“We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal.” – John Steinbeck

I teach stories to high school students at a Catholic girls’ prep school. I teach stories because I love stories, believe in stories. I teach stories because in a digitized, commercialized, desensitized culture, stories can still connect us.

Today my school had its biannual Solidarity Day, a day when the students and staff celebrate diversity. The theme this year was immigration. As the speakers shared their stories, I marveled at the way they were able to connect with students, some of whose only familiarity with the subject comes from seeing undocumented workers cleaning their houses and mowing their lawns. Regardless of political beliefs, we were all able to connect to the stories we heard today. I have never been an immigrant, never experienced the kind of perils that refugees face as they flee oppressive governments or political turmoil. No one has ever separated me from my family or hunted me like an animal. No one has ever discriminated against me because of my skin color or the way I talk. Still, as I listened to stories of such experiences, I felt connected to the people telling them.

I know that some human experiences are universal. We all experience joy and triumph. We all experience suffering and loss. We all hold on to hope and love. Our stories remind us that ultimately we are all a part of one story. We waste words with small talk. You will never really know me if all we talk about are my job, my favorite TV shows or my opinions about immigration law. You know me if I tell you my story.

The two storytellers I heard today shared two profound thoughts with me. The first said that we must tell our stories so that others don’t define us. The second said that our stories are not our own; they belong to all of us. These two thoughts do not contradict each other. I must tell my story because it is mine, because I am the only one who can tell it properly. At the same time, my story is also yours, so I must tell it honestly and respectfully, because it is a human story.

Stories are ordinary miracles. They move us. They connect us. They guide us. They remind us that we are all human. We are all made in the image of God. We are all part of a beautiful story. That is why I teach stories.

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Eric Kerr-Heraly lives in Houston with his amazing wife. He teaches English and Journalism at an all-girls Catholic prep school. He is loved by dogs of all sizes.

Eric is a guest writer for This Ordinary Day’s Sunday Specials. If you would like to participate in Sunday Specials, please click here.

My grandpa has been getting his haircut from the same guy for probably 40 years. His barber doesn’t even have a barbershop anymore, probably can’t see past his chin, but he’s my grandpa’s guy, and he doesn’t want to find a new barber.

I can sympathize.

I didn’t appreciate the relationship a man has with his barber until I got to college. Growing up, my mom used to take me to get my hair cut at Fantastic Sams. Fantastic Sams had an all-female staff – stylists, I believe they’re called – and had pictures of abnormally happy 30-somethings on the walls with fluffy, fresh haircuts. The clientele ranged from boys like me to grandmas getting perms. I didn’t go anywhere else, because I didn’t know any better.

When I got to college, I discovered the importance of a quality barbershop at the Downtown Barbershop. Why my mom didn’t take me to a barbershop when I was a kid is beyond me (I’ll give her a free pass, because it’s one of the few mistakes she made).

The Downtown Barbershop had KU sports memorabilia on the walls. The barbers were two opinionated dudes in their 50s. The conversation was sports or women. Mostly sports. Strong opinions on both.

I liked it there. They knew my name. They knew my story. It’s like the Cheers theme song. You want to go where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came.

When I moved to Denver in June 2007, I had to find a new barbershop, and I had become spoiled with the $8 haircuts and always entertaining conversation at the Downtown Barbershop. I couldn’t go back to a Fantastic Sams.

Over that first summer, it became a Tour de Barbershop. One was too pricey and hipster. Several called themselves barbershops, but they didn’t have any sports memorabilia on the walls and the barbers didn’t know a touchdown from a touchback.

The best experience I had in those first few months was a black barbershop called U-Turn. I stumbled upon it by accident – not seeing the name, but only the peppermint-looking rotating contraption in the window – and when I walked in expecting two old white dudes, I got two black guys.

I wondered what they were thinking. Either, “What the hell is this white boy doing here?” or maybe they thought I had come there on purpose and always went to black barbershops.

Mike, the barber, asked me what I wanted and I said a two on the side and back, not much off the top and then blend it in. Basically, the same haircut I’ve had since I was 10. Mike spun me away from the mirror and went to work, as I sat nervously awaiting what he had in store for me.

When he got out his razor, he began to get really close on the sides as he was cleaning up my hairline and an image of Brady Morningstar came into my head. Brady is a white boy from Lawrence who plays basketball for the Jayhawks. He wears big, white Ts and baggy sweats. Brady most likely gets his hair cut at the local black barbershop, and I remembered seeing him with really skinny sideburns, like black guys often have. Not a bad look for black dudes, but it looks weird on a white guy and it would look exceptionally weird on me.

So I’m sitting there with my back to the mirror, thinking, please don’t make me look like Brady. PLEASE don’t make me look like Brady.

I did not look like Brady. Actually, I looked pretty normal and Mike and I talked basketball. It was the most enjoyable barbershop experience I’d had, but once again, too pricey.

So I continued my barbershop search. What I wanted was simple: a couple old guys, a reasonable price and some entertaining conversation, preferably sports related.

For awhile, I got fed up with the search and quit getting my hair cut altogether. Went for the shaggy, Colorado look. Once I realized that look just wasn’t working for me, the search continued, and in April, I finally found my place.

At first I wasn’t sure. It had the look. Old, brown, comfy leather barber chairs. Old barbers. Shaving cream that comes out warm (that’s the best). A straight edge for shaving. You could even get your shoes shined at this barbershop – although I would never get my shoes shined. The place was right out of the 1950s, and for some reason I like that.

But then as I sat down, one of the barbers said to the other, “Let’s turn on the TV. What should we watch today?”

“Oh, let’s see what Dr. Phil has to say today.”

Gosh darn it, I thought, another one to cross off the list. Then I got to talking to the barbers, thankfully drowning out Dr. Dummy on the television. One was from Kansas and we talked about Kansas towns. Then they asked what I did for a living, and I told them I was a sportswriter. When they found this out, they were impressed and intrigued. We talked about the Rockies and the NCAA tournament. I was leaving the next day for San Antonio to go the Final Four and they thought that was pretty darn cool. When other customers started to come in and the barbers knew everyone’s name and everyone’s story, I knew this place was for me.

A couple months later, I had to move again, and start a new search. It had come to be one of the worst parts of moving: finding a new barbershop.

My next stop would be my current residence, Emporia, Kan.

For my first haircut, I walked over to two different barbershops in town and both turned me away, told me I needed an appointment – almost aggravated that I even had the nerve to try and come without an appointment.

I ended up going to the Snip ‘N Clip across the street from my house, and I was right back where I had started, another Fantastic Sams.

On the recommendation of a friend, I tried another place in town and wandered in without an appointment, not learning my lesson from before. But they were not rude and found a way to fit me in.

Mark is my barber here in Emporia, and he’s a big sports fan, and he almost makes me, the town’s Sports Editor, feel like a celebrity. He always wants to know my opinions on what’s going on with the teams in town, and he’s a loyal reader. We talk sports and women, and there’s never an awkward moment.

And when I call in for an appointment, Mark always is happy to hear from me. And when I leave, I feel like he’s always glad I came.

It’s difficult to adjust to new surroundings, but once I found a barbershop in Denver and Emporia, both places started to feel like home.

Generally I curse Facebook and the amount of my day that goes unaccounted for while I’m browsing the site. More than once, I have written down general goals for myself, one of them repeatedly being “Spend less time on Facebook.” It is a major black hole for me. I’m not actually doing anything, other than lurking around, reading what former third-grade classmates are doing now, or seeing who recently got engaged. I’ve considered deleting my account, but then I freak out about how I wouldn’t know what’s going on with people I never talk to.

And then there are times like last Saturday, when I got an e-mail that my childhood neighbor had requested to be my friend. I can not even guess the last time we talked. I remember her mom walking us to afternoon kindergarten, going to a summer cheerleading camp together (wearing coordinating skirts), and begging my mom to let me see the American Gladiators with her because her uncle was competing. It was a school night and expensive (not to mention an odd request for a little girl), but my parents let me go. Jannah and I went to middle and high school together too but never had any classes together. Sometime around fourth grade we drifted apart. I can’t recall why.

I’m sure I had friends before before Jannah (my mom said I just went up to people and asked, “Will you be my friend?”), but Jannah is the first one I have memories with. I remember going to her house to ride on her new PowerWheels car, wanting one so badly and freaking out when I ran over a tree (which sprung right back up. Whew!). I also remember when it was her turn to drive the PowerWheels jeep and somehow my arm got run over. The details are a little fuzzy, but no real harm was done. Jannah’s family also bought 2 percent milk (my mom only bought skim) and let me eat a lot of Oreos. It was like a vacation, just two houses down.

Besides a new kind of milk, Jannah also introduced me to country music at the tender age of 7. This small act spiraled into an obsession with Reba McEntire that included hanging a poster of her on my wall, attending a concert with my mom and grandpa (and getting a T-shirt! So exciting!!), reading her autobiography (learning about her strict daddy and her husband, Narvel) and listening to her music all the time (even duets and visits on talk shows).

Reba’s music didn’t skirt around the issues, like turning over your 18-year-old daughter to an “escort service” because “momma didn’t have money for food or rent” and “the baby was gonna starve to death.” Or a woman who tries to remember the name of the man who gave her HIV. She thinks his name was John. Reba’s lyrics required special talks with my mom. I remember quietly nodding, knowing these were bad things. I even remember women calling into the radio station to request Fancy and telling the DJ they’d received a locket that said “To thine own self be true,” just like the girl in the song.

Music at Jannah’s probably included other country musicians, but I can’t remember any of them. Reba, as always, stole the show.

By high school, my mom would keep me posted on her family, occasionally running into them at the grocery store or while walking our dog. I didn’t even know what Jannah’s plans were after graduation.

But then Facebook intervened and I received a message from Jannah. I cannot express how touched I was to hear from her. She’s married with two children and looks so happy and beautiful. And her message to me still had this air of excitement and familiarity like we’d never lost touch.

I know it’s not likely that we’ll reconnect on the same level as in first grade, but it’s enough for me to know that she’s come into her own and doing so well. And if I had caved into quitting Facebook, this never would’ve happened. So I guess battling time management is a fair price to pay to let these random connections come back to life.

The other day, I went to see the University Players perform Into the Woods, a fairy tale musical. This student theatre group here in Hamburg is part of the English Studies Institute. This basically means two things: they perform all their plays in English, and they have hardly any money. They are all laymen, from actors and actresses to lighting and directing.

The thing that always strikes me about their work is what they can do with very few means and a lot of creativity. This time was no exception. Of course, the quality of the performance may vary at times, but that’s true for professional actors too, right? This time they had found some really good singers, a student orchestra was playing live, and me and my friends were having a really good time.

Isn’t it amazing what these people can do with talent, time and determination? I kept thinking. I was sitting in the audience and all of a sudden I realised: I could be up there on the stage, if I wanted to. Actually, I could do whatever I wanted if only I invested talent, time and determination.

Another thought came along: These people are just ordinary people like you and me. I mean, even the Obamas have been ordinary people most of their lives, until they followed a – admittedly very special – dream. I’m not saying I want to become American president*, but what if I just followed my dreams and gave it a try, despite all the doubts in my head? What would happen, I wonder?

*I will frankly admit though that I’ve been dying to write something about the new American President. Talk about inspiration!

In my last post, I talked about the joys of driving in Southern California with the windows low and the rock music loud. My friend “Floyd” — whom I congratulate again for getting out of a post-graduate living-with-mom stint in Wichita, Kan., and into the smarter, meaner, bluer and more appropriate-for-him Brooklyn — wrote this, titled “Counterpoint: SoCal ain’t that great.”

He said via Facebook that he had been bored. And I don’t know how often you are bored (if it’s more than rarely, you should be ashamed of yourself), but if what you do with boredom is write something as long and funny as Floyd’s post, well, ennui does wonders for you.

However, in the chance that he was trying to rain on my Pollyanna parade, I respond: You’re a gem, Floyd. Floyd’s piece is a magnum opus of facetious cynicism and over-the-top imagery and even mythological references, for God’s sake (or gods’ sakes HAHAHAHA). I’m an inferior writer and not informed enough to be cynical, so my answer is a plainspoken sunbeam of a tribute, aimed straight at Floyd’s face.

Counter-Counterpoint: Floyd is great

Floyd is smart and well-read. In college, we’d talk about literature sometimes. He almost always knew more than I about writers and books, and had insightful and fascinating things to say about them. This isn’t to say that Floyd makes you feel dumb. He’s engaging enough that no matter how outmatched your wits are, you leave feeling like you made a fantastic contribution to the discussion. He is a gifted conversationalist, if given to rambling. I once watched him conduct a focus group that included a deeply introverted participant, and he coaxed and promoted her one-word answers, then gracefully and mercifully let her be.

Floyd is helpful. I was furiously exchanging e-mails with my dad during election season, and Floyd was one G-chat or text message away when I needed facts, statistics, history or the scoop on recent legislation to answer Dad’s accusation that, say, Barack Obama drinks the blood of puppies. Floyd also once played basketball with three of my siblings while they were visiting and I had to go to a meeting.

Floyd’s opinions are actually supported. He spends a tremendous amount of time reading, making sure that each of his lefty political opinions are well-sourced, thought-through, supported by facts — and that he can roundly cream the opposing viewpoint. Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t have an appreciation for the conservative side — he chuckled and meant it when my Dad said that my family had to go to McDonald’s because the Democrats were waiting to take all their money at Outback Steakhouse.

Which brings me to my final point: Floyd has an outstanding sense of humor. He’ll laugh at taboo stuff, he’s a sucker for puns, he can quip, he can rant, he can mock and he’s a masterful self-deprecator. He can do the smart jokes, throwing in arcane historical references (You wouldn’t believe the ones while he was writing a paper about ancient Rome). I also once heard him say, “Farting will never be not funny.” With all this, he could be That Guy, mowing over everyone’s comments with esoteric or obnoxious jokes. But instead, he’s one of those who laughs a lot. Which means that even if you’re making some lame crack about the gangsters in your neighborhood or how much you ate this weekend, he’ll laugh hard. And that makes you feel great. In this way, Floyd is more of an upper than I’ll ever be.

In another way, he’s a real cynic. So, in closing, a caveat: Even with all your smarts, literary background, helpfulness, education, research and that marvelous humor, Floyd, you ain’t never, ever, ever gonna get me down. I can shine my sunbeam on anything — even you.

I’ve been at my new job for six months. Officially. This is a big deal for a couple of reasons. First, I’m past my company’s new employee probationary period and have free access to my vacation time. More symbolic, though, I’ve been at this job longer than I was at my last job.

Like every job, mine has perks and drawbacks. The omnipresent sense of dread that getting laid off instills in a person will keep me from listing the drawbacks, for fear of upsetting the universe and sending karma out to get me. Instead, I’ll stay positive and say that if I hadn’t been given my walking papers in the first place, I wouldn’t have had a chance to enjoy the top benefit of my new job.

Maybe what made the experience so great is that I hardly saw it coming. Like most of my job duties, it started in a meeting. I was assigned a project: interviewing the four alumni who had been awarded the university’s top awards. It was a series of lifetime achievement-type pieces to appear in the bi-annual alumni magazine. They were small pieces, no more than 200 words apiece. I would only have 15 minutes during a photo shoot to interview each subject.

I didn’t look at the assignment as anything special, because I had only heard of one of the award winners, and his interview was the one most difficult to schedule. Beginning in mid-November, I accompanied a photographer to a pre-determined location to meet and interview my subjects one per week. The first was in a downtown chocolate shop, and the subject was kind and warm if not shy. The second took place in the lobby of a prominent law firm. She was excited to be featured and chatty about the snow that began to fall as we talked. The third was a woman who had been involved with the university as a student, employee and member of the faculty for almost 50 years. I interviewed her in her living room, and she was mostly concerned that the story would make her sound boring.

All three interviews went fine, and the stories were simple to write. Each was only 200 words, after all. But it was the fourth story I’d been excited to get my hands on. Alvin Brooks was the subject I had heard of before, a big name in Kansas City politics and social work. He’d made a name for himself in the mid-1960s as an advocate for social justice and later, he became the Kansas City media’s go-to guy when a racial incident took place. He ran unsuccessfully for mayor in 2007 and lost to a man whose time in office has been a train wreck.

Let’s just say I was excited to have a chance to not only meet Alvin Brooks, but to write a story about him (even if it was only 200 words). Problem was, it almost didn’t happen. First he had a scheduling conflict, then the photographer and I had one of our own. Then we had a budget crisis and weren’t sure whether the magazine would happen at all. There was a snowstorm that stranded him and kept him from meeting us. It started to look like we would have to do the interview over the phone. That would have been fine for any of the other three winners, but I was truly disappointed to miss out on a chance to meet this guy face-to-face.

And then, out of the blue, Alvin Brooks called our office and asked if we could set something up for a Tuesday in January. Of course we could. And he wanted to know if we could meet him at a particular place he had in mind. He wouldn’t have much time, he warned us, but if we could be there, he’d be happy to do the interview and photo shoot.

A week later, I found myself at Skies Restaurant, a revolving dining location that offers the best view of Kansas City available. And mid-day, while the restaurant was closed, we had the whole place to ourselves. I walked in. Alvin was waiting for us in black suit, apricot tie and the look of someone who was honored to be interviewed.

I wasn’t nervous as I sat down at a table to interview him. I think that was partly because the situation itself was so outlandish that I didn’t have time to focus on being nervous. I’d been in Skies one time before, as a high school student on a school trip with a bunch of my art class peers. Then, I had felt under-dressed and unprepared for the fancy setting. Eight years later, with the restaurant not yet open and the freedom to walk around and take in the view on a cloudless winter day, I felt humble and lucky. Talking to Alvin Brooks was icing on the cake.

The conversation started simply enough. I asked him if he’d ever been to Washington, D.C., (I’d gathered from a conversation he’d been having with the photographer that he was leaving the interview to board a plane to the capitol for Obama’s inauguration). He told me his daughter lived there, that he was thrilled to be headed out for such an important event. I stumbled over my very basic knowledge of the city to tell him I’d enjoyed staying in DuPont Circle. That was the extent of any nerves, and I calmly proceeded with the stock questions I’d prepared for the other winners.

When we got to the end, though, I had four pages of notes and a question on my mind. I glanced around the breathtaking room and noticed that the photographer and other stragglers were preoccupied. If I was going to get a question in and make it count, my time had arrived. So without much preparation, I blurted out something that had been on my mind from a personal (and to a lesser degree, professional) standpoint: I asked Alvin Brooks what advice he had for a 24-year-old man trying to find his way in the world.

He didn’t look at me like I was crazy for asking, and he didn’t seem to be manufacturing an answer. Like he had for the previous 15 minutes, one of the most notable equal rights activists in the Midwest looked at me and directed an answer from the heart. It was advice I’ll always tie to the week before we swore in our first black president, but I’ll always think he was talking about everyone:

“For each of us, there is a niche that we fill,” he said. “Sometimes we go through life never knowing what it is, but if you feel that you’ve found it, work toward it and make the best of it. And don’t stop there. Keep working toward it, preparing yourself for the next step.”

Right there, right then, it was some of the best advice I’d ever received. I didn’t write a word of it down, but I hoped my recorder caught it. It felt like one of those moments when everything, everywhere was coming together for a reason — and that’s an interview and a feeling I’ll never forget.