Not Another Lawyer Joke—A Storyteller’s Rant

If I were as lucky at getting picked for the lottery as I am at being picked for jury duty, I’d be richer than King Midas. Last year, I had been living in Denton County, Texas for three years. I got picked for jury duty for the fourth time.

The first time, the cases were all dismissed or postponed, so everybody who was called got to go home. The second time, I wasn’t picked to serve. The third time, I was scheduled on a date for which I had been contracted to tell stories. Since I work for myself, a letter to the judge got me excused.

I told that judge that if they would call me during the summer (my slow time) I’d be happy to serve twice. However, I got my fourth summons the next month. My client was local and was willing to switch days, so I traipsed down to the courthouse. I got chosen to appear the next day (in a town 30 miles away) for a “voir dire.” That meant the lawyers were going to ask me questions to see if they wanted me on their jury.

My brother told me that I should go in the room with a little piece of string and repeatedly tie it into a “hangman’s noose.” Surely then I wouldn’t be picked. I chose to ignore him. I was willing to do my civic duty.

I arrived and obediently filled out the information sheet; then I sat down to wait until my “pool” of people was called. Almost immediately one of the lawyers, a short, pudgy, young man with a smug expression on his face, pulled out an information sheet. With a grin on his face that made him look like a possum in a plum tree, he called out in a slow drawl, “Missuz Tucker?”

I raised my hand. He started laughing and moseyed over to stand in front of me. He said, “It says on this paper that you have a job as a proFESSional storyteller!” At that, he turned to the other jurors and started mugging until they all were snickering.

“Will you please tell me,” he drawled, “how ANYONE can make a living telling stories?” He guffawed, and everyone in the room almost went into hysterics.

I was livid. How dare that young man get sassy with me! He was barely old enough to shave! But, I silently gnashed my teeth and maintained my faux ladylike demeanor. When the laughter died down enough so I could be heard, I sweetly replied in my best fake Southern Belle accent.

“Why sir,” I said, with my voice oozing honey. “I make my living the same way a good lawyer does.” There was dead silence in the courtroom as a waited for three beats. Then, I said, “I work very hard. I can tell a lie with a straight face, and I charge an exorbitant fee.”

The crowd roared. I got the bigger laugh. And, I didn’t get picked for jury duty.

I don’t know why people think that being a “professional storyteller” is a strange occupation. Before there were televisions, every culture had storytellers. The storytellers were revered and given gifts. Yet, today storytellers “don’t get no respect.” People make idiotic remarks that show they have no understanding of the art form.

It happened again last week. In one school, the morning announcements declared that I would be “reading” a story to the children. Later, the principal said, “You sure do charge a lot of money. Maybe I should be a storyteller.” Yuk, yuk.

I do NOT “read” stories. I expend a lot of energy to “tell” them. I paint pictures with words on the canvas of the imagination. It is much like an actor performs, except that I have to be ready to improvise within the story to suit the moods of each audience. The story is told a shade differently each time. Audience reaction and feedback changes it. In front of small children, and grownups who act like small children, I have to be ready for anything.

And, I don’t just walk in to a classroom, open my mouth and tell, and take my money out the door. I spend countless hours scouring books for old folk tales that I like well enough to tell. Then, I work for days or weeks painstakingly re-writing the stories into words that fit my own mouth and putting my own spin on the plot. After that, I rehearse again and again until I can tell the story the way I want it to be heard. That’s just the artistic part.

I have to find the jobs, which means time and money spent to market. I have to negotiate contracts, write them, send them, and follow up on the paperwork. Sometimes schools make me wait weeks for a paycheck. After I get it, I still have to update all my accounting records.

Then, there is the issue of the grueling travel. Anyone who thinks that traveling for a living would be exciting hasn’t ever gotten the dubious pleasure of doing so. My nine hour drive (which should have been only seven at most) from Corpus Christi back home last week is an example. I had already worked all day before I began that drive through grueling SXSW festival and spring break traffic. I had gotten up at four that morning to pack, told stories to wiggling elementary students all day, driven all that way home and finally got to bed around midnight that night.

If you subtract my business expenses and then divide my pay by the actual hours I put into the job, I could work as a greeter at Wal-Mart and double my salary. Those blue uniforms would make my eyes look beautiful, and I can say, “Howdy, do y’all need a cart this morning?” with the best of them.

I’m not complaining about the job or the pay. I love my job, and know it is what I was destined to do. I just wish the world at large would save their snide remarks for the lawyers.

Do you know how many lawyer jokes there are? Four—all the rest are true stories.

Other posts you might enjoy:

1. Bibliography for Storytellers
2. Olympic Rant

Tagged as: humor, lawyers, Storytelling