…yep, I did it. As I raised my right arm and peeked in the arm hole, there it was, the faint trace of side boob.

There it was: a sign.

It had always been there waiting for me to discover it. You can’t be what you can’t see. and luckily, sometimes, what you see is deeper than skin.

So much will happen in the following years of my junkyard reign. And of course, in the decades to follow, as I become an adult, a mother, a not neutral influence in other people's lives, especially youngsters. As I look at my daughter or the kids on the bike team I coach, I often wonder what they see in themselves or in the adults around them. What little details are they picking up and considering might be a good fit for them as they shape shift their way through development? What light will show them the way? Will it be their own?

But back to this particular 12-year-old.

Today this 12-year old, broken and pukey aglow with side boob and strength was a rebel lady for all the ages.

Because it was that day that she learned…

Because it was that day I learned...

That rebel lady was not just a look but a knowing that I could survive and would. Today was going to be a great day.