The first part of this column will be pontification. The second, explanation. The third, clarification. And finally, a declaration. Because I’m fancy and want you to have a reason to read the whole thing.
It has been drilled into my head, through compliments, that I am uniquely qualified to run this magazine. Due to my background, the life I’ve led. While this may be true, there are so many things that I cover that I have little to no experience with. I have seen my share of atrocities, but I’ve gotten through, for the most part, unscathed.
There have been some down times, but for the most part I have lived a relatively ideal life. You take foster care out of the mix and I’ve lived an incredible life. I have been minimally touched by emotional trauma. All my mental illnesses were already in my brain when I got it. Because of that, I’m limited in my understanding of intense, malicious abuse, sexual abuse or exploitation, or even someone beaten near death. I can’t relate. I can empathize, but I can’t draw from personal experience. That’s why these pages have been filled with first-hand accounts. On a far less traumatic note, I can’t relate to being unwanted.
You know from reading this magazine; unwanted kids populate foster care. There are age related reasons, fear related reasons, misinformation related reasons, lack of family reasons. So many reasons. What’s unreasonable is that so many of these kids age out into a cold world with no one to lean on.
This has never been a problem for me. Even as the wheels that would lead me to foster care were turning, there were people who wanted to adopt me to keep me from care. Several, actually. Even when I thought I was unwanted, I was in high demand. My steadfast rule of not writing about life before foster care prohibits me from going into detail, but there were several inquiries as to keeping me from foster care through adoption. Some serious. Some out of kindness with no real intention. But I was wanted and if a few things had gone a different direction, I would have never seen the inside of a foster home.
But it didn’t work out that way. I ended up in care for 5 years, aging out to homelessness and other less than ideal situations. It worked itself out and I ended up alright, but so many don’t. That’s the reason you get to read these words. I was so angry at the lack of information when I aged out, that I swore I’d become the source of information. And here we are. 75 issues later. Holy Hannah!
That was the pontification section of the column…and the explanation, and the clarification. I did not think that through. I still have the declaration. Damn. I didn’t think about that either. How about this; I’ll keep making these as long as you keep reading them? That good? Solid declaration. Moving on.
February was full of amazing moments. I celebrated 15 years of marriage. I want to write a bunch of great things about my lovely bride, Trisha, but that’s not her scene. I’ve gotten away with about as mushy, loving paragraphs as she will allow over the years. If you thought I was humble, you should meet my wife Saint Trisha. I’ll simply say; everything good about me comes from her, anything I’ve earned, dream I’ve chased, recognition I’ve gained, all those things were more because of her than myself. She’s a driving force, the gas that keeps this engine moving. No me, no Foster Focus without Trisha Chmielewski. Period.
The other moment came at the request of a fella you’ve read about in this magazine. You may have even seen his film about foster care: “Annie Was a Liar!”. Amaru Lewis and I have grown close over the years. Amaru is a Comedian and Filmmaker by trade. We talk constantly. I consider myself a funny person and he humors me by letting me bounce my jokes off of him. I’ve chased the dream of stand-up comedy since I found out it existed. I study. I listen to everything. I write jokes continuously. When I was younger I practiced other comedians’ sets to my mirror. I had talk show banter all lined up. Then you get older and chase more attainable dreams like a family and a business.
From the backburner to the front of the stove came back my dream of telling strangers ideas from my brain for laughs. Amaru was the chef who shifted the menu on me. He asked if I’d be interested in making my stand-up debut in a REAL show with REAL comedians on Valentine’s Day in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I fought my anxiety and agreed.
What followed was furious joke writing and about 900 panic and anxiety attacks. So bad it became that I had broken blood vessels dotting my face as I took the stage. I should explain the blood vessel thing. My panic and anxiety attacks are at such a level, they cause a physical reaction. Remember 8 Mile? Yeah that. Every friggin time I have to speak in public. I have ultimate confidence in myself, it’s the unknown that shakes me to my core. Would they laugh was my crippling thought this time around.
But I did it. And they laughed. For a debut, I crushed it. I had a tight 3-minute set that the crowd really responded. My words, my thoughts. Their laughter. It was electric. Trish was there. She was proud. I shook the entire 8 hour drive home.
I’m not nearly a good enough writer to articulate what achieveing a dream feels like. What putting all your hope and passion into one goal and then achieving that goal. It’s crazier than me! Trish lets me chase these dreams and it feels like I’m letting two people down if I fail. Add the 3 kids and I could possibly embarrass 5 people! That will make you push for the win. How could it not?
Remember in the first year of the magazine when I worked 11 hours selling cars and made the mag? We’re going back to a far less dramatic version of that. I’ll be making time to do some open mic nights and setting aside some joke writing time. I want to chase this for as long as they’re laughing. The magazine will still be top priority but I owe it to that kid I was. I owe it to that kid who aged of care, surfed couches, lived on $2.00 a day and kept a smile on his face. I owe to the younger version of me who never gave up on the idea that I was funny enough to make people laugh. Not to mention all the teachers I put through the ringer trying to get a laugh in class. I owe it me and I owe it to Trish for always believing in me. And in a small way, I owe it to you as well. You pay for the mag which allows me to work for myself and chase whatever dream I can imagine. So, thanks and tell your friends to buy subscriptions!
I think I’ll end it here with a “Thanks” to you, my kids and my wife of 15 years. Thanks for letting me do my thing. Thanks for letting me chase dreams. Thanks for subscribing. Most importantly, thanks for making me always feel wanted.
Enjoy the issue.
Owner/Editor - Chris Chmielewski