Barbara Dundon

Core Class of 2008

It was late Sunday afternoon when I parked my Honda Civic outside Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station. I walked past a long line of yellow cabs; pushed my way through the east-facing doors.

Approaching the information board in the center of the main concourse, I recognized someone I knew. An acquaintance. I greeted her.

“Waiting for a train?” I asked.

She said she was joining her husband in Virginia. Several suitcases at her feet attested to a long stay.

“And you?” she asked. “Where are you headed?”

I braced myself for my reply. After all, how could I explain something as crazy as the stunt I would attempt the next day?

“I’m not here to catch a train,” I said. And I launched into my story.

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When I completed the LEADERSHIP Philadelphia Core Class in 2008, I was approaching retirement age. I knew I was ready to leave behind my 40 plus years in nonprofit management for something else. Something new. But what would it be?

Others in my Junto seemed to be questioning, too. Maybe I heard my own desire in their stories. Or maybe the luxury of a day a month away from the routine of work with others who were seeking meaning in their lives gave me the space I needed to re-imagine my own.

In the spring of our LEADERSHIP year, when Liz asked us all to reflect on our legacy, I felt a kind of jittery sensation. It reminded me of how I used to feel on prom night (without the itch of those dorky wrist corsages).

During a period of one-on-one conversation, I said to a Junto mate: “I think I have another gig left in me. And I think I know what it is.”

The aspect of LEADERSHIP that I found most compelling was the stories I heard. Stories of other Core Class members, of my Junto mates’ work and struggles, of LEADERSHIP presenters.
Stories like those from the police officer in the 25th District who pointed out corner drug dealers from his cruiser during my drive-along. I loved the time and permission I had to listen deeply and reflect back on what I’d heard.

In 1999, when I was going through a similar career transition, an article in the Inquirer caught my attention. Feeling deep resonance with the story, I cut it out and pasted it into my journal. Next to the clipping, I wrote: “This is what I’m going to do when I retire.”

It described a wanna-be novelist named Dan who had job in a Chicago publishing house. He decided it was time for a change. So he walked down to Michigan Avenue with two folding chairs and a sign that read: “Novel while you wait.”

Dan had to cajole most of his “customers” to give him only a few minutes of their time, so he could crank out a one-page “novel” inspired by their life on his Smith Corona. The experience cost them nothing. It was a gift. No strings attached. Over time he got takers. Lots of them. And, more important, he was having fun.

This was me. I knew it.

I arrived at 30th Street Station at 10 a.m. on Presidents’ Day, two years after graduation from LEADERSHIP. Finding a parking spot near the east entrance, I dumped an entire change purse full of quarters into the meter. This time, unlike the reconnaissance mission the night before, I planned to stay awhile.

Tucked under one arm were two red plastic folding chairs. Under the other, my laptop. In my free hand I clutched a red construction paper sign that read: “Tell me a story.”

I interviewed four people that day. Only the vendor at Auntie Anne’s Pretzel stand turned me down. Emboldened by the experience, I have since listened to and recorded the stories of almost 40 people at 30th Street Station. I learned to ditch the red chairs – a dead giveaway to members of Homeland Security intent on bagging a story-gathering terrorist.

In the process, I discovered that the sound of people’s voices matters to me. The voice conveys emotion, an essential element of a good story. An ardent fan of NPR’s Story Corps, I combed the DIY part of their website to learn about sound recording equipment, mikes, headphones. I started attending a local radio “listening group” made up of independent audio producers – words I realized described my new vocation.

In January 2013, I sent out a link to my new website: Imtellinya.com. In my new work, aimed at nonprofits, I produce audio stories organizations can use in their marketing communications – ones that show the social impact of their mission in an efficient and powerful manner.

While I hope to earn a modest income working with nonprofits whose missions inspire me, I will always carve out time to go back to 30th Street Station, where it all began.

Most people have a longing to be heard. I love to listen, shape the story, then give it back. It amazes me that something so simple can feel so deeply gratifying.

Barbara Dundon
Founder
I’m Tellin’ Ya!

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