In this Story... with Joanne Greene By cover art

In this Story... with Joanne Greene

By: Joanne Greene
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  • Summary

  • Joanne Greene shares her flash nonfiction, each essay with custom music, showcasing tales and observations from her animated life. Her book, "By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go" is now available as a paperback, e-book, and audiobook from Amazon, Audible, Barnes & Noble, and your local independent book seller.
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Episodes
  • I Steal A Pair of Gloves

    I Steal A Pair of Gloves
    Jul 19 2024
    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!In This Story…I steal a pair of gloves.We were young enough to need a ride to the shopping center but old enough to tool around by ourselves for a couple of hours before meeting up with the mom-in-charge. It was 1968 and despite all that was going on in the world, and there was a lot, I was bored and in search of cheap thrills.My girlfriend and I were in an Ann Taylor store where there was nothing in my price range. But purchasing wasn’t on my agenda that day. It was the “five finger discount” I was after. See an item, look around, shove it up the sleeve. I didn’t want a pair of fine leather gloves. Would never have worn the gloves – they were far too sophisticated. But they were flat enough to fit under my sleeve so in they went. My friend wasn’t looking – she was certainly not an accomplice – and would never have known of my bad behavior had the store manager not swiftly escorted me upstairs to her office. Clearly, I had no game. None.As I followed her up the stairs, feeling like I was walking the gang plank, I wondered if my friend – not to mention her mother – would be worried about me. ‘Course this concern distracted me from whatever real consequences I would face.“Please hand over the gloves and write your telephone number down on this pad of paper,” the lady said in a mildly annoyed voice, as though this exercise was pro forma, part of her job description. Silently, I obliged.I squirmed hearing the familiar ring and pictured the black rotary phone with the twisted cord on the telephone table in the hallway at the top of the stairs of our two-family house. My mother answered.“I’m calling from Ann Taylor at the Chestnut Hill Shopping Center. Are you the mother of Joanne….” and here she stopped, unsure of how to pronounce my last name. Rosenzweig. Tough on the first go-around.“Yes, I’m Joanne’s mother, is she alright?” my mom jumped in, worried that I’d been hurt, never suspecting that her daughter was capable of committing a crime.“She appears to be just fine but I’m calling to let you know that we apprehended her stealing a pair of gloves.”A moment of uncharacteristic silence followed. Then my shocked and humiliated mother spoke.“Do you need us to come and get her or will you release her to her friend’s mother who brought the girls there today?”“That’s fine,” the store employee said. “I’ll bring her back down to the store and hopefully her chaperone will be waiting.”My chaperone? More importantly, it sounded like I wasn’t being sent to jail. The crisis was thereby downgraded to having to face my friend, her mom, and then my mom. Descending the stairs, I tried to weigh which I dreaded more.Our car ride home was silent. Mrs. Sherman didn’t ask me a single question. Every time we stopped at a red light, I knew that I’d have to endure this shame spiral for a little bit longer. Finally, she pulled up in front of my house and I quietly thanked her for taking me shopping and driving me home.“Also,” I said while closing the car door, “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Sherman might have heard me.Deep breath. Two down. One more to go.I entered the house as quietly as I could. My mom both heard and saw me walk up the stairs, but she didn’t say a word. Unusual even if she hadn’t been called by a store manager to say that her child had stolen a pair of leather gloves. I stood there, waiting for the hatchet to fall, for the speech to begin, for something to free me from my self-imposed torture chamber. Her silent treatment was excruciating. I went up to my room and wallowed in shame, rolled around on the green shag rug in ugly humiliation, promised myself and anyone who might be listening that I would never steal again, and went deep into self-loathing. What’s wrong with me? Why would I do such a thing. Quickly, I shifted to when is she going to tell me my punishment? Yell at me. Ground me. Do something.I marched downstairs and took a seat in the dinette. Wearing an apron, she was cutting carrots into small pieces when I asked, “Aren’t you going to say something? Tell me how ashamed you are of me?”Without looking up from her cutting board my mom said, “I assume that you’re already punishing yourself enough. There’s nothing for me to say.”I was stunned. She was right. Giving me a punishment would have let me off the hook, changed the subject, allowed me to focus on the punishment instead of my crime. I went back up to my room and considered why I wanted so badly to get away with something. What was the feeling I was seeking? I didn’...
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    6 mins
  • We Take Off Our Clothes

    We Take Off Our Clothes
    Jul 5 2024
    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!

    In This Story, we take off our clothes.
    I never saw either of my parents naked. Unusual? Probably not for that era. But did it sew the seeds of bodily shame for me? Perhaps. There’s a fine line between modesty and shame. Modesty, for my mom, was tied to virtue, morality. Good girls were never naked. Even the word naked made her squirm. So, imagine the awkward moment when they took me to see the play Hair when I was 15. At the end of the first act, the lights went out briefly and when they came back on, the actors were completely nude. On stage. Front and center for all to see. I thought my parents might pass out. I was tickled.
    I never much liked my body… too pasty white…too chubby in the belly. The focus was on how we looked in clothing. Was the outfit (and I quote here) “flattering to the figure”? “Hold in your stomach”, my mother would say, which these days sounds more like “engage your core.” Ultimately, it was solid advice, but for all the wrong reasons.
    In the 60’s and 70’s, at least in the circles in which I traveled, there was peer pressure to skinny dip, when the opportunity presented itself. While I certainly couldn’t refuse to participate and risk being called a prude, I wasn’t the least bit comfortable and ran into the lake as fast as I could, wishing I had at least two more arms to more fully hide my body. The first time, it was pitch dark out and I consoled myself that no one could see much. Years later, at a nude beach south of San Francisco, I had to talk myself into removing my swimsuit top. And, even then, I was mortified. It took far too many decades for me to feel good about my body – to appreciate its beauty without being disgusted by my pouchy belly, ashamed of the sagginess of my boobs. I never once had sexy tan lines like my flat stomached friends. They didn’t know how good they had it! How can we expect girls to love their bodies if we insist that they cover up, even at home? I don’t think I would even have been permitted to be in my own bedroom naked, alone. Of course, the thought never once occurred to me.
    My granddaughter loves to be “nakie” as she calls it. At home, with the family, it’s fine. She’s learned that it’s not appropriate to take her clothes off at the park, even if it’s hot out and she happens to feel like it. As a result of this body positive approach, she loves her body. ‘Course she’s only 5. How long before she, too, becomes self-critical, before bad messaging seeps in to pollute her healthy self-image? Hopefully never, but at least she’s starting out shameless and that, my friend, can only be good.
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    4 mins
  • A Glimpse At My Idiosynchrocies

    A Glimpse At My Idiosynchrocies
    Jun 21 2024
    Joanne’s book, “By Accident: A Memoir of Letting Go” is now available from your favorite online book seller. Stay tuned to hear if Joanne will be speaking at a bookstore near you. If you’re interested in having her come to your local bookstore, contact her directly at joannergreene@gmail.com or get updates on her website at joanne-greene.com and make sure to sign up for her newsletter!

    In This Story, a glimpse at my idiosynchrocies. I’m Joanne Greene.
    We all have idiosynchocies – things we do that are peculiar to us. My favorites, these days, are my morning rituals when, for starters, I’m thrilled to wake up Yes, of course, because I love life and am grateful to be alive once again. But, also, because I tend to torture myself in my dreams. Go figure. My lifelong anxiety is nearly gone from my waking hours but, at night, it percolates, poking at me with recurring themes. Last night, I was in endless lines, crowded spaces, and didn’t have the item I was in line to return. Often, it’s that I’ve overcommitted and then gotten distracted so that when it comes time to perform, I’m not prepared. The most frequent version is the dead air dream, unique to radio people. The song is ending, and I can’t reach the mic to start the newscast. I flip the mic switch to start speaking and I have no voice. While my dreams are challenging, I’m abundantly kind to myself upon waking up. First, I snuggle with Moxie, the goldendoodle and any other dog that happens to be visiting. Then, I might luxuriate in the hot tub, listening to the birds, inhaling the scent of jasmine, an embarrassment of riches.
    And before you label me a hedonist, let me share that it’s taken me decades to indulge without guilt. Accomplish, produce, get stuff done. Those were my mantras. I’ve silenced the inner voice that said, “you don’t need a massage”; “you can get a new outfit if it’s on the sales rack” and “why do you indulge in Nespresso pods when you could easily just brew yourself a cup of coffee?”
    Now…somewhat retired…and a survivor of loss, cancer, & being hit by a car, I’m giving in to pleasure. In the mornings, I try very hard not to rush. I make myself a very indulgent latte and get back in bed to do NY time crossword puzzles -wordle, connections and Spelling Bee. I share my scores with a couple of friends and text back and forth about whatever’s going on in our lives. I check my email, read a few articles, and maybe meditate before even contemplating the kind of exercise I’m going to get. The coffee is less an addiction than a ritual – a sweet, frothy, soothing balm that energizes me as I slowly ease into the day.
    Mornings are glorious - filled with possibilities, a blank slate, moments of gratitude, …perhaps some writing and definitely a walk with the dog… Had anyone told me decades ago that this is how I’d be choosing to spend my time, I may not have believed them. But it’s sure working for me!
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    4 mins
Biographies & Memoirs Social Sciences
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