With a new, and bigger phone, all my essentials no longer fit in the same little wristlet I’d been using.
It was last year. Spring was about to break when my boys and I were walking home from school. The uneven sidewalks on City Island disappear completely in some spots. In others, they disintegrate into dirt or dust.
They’d wreak havoc on my shoes, if I let them. I generally walk in the street.
I was walking over the sewer when I dropped my keys.
“Noooooooooo!” I cried, hoping the chunky concoction of keys and rings–the big, bright-orange-red C of a keychain my husband had gifted me–would catch, and balance, on the grates.
But they went straight through.
Embarrassed by how guttural my scream had been, I reassured the boys I was o.k. We were o.k.
Wildly inconvenienced, but o.k.
Hearing the scream, my neighbor, Stephanie, turned around. Seeing my two kids and I still intact, she hazarded the next best guess.
“Keys?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Call 311.”
311, the non-emergency hotline people in cities call to make complaints or report graffiti, or road damage, or dead animals, seemed reasonable. I was grateful Stephanie had suggested something potentially forward moving while I was still having trouble accepting what was.
My boys whined while I waited. My mobile on speaker for twenty minutes before someone said, “Mrs. Esposito, we apologize but we don’t fetch keys from sewers no more.”
“Any luck?” Stephanie, who had disappeared into her garden, poked her head out from the trellis that would soon be covered in magenta roses to ask.
“No, they won’t come for keys.”
“Walk around to the Fire Department?” She suggested with a question.
The Fire Department! Why didn’t I think of that?
“Great idea!” I said before turning toward my children.
“C,mon boys, let’s go. We’re going to the Firehouse.”
“Doesn’t grandpa have an extra key? Can’t you just call him to let us in?” my oldest, already an efficiency expert, suggested.
“No I can’t just call grandpa!” I snapped.
“Why not?” He asked.
I took a deep breath and chose not to answer just then.
Truth was, I could’ve called my father-in-law who loves to be needed. If he was home, he’d have happily come with his extra set of keys and let us into our house but that only solved part of the problem.
I’d still have to make a trip to the car dealership, pay for an overpriced key, figure out where I’d get another key to the shed with my bike in it; oh and then there was the beach key, and the C my husband had gifted me.
It would take me at least a day to remedy the situation entirely. And, I didn’t know if I’d be able to replace the C.
How many times do I have to tell you, you should never keep all your keys on the same ring?
My own father’s voice floated to the top of my consciousness and I remembered the Tiffany keychain the people I’d babysat for all through high school had given me at graduation. They’d had my name engraved in the big dangling silver heart.
I’d been so upset when I lost it, and all my keys.
How many times do I have to tell you, you should never keep all your keys on the same ring?
The words came back again, a refrain. “Should” and “never” simultaneously inciting the rebel, the fear of being wrong, or of making a mistake from which I would “never” recover.
Thankfully, I’ve since learned there’s no such thing as never recovering.
For as close as we once appeared, for as much as I expected my father to really know me, to understand me, it was clear he didn’t understand that what works for him usually won’t work for me.
Keeping so many different keys, on different rings, in different places, seemed to me a recipe for near complete lunacy.
Besides, my father and I, we’re living out an entirely different destiny.
Sure, when I was younger, I’d tried hard to follow his rules, curtail my rebel nature. Truth be told, I’d tried managing my keys his way, more than once.
“You’ll see, father knows best,” he’d so often say to me.
But when I couldn’t set them down in the same spot—I suppose he’s never gone a day in his life without pant pockets–or when I threw them in a cavernous purse—come to think of it, I’ve never seen him with one of those either, he’s not exactly the man-bag wearing kind –it was hard enough finding the one ring, let alone multiples.
And if I called my father in law, who’d likely love the opportunity to come rescue me, I’d open myself up for a potential lecture, unsolicited feedback, or a manifesto on how if a man who spent twenty-five years on the waterfront as an inter-state trucker managed his keys to five cars, a truck, and a string of rental properties, with great success.
Well, if he could do it, I could too!
If I’d called my father in law that day, the next he’d likely have come over with one of those rectangular, rawhide, key cases with multiple little hooks and a snap. You don’t need pockets! He’d even create little stick on labels with letters telling me which key was which, God bless him.
Clueless about the effects of a rawhide key-case on my style, he was well intended nonetheless. Still, he’d likely take over the whole operation, strongly suggest I do it his way, frustrate me by insisting we use obsolete tools, and have my kids hopped up on chocolate pound cake to boot.
Was it really worth the risk?
And what would I be modeling for boys? Did I want to model calling your parents every time you found yourself in a situation you didn’t want to deal with? That could get really annoying in a couple of years.
Did I really want them to think it was okay to interrupt someone else’s day—expecting them to stop whatever they were doing at the drop of a key ring—because I didn’t want to deal with it myself?
How I handled the dropped keys, what my children saw me do, would weigh a lot more heavily with them than anything I told them to do or not do.
What was worse, if I took the easy way out, I could set myself up to be infantilized and incapacitated in the process.
And then, what story would I have to tell myself, to tell you?
“Mom, mom, mom.”
“Yeah, what?
“Can’t we just call grandpa?”
“We can call grandpa, love, but I prefer not to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I dropped my keys, I know they are there and I need to get them myself.”
“But you’re not going to get them yourself, you’re going to ask the firemen to help you.”
“Yes, and the firemen will have the right tools.”
“Like when they get kittens down from trees?” my little one asked.
“Yeah, kinda like getting kittens down from trees, except the opposite. For the kittens they go up and perform a rescue…”
“And for your keys they’re going down and you’re going to work too because you don’t need a rescue?” His little voice lilted into a question.
“Exactly,” I reassured him.
When I rang the bell at the firehouse, a fireman about my age came to the door. When I told him what I’d done…
“Ah, yes, the ol’ keys in the sewer,” he said.
“You see that a lot?”
“Yes m’aam.”
“And here I thought I was special.” I said, trying to be amusing.
“No m’aam.”
“So then you think you guys can help me out?” I asked.
“I’ve got to ask the Lieutenant but c’mon in and wait while I do.”
My oldest was embarrassed by me, my youngest was thrilled; the Fireman said he could climb into a truck! I took a couple of pictures of him grinning out the window at me from the passenger side.
It was only a minute or two when the Lieutenant came down.
“Can you see the keys?” he asked.
“No.”
“If you can’t see them, we can’t get them.”
I listened to the Lieutenant, all the reasons he said we wouldn’t retrieve the keys from beneath what was likely to be, given the recent rains, six or so inches of murky black water.
“With all due respect for your experience Lieutenant, I can’t accept what you’re telling me,” I said. He looked puzzled while I continued. “I’m a writer, and, just yesterday, a colleague and friend of mine and I were talking about how we help people make what’s invisible visible.”
The colleague-friend of mine happened to be Tamsen Webster. Tamsen is the founder and creator of an ideas whispering framework she trademarked called, the Red Thread®. With it, she helps people make their irresistible ideas—and by extension the brands that support them—more audible and more visible, mostly from the stage.
You’ll have to keep reading if you want to see how this becomes relevant.
The Lieutenant looked at me like I had three heads, so I kept going.
“I know those keys are there. They’re like the great ideas, stories, and supporting points book and speech-writing clients have inside them. It’s not easy, sometimes it takes time, but eventually, we get them out.”
I could see by his blank stare, he could care less about what I did with my clients so I took another tact.
“You have kids?”
He shook his head, yes.
“Then you understand. I have to get those keys. I’m modeling perseverance for my boys.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll lend you a couple-a guys but I’m telling you, what did you say your name was?”
“Clementina.”
“Clementina, if you can’t see ‘em, we can’t get ‘em.”
“I know. I heard you the first time. I got it, I won’t get my hopes up but I have to try. Thank you for letting me try; against the odds, I understand.”
On the way to the spot where I’d dropped my keys, with two firefighters leading the way, I stopped at the hardware store to get some supplies they’d asked me to pick up.
The young clerk rolled his eyes when I told him what I’d done.
My oldest was mortified. The clerk was still standing right next to me when I looked at my son and said out loud, “When you grow up and work somewhere, don’t be a punk to the customers.”
My son gave me his most severe you’ve got to be kidding me, mom, look but the young man hopped to it, searched the isles, and collected what I’d asked from him. At the register, among the magnets and washers, I noticed he’d added something that hadn’t been on my short list: A spool of “red thread.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“I thought you might need some string,” he said.
He may have intended it as an apology, or an over delivery. Either way, I saw it as a good omen. I’d been at Tamsen’s very first Red Thread® Retreat in NYC, and I knew the value of a strong framework to bring the keys to a successful talk together.
Back at the sewer, we fished around for about an hour. It was harder than I’d imagined it’d be. Even with a long pole with a metal hook at the end, the red string attached to it and to the magnet, the sewer floor was a series of metal grates. It wasn’t like my keys were the only things that had ever been dropped down there.
For starters, I pulled up a rusty old screwdriver.
A small crowd of City Islanders had surrounded us.
My sons filled them in on their mother’s idiocy, her consequent determination. My friend Mary Colby, the artist, shared she’d done the same thing once.
“I needed a big horseshoe magnet to get them out,” she told me.
“I bought the only magnets they had.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” she said. “I’m telling you, you need a horseshoe.”
Kaleidoscope’s Paul came across the street from his shop.
“You need a stronger magnet,” he said.
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“I’ve got one at the store, I’ll be right back,” he said, already crossing the street.
He came back with a small but allegedly fierce magnet we taped to the other we’d already tied to the “red-string,” which we’d tied to a six-foot hook. I fished another ten minutes while the crowd that had gathered round us dispersed.
My oldest kept telling me to throw in the towel. After all, he had homework to do.
Maybe the Lieutenant was right, that old self-doubt started to say. Maybe, if we can’t see ‘em, we can’t get ‘em.”
No. Just no. They were there. I closed my eyes and imagined the feel of my keys in my hand, imagined the inside of my house, what it would feel like to put the key in the door, turn the lock, and walk inside. I took it a step further, imagined the boys at the table doing their homework while I made a dinner salad and prepped vegetables. I thought about how much more positively I’d be able to greet my husband when he came home if I’d retrieved the keys.
I moved forward into the feelings of happiness and satisfaction I’d have having done it my way, the story I’d have to tell, what it would feel like to pull off the happiest possible ending.
And no sooner did I reach that end in my mind, brought those feelings into my body, when the firefighter known as MacGyver said, “Lemme try what you’ve got.”
Guys at the firehouse call their colleague MacGyver. It’s his last name and it’s a nod to the fictional top agent in the T.V. series of the same name who rights the wrongs of the world, sometimes with little more than a paper clip and a roll of duct tape.
With the “red string,” he lowered my magnet down into the grid and I took the big heavy hook at the end of the pole. It was quiet for about three minutes or so but… lo and behold, he pulled up my keys!!!
So grateful to these two fire fighters who helped me out.
We were all so happy. The fireman and the boys and I jumped up and down hugging in the street.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of working with Tamsen on fishing out some previously unseen stories for a new talk she’s working through. She may be famous in some circles for her Red Thread® framework, and I’m known for my talent with story, but what I’ve learned in my years as a writing coach is that while we may niche down to make what we do, and who we do it for, more marketable, or because we want to work exclusively in our genius zones, the making of good content means that these parts enhance each other to create greater understanding and an increased ability for audiences to take away what they need to get where they want to go, creating lasting change along the way.
Tamsen and I collaborate so well because we share these core values, we believe in each other’s work, in the efficacy of our stories, and because we have seen ourselves through not one but many life transformations with the very methods that we’re teaching. Learning her Red Thread® methodology enhanced my understanding of how great speeches work, which in turn makes it easier for me to write them and help other people write them too. It even made it easier for me to focus on the parts I like to work the most: the word choices and the storytelling.
That said, at the heart of our successful collaborations, we share a fundamental belief that informs the speech work we do and it’s this: you must believe that the change you’re seeking is possible and that it communicates something authentic and real about you. You might even have to see someone that seems kinda, sorta, remotely like you do it before you recognize that you “want that” and that you can do it too.
You’ve got to believe in your right to take up space, to carve out a place for yourself and your work in the world. You’ve got to BELIEVE your keys are real and that they can open doors for people. Then, and only then, do the frameworks and methodologies, the ideas, and scripts and great stories become useful and relevant. Then and only then, will you be willing to put in the work they’ll require of you to be seen and heard.
When you believe in your idea, when you know it can help people change their lives for the better, you’ll put up with the sometimes embarrassing fits and starts that always constitute first drafts. You’ll put up with the discomfort of trying what works on for size, and you’ll face the challenges associated with getting your idea into the hearts and minds of the people who need it the most.
And when you know your audience, when you really listen to them, you won’t make the mistake of telling them that the only way to do it is to put all their keys on one ring. You won’t offer a vegetarian rawhide, or offer a story about a string of rental properties to someone who would NEVER, not in a million years, want that!
I lost my keys in the sewer. My boys whined, people told me what I wanted to do wouldn’t work. As I rallied the resources I needed, I couldn’t help but notice they bore a striking resemblance to the tools I use writing: A good strong hook, a magnet, a “red-thread,” a growing cast of characters, a very specific location: the synchronicity strengthened my resolve but it didn’t create it.
In fact, nothing of significance would have come into play if I didn’t BELIEVE my keys were there and that it was possible that I could retrieve them. I believed I would find what I’d lost, even if I had to crawl down into the sewer to get it.
That made all the difference.
What do you believe you can do? Write and tell me at clementina@clementinaesposito.com so I can believe in you too.