I had occasion, this evening, to intoduce a dear friend of mine to In the Heights. She's a fan of the Beastie Boys, and there's a line from Shake Your Rump that always reminds me of 96,000. I played it in her car, hoping it would thrill her as it had me. Her reaction was...disconcerting. She laughed at some lines that jumped out to her as funny, and she seemed to enjoy it overall, but she had nothing like the reaction that I had when I first heard it. The first time I listened to In the Heights, I liked it. The first time she listened to In the Heights, she judged it. And I find it disturbing.
I can't recall if I actually asked for her opinion, or the break in the music due to my phone being evil prompted her to fill the silence, but when it came, her comment was that, although she liked it, she didn't understand why it sounded so "big band" when it was supposed to be about this particular group of people. Mind you, a clearly urban group is rapping, underscored by drumbeats and base more than anything else for the majority of the song. I certainly don't recall anything fitting that description being played as part of the Big Band Era. Seeing my confusion, she tried to explain to me that the music in the song is more reminiscent of Glen Miller and Bing Crosby than the blues or jazz that she expected to hear in "that kind" of musical. In brief, she felt that the music lacked authenticity.
Now, the first problem with her impression of what she should be hearing was that she was running off of misinformation. Whoever talked to her about In the Heights apparently led her to believe that it centers around a predominantly black community, rather than a Hispanic one. Although she accepted my correction immediately, she came back with the insistance that the music still sounds more Big Band than Spanish. She maintained that it didn't seem to be an accurate portrayal of the community the show was supposed to represent because of this "big band" sound that she kept hearing, even after finding out that the lyricist is Hispanic. It wasn't until after she finally registered that the composer, who is also the lyricist, is Hispanic that she conceded. Long after her concession (to what, I'm not entirely sure), however, I'm still disturbed.
Our exchange had started while the song was paused, which happened to be right before a climax in the music where, according to my friend, the composer must have realized that he "needed" to include more of the Latin flavor that it had been lacking so far. The idea that the change in the music had come, not because of the progress in the action and atmosphere, but out of a need to appease some ambiguous notion of what music should sound like in the street of a Latin neighborhood, seemed to be incredibly shortsighted and ungenerous to the writers. I recalled complaints about Will Smith's rapping not being black enough in reaction to his less grammatically atrocious lyrics and clean content.
It was time for me to get out of the car and I didn't want to pick a fight after she had conceded, so I didn't ask any of the questions that had come to mind, but they persisted when I got out of the car. Principal among them was, What did you expect to hear? What do you say a Latin musical should sound like, and what gives you the authority to say so? These questions aren't meant to be digs. I genuinely don't understand where she was coming from. Her initial opinion that the music sounded too "big band" to be about the ghetto, meaning a black neighborhood, clashes pretty harshly with the history behind the big bands. If the style of the big bands is somehow incompatible with black culture, that's bad news for fans of Cab Calloway or Louis Armstrong. It's also rather sad for lovers of jazz, the root of the popular forties music. Surprise at a group of black people's association with swing is a lot like confusion over a black person's affinity for rock n' roll. We are talking about a major piece of American culture, and nothing says America like a major cultural staple taken from black people and made to look like something else.
Speaking of staples, it bears acknowledging that ITH is an American musical. Musical theatre happens to be one of the few cultural exports that can be called uniquely American. Like America itself, American musical theatre is constantly influenced by the variety of cultures that contribute to it. It doesn't completely become something else based on what kind of music is popular. Rather, it encorprates various aspects of music from different moments in America as they help to contribute to the story. Rent is a contemporary musical that features rock songs. Memphis is a musical about rock and roll that features the blues tune that rock music evolved from. The suggestion that In the Heights doesn't sound Latin enough implies that the American aspect of Hispanic American culture should be discarded for the sake of communicating that this is a musical about Latinos, not suburban middle America (because the Spanish, the rapping, the horns, and the title don't do that already). It's funny that this subject came up over a musical that has themes of how Americans cope with their immigrant heritage. Usnavi decides in the end that he new world he was brought to is his true home. I wonder how welvome a notion that is.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
It's the little things
I've been in rehearsal for Hairspray for going on five weeks now and I find myself frustrated to the point of wanting to quit at some point every rehearsal. It's how I felt last night when we did yet another run-through without me being caught up at all on all I'd missed during my fabulous vacation cruise extravaganza. It stops being fun when I know I'm doing everything all wrong and my only focus when it's wrong is to get it right. During one of our many backstage singing moments last night, I was focused on getting it right. I had my script out to guide me through the music, but had to get close to the stage for my entrance, so I walked to the wings, still singing my part, still angry about all the things I wasn't getting right. While we were waiting for our cue, one of my castmates turned around and grinned at me. It was not a conciliatory "we're in the same place at the same time" smile, but a genuine grin for a specific reason which was completely unknown to me. Being focused, as I was, on not getting yet another thing wrong, I forgot about it as soon as I got onstage and didn't think about it until she brought it up as she was driving me home. It turns out she was just so happy that I was holding down my part among people who were singing something different from me. I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I was what had pleased her so much before she entered. It hadn't occurred to me that singing my part would be enough to make an impact on someone. It certainly hasn't been enough to make an impact on my music director. But it impacted her. It brought a smile to her face. And that smile eventually brought a smile to my face.
She brought me back to another car ride I shared with her on the way to rehearsal for Oklahoma! when she expressed her hope that I would get to permanently say the line I'd said during the previous rehearsal because the person assigned to it wasn't there. She really hoped it would be my line because, in her words, I'd "said it so good." It was all of ten words, a setup for the principle character I'd auditioned to play, and I didn't even think the director had noticed someone else was saying the line. It was that insignificant. Then Kasea made it significant and, when I was eventually assigned that one line, I was determined to make it significant to someone in the audience. I made a moment. Life is made of moments. I'm grateful for that reminder.
She brought me back to another car ride I shared with her on the way to rehearsal for Oklahoma! when she expressed her hope that I would get to permanently say the line I'd said during the previous rehearsal because the person assigned to it wasn't there. She really hoped it would be my line because, in her words, I'd "said it so good." It was all of ten words, a setup for the principle character I'd auditioned to play, and I didn't even think the director had noticed someone else was saying the line. It was that insignificant. Then Kasea made it significant and, when I was eventually assigned that one line, I was determined to make it significant to someone in the audience. I made a moment. Life is made of moments. I'm grateful for that reminder.
Monday, October 1, 2012
On Being Misunderstood
I got to experience a rather irritating incident of irony today, and I'm not at all amused by it. Last week, I had two clients coem to the Writing Center for assistance with papers "on being misunderstood". They were instructed to write about an experience in which they had been misunderstood in narrative form. Pretty straightforward. The first client was a fellow theatre major, a sweetheart who, amusingly enough, wrote about the assumption people have that she is a mean person. Her writings had some shortcomings, of course, but I was able to understand what she was trying to do and happy to work with her to help make her idea come across. I gave some feedback, I made some suggestions, she jotted down some notes and went on her merry way.
The second client was in the same class, had gotten the same assignment, and was attempting to follow the example of the same writer. Instead of one experience, he wrote about three separate experience that didn't seem to have anything to do with one another. They did all exemplify some form of being misunderstood, but I didn't understand why he chose to put those three together. A series of inquiring led me to understand that they seemed so fragmented because they had nothing to do with each other. He had made them up. He couldn't come up with a time that he had been misunderstood, so he decided to write three separate lies and pretend that they were a part of a common theme in his life. I explained to him that the assignment was not to write a fictional account and that he couldn't actually do what was asked of him if he just made it up. He maintained that he couldn't come up with anything. Because we still had time in the session, I tried discussing diction and tone and attention to detail, but everything went back to the fact that he hadn't done what was asked of him. I was not about to advise him to turn in three unrelated lies about a relatively common occurance, so I finally told him that he needed to find something real to write about. I refused to believe that he had not been misunderstood once in his life. I even started throwing out examples to get him started, like having a text misread, or having someone not hear him correctly. Granted, these aren't as dramatic as having a strange woman beg him not to rob her, but they were at least things that could probably happen. He didn't want to talk about those things. He said he couldn't come up with enough to write on those things. After we went back and forth a few times, I asked him a question that he said he couldn't answer on the spot. I said that that was fine, since we still had time, and went to get some water while he thought about it. When I came back, I asked him if he was still thinking, and he basically told me he would not be able to come up with anything at all ever in life. I was glad when we ran out of time, but wished that I could have just sent him away early for refusing to cooperate.
Fast forward to today. I come in this afternoon and the schedule says that my 3:30 appointment is with my boss...to discuss a client complaint. I was nervous, as I always am at the prospect of having done something wrong. I make mistakes quite often, and, although I do my best to be friendly and patient with my clients, I do understand that I can sometimes be less delightful than many of my colleagues. I quickly review in my head the past few weeks. I can't remember leaving a client waiting or using my phone in a session. I haven't been on facebook or twitter or anything, and I never complain about clients when I have clients nearby. What could I have done?
When my boss comes to talk to me, she explains that a roommate of a client was crestfallen after having had an appointment with me, prompting said roommate to call and complain. Apparently I "belittled him," talked down to him," and insulted his intelligence by walking away. I am appropriately concerned that my actions may have been offensive and try to think back to the appointment in question and see what I should reevaluate. I completely forgot about Client 2, and instead the session that comes to me is the one from that same week where the client's paper similarly had unrelated elements and didn't seem to make sense. I recall the session as having been productive and don't understand why he would have been offended by anything I said. I even remember him coming in the next day and mentioning an advance he made with the same essay. In myreassessment of my immediate history with clients, I realize that I'm thinking of the wrong person. I am perfectly clear on who the client in question is now, and I let out a little laugh.
I laugh partly out of relief that I wasn't so wrong about how a session with a client had gone, partly out of amusement that he, of all, people, had seen fit to complain about me, and partly because the session was much funnier in hindsight when I'm not trying to drill something substantive out of this boy. I start to explain to my superior what actually happened, and she stops me.
"Do you see what you just did there?" she asks. I, of course know that I just laughed, but I don't see anything wrong with that. Something was funny, something was built up, and I let it out. I didn't even begin the story yet and she's already identifying what I did in this session that must have been so offensive. Never mind that I didn't laugh when he was actually there, that I wasn't at all amused by his refusal to follow directions and reluctance to cooperate with me. What matters now is that I let out a chuckle five days later, clearly evidence that I did something wrong five days ago. My boss goes on to say that the client may have taken this a different way and that that's the type of thing that can make a person feel belittled. She also "reminds" me that we don't leave the clients during a session, apparently seeing the one minute that I tried to give the guy some breathing room as further evidence of my shortcomings as a tutor. She smilingly maintains that I "keep these things in mind" before going on her merry way. Now I'm pissed off.
I don't ask her if she cares what actually happened in the session. It's clear from her response to my laughter that she doesn't. In this place where we pride ourselves on customer service, it doesn't occur to her that it may be the client who is in the wrong, or even that I have something to say about the session that might shed some actual light on why this person felt offended, rather than casting shadows of doubt on my qualification to work with people based on an involuntary expression of merriment. God forbid I show happiness on the job. I also no longer feel chastened by this exchange, or even the notion that this client came to the center for help and didn't have a good experience. The fact is, I didn't have a good experience either, and considering I haven't been paid for my work here since the beginning of August I'm not too concerned with the whole "we're here to serve you" mantra that he was looking to feel. My concern when he was here was in giving him things that would help him write the paper that he was supposed to write, and he showed no interest in taking that. I refuse to apologize or feel guilty for making a person feel bad about not following directions when I spent at least forty-five minutes trying to direct him according to what he needed to do. He didn't like that I asked him why he said what he said because he didn't have any answer and he didn't feel good about the comments I made because it was obvious that he was wrong. If his professor wanted him to turn in three pages of lies, she would have assigned them to write a work of fiction. As far as I'm concerned, my only mistake was in trying to help him when he didn't want to be helped.
And all of this comes out because I laughed. I freely admit that I laugh in my sessions from time to time. Sometimes a student writes something funny, or I remember something amusing, or I'm just enjoying the exchange so much that I allow that to come out. I never thought of that as a bad thing. In fact, the times that I laugh tend to be when I'm most engaged with my clients and we're able to make a good deal of progress. If I'm to take my boss at her word, I was wrong in all of those great sessions where the clients walked away with a new sense of direction. While I "keep in mind" that things that I say and do may be found offensive, I find myself in a position where I have to call into question all of the tactics I use to make my sessions productive. Don't ask the clients to justify themselves. That might make them uncomfortable. Don't point out obvious errors in judgement. That might offend their sensibilities. It's like someone just tripped me and the proposed solution is to cut off my legs. After all, if I hadn't tried to get somewhere in the first place, we wouldn't be in this situation. It's all quite disconcerting.
In the end, all this experience has done is make me reluctant to honestly engage with any of my clients. If some little snot who doesn't bother directions, isn't concerned enough about my performance to fill out a survey and has more credibility in a he-told-her-she-said than I do, who's to say I'll ever get any affirmation regarding my performance? I hope this client never comes back. If he does, I'm sure he won't misunderstand my contempt.
The second client was in the same class, had gotten the same assignment, and was attempting to follow the example of the same writer. Instead of one experience, he wrote about three separate experience that didn't seem to have anything to do with one another. They did all exemplify some form of being misunderstood, but I didn't understand why he chose to put those three together. A series of inquiring led me to understand that they seemed so fragmented because they had nothing to do with each other. He had made them up. He couldn't come up with a time that he had been misunderstood, so he decided to write three separate lies and pretend that they were a part of a common theme in his life. I explained to him that the assignment was not to write a fictional account and that he couldn't actually do what was asked of him if he just made it up. He maintained that he couldn't come up with anything. Because we still had time in the session, I tried discussing diction and tone and attention to detail, but everything went back to the fact that he hadn't done what was asked of him. I was not about to advise him to turn in three unrelated lies about a relatively common occurance, so I finally told him that he needed to find something real to write about. I refused to believe that he had not been misunderstood once in his life. I even started throwing out examples to get him started, like having a text misread, or having someone not hear him correctly. Granted, these aren't as dramatic as having a strange woman beg him not to rob her, but they were at least things that could probably happen. He didn't want to talk about those things. He said he couldn't come up with enough to write on those things. After we went back and forth a few times, I asked him a question that he said he couldn't answer on the spot. I said that that was fine, since we still had time, and went to get some water while he thought about it. When I came back, I asked him if he was still thinking, and he basically told me he would not be able to come up with anything at all ever in life. I was glad when we ran out of time, but wished that I could have just sent him away early for refusing to cooperate.
Fast forward to today. I come in this afternoon and the schedule says that my 3:30 appointment is with my boss...to discuss a client complaint. I was nervous, as I always am at the prospect of having done something wrong. I make mistakes quite often, and, although I do my best to be friendly and patient with my clients, I do understand that I can sometimes be less delightful than many of my colleagues. I quickly review in my head the past few weeks. I can't remember leaving a client waiting or using my phone in a session. I haven't been on facebook or twitter or anything, and I never complain about clients when I have clients nearby. What could I have done?
When my boss comes to talk to me, she explains that a roommate of a client was crestfallen after having had an appointment with me, prompting said roommate to call and complain. Apparently I "belittled him," talked down to him," and insulted his intelligence by walking away. I am appropriately concerned that my actions may have been offensive and try to think back to the appointment in question and see what I should reevaluate. I completely forgot about Client 2, and instead the session that comes to me is the one from that same week where the client's paper similarly had unrelated elements and didn't seem to make sense. I recall the session as having been productive and don't understand why he would have been offended by anything I said. I even remember him coming in the next day and mentioning an advance he made with the same essay. In myreassessment of my immediate history with clients, I realize that I'm thinking of the wrong person. I am perfectly clear on who the client in question is now, and I let out a little laugh.
I laugh partly out of relief that I wasn't so wrong about how a session with a client had gone, partly out of amusement that he, of all, people, had seen fit to complain about me, and partly because the session was much funnier in hindsight when I'm not trying to drill something substantive out of this boy. I start to explain to my superior what actually happened, and she stops me.
"Do you see what you just did there?" she asks. I, of course know that I just laughed, but I don't see anything wrong with that. Something was funny, something was built up, and I let it out. I didn't even begin the story yet and she's already identifying what I did in this session that must have been so offensive. Never mind that I didn't laugh when he was actually there, that I wasn't at all amused by his refusal to follow directions and reluctance to cooperate with me. What matters now is that I let out a chuckle five days later, clearly evidence that I did something wrong five days ago. My boss goes on to say that the client may have taken this a different way and that that's the type of thing that can make a person feel belittled. She also "reminds" me that we don't leave the clients during a session, apparently seeing the one minute that I tried to give the guy some breathing room as further evidence of my shortcomings as a tutor. She smilingly maintains that I "keep these things in mind" before going on her merry way. Now I'm pissed off.
I don't ask her if she cares what actually happened in the session. It's clear from her response to my laughter that she doesn't. In this place where we pride ourselves on customer service, it doesn't occur to her that it may be the client who is in the wrong, or even that I have something to say about the session that might shed some actual light on why this person felt offended, rather than casting shadows of doubt on my qualification to work with people based on an involuntary expression of merriment. God forbid I show happiness on the job. I also no longer feel chastened by this exchange, or even the notion that this client came to the center for help and didn't have a good experience. The fact is, I didn't have a good experience either, and considering I haven't been paid for my work here since the beginning of August I'm not too concerned with the whole "we're here to serve you" mantra that he was looking to feel. My concern when he was here was in giving him things that would help him write the paper that he was supposed to write, and he showed no interest in taking that. I refuse to apologize or feel guilty for making a person feel bad about not following directions when I spent at least forty-five minutes trying to direct him according to what he needed to do. He didn't like that I asked him why he said what he said because he didn't have any answer and he didn't feel good about the comments I made because it was obvious that he was wrong. If his professor wanted him to turn in three pages of lies, she would have assigned them to write a work of fiction. As far as I'm concerned, my only mistake was in trying to help him when he didn't want to be helped.
And all of this comes out because I laughed. I freely admit that I laugh in my sessions from time to time. Sometimes a student writes something funny, or I remember something amusing, or I'm just enjoying the exchange so much that I allow that to come out. I never thought of that as a bad thing. In fact, the times that I laugh tend to be when I'm most engaged with my clients and we're able to make a good deal of progress. If I'm to take my boss at her word, I was wrong in all of those great sessions where the clients walked away with a new sense of direction. While I "keep in mind" that things that I say and do may be found offensive, I find myself in a position where I have to call into question all of the tactics I use to make my sessions productive. Don't ask the clients to justify themselves. That might make them uncomfortable. Don't point out obvious errors in judgement. That might offend their sensibilities. It's like someone just tripped me and the proposed solution is to cut off my legs. After all, if I hadn't tried to get somewhere in the first place, we wouldn't be in this situation. It's all quite disconcerting.
In the end, all this experience has done is make me reluctant to honestly engage with any of my clients. If some little snot who doesn't bother directions, isn't concerned enough about my performance to fill out a survey and has more credibility in a he-told-her-she-said than I do, who's to say I'll ever get any affirmation regarding my performance? I hope this client never comes back. If he does, I'm sure he won't misunderstand my contempt.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Meet New Brian, MIOBI Style
I did actually start this right after the season premier. Then I got sidetracked and it ended up witting in my draft box for months. I know it doesn't really matter now, but hey. When does what I write ever matter?
So, the new season of Make It or Break It is finally here and the writers made no mistake in establishing that the status quo breaker, Emily Kmetko is no longer a part of the road to London or any of the girls' lives. Lauren says, smugly, as the three get dropped off at the gym, that it's always been the three of them, repeating the sentiment first established in the pilot episode right before Emily came in and changed everything. Her not-so-subtle allusion to Emily, relating that "other girls come...go" can almost be seen as an assertion that the steady advancement of consistent drive the original top three had, as opposed to the sudden rise to notoriety that Emily was faced with and could never quite master, was meant to be the correct course all along. Alas, it just turned out to be a wagged tongue at any eager fans who might be holding out hope that Chelsea Hobbs would make a guest appearance. Instead of a resigned Emily appearing at the Olympic Training Center after a tragic abortion and a new hunger for Olympic glory, the loyal viewers of seasons past are treated to the appearance of some girl in a truck who apparently hasn't eaten in awhile and assumes that, despite not being on the national team or at all qualified to compete in a major competition, she'll be able to dazzle the judges and earn her spot.
Now, the writers of this show haven't been too picky about verisimilitude since the beginning, so it isn't so surprising that they don't expect this new character to follow the protocal of the gymnastics world, but it is a bit irritating that they don't even have her follow the rules that they've set forth themselves. She doesn't petition onto the team. She doesn't ask for a hearing or try to use some loophole to claim she qualifies. She literally shows up out of nowhere and expects to be accepted. The random appearance of Jordan (the new girl) directly reflects the sloth of the writing team. They really thought that, after all this time and all this waiting, they would throw in a new girl out of nowhere and we, the viewers, would just accept it. To their credit, they did at least throw in that Jordan was some has-been gymnast who hadn't been seen since she dramatically left the sport for unknown reasons. To their detriment, they didn't bother coming up with an explanation for how a girl with no money, no gym and, from my understanding, no home, who'd left gymnastics altogether for a significant period of time managed to get in shape enough to, not only reclaim her old skills, but to acquire a new one that no other (in shape professional full-time home having) gymnast in history has successfully landed, or what prompted her to do so. It was a far cry from the firm character sketch they'd set up for Emily.
The distinction between Jordan and Emily is as pronounced as it is irritating. It makes me wonder how the two would have interacted if that had ever come to pass. Alas, the two were never meant to exist in the same universe. This third season of Make It or Break It is, quite obviously, a half-assed bone thrown to shut up persistent fans everywhere. While the writers were able to pick up the story of the three not pregnant girls pretty easily, they would have to put actual effort into figuring out where to go with Emily's departure. They obviously weren't willing to do that, but neither were they willing to endure another barrage of angry mail from loyal tweens who loved watching the struggle of the underprivilaged underdog. So it was that Jordan Randall was concieved and, in hopes that none of the viewers would miss any of the genuine characteristics that made them want Emily, the writing team enhanced the superficial characteristics that make the fourth girl the underdog. While Emily was a struggling teen of a single mom whose father had left her, Jordan is a foster child who's been raised in the system. Whereas Emily lived in a crappy apartment and didn't have her own room, Jordan has to sleep in a tent. Where Emily's eastern European roots and humble income place her in the realm of white trash, Jordan is (gasp!) black. In every stupid way one could imagine, Jordan is the new and embellished token underdog character. I was disappointed that they could so easily throw away such a significant character. I see with this new girl just how significant they found her to be. It makes me wish they hadn't bothered coming back.
So, the new season of Make It or Break It is finally here and the writers made no mistake in establishing that the status quo breaker, Emily Kmetko is no longer a part of the road to London or any of the girls' lives. Lauren says, smugly, as the three get dropped off at the gym, that it's always been the three of them, repeating the sentiment first established in the pilot episode right before Emily came in and changed everything. Her not-so-subtle allusion to Emily, relating that "other girls come...go" can almost be seen as an assertion that the steady advancement of consistent drive the original top three had, as opposed to the sudden rise to notoriety that Emily was faced with and could never quite master, was meant to be the correct course all along. Alas, it just turned out to be a wagged tongue at any eager fans who might be holding out hope that Chelsea Hobbs would make a guest appearance. Instead of a resigned Emily appearing at the Olympic Training Center after a tragic abortion and a new hunger for Olympic glory, the loyal viewers of seasons past are treated to the appearance of some girl in a truck who apparently hasn't eaten in awhile and assumes that, despite not being on the national team or at all qualified to compete in a major competition, she'll be able to dazzle the judges and earn her spot.
Now, the writers of this show haven't been too picky about verisimilitude since the beginning, so it isn't so surprising that they don't expect this new character to follow the protocal of the gymnastics world, but it is a bit irritating that they don't even have her follow the rules that they've set forth themselves. She doesn't petition onto the team. She doesn't ask for a hearing or try to use some loophole to claim she qualifies. She literally shows up out of nowhere and expects to be accepted. The random appearance of Jordan (the new girl) directly reflects the sloth of the writing team. They really thought that, after all this time and all this waiting, they would throw in a new girl out of nowhere and we, the viewers, would just accept it. To their credit, they did at least throw in that Jordan was some has-been gymnast who hadn't been seen since she dramatically left the sport for unknown reasons. To their detriment, they didn't bother coming up with an explanation for how a girl with no money, no gym and, from my understanding, no home, who'd left gymnastics altogether for a significant period of time managed to get in shape enough to, not only reclaim her old skills, but to acquire a new one that no other (in shape professional full-time home having) gymnast in history has successfully landed, or what prompted her to do so. It was a far cry from the firm character sketch they'd set up for Emily.
The distinction between Jordan and Emily is as pronounced as it is irritating. It makes me wonder how the two would have interacted if that had ever come to pass. Alas, the two were never meant to exist in the same universe. This third season of Make It or Break It is, quite obviously, a half-assed bone thrown to shut up persistent fans everywhere. While the writers were able to pick up the story of the three not pregnant girls pretty easily, they would have to put actual effort into figuring out where to go with Emily's departure. They obviously weren't willing to do that, but neither were they willing to endure another barrage of angry mail from loyal tweens who loved watching the struggle of the underprivilaged underdog. So it was that Jordan Randall was concieved and, in hopes that none of the viewers would miss any of the genuine characteristics that made them want Emily, the writing team enhanced the superficial characteristics that make the fourth girl the underdog. While Emily was a struggling teen of a single mom whose father had left her, Jordan is a foster child who's been raised in the system. Whereas Emily lived in a crappy apartment and didn't have her own room, Jordan has to sleep in a tent. Where Emily's eastern European roots and humble income place her in the realm of white trash, Jordan is (gasp!) black. In every stupid way one could imagine, Jordan is the new and embellished token underdog character. I was disappointed that they could so easily throw away such a significant character. I see with this new girl just how significant they found her to be. It makes me wish they hadn't bothered coming back.
But...some of my best friends...
I, like the rest of the liberal world, tend to roll my eyes when a person reputed to be an antisemite claims that some of his best friends are Jewish or a supposed racist pulls his black friend to the forefront to quash those accusations. It's perfectly possible, we agree, to have bigoted ideas and still be able to spend time with the people with whom one would associate those ideas. Cognitive dissonance plays a huge role in a culture full of people who scream about how this country was founded on religious freedom one minute and protest the building of a mosque the next, who abhor sloth and find it difficult to get out of bed, and I'm inclined be among those people who thinks they can have their cake and eat it too, hold onto old values and still consider myself to be liberally inclined. Sometimes I get angry that so much of the world, or at least the country, disagrees with me.
I keep hearing from everywhere I turn about how this is the most divided America has been in so many years. I wonder if it was this divided right after the ratification of the Constitution or right before the first state seceded, but I have to admit, things seem pretty nasty. In social politics, certainly, it's become a time to pick sides on many issues. One such issue is same-sex marriage, which the left likes to call "equality" and the right likes to call "an abomination that will send our country spiralling straight into hell. Like many other hot-button issues, one's position on this one is taken as an implication of greater matters. Thus, the assumption arises that because I'm not in favor of same-sex marriage, I am in favor of bigotry, discrimination and abuse, while I'm against tolerance, equality and love. The fact that I am disagree with a position that would be advantageous to a particular group somehow dictates how I feel toward that particular group, namely, that I hate them. I find this particularly problematic on the issue of same-sex marriage because, as the title suggests, my very best friend is gay. In fact, a lot of dear friends of mine happen to be gay (It's kind of hard to avoid them in musical theatre) and, not surprisingly, on the other side of this issue. I know that they want to get married to the spouses of their choosing, have that marriage validated from state to state, and not have to worry about ambiguity in matters of custody or inheritance just because their relationships don't fit under the convenient legal umbrella of marriage. I know that not having marriage as an option for their convenience is a disadvantage to them and I still put myself on the other side of the line. Do I not understand what's at stake? Have I been too much brainwashed by conservative upbringing? Or have I just decieved myself in assuming that I feel genuine regard for them?
I have a friend who's obviously a conservative republican, which I only know based on her facebook posts. I haven't discussed her political leanings with her largely because I'm not sure if our friendship would survive it unscathed. How, I wonder, can the person who went out of her way to take me home for months before she even knew me and never asked for anything in return be the same person who thinks that programs geared at helping the poor enslave them? How can I find myself having so much fun with a person who spews venom at the democratic party and champions measures that effectively disenfranchise people like me? Maybe we have no business being friends. On the other hand, maybe our ability to be friends despite our differences offers hope that society doesn't have to mark its history based on division. I came close to fighting with my sister over who deserved favor on a tv show. I considered my pick (the one most like me) to be the obvious victor and the other girl to be a shameless appeal to a lesser audience. My sister considered my pick to be overrated and the other girl to be more generally appealing. Does it follow that my sister is lesser than I, or that she's somehow unable to appreciate me based on the fact that I have qualities in common with the character she doesn't like? Perhaps. Perhaps it demonstrates that our relationship transcends the qualities that she finds so irritating that are to be found in both my character and me. When Kirk Cameron appeared on Piers Morgan Tonight, every gay and gay sympathizer I knew was up in arms over what they took to be malicious remarks and commented on the bigotry of statements to which I could largely relate? Do these friends see me as a bigot? I doubt it.
In the recent times, people have found the freedom to be honest, and therefore reveal the vast difference of opinion from one person to the other. Traditions vary, sentiments, perspective. Like the ever-expanding universe, the variety of positions has multiplied to the point that it's impossible to agree with them all. I find it equally impossible to hate all those that oppose me. There are deal breakers and there are trifles and there are the matters in between that don't have to be one or the other. I often find myself attatched to those whose charts don't entirely match up with mine. Betimes I'm annoyed by, angry with, or disappointed in my bestie or my sister or my conservative republican friend, but that doesn't diminish my affection or my appreciation for them. Isn't that what friendship is? Understanding that the qualities I find problematic aren't as big as the qualities that I find endearing? Isn't tolerance embracing the truth that how often another person is at odds with you has no bearing on the humanity of that person?
This is, I admit, partially a personal appeal to escape the labels I find so abhorrant. However, I seek to escape them because they don't fit me. There is so much more to this life than "us" and "them","allies" and "enemies". The world is characterized as much by its in-betweens as it is by its absolutes. I like to consider myself the former.
I keep hearing from everywhere I turn about how this is the most divided America has been in so many years. I wonder if it was this divided right after the ratification of the Constitution or right before the first state seceded, but I have to admit, things seem pretty nasty. In social politics, certainly, it's become a time to pick sides on many issues. One such issue is same-sex marriage, which the left likes to call "equality" and the right likes to call "an abomination that will send our country spiralling straight into hell. Like many other hot-button issues, one's position on this one is taken as an implication of greater matters. Thus, the assumption arises that because I'm not in favor of same-sex marriage, I am in favor of bigotry, discrimination and abuse, while I'm against tolerance, equality and love. The fact that I am disagree with a position that would be advantageous to a particular group somehow dictates how I feel toward that particular group, namely, that I hate them. I find this particularly problematic on the issue of same-sex marriage because, as the title suggests, my very best friend is gay. In fact, a lot of dear friends of mine happen to be gay (It's kind of hard to avoid them in musical theatre) and, not surprisingly, on the other side of this issue. I know that they want to get married to the spouses of their choosing, have that marriage validated from state to state, and not have to worry about ambiguity in matters of custody or inheritance just because their relationships don't fit under the convenient legal umbrella of marriage. I know that not having marriage as an option for their convenience is a disadvantage to them and I still put myself on the other side of the line. Do I not understand what's at stake? Have I been too much brainwashed by conservative upbringing? Or have I just decieved myself in assuming that I feel genuine regard for them?
I have a friend who's obviously a conservative republican, which I only know based on her facebook posts. I haven't discussed her political leanings with her largely because I'm not sure if our friendship would survive it unscathed. How, I wonder, can the person who went out of her way to take me home for months before she even knew me and never asked for anything in return be the same person who thinks that programs geared at helping the poor enslave them? How can I find myself having so much fun with a person who spews venom at the democratic party and champions measures that effectively disenfranchise people like me? Maybe we have no business being friends. On the other hand, maybe our ability to be friends despite our differences offers hope that society doesn't have to mark its history based on division. I came close to fighting with my sister over who deserved favor on a tv show. I considered my pick (the one most like me) to be the obvious victor and the other girl to be a shameless appeal to a lesser audience. My sister considered my pick to be overrated and the other girl to be more generally appealing. Does it follow that my sister is lesser than I, or that she's somehow unable to appreciate me based on the fact that I have qualities in common with the character she doesn't like? Perhaps. Perhaps it demonstrates that our relationship transcends the qualities that she finds so irritating that are to be found in both my character and me. When Kirk Cameron appeared on Piers Morgan Tonight, every gay and gay sympathizer I knew was up in arms over what they took to be malicious remarks and commented on the bigotry of statements to which I could largely relate? Do these friends see me as a bigot? I doubt it.
In the recent times, people have found the freedom to be honest, and therefore reveal the vast difference of opinion from one person to the other. Traditions vary, sentiments, perspective. Like the ever-expanding universe, the variety of positions has multiplied to the point that it's impossible to agree with them all. I find it equally impossible to hate all those that oppose me. There are deal breakers and there are trifles and there are the matters in between that don't have to be one or the other. I often find myself attatched to those whose charts don't entirely match up with mine. Betimes I'm annoyed by, angry with, or disappointed in my bestie or my sister or my conservative republican friend, but that doesn't diminish my affection or my appreciation for them. Isn't that what friendship is? Understanding that the qualities I find problematic aren't as big as the qualities that I find endearing? Isn't tolerance embracing the truth that how often another person is at odds with you has no bearing on the humanity of that person?
This is, I admit, partially a personal appeal to escape the labels I find so abhorrant. However, I seek to escape them because they don't fit me. There is so much more to this life than "us" and "them","allies" and "enemies". The world is characterized as much by its in-betweens as it is by its absolutes. I like to consider myself the former.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Idle Pains
I've had the tendency for several years now to get headaches in the beginnings of the summer. A few weeks after school lets out, I'll have occasions when the light hurts my eyes, I feel a subtle, but distinct pounding, and I don't feel like moving for fear I'll disrupt the equilibrium in my head and shake my brain too much. Drinking water doesn't help, sleeping just makes me less conscious of the pain ofr awhile, and medicine makes me queasy, so I end up doing a little of each for a day or so until it passes. This summer was different. I had a show to finish when I got out of school and some backstage work and some box office work and, by the middle of June, it occurred to me that I hadn't spent any days lounging around to wait for the pain to pass, even when I could. I had somehow missed my seasonal headache.
I got home today (well, yesterday) around half past six after having just barely gotten out of the house before noon for the first time this week and having only a slightly more productive day than the previous two. I realized that I was tired just from being up and about and, by seven, decided it would make more sense to lie down and recoup some energy than try to keep going. I woke up a good three hours later with a whopping headache. Instead of calling it a day, I decided to get a bottle of water and go for a midnight stroll. When I came home an hour and a half later, both my head and the rest of me were feeling demonstrably better. Cautious though I am about getting to used to late nights, I went ahead and stayed up. I'm comfortably sleepy and a little hungry, but nothing hurts. It may be that not doing anything was the reason behind my pain all along. When a leg falls asleep, it's from lack of circulation. The mind needs to keep going. It feels so much better to do something and have done something than it does to wait for things to pass. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Progress makes me happier.
I got home today (well, yesterday) around half past six after having just barely gotten out of the house before noon for the first time this week and having only a slightly more productive day than the previous two. I realized that I was tired just from being up and about and, by seven, decided it would make more sense to lie down and recoup some energy than try to keep going. I woke up a good three hours later with a whopping headache. Instead of calling it a day, I decided to get a bottle of water and go for a midnight stroll. When I came home an hour and a half later, both my head and the rest of me were feeling demonstrably better. Cautious though I am about getting to used to late nights, I went ahead and stayed up. I'm comfortably sleepy and a little hungry, but nothing hurts. It may be that not doing anything was the reason behind my pain all along. When a leg falls asleep, it's from lack of circulation. The mind needs to keep going. It feels so much better to do something and have done something than it does to wait for things to pass. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Progress makes me happier.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
I has a tummy ache.
Today is ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, and I have been inspired by my inability to control myself heretofore to give up sweet tea for forty days. In honor of my resolution, I began celebrating Mardi Gras last weekend gorging myself to the conception of several food babies by consuming gallons of sweet tea and other gras things. I indulged in brownies and ice cream, cookies and burgers, and one kickass salad with losts of bacon with the knowledge that, beginning today, I would have to restrain myself. My first concrete recognition of Mardi Gras in many years has opened my eyes to two realities: first, that few people who choose to play on Mardi Gras follow through with Ash Wednesday and 2) Eating crap for four days does not feel good.
The logic of Mardi Gras was first supported by the notion that observers of Lent would have to do without certain pleasures for forty days and should get them in while they still could. Eat all of the meat before it spoils. Drink all the beer before it separates. Have all the sex before the chastity belts get fastened. The gorging was motivated by an imperative to indulge. Eventually, however, one is motivated to take part in the holy time by an imperative to stop. I realized by the time the actual day of fat came that I was a bit over it. I didn't want any more sweet tea, any more sweet anything, really, and only continued out of a sense of obligation and a resolve that I would discipline myself on the morrow. By the time I got home to partake of my last indulgence, I had to force myself to consume my yummy brownie and cup of ice cream. Now that time is over and, although my bladder full of sweet tea was the only real motivation I had for getting up this morning, I'm glad of it. The Mardi Gras tactic is much like the parent's decision to make a child smpke a pack of cigarettes after trying one. At some point, you realize that gorging is disgusting and you don't want to do it anymore. After that last piece of cake, you prefer restraint to immoderation. That's where I am right now. I hope it lasts.
The logic of Mardi Gras was first supported by the notion that observers of Lent would have to do without certain pleasures for forty days and should get them in while they still could. Eat all of the meat before it spoils. Drink all the beer before it separates. Have all the sex before the chastity belts get fastened. The gorging was motivated by an imperative to indulge. Eventually, however, one is motivated to take part in the holy time by an imperative to stop. I realized by the time the actual day of fat came that I was a bit over it. I didn't want any more sweet tea, any more sweet anything, really, and only continued out of a sense of obligation and a resolve that I would discipline myself on the morrow. By the time I got home to partake of my last indulgence, I had to force myself to consume my yummy brownie and cup of ice cream. Now that time is over and, although my bladder full of sweet tea was the only real motivation I had for getting up this morning, I'm glad of it. The Mardi Gras tactic is much like the parent's decision to make a child smpke a pack of cigarettes after trying one. At some point, you realize that gorging is disgusting and you don't want to do it anymore. After that last piece of cake, you prefer restraint to immoderation. That's where I am right now. I hope it lasts.
Monday, February 20, 2012
It's Not That You're Not Good Enough
. It's frustrating to find that, despite my having what I believe to be justifiable reasons for thinking the way I do, there are people unwilling to allow that my perspective may be viable. Sometimes I don't feel good. Telling me I don't have a good reason to feel that way isn't going to make me feel any better. Expressing how I feel without being shot down does. So here goes.
I recently recieved an invite via facebook to attend the upcoming production of Into the Woods, the same production that I had been so looking forward to being a part of and was not able to because...well, because they didn't choose me. It really just boils down to that. It wasn't that I didn't have the time or couldn't get there or had any conflicts with the production schedule. Those might have been obstacles, but not deal breakers. The only thing that ultimately kept me from being in the show was that the production team decided not to put me in the show. I accept this. I acknowledge this and understand that to be the nature of the beast with whom I've fallen in love...None of that makes it any less hurtful though.
The fact is, there's no composer who identifies whatever aspect of the human experience he deigns to comment on through his lyrics the way that Stephen Sondheim does. (In my perfect universe, he's my grandpa and I call him Papa) Among his works (that I know so far), there's no show that resonates with me as strongly as Into the Woods and, though I know this is only one show and one company and one cast with a specific balance, I can't ignore the implication that this is not a show in which I would be invited to take part. I was first taught about casting that "there are two reasons you don't get cast in a role: you're not good enough or you don't fit the requirements for the role you're trying for". Let's say, to protect my ego, that I wasn't looked over because I wasn't good enough. Do I not "fit" the requirements for a part in this show? Could I not conceivably play a petulant child who placed too much trust in strangers? Do I not sound like I would be in a position to sing "I Know Things Now"? Am I too old? Too young? Too serious? Not to be taken seriously? Is there something about me entirely beyond my control that kept me from being deemed worthy of this journey? The possibility that I wasn't looked over based on the notion that I wasn't good enough, it turns out, isn't good enough to appease me.
I recently recieved an invite via facebook to attend the upcoming production of Into the Woods, the same production that I had been so looking forward to being a part of and was not able to because...well, because they didn't choose me. It really just boils down to that. It wasn't that I didn't have the time or couldn't get there or had any conflicts with the production schedule. Those might have been obstacles, but not deal breakers. The only thing that ultimately kept me from being in the show was that the production team decided not to put me in the show. I accept this. I acknowledge this and understand that to be the nature of the beast with whom I've fallen in love...None of that makes it any less hurtful though.
The fact is, there's no composer who identifies whatever aspect of the human experience he deigns to comment on through his lyrics the way that Stephen Sondheim does. (In my perfect universe, he's my grandpa and I call him Papa) Among his works (that I know so far), there's no show that resonates with me as strongly as Into the Woods and, though I know this is only one show and one company and one cast with a specific balance, I can't ignore the implication that this is not a show in which I would be invited to take part. I was first taught about casting that "there are two reasons you don't get cast in a role: you're not good enough or you don't fit the requirements for the role you're trying for". Let's say, to protect my ego, that I wasn't looked over because I wasn't good enough. Do I not "fit" the requirements for a part in this show? Could I not conceivably play a petulant child who placed too much trust in strangers? Do I not sound like I would be in a position to sing "I Know Things Now"? Am I too old? Too young? Too serious? Not to be taken seriously? Is there something about me entirely beyond my control that kept me from being deemed worthy of this journey? The possibility that I wasn't looked over based on the notion that I wasn't good enough, it turns out, isn't good enough to appease me.
No more Kardashians!
So there's this huge new grassroots campaign to out the Kardashian "empire" from the E! network. According to some chick in Colorado who has seen three episodes, the show promotes vulgarity, sexual promiscuity, vanity and...other bad things. She says that the girls (let's call the unit KKK) portray an unrealistic image which is a negative image for impressionable young girls and should be taken off the air. She says that the public have the right to better quality programming. I say...really?
If I took this woman at her word, I wouldn't be surprised to find that young children had no choice but to watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians (and all its offspring), smell like Unbreakable (Khloe's perfume), wear their clothes and jewelry, and most importantly, care about these girls. All of these things are demonstrably untrue. Prior to the inclusion of the Kardashian Kollection on HLN, the barrage of K-themed shows was limited to E!, a network that made Hugh Heffner's string of concubines into household names and considers the tragedy of Jon Ben`et Ramsey a Hollywood Story. The only original shows that this network comes up with are unscripted, shallow, and usually uncreative. Even if this lady's charges against the Kardashian Klan are true, I could not imagine a more appropriate home for the family's escapades than E!. In any case, their being limited to one (occasionally two) channels ensures that the lives of these vapid, ignorant little princesses can be blocked out with a click of the remote. It would be harder to take back a remote from a couchmate than to press the button that will get rid of them. As for her protests that the Kardashians appear too often in magazines and now in stores to simply ignore, their frequent appearances on covers is only a reflection of their popularity and their new clothing line is no more an imposition to the masses than Abercrombie and Fitch is (though their ads make it difficult to remember that they're selling clothes). The truth is, KKK are only as important as we make them and this outcry for censorship sounds too much like a cry for help.
We had a client come into the Writing Center today who took up the majority of a blank page airing her grievances against the center, the staff, and our policies. So vehement were her complaints that anyone reading them would have thought that this was the last straw and we would never see her again. Alas, that person would be wrong. We know that she will come again because she already decided that she could not find any value in the writing center. A few days back, she went so far as to have herself deleted from the system, so final was her resolve to never again utilize the resources the center made available to her. I wondered when I heard this why it was so important for her to be deleted from the system. Our one newsletter had already been sent out, nor do we send out mass emails except to say when we'll be closed on special occasions. The only way her inclusion into the writing center's system would have affected her would be if she chose to make an appointment, which she did, only days later. The fact is, there was something about this place that drew her to come, the same way that there is something about the Kardashians that draws people to watch.
I am not ashamed to say that I have seen every Kardashian show, from the original one about the whole family to the spin-offs about taking various cities. I have picked a favorite, rooted against less favorites, and passed judgement on each of the family members at one time or another. I have done the same with the Kardashian family that I have with the cast of the Big Bang Theory and in both cases, it was my choice. I decided to watch these shows the same way that our patron decided to come back to the Center and these moms decided to have this station on. We have all been guilty of allowing the media to impact us at some time, but there does come a point when personal responsibility trumps all else. For some people, nothing wraps up a lazy Sunday like watching a group of relatively useless people worry about miniscule problems in their overprivileged lives. As unsettling as it is for you, it gives many reason to smile. You shouldn't try to take that away from us.
If I took this woman at her word, I wouldn't be surprised to find that young children had no choice but to watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians (and all its offspring), smell like Unbreakable (Khloe's perfume), wear their clothes and jewelry, and most importantly, care about these girls. All of these things are demonstrably untrue. Prior to the inclusion of the Kardashian Kollection on HLN, the barrage of K-themed shows was limited to E!, a network that made Hugh Heffner's string of concubines into household names and considers the tragedy of Jon Ben`et Ramsey a Hollywood Story. The only original shows that this network comes up with are unscripted, shallow, and usually uncreative. Even if this lady's charges against the Kardashian Klan are true, I could not imagine a more appropriate home for the family's escapades than E!. In any case, their being limited to one (occasionally two) channels ensures that the lives of these vapid, ignorant little princesses can be blocked out with a click of the remote. It would be harder to take back a remote from a couchmate than to press the button that will get rid of them. As for her protests that the Kardashians appear too often in magazines and now in stores to simply ignore, their frequent appearances on covers is only a reflection of their popularity and their new clothing line is no more an imposition to the masses than Abercrombie and Fitch is (though their ads make it difficult to remember that they're selling clothes). The truth is, KKK are only as important as we make them and this outcry for censorship sounds too much like a cry for help.
We had a client come into the Writing Center today who took up the majority of a blank page airing her grievances against the center, the staff, and our policies. So vehement were her complaints that anyone reading them would have thought that this was the last straw and we would never see her again. Alas, that person would be wrong. We know that she will come again because she already decided that she could not find any value in the writing center. A few days back, she went so far as to have herself deleted from the system, so final was her resolve to never again utilize the resources the center made available to her. I wondered when I heard this why it was so important for her to be deleted from the system. Our one newsletter had already been sent out, nor do we send out mass emails except to say when we'll be closed on special occasions. The only way her inclusion into the writing center's system would have affected her would be if she chose to make an appointment, which she did, only days later. The fact is, there was something about this place that drew her to come, the same way that there is something about the Kardashians that draws people to watch.
I am not ashamed to say that I have seen every Kardashian show, from the original one about the whole family to the spin-offs about taking various cities. I have picked a favorite, rooted against less favorites, and passed judgement on each of the family members at one time or another. I have done the same with the Kardashian family that I have with the cast of the Big Bang Theory and in both cases, it was my choice. I decided to watch these shows the same way that our patron decided to come back to the Center and these moms decided to have this station on. We have all been guilty of allowing the media to impact us at some time, but there does come a point when personal responsibility trumps all else. For some people, nothing wraps up a lazy Sunday like watching a group of relatively useless people worry about miniscule problems in their overprivileged lives. As unsettling as it is for you, it gives many reason to smile. You shouldn't try to take that away from us.
Without Emily
I was very excited to find after a year-long hiatus that Make It or Break It would be returning to television this spring. As disappointed as I was in the direction they had chosen to take the show in since one of the actors got pregnant, I held out hope that they would be able to turn things around somehow, given a second chance. Emily, because of her underdog status and determination to be strong on her own, is my favorite character and I was deeply hurt that the show's writers responded to the pregnancy of the actress playing her by, in turn, making her character pregnant. As upsetting as it was to see the one known to defy her critics' expectations fall into the most obvious stereotypical mistake of a stupid teenaged girl, I at least comforted myself with the opinion that, if she comes back from this failure, there's surely nothing Emily can't do. Fool that I am, I assured myself that there was no way they could just drop her. Fool that I am.
The actress who played Emily Kmetko has given birth to a beautiful boy, lost her baby weight, and returned to work. She will not, however, return to the Rock. She confirmed herself that she would not be returning to the show and every promotional shot for this season has been of the remaining trio. It's official. Emily is gone. We're back at the status quo.
I can't express enough my disappointment in the writers for taking this path. Although they had to deal with the absence of one gymnast for a significant time period somehow, making Emily get pregnant and run away was a complete cop-out. For one thing, it completely disregards the ever present reality that she is a gymnast and constantly at risk for serious injury. She could have fractured her spine doing the vault, had to be sent to special rehab center in the Himalayas, and been ready to train again by the time baby Hobbs popped out. It wouldn't be the most creative solution, but neither would it be so ridiculously shameful. Emily, a girl who never had a boyfriend before, was born to a teenaged mother and dreams of going to the Olympics, decides, pretty much out of the blue, that she'll give her love interest her virginity to hold him over for the next two years. Aside from the fact that it's a completely shallow take on what the network is trying to pass for true love, it completely contradicts Emily's assertion that she's spending her life trying not to become her mother. How does she think her mother got that way? Did she not realize sex was involved?
I was irritated, but difficult as it was, I bravely swallowed the pregnancy addition to the storyline and watched the season unwind without one of its principles because I knew they couldn't just throw her away. And yet they continued with the season giving her less than five minutes of attention in the episode following her departure and pulling in another key player to fill out the foursome. Although they tried to revamp the focus of the drama, one can hardly fail to notice that they've essentially tried to fool the viewers into thinking the show is simply going on in a reasonable direction. It's ridiculous to think that the show will thrive without Emily. Cat fights and boyfriend drama aside, she was the reason the show happened in the first place. For five years, Payon, Kaylie, and Lauren were best friends making up the top tier at the rock. They worked hard, they struggled in training, but none of their struggles affected their equilibrium until Emily came along. Emily broke the status quo. Emily changed the paths of their lives. Emily is the reason that they are where they are today, and to go back to being the three top Rock girls with every expectation on making a splash in the Olympics after all that is to pretend that Emily was never there at all, that the "1, 2, 3" that Lauren said was the way it always had been in the pilot episode really is the way that it should be to the end. That they not only succeeded without her at World Championships, but are now heading to the Olympics without so much as a glance back, is a complete disregard of the impact that Emily's presence made on their lives. Lauren was always a good gymnast, but she never would've pushed herself to get gold against her two best friends if she hadn't felt her position in the top tier challenged. Neither would Kaylie have been pushed to choose her gymnastics over everything else and deal with the fallout from her mother's affair if her defense of Emily at the qualifiers hadn't led her to jeopardize her relationship with her boyfriend. As determined as Payson was to win and beat her longtime rival, her deference and trust for her coach would have kept her from endangering her body in the weeks leading up to nationals were it not for having to prove to the coach that abandoned her that she was still a winner. Everything about where the girls stood at the end of Worlds was reflective of the impact that Emily had made on their lives, and yet the choice to exclude her from the climax of the season sends the message that she was never really a part of the team. All because she got knocked up.
Even though I was angry when I first found out that Emily was pregnant, I didn't see it as a career-ender even though the coach insisted in a discussion with Emily's mother over her condition that she couldn't return to gymnastics, that her body couldn't recover from a baby. After all, Payson had come back from a supposed career-ender to win medal at Worlds in less than a year after proclaiming that a gymnast has between 14 and 20 years old to accomplish anything. There has been among them from the start of the show the idea that they will only be able to survive one Olympic cycle before having to figure out what else they can do with their lives. Up until now, I have forgiven the writers the occasional liberties taken with reality, but I cannot reconcile their determination to build giants in the field of gymnastics with their determination to place such limits on them. While most gymnasts peak in their late teens, one need only look at the record of multiple-time medalist Oksana Chusovitina to see that age doesn't determine winability, nor does a major hormonal change. She's still winning medals in international events despite having a child and at least ten years on all of her competitors. Granted, her situation is not typical, but what about the sport is typical? The very nature of gymnastics dictates smashing through the glass ceiling of human potential, defying every dogma and transcending every obstacle that appears. If the people that competed adhered to the same restraints as regular folks, they'd never be able to throw themselves in the air or pull themselves over those bars. Herein lies the heart of my disappointment, my anger. Emily has had everything against her from the time she was conceived and still excelled beyond expectations for the simple fact that she wanted it and she fought for it. The show now tells us that she's stopped fighting. She can't fight anymore. Every step she's taken towards success has just been a means to the same end. It didn't matter how hard she fought, ABCFamily tells us. She wasn't strong enough. She didn't have the athlete father to push her. She didn't have the rich single parent to devote all his time to her. She didn't have the loving nuclear family to support her. She fell because she had nothing to stand on but her own two feet.
The show without Emily is about three girls who are very different, but very much the same. Their situations are far-fetched not because of what they do, but what happens around them. They all work hard with the guidance of the coach who was acquired for them by one of the parents. They all hit bumps in the road, but end up coming out on top with people who love them to see that they do. They all present a pretty, but distorted view of what it is to fight for your dreams. The show without Emily is not a drama. It's a fairytale. Fairytales are not to be believed.
The actress who played Emily Kmetko has given birth to a beautiful boy, lost her baby weight, and returned to work. She will not, however, return to the Rock. She confirmed herself that she would not be returning to the show and every promotional shot for this season has been of the remaining trio. It's official. Emily is gone. We're back at the status quo.
I can't express enough my disappointment in the writers for taking this path. Although they had to deal with the absence of one gymnast for a significant time period somehow, making Emily get pregnant and run away was a complete cop-out. For one thing, it completely disregards the ever present reality that she is a gymnast and constantly at risk for serious injury. She could have fractured her spine doing the vault, had to be sent to special rehab center in the Himalayas, and been ready to train again by the time baby Hobbs popped out. It wouldn't be the most creative solution, but neither would it be so ridiculously shameful. Emily, a girl who never had a boyfriend before, was born to a teenaged mother and dreams of going to the Olympics, decides, pretty much out of the blue, that she'll give her love interest her virginity to hold him over for the next two years. Aside from the fact that it's a completely shallow take on what the network is trying to pass for true love, it completely contradicts Emily's assertion that she's spending her life trying not to become her mother. How does she think her mother got that way? Did she not realize sex was involved?
I was irritated, but difficult as it was, I bravely swallowed the pregnancy addition to the storyline and watched the season unwind without one of its principles because I knew they couldn't just throw her away. And yet they continued with the season giving her less than five minutes of attention in the episode following her departure and pulling in another key player to fill out the foursome. Although they tried to revamp the focus of the drama, one can hardly fail to notice that they've essentially tried to fool the viewers into thinking the show is simply going on in a reasonable direction. It's ridiculous to think that the show will thrive without Emily. Cat fights and boyfriend drama aside, she was the reason the show happened in the first place. For five years, Payon, Kaylie, and Lauren were best friends making up the top tier at the rock. They worked hard, they struggled in training, but none of their struggles affected their equilibrium until Emily came along. Emily broke the status quo. Emily changed the paths of their lives. Emily is the reason that they are where they are today, and to go back to being the three top Rock girls with every expectation on making a splash in the Olympics after all that is to pretend that Emily was never there at all, that the "1, 2, 3" that Lauren said was the way it always had been in the pilot episode really is the way that it should be to the end. That they not only succeeded without her at World Championships, but are now heading to the Olympics without so much as a glance back, is a complete disregard of the impact that Emily's presence made on their lives. Lauren was always a good gymnast, but she never would've pushed herself to get gold against her two best friends if she hadn't felt her position in the top tier challenged. Neither would Kaylie have been pushed to choose her gymnastics over everything else and deal with the fallout from her mother's affair if her defense of Emily at the qualifiers hadn't led her to jeopardize her relationship with her boyfriend. As determined as Payson was to win and beat her longtime rival, her deference and trust for her coach would have kept her from endangering her body in the weeks leading up to nationals were it not for having to prove to the coach that abandoned her that she was still a winner. Everything about where the girls stood at the end of Worlds was reflective of the impact that Emily had made on their lives, and yet the choice to exclude her from the climax of the season sends the message that she was never really a part of the team. All because she got knocked up.
Even though I was angry when I first found out that Emily was pregnant, I didn't see it as a career-ender even though the coach insisted in a discussion with Emily's mother over her condition that she couldn't return to gymnastics, that her body couldn't recover from a baby. After all, Payson had come back from a supposed career-ender to win medal at Worlds in less than a year after proclaiming that a gymnast has between 14 and 20 years old to accomplish anything. There has been among them from the start of the show the idea that they will only be able to survive one Olympic cycle before having to figure out what else they can do with their lives. Up until now, I have forgiven the writers the occasional liberties taken with reality, but I cannot reconcile their determination to build giants in the field of gymnastics with their determination to place such limits on them. While most gymnasts peak in their late teens, one need only look at the record of multiple-time medalist Oksana Chusovitina to see that age doesn't determine winability, nor does a major hormonal change. She's still winning medals in international events despite having a child and at least ten years on all of her competitors. Granted, her situation is not typical, but what about the sport is typical? The very nature of gymnastics dictates smashing through the glass ceiling of human potential, defying every dogma and transcending every obstacle that appears. If the people that competed adhered to the same restraints as regular folks, they'd never be able to throw themselves in the air or pull themselves over those bars. Herein lies the heart of my disappointment, my anger. Emily has had everything against her from the time she was conceived and still excelled beyond expectations for the simple fact that she wanted it and she fought for it. The show now tells us that she's stopped fighting. She can't fight anymore. Every step she's taken towards success has just been a means to the same end. It didn't matter how hard she fought, ABCFamily tells us. She wasn't strong enough. She didn't have the athlete father to push her. She didn't have the rich single parent to devote all his time to her. She didn't have the loving nuclear family to support her. She fell because she had nothing to stand on but her own two feet.
The show without Emily is about three girls who are very different, but very much the same. Their situations are far-fetched not because of what they do, but what happens around them. They all work hard with the guidance of the coach who was acquired for them by one of the parents. They all hit bumps in the road, but end up coming out on top with people who love them to see that they do. They all present a pretty, but distorted view of what it is to fight for your dreams. The show without Emily is not a drama. It's a fairytale. Fairytales are not to be believed.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Make It or Break It
I'm very picky about my choice in shows worthy of following steadily. My schedule doesn't allow for a great deal of frivolity during the school year and I hesitate to invest more interest in following the path of someone else's life rather than living my own. Considering my tendency to lean towards suspenseful dramas and my chronic irritation with teenagers, it was not my expectation to be into a show like Make It or Break It, if for no other reason than its being picked up by ABC Family, the station that's known for bringing such hits as The Secret Life of the American Teenager and Greek. From what I understand of ABC Family, it's the station that Disney Channel lovers go to when they realize that they might be getting too old for Hannah Montana, but would rather not seek out a show of substance. And yet I found myself, more often than I would imagine, stationed in front of a television at nine (eight central) on Monday evenings, waiting to see what fate had befallen the Rock Girls.
Something about my affection for gymnastics and my boredom on the day that happened to be the series premier left me sitting in front of the television watching Stick It! the movie that was supposed to get us excited about this hip new show. The movie wasn't excruciating if I just ignored the crap that happened in between the gymnastics, so I figured the couch could bear my weight for another hour while I gave ABC Family's latest attempt at originality a fair shot.
The premise of the story is not incredibly remarkable. Rather than the typical cluster of lockers and classrooms, and elite gym is the major background for the ensuing drama among a tiny drove of teenaged girls and their parents. You have Lauren, the catty blonde who always gets her way from Daddy, Kaylie, the sweet popular girl who allows distractions to interfere with her drive, and Payson, the ultrafocused overachiever who won't let anything stop her. The course of their lives is altered minutely but significantly by the arrival of a shabby, unpolished scholarship recipient with a strong sob story and amazing potential: Emily Kmetko. I sat, I watched, I thought, and by the time ten o'clock rolled around, I wanted more. I wanted to see what happened next. I will give the writers kudos for coming up with a very intriguing end to the pilot. It was curiosity about where they would be able to take it from there, more than anything else, that led me to tune in again. In addition to it being about gymnasts, it surprised me and I wondered how long they would be able to keep surprising me.
For seven weeks they held my attention. Seven weeks and I came to care about what would happen next, not just out of literary curiosity, but out of concern for the lives of these fictional characters. Seven weeks and I kept coming back; watching faithfully nearly every Monday night. In those seven weeks, I became familiar with the characters, had chosen favorites, and was able to make predictions about what should happen and what likely would happen. In seven weeks, I decided to make this one of "my shows". It wasn't quite as popular as most stupid ABCFamily shows and went on hiatus last summer rather than being picked up for another season. I was angry, more for the caliber of shows that the network held onto in comparison, and I was ready to mourn my one and only young girl's drama.
Now, the continuous whining on teens and tweens seems to have finally paid off as the show has been picked up for a third season just in time to get the Rock girls to the 2012 Olympics. I was disappointed with the way that they ended their last season, even though I knew a good deal of it was because they thought it would be the very end, but I look forward to the writers' attempt to pull themselves out of the hole that they dug. It will be nice to have those kids to root for again.
Something about my affection for gymnastics and my boredom on the day that happened to be the series premier left me sitting in front of the television watching Stick It! the movie that was supposed to get us excited about this hip new show. The movie wasn't excruciating if I just ignored the crap that happened in between the gymnastics, so I figured the couch could bear my weight for another hour while I gave ABC Family's latest attempt at originality a fair shot.
The premise of the story is not incredibly remarkable. Rather than the typical cluster of lockers and classrooms, and elite gym is the major background for the ensuing drama among a tiny drove of teenaged girls and their parents. You have Lauren, the catty blonde who always gets her way from Daddy, Kaylie, the sweet popular girl who allows distractions to interfere with her drive, and Payson, the ultrafocused overachiever who won't let anything stop her. The course of their lives is altered minutely but significantly by the arrival of a shabby, unpolished scholarship recipient with a strong sob story and amazing potential: Emily Kmetko. I sat, I watched, I thought, and by the time ten o'clock rolled around, I wanted more. I wanted to see what happened next. I will give the writers kudos for coming up with a very intriguing end to the pilot. It was curiosity about where they would be able to take it from there, more than anything else, that led me to tune in again. In addition to it being about gymnasts, it surprised me and I wondered how long they would be able to keep surprising me.
For seven weeks they held my attention. Seven weeks and I came to care about what would happen next, not just out of literary curiosity, but out of concern for the lives of these fictional characters. Seven weeks and I kept coming back; watching faithfully nearly every Monday night. In those seven weeks, I became familiar with the characters, had chosen favorites, and was able to make predictions about what should happen and what likely would happen. In seven weeks, I decided to make this one of "my shows". It wasn't quite as popular as most stupid ABCFamily shows and went on hiatus last summer rather than being picked up for another season. I was angry, more for the caliber of shows that the network held onto in comparison, and I was ready to mourn my one and only young girl's drama.
Now, the continuous whining on teens and tweens seems to have finally paid off as the show has been picked up for a third season just in time to get the Rock girls to the 2012 Olympics. I was disappointed with the way that they ended their last season, even though I knew a good deal of it was because they thought it would be the very end, but I look forward to the writers' attempt to pull themselves out of the hole that they dug. It will be nice to have those kids to root for again.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Call It Providence
I'm sleepy. I've been sleepy for the past five weeks and am still behind. I struck for Xanadu on Sunday and on Monday evening, I was on my way to Quincy to sell my soul to another director for another six weeks, this time with a half-hour commute and the challenge of Sondheim. I did okay, nothing spectacular, but enough to get a callback, and that's really all you can hope for in an audition, right? Callbacks come, and I still do okay, and when the time comes to make the first cuts, I'm dismissed. Now I'm sad.
I have recently accepted the fact that I will forever be in an abusive relationship with musical theatre. It tears me up, it puts me down, it throws me to the side, but still, all I want is for it to embrace me. All it takes is a little implication that my love isn't worthless and I'm back at it again. The rehearsal process for Xanadu was hell for me, but when I was walking home on Sunday night, all I wanted was to go back to that theatre. I couldn't wait to have more songs to sing, more moves to learn, more moments to create. I shouldn't have auditioned for Into the Woods. I had already acknowledged that it would be stupid to do two musicals in one semester with no real break in between, that I would probably be banging my head against the wall in just a couple of weeks if I ended up going through with it, but I had to go. I had to reach out for another chance to be a part of the magic. Now the magic has faded and I don't have any more, and I'm having the hardest time convincing myself that it's okay.
A smarter person wouldn't be sad. If I were smart, I'd remember that I'm taking 16 hours and behind in most of my classes with finals looming not too far ahead. I'd realize that this free time means a chance to actually comprehend what's going on in French, instead of just arranging letters the way I think they're supposed to go. I would remind myself that the deadline to submit for SETC is only a month away, FTC only a week and a half away, and mock trial tryouts less than a week. A less selfish person wouldn't be sad. A less selfish person would consider the job she has promised to be available for after leaving the crew hanging during homecoming week and the organization she's supposed to be helping to move forward. A more sensible person would use this knowledge to plan her next few weeks knowing that she'll have a good deal more free time and look forward to the opportunity to finally go to the dance classes she paid for. A more mature Akia would recognize that there are numerous factors that go into casting that don't reflect talent or skill and can't be helped. I am none of those things.
I am a stupid, selfish, childish girl (not unlike Little Red Riding Hood) who cannot see any of the positive things that will come from my not being caught up in this show. Nor can I recall any of the positive feedback I've gotten from members of the production team in the past year. I cannot bring myself to acknowledge what a compliment it is to be called back for such a demanding show or how supportive the people who knew me at auditions were when I had to perform. All I can see is how badly I want to do this show. All I can feel is how hurt I am that I was rejected and how disappointed I am that I wasn't deemed worthy to take the journey into the woods.
I have recently accepted the fact that I will forever be in an abusive relationship with musical theatre. It tears me up, it puts me down, it throws me to the side, but still, all I want is for it to embrace me. All it takes is a little implication that my love isn't worthless and I'm back at it again. The rehearsal process for Xanadu was hell for me, but when I was walking home on Sunday night, all I wanted was to go back to that theatre. I couldn't wait to have more songs to sing, more moves to learn, more moments to create. I shouldn't have auditioned for Into the Woods. I had already acknowledged that it would be stupid to do two musicals in one semester with no real break in between, that I would probably be banging my head against the wall in just a couple of weeks if I ended up going through with it, but I had to go. I had to reach out for another chance to be a part of the magic. Now the magic has faded and I don't have any more, and I'm having the hardest time convincing myself that it's okay.
A smarter person wouldn't be sad. If I were smart, I'd remember that I'm taking 16 hours and behind in most of my classes with finals looming not too far ahead. I'd realize that this free time means a chance to actually comprehend what's going on in French, instead of just arranging letters the way I think they're supposed to go. I would remind myself that the deadline to submit for SETC is only a month away, FTC only a week and a half away, and mock trial tryouts less than a week. A less selfish person wouldn't be sad. A less selfish person would consider the job she has promised to be available for after leaving the crew hanging during homecoming week and the organization she's supposed to be helping to move forward. A more sensible person would use this knowledge to plan her next few weeks knowing that she'll have a good deal more free time and look forward to the opportunity to finally go to the dance classes she paid for. A more mature Akia would recognize that there are numerous factors that go into casting that don't reflect talent or skill and can't be helped. I am none of those things.
I am a stupid, selfish, childish girl (not unlike Little Red Riding Hood) who cannot see any of the positive things that will come from my not being caught up in this show. Nor can I recall any of the positive feedback I've gotten from members of the production team in the past year. I cannot bring myself to acknowledge what a compliment it is to be called back for such a demanding show or how supportive the people who knew me at auditions were when I had to perform. All I can see is how badly I want to do this show. All I can feel is how hurt I am that I was rejected and how disappointed I am that I wasn't deemed worthy to take the journey into the woods.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
I'm freaking out right now
School starts next week. That dreadful countdown between when I have all the potential that comes with having lots of time and having my time constantly absorbed by classes and the overwhelming extracurriculars that have me pulling my hair out near Thanksgiving. The countdown is by no means made less stressful by the necessity to attend to matters other than the ticking of the clock. It's almsot laughable to me that my fretting at the moment is in anticipation of what will happen when I "really" get busy.
I have a job. Significant things have changed as a result of my having a job. I'm eligible for food stamps, which may just be the determining factor in whether I graduate college shoulders deep in debt. I get a paycheck, which will eventually allow me to spare cash for frivolous expenses (like Zaxby's!) during the school year once my financial aid kicks in. I have consistently had goals and responsibilities set throughout this summer in addition to the arbitrary ones I set for myself, for which I'm never held accountable. I am blessed enough to have an occupation on campus which I can reach in under ten minutes by bus and which is not only financially sound, but mentally rewarding. These are all good things. These are the reasons I love my job. These are the matters of which I've had to constantly remind myself over the past week as my "break" before classes start has come to be the source of mounting anxiety. It took four separate painstaking attempts to make my work schedule feasible around my class schedule and I'm still waiting with baited breath to find out whether it will be approved. After all of my efforts, the best I could manage was a work week saturated from the morning (as early as 8:30) to the evening (as late as 6:30) with either work or classes.
I was, at least, fortunate enough to have my class schedule finalized before classes actually started, a first in my college career. (It's a testament to my own insanity that I was first dissatisfied when I saw that my schedule would only allow me to take 16 of the maximum 18 credit hours per semester.) As grateful as I am for those classes, I'm well aware of how gruelling they are going to be. I wouldn't mind this rigor (on the contrary, I'd embrace it) if it weren't for the fact that I'm not going to be finished when I finish my work day or my school day. There will still be homework. There will still be rehearsal. There will still be LSATs to practice for and papers to write, trips to plan and applications to fill out. At present, there's not a break in sight. The only break that I'm seriously looking for is between now and Monday. It would eb really great if I had a day with no pressure, no auditions, no appointments, no deadlines. That's not going to happen. Between generals starting up this weekend and the arrival of this new resident, it seems my interim will be break free. Therefore, I am freaking out.
I have a job. Significant things have changed as a result of my having a job. I'm eligible for food stamps, which may just be the determining factor in whether I graduate college shoulders deep in debt. I get a paycheck, which will eventually allow me to spare cash for frivolous expenses (like Zaxby's!) during the school year once my financial aid kicks in. I have consistently had goals and responsibilities set throughout this summer in addition to the arbitrary ones I set for myself, for which I'm never held accountable. I am blessed enough to have an occupation on campus which I can reach in under ten minutes by bus and which is not only financially sound, but mentally rewarding. These are all good things. These are the reasons I love my job. These are the matters of which I've had to constantly remind myself over the past week as my "break" before classes start has come to be the source of mounting anxiety. It took four separate painstaking attempts to make my work schedule feasible around my class schedule and I'm still waiting with baited breath to find out whether it will be approved. After all of my efforts, the best I could manage was a work week saturated from the morning (as early as 8:30) to the evening (as late as 6:30) with either work or classes.
I was, at least, fortunate enough to have my class schedule finalized before classes actually started, a first in my college career. (It's a testament to my own insanity that I was first dissatisfied when I saw that my schedule would only allow me to take 16 of the maximum 18 credit hours per semester.) As grateful as I am for those classes, I'm well aware of how gruelling they are going to be. I wouldn't mind this rigor (on the contrary, I'd embrace it) if it weren't for the fact that I'm not going to be finished when I finish my work day or my school day. There will still be homework. There will still be rehearsal. There will still be LSATs to practice for and papers to write, trips to plan and applications to fill out. At present, there's not a break in sight. The only break that I'm seriously looking for is between now and Monday. It would eb really great if I had a day with no pressure, no auditions, no appointments, no deadlines. That's not going to happen. Between generals starting up this weekend and the arrival of this new resident, it seems my interim will be break free. Therefore, I am freaking out.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Progress Report
It's halfway through the summer of ending status quo and I find I can't hold off any longer on making a status check. Here I am in the second decade of my life, and what have I got to show for it? It's a question I'm always afraid to ask myself, but it comes to a point that it cannot be helped. If ever I'm to reach that moment of self-actualization where I can wake up and say that I'm happy, that I don't want anything more, I must first ask myself what I want and if I have it.
I gave myself a lofty list of things to accomplish this summer at the close of spring semester. Rather than "goals", I called it my "summer agenda" hoping my new diction would turn these items into things I had no choice but to accomplish. Going down the list...my agenda has not even come close to being fulfilled. The things I was determined to do when the summer started, things I felt I had to do when I wrote them down, lest I be an absolute failure, are largely undone and the ticking of the clock is getting more and more audible. I am aware that the summer is winding down and it makes me nervous.
I'm nervous, but I'm not panicking. I have two fantastic things to show for my summer: my job and my show. I started work the same day that we had our first rehearsal for Sweet Charity, so that Monday had a very "first day of the rest of your life" air about it (at least for me). That was weeks ago and while, on one hand, it seems like forever because this routine has grown so familiar to me, it feels on the other hand like I'm just getting started. There's so much more I'll get out of both.
I love my job. I really do. I look forward to going to work every morning, seeing my colleagues and being useful to students. I'm glad when I walk out the door that I got out of bed that day. I feel proud to finally be earning money to help support myself without my means of income being determined by need. What I get at the Writing Center is mine and no one is going to start laying claim to it come 2015. And my having this job, this notch under my belt, means I won't be totally groundless when I ask people to hire me while I try to do my actor kid thing, which I can't neglect no matter what. I'm extremely glad that I took the leap of faith to do Sweet Charity in Quincy. My average is up to two shows a school year, I've branched out into another medium and I've gotten to meet new people, which is never a bad thing. I'm still not a good dancer, but there is enough physical activity in the show (be it dancing or being enthusiastically stoned) that I can call myself "active". Hopefully, I'll develop some endurance by the time the run is over. Between Sweet Charity and the Writing Center, I've come up with a pretty decent summer. Twenty hours at work and eighteen hours at rehearsal isn't a bad way to sum up a week. Still, as happy as I am with those two aspects of my life, I can't deny how much room for improvement there is.
I've sold one set of CUTCO and been to one Vector meeting. I told myself that I wouldn't go to a paycheck meeting until I'd sold something, but even after I did, I had no desire to go there and didn't put much effort into trying to find a ride. I didn't see much point in fighting for it after I got a job that pays regular-like, but the half-hearted attempts at making contacts has lately faded into nothing. I have yet to work through one solo. I might cheat and count all of the songs I've learned for Sweet Charity, but that would hardly improve my repertoire, which was the point. Because I've spent so much time in rehearsal, I haven't made it to dance class much since I got cast. It's not a bad excuse. We do have boot camps and dance rehearsals, but the things I need to work on often get lost in the counts. I have read a few plays, heard some good music, learned a few songs and had a few occasions to find myself outside of my dwelling without any particular purpose. If I were fifteen years old, with all the limitations of my teenaged years, if I were seventeen, with the delicate fence between child and adult to straddle, if I were eighteen, with four years of college to look forward to and a clean slate to work with...I'd be quite satisfied with myself at this point. As it is, I'm twenty. I'm not a kid and I'm not a teenager and I've passed all of those phases already. At this juncture, it isn't quite enough for me. I will justify not learning how to drive with the convenient excuse that I have not had a teacher. If that goal remains unfulfilled when the end of August comes around so be it. But how can I account for my dozen unfinished blog posts or my seeming inability to choose a research topic? Those things, I know, can be remedied in the coming days. And so they will. If someone was to ask me at this point how my summer is going, I could sincerely say, "Not bad." I am enjoying myself for the most part and it is a vast improvement compared to summers of old. As I say when I'm looking over drafts, we're off to a very good start (me myself and I). Now it's time to see what good a little tweaking will do.
I gave myself a lofty list of things to accomplish this summer at the close of spring semester. Rather than "goals", I called it my "summer agenda" hoping my new diction would turn these items into things I had no choice but to accomplish. Going down the list...my agenda has not even come close to being fulfilled. The things I was determined to do when the summer started, things I felt I had to do when I wrote them down, lest I be an absolute failure, are largely undone and the ticking of the clock is getting more and more audible. I am aware that the summer is winding down and it makes me nervous.
I'm nervous, but I'm not panicking. I have two fantastic things to show for my summer: my job and my show. I started work the same day that we had our first rehearsal for Sweet Charity, so that Monday had a very "first day of the rest of your life" air about it (at least for me). That was weeks ago and while, on one hand, it seems like forever because this routine has grown so familiar to me, it feels on the other hand like I'm just getting started. There's so much more I'll get out of both.
I love my job. I really do. I look forward to going to work every morning, seeing my colleagues and being useful to students. I'm glad when I walk out the door that I got out of bed that day. I feel proud to finally be earning money to help support myself without my means of income being determined by need. What I get at the Writing Center is mine and no one is going to start laying claim to it come 2015. And my having this job, this notch under my belt, means I won't be totally groundless when I ask people to hire me while I try to do my actor kid thing, which I can't neglect no matter what. I'm extremely glad that I took the leap of faith to do Sweet Charity in Quincy. My average is up to two shows a school year, I've branched out into another medium and I've gotten to meet new people, which is never a bad thing. I'm still not a good dancer, but there is enough physical activity in the show (be it dancing or being enthusiastically stoned) that I can call myself "active". Hopefully, I'll develop some endurance by the time the run is over. Between Sweet Charity and the Writing Center, I've come up with a pretty decent summer. Twenty hours at work and eighteen hours at rehearsal isn't a bad way to sum up a week. Still, as happy as I am with those two aspects of my life, I can't deny how much room for improvement there is.
I've sold one set of CUTCO and been to one Vector meeting. I told myself that I wouldn't go to a paycheck meeting until I'd sold something, but even after I did, I had no desire to go there and didn't put much effort into trying to find a ride. I didn't see much point in fighting for it after I got a job that pays regular-like, but the half-hearted attempts at making contacts has lately faded into nothing. I have yet to work through one solo. I might cheat and count all of the songs I've learned for Sweet Charity, but that would hardly improve my repertoire, which was the point. Because I've spent so much time in rehearsal, I haven't made it to dance class much since I got cast. It's not a bad excuse. We do have boot camps and dance rehearsals, but the things I need to work on often get lost in the counts. I have read a few plays, heard some good music, learned a few songs and had a few occasions to find myself outside of my dwelling without any particular purpose. If I were fifteen years old, with all the limitations of my teenaged years, if I were seventeen, with the delicate fence between child and adult to straddle, if I were eighteen, with four years of college to look forward to and a clean slate to work with...I'd be quite satisfied with myself at this point. As it is, I'm twenty. I'm not a kid and I'm not a teenager and I've passed all of those phases already. At this juncture, it isn't quite enough for me. I will justify not learning how to drive with the convenient excuse that I have not had a teacher. If that goal remains unfulfilled when the end of August comes around so be it. But how can I account for my dozen unfinished blog posts or my seeming inability to choose a research topic? Those things, I know, can be remedied in the coming days. And so they will. If someone was to ask me at this point how my summer is going, I could sincerely say, "Not bad." I am enjoying myself for the most part and it is a vast improvement compared to summers of old. As I say when I'm looking over drafts, we're off to a very good start (me myself and I). Now it's time to see what good a little tweaking will do.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Poor Judd
There is a huge difference of opinion in the realm of American musical theatre scholars which was the beginning of the contemporary musical theatre form. we know and love today. In one corner, you will find the statement with absolute conviction that there are two kinds of musicals: the ones before Showboat and the ones after Showboat. In the other corner, the more modern lovers of classic musical theatre will turn to the much-lauded "Rogers and Hammerstein miracle" which was inaugurated with the opening of Oklahoma! a musical of such proportion that it's title is not complete without an exclamation mark. Both were huge landmarks in the evolution of the genre that serves as a medium for my life and both will always be favorites of mine, but, upon serious reflection, I have to concede victory to Oklahoma! for its sophistication and truth. The veritas of Oklahoma! is unique, not because of its care to paint a realistic picture of life on the territory at the beginning of the twentieth century (though I enjoy it all the same), but because of its consideration to give the villain some dimension beyond that of "the bad guy".
I remember being asked in my high school literature class when we were reading The Merchant of Venice if I held any sympathy for Shylock, the antagonist who ended up losing everything. My initial answer was a decided "no". What good is a villain if you have to feel sorry for him? Furthermore, how can you cheer for the protagonist if you know that said protagonist's victory will be at the expense of someone with whom you sympathize? Those questions were my answer, and it made sense at the time, but Shuler Hensley's (freaking brilliant!) portrayal of Judd Fry made it all too clear to me that it's not so simple.
As actors, we have to remember that every character is his own protagonist and no realistic portrayal will be completely self-deprecating. To the popular gang lead by Antonio and Bassanio, Shylock is the greedy Jew (Jews are bad) who deserves no more consideration than a dog, but to himself, he's just a man; a man whose malice has been nurtured by cruelty at the hands of his neighbors and whose capacity for affection has been stunted by his rejection at the hands of his offspring. Should we, the audience, forget all that he's been through just because he threatens our heroes? Should we ignore his entreaties to see him as a human being because he's spoken of badly by the others? Should we be happy that he falls because it makes the other characters happy? Or should we remember the misery that garnering a happy ending entailed? Amongst all the catchy tunes and cheerful dancing, Oklahoma! reminds us that every comedy is at least one person's tragedy.
In some ways, Judd Fry's situation in the opening is more pitiable than Shylock's because he didn't even have the comfort of indulging in material things. Where Shylock put what was left of himself into prosperity, the only investment Judd could make is with his heart. Lonely man though he is, he reconizes that his ill treatment and poverty would be remedied if he could just acquire that one companion. It's just his dumb luck that the girl he sets his eyes on to be that companion is afraid of him. Laurie doesn't understand that the pictures he buys and his aggression are his only means of defense against the complete dispair that isolation can bring. He discards the hopes of finding joy in trinkets when he shouts at the peddlar man "I want real things!" but he can't let go of the anger that comes when he doesn't get what he wants any more than he can let go of her. He makes threats about if Laurie changes her mind about going to the box social with him, but it's in retaliation to the threat that he feels when Curly says that he'll take her. Curly himself is handsome and charming and has no inhibitions in his life. He has everything that Judd wants and still insists on taking this one last thing. Is it any surprise that the poor man snaps? Is it any wonder that a man, ridiculed and ostracized by every society he's encountered hits a point where he decides that enough is enough and he'll take what the world has refused to give? All I heard about Judd when I watched Okalahoma! was his growly disposition. All I saw was his pain.
I don't know what Oscar Hammerstein was thinking when he came up with Poor Judd Is Daid, but I can't imagine a better way to show the audience the tragic nature of Judd's situation. There is nothing more pathetic than looking forward to your own funeral in hopes that people will appreciate you more in death than they did in life (perhaps these high profile suicides make more sense after all...). There is nothing more unfortunate that a loveable character letting his darkest colors seep through as he mocks a man consumed enough by his loneliness to listen to the funeral's description with pleasure. In the end, when poor Judd actually does die, there is no lamenting the way they treated him in his life. The tears shed are only for the inconvenience of having to deal with his death and any recognition of his humanity is put off in order to celebrate the happiness of the people who shunned him. Our hero kills a man with no remorse and the world doesn't even bother to make him go through the justice system. The happy ending had the stench of a rotting corpse over it and no one noticed. They celebrated for Curly and Laurie. I weep for Judd.
I remember being asked in my high school literature class when we were reading The Merchant of Venice if I held any sympathy for Shylock, the antagonist who ended up losing everything. My initial answer was a decided "no". What good is a villain if you have to feel sorry for him? Furthermore, how can you cheer for the protagonist if you know that said protagonist's victory will be at the expense of someone with whom you sympathize? Those questions were my answer, and it made sense at the time, but Shuler Hensley's (freaking brilliant!) portrayal of Judd Fry made it all too clear to me that it's not so simple.
As actors, we have to remember that every character is his own protagonist and no realistic portrayal will be completely self-deprecating. To the popular gang lead by Antonio and Bassanio, Shylock is the greedy Jew (Jews are bad) who deserves no more consideration than a dog, but to himself, he's just a man; a man whose malice has been nurtured by cruelty at the hands of his neighbors and whose capacity for affection has been stunted by his rejection at the hands of his offspring. Should we, the audience, forget all that he's been through just because he threatens our heroes? Should we ignore his entreaties to see him as a human being because he's spoken of badly by the others? Should we be happy that he falls because it makes the other characters happy? Or should we remember the misery that garnering a happy ending entailed? Amongst all the catchy tunes and cheerful dancing, Oklahoma! reminds us that every comedy is at least one person's tragedy.
In some ways, Judd Fry's situation in the opening is more pitiable than Shylock's because he didn't even have the comfort of indulging in material things. Where Shylock put what was left of himself into prosperity, the only investment Judd could make is with his heart. Lonely man though he is, he reconizes that his ill treatment and poverty would be remedied if he could just acquire that one companion. It's just his dumb luck that the girl he sets his eyes on to be that companion is afraid of him. Laurie doesn't understand that the pictures he buys and his aggression are his only means of defense against the complete dispair that isolation can bring. He discards the hopes of finding joy in trinkets when he shouts at the peddlar man "I want real things!" but he can't let go of the anger that comes when he doesn't get what he wants any more than he can let go of her. He makes threats about if Laurie changes her mind about going to the box social with him, but it's in retaliation to the threat that he feels when Curly says that he'll take her. Curly himself is handsome and charming and has no inhibitions in his life. He has everything that Judd wants and still insists on taking this one last thing. Is it any surprise that the poor man snaps? Is it any wonder that a man, ridiculed and ostracized by every society he's encountered hits a point where he decides that enough is enough and he'll take what the world has refused to give? All I heard about Judd when I watched Okalahoma! was his growly disposition. All I saw was his pain.
I don't know what Oscar Hammerstein was thinking when he came up with Poor Judd Is Daid, but I can't imagine a better way to show the audience the tragic nature of Judd's situation. There is nothing more pathetic than looking forward to your own funeral in hopes that people will appreciate you more in death than they did in life (perhaps these high profile suicides make more sense after all...). There is nothing more unfortunate that a loveable character letting his darkest colors seep through as he mocks a man consumed enough by his loneliness to listen to the funeral's description with pleasure. In the end, when poor Judd actually does die, there is no lamenting the way they treated him in his life. The tears shed are only for the inconvenience of having to deal with his death and any recognition of his humanity is put off in order to celebrate the happiness of the people who shunned him. Our hero kills a man with no remorse and the world doesn't even bother to make him go through the justice system. The happy ending had the stench of a rotting corpse over it and no one noticed. They celebrated for Curly and Laurie. I weep for Judd.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The leap of faith thing...I'm still doin it.
I'm thinking about starting a blog that's just about Make It or Break It so that I can resolve my conflicting feelings about that show while it's in limbo without mixing it in with anecdotes about CUTCO and complaining about my life. That is not what this post is about, but I thought of a great example for the decision to do things that may have negative consequences from that show. Payson's parents don't want her to take endorsement money for fear of her not being able to pay for college and when they bring up their hesitation to gamble with their daughter's future, Alex points out that they are gambling with her life every time they let her do a trick or enter a competition. When your life is a big gamble, you shouldn't feel squeamish about making one wager.
I am a thespian. I decided to be an actor knowing how uncertain such an industry is. I decided to major in theatre with the full knowledge that there's nothing else you can do with a theatre degree and I decided to go to a school with a so-so program that doesn't have a reputation for turning out big names rather than stay close to home with a strong liberal arts house. I've pretty much guaranteed that my life will always be topsy turvy unless I switch to philosophy, go to law school and spend the rest of my life getting degrees that qualify me to talk down to people. I could make this a lot easier on myself but I haven't and I won't in those capacities, so what's keeping me from taking more minor leaps? By this point in my life, I shouldn't be held back for fear of falling; not when the life I've chosen requires me to fly.
And so here goes my time to jump in. Here I am in Tallahassee, hardly a booming metropolis, but a place with opportunities enough that those who seek them will find them. Yes, I paid for dance classes at two different facilities weeks before I will have an income and I currently can't afford to buy groceries but I had nice lines and I'm growing as an artist...and I could afford to cut back on my eats. No, I don't have another ride lined up for Quincy, but I had a great time at auditions and I anticipate lots of awesome people with cars being in the show and the majority of rehearsals are going to be in Tallahassee anyway. Admittedly, CUTCO is not the ideal job for an immobile youth with few connections, but I got through my first appointment and a decent set of recommendations and I have all summer to test out whatb they promise we'll all get if we just work at it. I'm...climbing. I'm not flying yet but I'm getting closer and getting stronger and every day that I remember what is not promised but can be, I have the opportunity to soar a little higher.
Getting out of bed is a gamble. Who's to say that this day will be as good as yesterday or not as bad? Every obstacle that existed yesterday is still there, sometimes higher and firmer. That's probably my biggest reason for sleeping in so often. It's a big scary world out there and my bed may not be the comfiest, but at least it's safe. Safe is alright. But life could be better. Life could be incredible. Life could be...good.
I am a thespian. I decided to be an actor knowing how uncertain such an industry is. I decided to major in theatre with the full knowledge that there's nothing else you can do with a theatre degree and I decided to go to a school with a so-so program that doesn't have a reputation for turning out big names rather than stay close to home with a strong liberal arts house. I've pretty much guaranteed that my life will always be topsy turvy unless I switch to philosophy, go to law school and spend the rest of my life getting degrees that qualify me to talk down to people. I could make this a lot easier on myself but I haven't and I won't in those capacities, so what's keeping me from taking more minor leaps? By this point in my life, I shouldn't be held back for fear of falling; not when the life I've chosen requires me to fly.
And so here goes my time to jump in. Here I am in Tallahassee, hardly a booming metropolis, but a place with opportunities enough that those who seek them will find them. Yes, I paid for dance classes at two different facilities weeks before I will have an income and I currently can't afford to buy groceries but I had nice lines and I'm growing as an artist...and I could afford to cut back on my eats. No, I don't have another ride lined up for Quincy, but I had a great time at auditions and I anticipate lots of awesome people with cars being in the show and the majority of rehearsals are going to be in Tallahassee anyway. Admittedly, CUTCO is not the ideal job for an immobile youth with few connections, but I got through my first appointment and a decent set of recommendations and I have all summer to test out whatb they promise we'll all get if we just work at it. I'm...climbing. I'm not flying yet but I'm getting closer and getting stronger and every day that I remember what is not promised but can be, I have the opportunity to soar a little higher.
Getting out of bed is a gamble. Who's to say that this day will be as good as yesterday or not as bad? Every obstacle that existed yesterday is still there, sometimes higher and firmer. That's probably my biggest reason for sleeping in so often. It's a big scary world out there and my bed may not be the comfiest, but at least it's safe. Safe is alright. But life could be better. Life could be incredible. Life could be...good.
Jump!...or not
I really wanted to write an inspirational post about how taking a leap of faith is a good thing and it's all you have to do sometimes in order for things to work in your favor. I was going to have the perfect example. My handicapped stall, who said she'd call me back an never did is presumably not busy...either that or she's on facebook at work. I know this, because I am staring at the little green circle on her profile. I decided, against the rumbly in my tumbly, that it wouldn't hurt to give her a follow-up call. She probably forgot. She probably got caught up in something and doesn't know her schedule. She probably will be properly contrite at not calling me back like she said she would and then agree to make an appointment for 11:30 tomorrow morning. Okay, I thought, I'll do it.
There is typically more time than necessary between me deciding to do something I don't want to do and the action itself. In this case, I was strong enough to pick up the phone after only a few minutes with the help of The Book of Mormon playing in my head and an image of her daughter swimming. Between those two, I was only mildly nauseous as I punched her name in my phone. I braced myself for the bemused "Hello?" and...nothing. She didn't answer. She's closer to a computer than she is to her phone apparently, because it rang several times before going to voicemail. I hung up. I did not leave a message. I accomplished...nothing.
Well kids, what have we learned? Sometimes you jump and you just don't have the momentum to get over the cliff. Either because you're not ready or because the terrain isn't what you expected it to be, sometimes you end up neither falling to your doom nor reaching great heights. And sometimes you end up wondering if the mountains are even real. Sometimes it's right to stay in the same place for awhile. And even if it's not the best things, it isn't necessary to look at things in the worst light. Maybe I should've written about doing risky things before taking this particular risk. I wouldn't have been at a loss for reference points. Then again, maybe excluding a minor yet significant risk on my part would have been an act of cowardice sufficient to deem the whole post pointless. The phone call seems pointless. No one answered and no one knows why I called. Maybe she'll see the missed call in her log and remember that she was supposed to call me. Or maybe she'll be like me and only think the call mattered if there was a message. Maybe this trend of uncertainty is the problem I have with such situations...nah, that's a definite. Finally, a definite. I feel like I'm at the top of a very steep hill and I don't know where to go from here. On one hand, it's a beautiful place to be. On the other hand, I can't very well stay up here forever. Where do I go from here?
There is typically more time than necessary between me deciding to do something I don't want to do and the action itself. In this case, I was strong enough to pick up the phone after only a few minutes with the help of The Book of Mormon playing in my head and an image of her daughter swimming. Between those two, I was only mildly nauseous as I punched her name in my phone. I braced myself for the bemused "Hello?" and...nothing. She didn't answer. She's closer to a computer than she is to her phone apparently, because it rang several times before going to voicemail. I hung up. I did not leave a message. I accomplished...nothing.
Well kids, what have we learned? Sometimes you jump and you just don't have the momentum to get over the cliff. Either because you're not ready or because the terrain isn't what you expected it to be, sometimes you end up neither falling to your doom nor reaching great heights. And sometimes you end up wondering if the mountains are even real. Sometimes it's right to stay in the same place for awhile. And even if it's not the best things, it isn't necessary to look at things in the worst light. Maybe I should've written about doing risky things before taking this particular risk. I wouldn't have been at a loss for reference points. Then again, maybe excluding a minor yet significant risk on my part would have been an act of cowardice sufficient to deem the whole post pointless. The phone call seems pointless. No one answered and no one knows why I called. Maybe she'll see the missed call in her log and remember that she was supposed to call me. Or maybe she'll be like me and only think the call mattered if there was a message. Maybe this trend of uncertainty is the problem I have with such situations...nah, that's a definite. Finally, a definite. I feel like I'm at the top of a very steep hill and I don't know where to go from here. On one hand, it's a beautiful place to be. On the other hand, I can't very well stay up here forever. Where do I go from here?
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
It sounds like you just want to be an actor.
I am a very ambitious person. I want to do many things with my life. I want to be rich enough to be considered a philanthropist. I want to perform in ridiculously expensive musicals in huge union houses that require true triple threat clout and star power. I want to snatch a seat in Congress and sponsor legislation that helps people who don't know what they can do to make their lives better. I want to travel. I want to write great books. I want to do great things. I want to be great things. I want I want I want. I want to be more than I am. My goals are lofty and childish and largely incompatible. Presumably, I would find more success if I focused on one thing, but it's hard to say if sticking to that one thing would leave me most fulfilled.
As the ticking on my biological clock becomes more and more ominous, the prospect of what I'll be when I grow up becomes more a fear than a hope. I knew I wanted to be an actress when I was six and I've more rejections than marks on my resume. I decided I would be a writer when I was seven and it's all I can do to beat out a coherent blog post. I haven't given up yet, but who's to say that, ten or twelve years from now, that decision will still be up to me? It's a staggering foretaste that my wanting too much will be the principle means of my acquiring so little. Because fear is so often my primary motivator, it's no surprise that my thoughts have steered toward what my principle occupation would be if it came to that.
There were times when, while I was working with one of my tutoring charges or trying to calm a large group of kids, I would think, "I can do this. I could spend the majority of my time doing this if I had to." I've found that I would be "okay" with being a teacher; sharing what I know with eager young whippersnappers on a daily basis and gaining insight into the progress of human nature. I've always been able to see myself in a courtroom. I love the theatrics of the court and relish the opportunity to make a case; to make a difference. I could be a lawyer and make barrels of money fighting or a go into politics and do pretty much the same thing, with a little pandering every four to six years. I could be...could I be a writer? When I was in single digits there was not question, but ever since my junior year in high school I've found myself doubting every time I put pen to paper. Maybe writing will only ever be something I like to do on the side. (But what good is writing if no one reads what you put out? This will require further reflection on another day.) Between my passion for the performing arts and my left-brained disposition, I could totally do theatre. Sure, performing depends on making directors and producers like you, but there's always stage managing and teching and administrative work. I could probably see to it that whatever I do serves theatre in some way. If I look at the things I would like to do, I would like to do them regardless of whether I can do something else. But if I look at the things I have to do...it gets tricky.
For the whole of my theatre education, it's been stressed to me how important it is to be able to do something besides act. Actors get famous, but techies get paid. Actors might not get a part for superficial reasons, but a stage manager's not going to be rejected for having the wrong look or age. It isn't sensible for an actor to be just one thing. Now all of a sudden, it seems it would serve me better to choose. I spoke about how musical theatre is my favorite in a talk with our guest director and, following my explanation, he responded that, "it sounds like you just want to be an actor." He ignored my earlier protestation that I love all aspects of theatre and continued to assure us as he went around the room that the other stuff would come. It was in our best interest, according to him, to find that one thing we wanted to do and do it. This was the thing I took from that workshop. Our teacher charged us before we began to find what came to us in this time that we could use immediately. His revelation came at my like a freight train, but it's been months and I still don't know what to do with it.
"I want to be an actor" makes so much more sense to me than "I just want to be an actor". I don't want to be "just" anything. Bill Gates isn't "just" the founder of Microsoft. Donald Trump isn't "just" a douchebag. People don't find success by deciding that they can only do one thing by not doing anything else. What would happen if I just majored in philosophy and just went to law school and just occasionally did theatre stuff when I found the time? What would happen if I just did my shows and sang my songs and auditioned all the time and just got a day job? What would happen if I just went to work for my mother and just moved up the ranks through leasing and just let my aspirations stop at Candler Road?
I would probably survive. I would probably be just fine. But it would definitely not be enough. I would not be enough. I really don't know how to live without somehow pursuing everything of significance to me. I don't want to survive. I want to live!
As the ticking on my biological clock becomes more and more ominous, the prospect of what I'll be when I grow up becomes more a fear than a hope. I knew I wanted to be an actress when I was six and I've more rejections than marks on my resume. I decided I would be a writer when I was seven and it's all I can do to beat out a coherent blog post. I haven't given up yet, but who's to say that, ten or twelve years from now, that decision will still be up to me? It's a staggering foretaste that my wanting too much will be the principle means of my acquiring so little. Because fear is so often my primary motivator, it's no surprise that my thoughts have steered toward what my principle occupation would be if it came to that.
There were times when, while I was working with one of my tutoring charges or trying to calm a large group of kids, I would think, "I can do this. I could spend the majority of my time doing this if I had to." I've found that I would be "okay" with being a teacher; sharing what I know with eager young whippersnappers on a daily basis and gaining insight into the progress of human nature. I've always been able to see myself in a courtroom. I love the theatrics of the court and relish the opportunity to make a case; to make a difference. I could be a lawyer and make barrels of money fighting or a go into politics and do pretty much the same thing, with a little pandering every four to six years. I could be...could I be a writer? When I was in single digits there was not question, but ever since my junior year in high school I've found myself doubting every time I put pen to paper. Maybe writing will only ever be something I like to do on the side. (But what good is writing if no one reads what you put out? This will require further reflection on another day.) Between my passion for the performing arts and my left-brained disposition, I could totally do theatre. Sure, performing depends on making directors and producers like you, but there's always stage managing and teching and administrative work. I could probably see to it that whatever I do serves theatre in some way. If I look at the things I would like to do, I would like to do them regardless of whether I can do something else. But if I look at the things I have to do...it gets tricky.
For the whole of my theatre education, it's been stressed to me how important it is to be able to do something besides act. Actors get famous, but techies get paid. Actors might not get a part for superficial reasons, but a stage manager's not going to be rejected for having the wrong look or age. It isn't sensible for an actor to be just one thing. Now all of a sudden, it seems it would serve me better to choose. I spoke about how musical theatre is my favorite in a talk with our guest director and, following my explanation, he responded that, "it sounds like you just want to be an actor." He ignored my earlier protestation that I love all aspects of theatre and continued to assure us as he went around the room that the other stuff would come. It was in our best interest, according to him, to find that one thing we wanted to do and do it. This was the thing I took from that workshop. Our teacher charged us before we began to find what came to us in this time that we could use immediately. His revelation came at my like a freight train, but it's been months and I still don't know what to do with it.
"I want to be an actor" makes so much more sense to me than "I just want to be an actor". I don't want to be "just" anything. Bill Gates isn't "just" the founder of Microsoft. Donald Trump isn't "just" a douchebag. People don't find success by deciding that they can only do one thing by not doing anything else. What would happen if I just majored in philosophy and just went to law school and just occasionally did theatre stuff when I found the time? What would happen if I just did my shows and sang my songs and auditioned all the time and just got a day job? What would happen if I just went to work for my mother and just moved up the ranks through leasing and just let my aspirations stop at Candler Road?
I would probably survive. I would probably be just fine. But it would definitely not be enough. I would not be enough. I really don't know how to live without somehow pursuing everything of significance to me. I don't want to survive. I want to live!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Why Did I Get Up?
This morning was my first official day as a CUTCO sales rep once more. I went to bed last night determined to be up and ready at seven this morning with my phone in hand and my "friend approach" ready, even though the people on my list had probably heard this approach about a zillion times. In anticipation of having to get up, my body actually chose to end my circadian cycle shortly after six and I found myself staring at my phone several times between then and seven waiting for phone time to come up. In the time that it took for my alarm to catch up with my biological clock, I had a chance to worry about things that had been hitherto pushed aside: namely, would anyone want to answer their phone at this hour? We were told to make call between seven fifteen and eight thirty to maximize chances of getting in tough with the average customer, but these weren't "average" people I was calling. These were theatre people who lived on nights and weekends and whose days varied one from another as much as the colors in a bag of skittles. My fear of bothering anyone led me to delay making any calls and, instead of killing time by reviewing numbers or going over my approach...I just stared at the phone some more. Probably not a good idea since, by the time I mustered the courage to call my first customer, I realized that I didn't actually have her phone number. I scanned my list over and over looking for her name and it was nowhere to be found. I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it. I was so deep in denial that, rather than try to get in touch with her online, I trashed my room, sure that somehow ten numerals with her name beside them would magically appear if I only made a big enough mess...it didn't and I finally had the sense to email her asking for her number...then I waited. Despite my having wasted a good deal of time already, it was still within the recommended call time. I could've just gotten on the phone to see if I could make some other appointments in the meantime. Accept...you know how you get used to always going for the handicapped stall in the public restroom because it just feels right, and even though another stall is shown to be more sanitary, you really don't feel right not using the handicapped stall? Abby was my handicapped stall. So, rather than salvage the time I had with the few contacts I had, I went back and forth between facebook and my emails in hopes that she's one of those people who gets emails on her phone and replies right away. She didn't. I did eventually break down and try to call other people. None of them answered. It was after eight at this point and I had to wonder if these people hadn't answered because I'd called too early or called too late. In any case, by the time I went through my short list, I was out of time and had not even a complete call to show for my troubles.
This is what I got up for this morning. I got up to make phone calls and get in a couple of appointments to make my start. I got up so that I would be farther along this afternoon that I was this morning. I got up because I thought when I began my day that I would be able to make it a good day. My getting up was for naught, it seemed. I sat in my room with my phone in hand, my blue notebook ready, and wondered what I was supposed to do with myself now. I still had an entire day ahead of me and all I wanted to do was go to bed.
This morning was the earliest I've gotten up all summer. I sometimes wake up at odd hours, but this morning I woke up conscious of the time and place and chose to start my day before seven a.m. Granted, "start my day" ended up translating to "brushing my teeth and staring at the phone for a couple of hours", but I got out of bed with the expectation that I was doing so for a reason; the notion that getting up and doing something would work out better for me than rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. I thought wrong. I finally overcome my tendency to be lax and I end up holding a phone to my ear listening to another outgoing message, that CUTCO smile still frozen on my face in hopes that this positoovity kool aid they're selling will actually do me some good. Only a couple of hours into the day, I find myself questioning if getting to this place was really worth getting out of bed for and preferring a nap to the answer. Resigned, I set my alarm for 9:30, crawled back into bed and tried to disregard my disappointment for awhile. When I got up again, rather than hopeful prospects to check, I had my trashy room to deal with and my growling tummy to satisfy. Of course I had other things to do. There are always other things to do. But my day was no longer made of what I would make out of it. It was reduced to a series of obligations and a countdown until I could go back to bed with the hopes that tomorrow would be better.
It's days like this that make it so hard for me not to want that extra fifteen minutes after my alarm goes off. With all the drudgery and disappointment that today tends to bring, I'd much prefer to hide out until tomorrow. What is it that makes most of us get up every morning? Is it anticipation of a particular event, like a dance class, or a necessity to accomplish a task, like making a series of phone calls? Or is it like mine was today: a grudging acceptance that leaving the bed is necessary to survival? I wish it were more. I hope for a time that what I look forward to is today.
This is what I got up for this morning. I got up to make phone calls and get in a couple of appointments to make my start. I got up so that I would be farther along this afternoon that I was this morning. I got up because I thought when I began my day that I would be able to make it a good day. My getting up was for naught, it seemed. I sat in my room with my phone in hand, my blue notebook ready, and wondered what I was supposed to do with myself now. I still had an entire day ahead of me and all I wanted to do was go to bed.
This morning was the earliest I've gotten up all summer. I sometimes wake up at odd hours, but this morning I woke up conscious of the time and place and chose to start my day before seven a.m. Granted, "start my day" ended up translating to "brushing my teeth and staring at the phone for a couple of hours", but I got out of bed with the expectation that I was doing so for a reason; the notion that getting up and doing something would work out better for me than rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. I thought wrong. I finally overcome my tendency to be lax and I end up holding a phone to my ear listening to another outgoing message, that CUTCO smile still frozen on my face in hopes that this positoovity kool aid they're selling will actually do me some good. Only a couple of hours into the day, I find myself questioning if getting to this place was really worth getting out of bed for and preferring a nap to the answer. Resigned, I set my alarm for 9:30, crawled back into bed and tried to disregard my disappointment for awhile. When I got up again, rather than hopeful prospects to check, I had my trashy room to deal with and my growling tummy to satisfy. Of course I had other things to do. There are always other things to do. But my day was no longer made of what I would make out of it. It was reduced to a series of obligations and a countdown until I could go back to bed with the hopes that tomorrow would be better.
It's days like this that make it so hard for me not to want that extra fifteen minutes after my alarm goes off. With all the drudgery and disappointment that today tends to bring, I'd much prefer to hide out until tomorrow. What is it that makes most of us get up every morning? Is it anticipation of a particular event, like a dance class, or a necessity to accomplish a task, like making a series of phone calls? Or is it like mine was today: a grudging acceptance that leaving the bed is necessary to survival? I wish it were more. I hope for a time that what I look forward to is today.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Womb of Success
After much hesitating and agonizing, I've decided to try my knives at CUTCO once again. I knew there was a Vector office in Tallahassee long before I got hired and it's always been my assumption that, with the general close proximity of places in Tallahassee and the advantage of public transportation, I have to have better luck here than I did when I was stranded on Long Drive. I have a couple weeks before my jobs starts and even after it does, I won't be working more than twenty hours a week. I got to meet some grown people through Cabaret, so I won't have to depend on one lone associate to get my start. By all accounts, it seemed an easy prospect. For some reason though, I couldn't help hesitating when the time came to actually do something. First, I reasoned, I had to know when I would be back in Tallahassee. That being over with, I had the time commitment to consider. That's not really a consideration since hours are flexible. Then of course there was the matter of getting to and from meetings, but it's two days a week and I'm not quite so friendless that I can't find anyone to get me once or twice. Finally, I sat down to figure out how many people I would actually be able to call the first day I came to a CUTCO phone jam and mustered up a good dozen names, give or take an old phone number and a lack of availability. Okay. I had exhausted all excuses to stall. Now all that was left was to make the call to the office.
...I haven't actually gotten around to that yet. Despite my having answered every logical objection, I couldn't get past the one objection that I couldn't reasonably answer: I'm scared. Only making an average of five appointments a week, nearly never selling ANYTHING, and often losing out on money because of cancellations was somewhat understandable when I had to walk to all of my appointments, lived in an area where I knew practically no one, and I didn't have access to the product's target demographic. Now, I can't speak to how successful I should be, but considering that factors have changed, I should probably do better...but what if I don't? What if I end up, after a couple of months of traipsing around Tallahassee with my trustee bag of knives, and spending a couple hours a night on my phone, not even having a base that I can return to if I take a break from selling for awhile? What if I come out of this summer, or however long I end up selling for, at the same promotion that I am now (which is rather dismal, considering I'm only about a studio set aways from my next promotion)? What if I look at my finances in August and find myself praying that my net check drops early so that I'll survive the first few weeks of school? What will I tell myself? What excuse will I have?
This is, if not the summer of no excuses, the summer of considerably less excuses. I feel in every morning that I get up later than my alarm and every prospect that I approach that I should be better by now. I have a job; I shouldn't be unemployable. I have enough pennies tucked away to take class; I shouldn't be a terrible dancer. I have access to scripts and music and practice materials; I shouldn't be a mediocre student of the arts. From the earliest days up to my teens I had factors to share in my failure: money, my parents, my environment. I resented them, but they lightened the load at the end of an interim and I had to figure out what went wrong. This time, the failure will be all mine. I don't know if I'm prepared for that. In absentia of the resume listing accolades from authorities and accomplishments in areas that interest me, I depend on my unfortunate circumstances to assert that I have talent and intelligence and potential. Potential is one of my favorite words. It's that old faithful crutch that failures favor when we haven't a leg to stand on in justifying our dismal lives. I could be president of the United States so long as I'm underage. I could've been president of Sudan if only I were a citizen. I can play Elle Woods on Broadway if the producers, writers, and audiences will just suspend their disbelief. At the end of the day, when I go to sleep not having earned my fatigue, I have a growing pile of rejection letters and not one piece of correspondence saying "I want you", and my checking account can barely withstand the service charge for making a withdrawal at an ATM, potential comforts me. Potential is the blanket I wrap around myself when I curl up on the floor and use my hair as a pillow. I can just feel my comfy little blanket being torn away by my one-of-a-kind luxury knives if I go through with this Vector thing. I stand in constant terror that some straw will break me and I'll find myself working at Captain D's to pay my rent while I chase move-in specials on Candler Road. I worry about staring at the mighty monster under the bed and discovering it was just a pile of empty dreams. I pray that, when I lose my potential blanket, I have something else to protect me in the cold light of day. I can't saw whether I want night to last forever.
...I haven't actually gotten around to that yet. Despite my having answered every logical objection, I couldn't get past the one objection that I couldn't reasonably answer: I'm scared. Only making an average of five appointments a week, nearly never selling ANYTHING, and often losing out on money because of cancellations was somewhat understandable when I had to walk to all of my appointments, lived in an area where I knew practically no one, and I didn't have access to the product's target demographic. Now, I can't speak to how successful I should be, but considering that factors have changed, I should probably do better...but what if I don't? What if I end up, after a couple of months of traipsing around Tallahassee with my trustee bag of knives, and spending a couple hours a night on my phone, not even having a base that I can return to if I take a break from selling for awhile? What if I come out of this summer, or however long I end up selling for, at the same promotion that I am now (which is rather dismal, considering I'm only about a studio set aways from my next promotion)? What if I look at my finances in August and find myself praying that my net check drops early so that I'll survive the first few weeks of school? What will I tell myself? What excuse will I have?
This is, if not the summer of no excuses, the summer of considerably less excuses. I feel in every morning that I get up later than my alarm and every prospect that I approach that I should be better by now. I have a job; I shouldn't be unemployable. I have enough pennies tucked away to take class; I shouldn't be a terrible dancer. I have access to scripts and music and practice materials; I shouldn't be a mediocre student of the arts. From the earliest days up to my teens I had factors to share in my failure: money, my parents, my environment. I resented them, but they lightened the load at the end of an interim and I had to figure out what went wrong. This time, the failure will be all mine. I don't know if I'm prepared for that. In absentia of the resume listing accolades from authorities and accomplishments in areas that interest me, I depend on my unfortunate circumstances to assert that I have talent and intelligence and potential. Potential is one of my favorite words. It's that old faithful crutch that failures favor when we haven't a leg to stand on in justifying our dismal lives. I could be president of the United States so long as I'm underage. I could've been president of Sudan if only I were a citizen. I can play Elle Woods on Broadway if the producers, writers, and audiences will just suspend their disbelief. At the end of the day, when I go to sleep not having earned my fatigue, I have a growing pile of rejection letters and not one piece of correspondence saying "I want you", and my checking account can barely withstand the service charge for making a withdrawal at an ATM, potential comforts me. Potential is the blanket I wrap around myself when I curl up on the floor and use my hair as a pillow. I can just feel my comfy little blanket being torn away by my one-of-a-kind luxury knives if I go through with this Vector thing. I stand in constant terror that some straw will break me and I'll find myself working at Captain D's to pay my rent while I chase move-in specials on Candler Road. I worry about staring at the mighty monster under the bed and discovering it was just a pile of empty dreams. I pray that, when I lose my potential blanket, I have something else to protect me in the cold light of day. I can't saw whether I want night to last forever.
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