The morning the doors opened

Why I taught a computer — but played Truth or Dare.

by Sean McKendry

I sat down to teach a machine. What I actually did was play the oldest game there is. I told the truth, and I took the dare.

I taught it to make me cry. Then I realized the whole thing was a love letter to myself.

Truth

I taught a computer to hang my life on a wall — my dad on a dance floor, my dog, the RV years, a rusted door I once handed an award. And somewhere in the middle of it, the machine gave it all back to me, and I cried to my phone. I'm proud of that.

I'm 42. Turns out that's when I finally learned to be myself. Not the version that fit in the box somebody handed me — me. The whole place is a love letter, and I'm the one it's addressed to. First time I ever wrote myself one.

Dare

So I'm taking the dare. Open the doors. Get paid to speak — because I deserve it. Be more. Live the life I actually want instead of the small one I got talked into. Stop being afraid.

I don't fit in anyone's box. That was always the point.

The shout

To anyone carrying a mental illness — green ribbon, every one of you — this house was built for you. Not for me. But I'll be honest: it was built for me first. You can't hand somebody a raft you won't climb onto yourself.

;

The sentence could have ended. I chose to keep going.

Built for me first. Now it's yours.

— Sean McKendry

Where the house stands. These are the curator's own words, from the morning he opened the museum to the world. The unabridged record of that morning is his alone, kept under lock and key; nothing told here belongs to anyone but him. The one rule holds: no lying.