34th Parallel
34th Parallel is a literary magazine that seeks to harness the every day literary artist in every form, including art and images to pair with stories. That is, the people with day jobs, the people with a million things to do but just have to write. The people up at 4 am still working on a story, a poem, or an essay even though they have a meeting first thing in the morning. There mission is quite simply: We want it all.
They actually do. They accept poetry, fiction, non-fiction- essays, reviews, and interviews.
The October Issue (#16)
Since the literary journal can only be purchased online I settled on the latest issue printed. The issues are downloadable and are $3
This issue has mostly creative nonfiction. Most of the stories in this issue seemed centered on the individual human experience. There is a lengthy anecdote about a boy growing up in Nigeria, a woman reminiscent of men in the past, a man’s new found passion for playwright Lee Blessing, etc.
I believe they try to diversify their audience as much as possible by incorporating all different kinds of writers. Each writer comes from a different country.
The poetry is not the best I have ever seen but I believe it’s along the same lines as the criteria they choose the stories. “A Parallel Poem” is once again about human experience in a very personal way as gar as an individuals outlook on life and compromise.
The Boring But Important Stuff
Submissions for Poetry and Stories are required to be between 1500-3500 words.
Art and photography can only be submitted one image at a time.
All Submission are to be sent by email ONLY.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Blog 21 post draft
I'd like to say i grew as a writer. That being said most of my growth has come from realizing that I am not so much for a good writer. i suppose admitting you have a problem is the first step. I think my style of writing has a lot to do with my philosophy of why i write. i believe writing is a journey and readers are hitchhikers. The key i believe is to get them to stick around. existentially thats wat my life is mostly about as well. I used to be very in your face whether you like it or not, all at once balls to the wall right away. And due to my own insecurity in writing I have definitely drawn back. at first it seemed sort of smug giving people just a little bit because they can't handle the whole thing but the more I read and the more I write, I realize that i keep most of myself rationed based on the idea that most people don't care enough. why waste the finger work of typing an essay no one cares about. more and more of me is desperate for someone to be interested in the way I write so that what i write can be read in its entirety because people want to stay on the journey with me.
My target audience seems to be mostly women but I believe my writing is very minority oriented. I don't think I exclude white audiences but rather open up a tiny window for people to see what the world is like in a practical sense. without throwing numbers statistics, cries for sympathy, or resentment. I believe I am writing to American readers. Most of my journey and the basis of my worth is determined by a set of standards in this country. The entitelment i have is based on the basic rights and way of living that I believe all people should have in this country. I realized that based on my class, education and country of origin that many may not understand empathize or sympathize with what my struggles and accomplishments have been.
My target audience seems to be mostly women but I believe my writing is very minority oriented. I don't think I exclude white audiences but rather open up a tiny window for people to see what the world is like in a practical sense. without throwing numbers statistics, cries for sympathy, or resentment. I believe I am writing to American readers. Most of my journey and the basis of my worth is determined by a set of standards in this country. The entitelment i have is based on the basic rights and way of living that I believe all people should have in this country. I realized that based on my class, education and country of origin that many may not understand empathize or sympathize with what my struggles and accomplishments have been.
BLOG 20 Treat it Like A Tragedy
“Do we feel sorry for Othello?” the professor asks. The obvious answer is yes. That’s what makes this a tragedy. And of course, the most prominent characteristic to me that makes it a tragedy is that he fulfills his stereotype. But I won’t say that. I won’t say it because she won’t call on me.
I’d spent the better part of my life being less than popular. These past two years at this university were no different. It doesn’t surprise me. There are bonds formed between people in the same graduating class, a thick membrane around the group that I can try to tear but will never break through. The most fascinating staple of being kept out was that I was instantly labeled a bitch. To this day there is no specific situation to site. At least not a real one.
While working on my first production here, I was sent out of the room, along with another student. She was not happy and proceeded to curse in the hallway and mock everyone who was left in the room we had just been asked to leave. A year later, someone said that they heard every word I said. A perfect beginning.
“What makes you feel sorry for him?” Very predictable answers ensue. Because Iago is screwing him over. Because Iago is pretending to be is friend and turning him mad right under his nose. Because Desdemona is acting so weird what else would he think? Because he knows that people don’t necessarily approve of his marriage. In my head I say: Because he becomes the beast people were suspicious of him being. The manipulation combined with the pressure and pre existing stereotypes set him up to be exactly what they all thought. My hand starts to get cold from losing blood. Oh well.
“There is a clear link to racism and incarceration. We will focus on a smaller scope by studying this state and the west coast.” Professor Hames Garcia dictates to a class 120 people but I heard every word as if we were in the room alone. Nicknamed the Lily White State, Oregon’s miscegenation laws weren’t banned until 1951. Miles Davis was already in his Blue Period and different colors still couldn’t marry. There were exclusion acts for Asians, Hawaiian, and Native Americans in this great state. And today you can still see the ignorant flags of the confederacy on pick up trucks there. I suppose no one has the heart to tell them that they weren’t even a state during the civil war.
“Do we feel sorry for Richard?” She asks. Of course not. “Why?” Obvious. Because he’s getting people killed. Because he’s greedy for the throne. Because he only cares about himself. I read one of soliloquies and he reasons that because he looks like a monster he will play the part of a monster. This acknowledgement to the stereotype is where the sympathy really drops for me. Because now, he is taking advantage of his unfortunate looks in a way that empowers him at the expense of hurting others. Another realization gone unshared. But not for lack of trying.
“Just in case we seem to loosely connect racism with incarceration, we will look at statistics of arrests made in this state and we will follow these arrests all the way to prison or to court.” The amount of Arrests for black people in Oregon is horrific. There’s a huge gap between white and black and what’s more shocking is that black people don’t even make up 20% of the state. However more than 40% of the black population in Oregon is incarcerated. Recalling this information now I feel I am aiming low just so I don’t look like I’m being dramatic.
I sit down in the Dean’s office and I can’t figure out what’s going on. I’m not being cast and I haven’t been able to help on a show. I was the only student in the history of the department to interview and audition for both performance and technical production and got accepted for both. I’m 6 months in and I can’t even get a position to pull a curtain open. I don’t understand. “My understanding of you Amanda as a student is that the faculty views you in a way that you think you know everything. Therefore they perceive you as unteachable.” I didn’t know what to say. I cried. She buffered the situation by claiming that she saw I obviously wanted to be a part of this department and that perhaps I was teachable. I later tried to get into her class. Twice. No dice.
“What makes the Merchant of Venice a comedy?” People get married. The principle characters live happily ever after. I am disgusted. The crux of forming this comedy was based on the placement of a Jewish man in a world full of Christians. Now that’s comedy. That’s all the cliché movie scenes of putting a man in a room full of women or putting a white guy in a black club. Yawn. However, it doesn’t really start offending me until I see the title “The Jew of Venice”. As the class progresses, I find that people are losing sympathy of Shylock when he openly admits, “I hate him for he is Christian.” The slander on Antonio’s behalf is completely overlooked the moment Shylock says this. And people furthermore overlook his forced conversion and the loss f his property, his money, all future profits, and his daughter. What a laugh. What baffles me is that the reason Shylcok is a Merchant in the first place is because Jews were not allowed to legally do certain business. They were restricted to things as such as merchants. And the only way to make a living was to charge interest, which was frowned upon by Christians. But all we can do in this class is hear the greedy Jew scream “My daughter, my ducats!”
The day before opening night, I lost it. I lost it all. I had finally gained my opportunity. After being an assistant for four productions and a few volunteer gigs over the summer, I finally accumulated enough experience to design not only my own show, but a main stage production. A BIG show. But somehow, as always, I sensed some underlying tension. I couldn’t tell why. I had been calm and polite the entire time: When I was given pages upon pages of notes. When I was talked to like a child. When my ideas were shot down without even trying them. When I sensed I was being overshadowed. I kept my cool. In retrospect the word doormat comes to mind. And it wasn’t productive. There was sense of entitlement every time I heard orders barked at me, and it was a given that I would reply calmly. So the games of words and authority began. I was being asked questions and losing ground every time I answered them less than exactly what my superiors were thinking. I was being given requests that turned out to be rhetorical questions. Finally, I spoke up. “ Just tell me what the right answer is.” It wasn’t too dramatic, but it was enough for people to stop talking to me. The award for biggest outburst during tech week went to the choreographer, who slammed her computer on the desk and stormed out after a disagreement based on lighting. I started to get upset because I was proud of my progress that evening. It was also no coincidence that once the “requesting” stopped that more got accomplished. I was also blessed with two last minute helpers to carry out tasks. In that two day period, I feared that people would credit the presence of others and not the silence to the success of the show. One of my helpers was a fellow designer and admittedly, I was afraid that he would get more than his share of credit on the show. The day before opening night, the fear was confirmed when someone asked one of my helpers for permission to make a lighting change. He did the noble thing and pointed to me immediately. “Ask her, she’s the designer.” But I was already crushed. It was clear that I hadn’t gained anything. All the patience and the calm. The silent discouragement. The visits to the Dean, the volunteer work, the experience. Worth nothing. It was clear that these people had set me up to fail. And when I didn’t, someone else was given credit for it. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t yell. Because I would become the monster they all thought I was. I calmly walked away, waited for my helper to see me, handed him my notes and walked off calmly.
“The worst part about the blatant discrimination in California real estate during this time period is that real estate agents were determining successful and failed communities based on who they would sell property to. As a result, banks would relocate if the minority population grew too large.” Colors moved in property value was lost. Value was lost in enough property, banks would move. Banks, would move, economy in the community deteriorated. Poverty moves in, and violence and theft increases. Pretty soon you have a run of the mill ghetto. And if you’re the 94 year old white lady who saw the first black person move in 5 years ago, you feel so powerful in knowing that you called this town going down the drain.
I returned back to the theater shortly after. The Dean/ director was in tears. The choreographer had a sour face but pretended to be sympathetic. “We’re so sorry you don’t feel appreciated. We just don’t know what to do. You are so hard to read. And we feel like we are stepping on eggshells for you. And we don’t want to say the wrong things.” I felt as if everything they said to me was the wrong thing. I felt failed as a student. And it’s hard to tell who is responsible for that. I felt unteachable. Again. How could I have put myself in this position only to learn nothing? I am tormented by the notion that I have struggled only to subconsciously block myself. And to this day, I still don’t know who should take responsibility.
While I was out of the room my helpers reamed the faculty. They explained my hard work and dedication. They put the injustice on the table and held nothing back from the Dean and the former chair of the department. There was a sudden disregard for who they were in the world of academia and were scolded as smaller human beings. As children. I wasn’t given details of what was said, but tears from the Dean couldn’t possibly have meant pleasant words.
After we premiered, a small piece of negativity came up to my helpers after the show and asked who was really responsible for the design. My helper was straightforward and set the record straight. He later told me about the encounter. I’d had enough. I approached her and just as I was about to tell her to mind her business and where she could take her peeving little questions, I stopped. I told her calmly that it was my design and that her negativity was not needed. She would not be my Desdemona. No one was going to feel sorry for her and no one was going to demonize me. I could feel it starting, too. The day before opening night I was ashamed of my part in this production, I was ashamed of all behavior on all parts throughout this experience and I was severely disheartened by what this experience was intended to be. I wanted to walk into the light booth rip the disk with my design on it and burn it in the street. But I remembered this was a tragedy. And cried.
Friday, November 18, 2011
"I was born a poor black boy." A story of Identity.
When I was in 3rd grade, I was bullied by a kid named Jamal Alexander. I told my Nana and asked for advice. She asked me if Jamal was black. I said no. He was dark brown. She told me that next time I saw him and he was picking on me to say these four little words to him: “I am above you.” Needless to say I got into a lot of trouble.
I remember going to school and not seeing anyone else that looked like me. I later attended Wilson Middle School in Albuquerque New Mexico. I was beat up once for claiming that m mother was Mexican because the woman who enrolled me in school (my stepmother) was white. I remember going home and being told by my father that I was mocking an oppressed race by claiming to be a part of that race. YOU ARE HALF MEXICAN Amanda, it’s not the same thing. But I never remembered being around people that look like me on the Air Force Base in New Jersey. Or North Dakota. Or Mississippi.
I moved in with my mother. She lived in Willingboro. When I was 13, I was accused of being a slut because all white girls were deemed sluts. “I’m not white,” I claimed. “You’re not black, you’re white.” I was told.
I was raised by my stepsister and her grandmother who I later claimed as my own. Of course we all got off to a rough start. Grandma’s comments about my light skin and pretty hair didn’t make it easy to get to know me. Of course after having my hair burnt off and a few other comments about my flat ass and skinny frame, we all learned how to love one another. Eventually, it didn’t matter. I was part of the family. And anyone who disagreed could kiss my black ass. We went so far as defining ourselves biological family. People started to "see the resemblance" after enough insisting.
I wound up dating the only "multi racial misunderstood" guy in my high school. His mother was black, white, and Columbian. His father was Cornish. He grew up in Brooklyn and had no animosity of being a minority in our school. We later moved to Crown Heights Brooklyn, a predominantly West Indian neighborhood. We were not exactly welcome by the “banquet hall” below us on the first floor. They used to play music so loud that our dishes would fall off our tables from the vibrating bass through our floor. When telling our landlord, he addressed the problem with the banquet hall owner. “They don’t like us here cuz we’re black my brother. They have a problem with us because we’re black.” We shook our heads as we evesdropped and contemplated inviting both of our black grandmothers to the house.
I had a hard time finding a job in Oregon. I clenched my jaw through jokes about Mexicans, or Latinos or Spanish people. I always thought I would get the job. Until I realized that I kept checking the box next to “Hispanic/ Latino” was a guaranteed way to not get a call back. I eventually did get a job from a jewelry store who thought I was of Middle Eastern descent. People always hushed when they made a joke about a rag head or a terrorist. Eventually I took an ethnic studies class and realized that miscegenation laws were in full swing until 1951 in that state. Moreover, I should have realized the Confederate flags and gotten out of there sooner.
Three summers ago, I had the misfortune of dating a white supremacist and I was his exception. He loved guns and hated anything with a tan besides me. I tried reaching out to him by explaining statistics and economics to him. He wasn’t game to listen. This obviously ended messy. I was later called a kike, a nigger lover and eventually a nigger altogether. I couldn’t understand how I ever thought that I was going to live through that type of hate.
That summer was the same summer my father’s side had a family reunion. We stayed in Seaside Park, just like my Nana, my brother and I used to do. And for the first time in years I would be reunited with my aunts, cousin, my brother, and my father’s new family: Sonja and her two children Courtney and Allison. When I arrived I wasn’t greeted with hugs but rather very professional and distant handshakes. My father reintroduced me as his daughter and I was given a few hugs. My aunt was probably the most petrified. She wouldn’t even touch me until my Nana calmed her. “This is Mandi, my granddaughter.” She replied, “Well why didn’t you say so?” The love was later received but the final line had been drawn to isolate me.
Everyone seems to have something rooted to hold onto. It’s something that defines them. Just in case they lose their way, it is their anchor to bring them back. It reminds them who they are. Like tattoos, these roots are embedded in their skin. Even the ones who just want to shake it, can’t escape it. It’s a luxury most people don’t even know they have. It's also harder to find when the essential part of you is buried in two things. you never really know where most of you even comes from. I always remember my father telling me that I was half the person I could be when I went to Willingboro High School. I also remember my father trying to take credit for me deciding to go to college. To this day I can't really decide whether it was always in my bones to go to college or to strive to be someone better than what my father said I was. These things are usually well defined in homes. People often write about the moment they decided to go to college or at least the pressure to go. I simply remember filling out applications writing essays and paying for most of the fees myself. This can usually be said about most things in my life. I just remember doing them.I had no attachment to a specific identity therefore no attachment to any person conventionally identified. I just remember loving who I loved. I just remember being. Attaching. Existing in my own sort of way. With a black sister and a white father and brown mother an invisible brother and people of all colors who were my family.
“I was born a poor black boy.”
-Steve Martin
I remember going to school and not seeing anyone else that looked like me. I later attended Wilson Middle School in Albuquerque New Mexico. I was beat up once for claiming that m mother was Mexican because the woman who enrolled me in school (my stepmother) was white. I remember going home and being told by my father that I was mocking an oppressed race by claiming to be a part of that race. YOU ARE HALF MEXICAN Amanda, it’s not the same thing. But I never remembered being around people that look like me on the Air Force Base in New Jersey. Or North Dakota. Or Mississippi.
I moved in with my mother. She lived in Willingboro. When I was 13, I was accused of being a slut because all white girls were deemed sluts. “I’m not white,” I claimed. “You’re not black, you’re white.” I was told.
I was raised by my stepsister and her grandmother who I later claimed as my own. Of course we all got off to a rough start. Grandma’s comments about my light skin and pretty hair didn’t make it easy to get to know me. Of course after having my hair burnt off and a few other comments about my flat ass and skinny frame, we all learned how to love one another. Eventually, it didn’t matter. I was part of the family. And anyone who disagreed could kiss my black ass. We went so far as defining ourselves biological family. People started to "see the resemblance" after enough insisting.
I wound up dating the only "multi racial misunderstood" guy in my high school. His mother was black, white, and Columbian. His father was Cornish. He grew up in Brooklyn and had no animosity of being a minority in our school. We later moved to Crown Heights Brooklyn, a predominantly West Indian neighborhood. We were not exactly welcome by the “banquet hall” below us on the first floor. They used to play music so loud that our dishes would fall off our tables from the vibrating bass through our floor. When telling our landlord, he addressed the problem with the banquet hall owner. “They don’t like us here cuz we’re black my brother. They have a problem with us because we’re black.” We shook our heads as we evesdropped and contemplated inviting both of our black grandmothers to the house.
I had a hard time finding a job in Oregon. I clenched my jaw through jokes about Mexicans, or Latinos or Spanish people. I always thought I would get the job. Until I realized that I kept checking the box next to “Hispanic/ Latino” was a guaranteed way to not get a call back. I eventually did get a job from a jewelry store who thought I was of Middle Eastern descent. People always hushed when they made a joke about a rag head or a terrorist. Eventually I took an ethnic studies class and realized that miscegenation laws were in full swing until 1951 in that state. Moreover, I should have realized the Confederate flags and gotten out of there sooner.
Three summers ago, I had the misfortune of dating a white supremacist and I was his exception. He loved guns and hated anything with a tan besides me. I tried reaching out to him by explaining statistics and economics to him. He wasn’t game to listen. This obviously ended messy. I was later called a kike, a nigger lover and eventually a nigger altogether. I couldn’t understand how I ever thought that I was going to live through that type of hate.
That summer was the same summer my father’s side had a family reunion. We stayed in Seaside Park, just like my Nana, my brother and I used to do. And for the first time in years I would be reunited with my aunts, cousin, my brother, and my father’s new family: Sonja and her two children Courtney and Allison. When I arrived I wasn’t greeted with hugs but rather very professional and distant handshakes. My father reintroduced me as his daughter and I was given a few hugs. My aunt was probably the most petrified. She wouldn’t even touch me until my Nana calmed her. “This is Mandi, my granddaughter.” She replied, “Well why didn’t you say so?” The love was later received but the final line had been drawn to isolate me.
Everyone seems to have something rooted to hold onto. It’s something that defines them. Just in case they lose their way, it is their anchor to bring them back. It reminds them who they are. Like tattoos, these roots are embedded in their skin. Even the ones who just want to shake it, can’t escape it. It’s a luxury most people don’t even know they have. It's also harder to find when the essential part of you is buried in two things. you never really know where most of you even comes from. I always remember my father telling me that I was half the person I could be when I went to Willingboro High School. I also remember my father trying to take credit for me deciding to go to college. To this day I can't really decide whether it was always in my bones to go to college or to strive to be someone better than what my father said I was. These things are usually well defined in homes. People often write about the moment they decided to go to college or at least the pressure to go. I simply remember filling out applications writing essays and paying for most of the fees myself. This can usually be said about most things in my life. I just remember doing them.I had no attachment to a specific identity therefore no attachment to any person conventionally identified. I just remember loving who I loved. I just remember being. Attaching. Existing in my own sort of way. With a black sister and a white father and brown mother an invisible brother and people of all colors who were my family.
“I was born a poor black boy.”
-Steve Martin
Monday, November 14, 2011
Treat it like a Tragedy
“Do we feel sorry for Othello?” the professor asks. The obvious answer is yes. That’s what makes this a tragedy. And of course, the most prominent characteristic to me that makes it a tragedy is that he fulfills his stereotype. But I won’t say that. I won’t say it because she won’t call on me.
I find it fascinating that I’d spent the last two and a half years here being less than popular. It doesn’t surprise me. There are bonds formed between people in the same graduating class that. I would never break. There is that thick membrane around the group that I can try to tear but will never break through. The fascinating part thought was that I was instantly labeled a bitch. To this day there is no specific situation to site. Not a real one at least.
One time while working on a production I was sent out of the room, along with another classmate. She was not happy and proceeded to curse in the hallway and mock everyone who was left in the room we had just been asked to leave. A year later, someone said that they heard every word I said. A perfect start to being mistook.
“What makes you feel sorry for him?” Very predictable answers ensue. Because Iago is screwing him over. Because Iago is pretending to be is friend and turning him mad right under his nose. Because Desdemona is acting so weird what else would he think? Because he knows that people don’t necessarily approve of his marriage. In my head I say: Because he becomes the beast people were suspicious of him being. The manipulation combined with the pressure and pre existing stereotypes set him up to be exactly what they all thought. My hand starts to get cold from losing blood. Oh well.
“There is a clear link to racism and incarceration.” Professor Hames Garcia says in a class of over 120 people. Oregon was nicknamed the Lily White State. Misegination laws weren’t banned until 1951. Miles Davis was already in his Blue Period and different colors still couldn’t marry. There were exclusion acts for Asians, Hawaiian, and Native Americans in the state of Oregon. And today you can still see the ignorant flags of the confederacy on pick up trucks there. I suppose no one has the heart to tell them that they weren’t even a state during the civil war.
“Do we feel sorry for Richard?” She asks. Of course not. “Why?” Obvious. Because he’s getting people killed. Because he’s greedy for the throne. Because he only cares about himself. I read one of soliloquies and he reasons that because he looks like a monster he will play the part of a monster. This acknowledgement to the stereotype is where the sympathy really drops for me. Because now, he is taking advantage of his unfortunate looks in a way that empowers him at the expense of hurting others. Another realization gone unshared. But not for lack of trying.
“Just in case we seem to loosely connect racism with incarceration, we will look at statistics of arrests made in this state and we will follow these arrests all the way to prison or to court.” The amount of Arrests for black people in Oregon is horrific. There’s a huge gap between white and black and what’s more shocking is that black people don’t even make up 20% of the state. However more than 40% of the black population in Oregon is incarcerated. Recalling this information now I feel I am aiming low just so I don’t look like I’m being dramatic.
I sit down in the Dean’s office and I can’t figure out whats going on. I’m not being cast and I haven’t even been able to help on a show. I can’t even get a position to pull a curtain open. I don’t understand. “My understanding of you Amanda as a student is that the faculty views you in a way that you think you know everything. Therefore they perceive you as unteachable. “ I cried and she buffered the situation by seeing that I obviously wanted to be a part of this department and that perhaps it wasn’t true that I was unteachable. I later tried to get into her class. Twice. No dice.
“What makes the Merchant of Venice a comedy.” People get married. The principle characters live happily ever after. I am disgusted. The crux of forming this comedy was based on the placement of a jewish man in a world full of Christians. Now that’s comedy. That’s like all the cliché movie scenes of putting a man ina room full of women or putting a white guy in a black club. Yawn. However, it doesn’t really start offending me until I see the title “The Jew of Venice”. As the class progresses, I find that people are losing sympathy of Shylock when he openly admits, “I hate him for he is Christian.” The slander on Antonio’s behalf is completely overlooked the moment Shylock says this. And people furthermore overlook his forced conversion and the losso f his property, his money, all future profits, and his daughter. What a laugh. What even moreso baffles me is that the reason Shylcok is a Merchant in the first place is because Jews were not allowed to legally do certain business. They were restricted to things as such as merchants. And the only way to make a living was to charge interest, which was frowned upon by Christians. But all we can do in this class is see the greedy Jew scream “My daughter, my ducats!”
The day before opening night, I lost it. I lost it all. I had finally gained my opportunity. With all the patience I could muster up I finally got the position. I was lighting designer for a mainstage production. A BIG show. But somehow, as there always was, I sensed some underlying attention. I couldn’t tell why. I had been calm and polite the entire time. Even when I was given pages upon pages of notes. Even when I was talked to like a child. Even when my ideas were shot down without even trying them. Even when I sensed I was being overshadowed. I kept my cool. This resulted in more abuse. There was a comfort in knowing that people could continue to treat me like this and I would stay calm. Finanlly when being asked a question that turned out to be rhetorical, I finally spoke up. “Why are you asking me like it’s a real question when you are going to make me change the answer I give you? Just tell me what the right answer is.” It wasn’t a serious argument or yelling match but it was enough for people to stop talking to me. The biggest outburst during tech week was the choreographer, who slammed her computer on the desk and stormed out. I started to get upset because I had made a lot of progress. So many people had stopped talking to me and a couple people were added to help me stay on task and I got so much accomplished. In that two day period I feared that people would credit the presence of others and not the silence to the success of the show. The day before opening night, the fear was confirmed when someone asked one of my helpers for permission to make a lighting change. It was clear that I hadn’t gained anything. It was clear that these people had set me up to fail. And to top it all off, when I didn’t someone else got credit for it. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t yell. Because I would become the monster they all thought I was. I calmly walked away, waited for my helper to see me, handed him my notes and walked off calmly.
“The worst part about the blatant discrimination in California real estate during this time period is that real estate agents were determining successful and failed communities based on who they would sell property to. As a result, banks would relocate if the minority population grew too large.” Colors moved in property value was lost. Value was lost in enough property, banks would move. Banks, would move, economy in the community deteriorated. Poverty moves in, and violence and theft increases. Pretty soon you have a run of the mill ghetto. And if you’re the 94 years old white lady who saw the first black person move in 5 years ago, you feel so powerful in knowing that you called this town going down the drain.
I returned back into the room shortly after. The director was in tears. The choreographer had a sour face but pretended to be sympathetic. “We’re so sorry you don’t feel appreciated. We just don’t know what to do. You are so hard to read. And we feel like we are stepping on eggshells for you. And we don’t want to say the wrong things.” I felt as if everything they said to me was the wrong thing.
After we opened, a small piece of negativity came up to my helpers after the show and asked who was really responsible for the design. My helper was straightforward and set the record straight. He later told me about the encounter. I’d had enough. I approached her and just as I was about to tell her to mind her business and where she could take her peeving little questions, I stopped. I told her calmly that it was my design and that her negativity was not needed. She would not be my Desdemona. No one was going to feel sorry for her and no one was going to demonize me. I could feel it starting to. The day before opening night I wanted to walk into the light booth rip the disk with my design on it and burn it in the street. But instead I treated it like a tragedy and cried.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Ego Orgy
My first paid gig. A show called Hannah. It was about a jewish POW camp prisoner. After 10 hours in the black box, I was starving. I tried to break off a piece of someone’s home baked pear loaf and the foil crinkled. I was mortified. As I chewed the morsel I managed to get away with, I laughed silently thinking to myself I’m the prisoner not her. This notion tickled me but not for long. Two seconds pass, the playwright was in my face whispering “If you laugh again you are fuckin out of this theater, you got it?”
In all fairness I wasn’t the only person told that. And to be even fairer, I’ve heard much worse. In all honesty its something we as a part of this industry have come to know. In fact we continue the cycle waiting to climb the ladder so that we may take our day and personal feelings on other subordinates.
This may exist in any other professional facet in the real world but there is something organically unique and obvious about this kind of behavior. It’s completely unapologetic and most times if you are the right person it is inconsequential. The is theater. When something as amorphous as theater, a place where extremely passionate people have to collaborate their work ethics with their emotions, things can go awry. In fact they always do in some form. And the best week to witness these breakdowns is one of my favorite weeks: Tech week.
First a brief outline on how a show roughly works:
A person decides to perform a show. A director gets involved. People are brought on board for ideas. Other members are added ahead of time to establish a crew. Auditions are held. Rehearsals are held. A production crew is established, a board of designers advisors, choreographers, etc. Finally all of the crew that has been established starts getting to work based on the design. It’s a tricky position no matter what your contribution to the production is. Depending on who is who, the rules change continuously. Also, some people are allowed freebies depending on who they are and how close to the opening night the incident happens. I once worked on a show in which the musicians left after an hour and a half of playing. The director said allowed for the student actors to hear “That’s Union Folks”. The Cellist snapped back “It’s not union it’s called getting a fuckin baby sitter. Do you wanna pay for it.?” I was shocked. However, I was even more shocked to see her return and play the entire run of the show, being just as mean and bitchy throughout the run. In retrospect it was a pretty smart move. The Cellist shows her true colors. She says and does what she wants. She still gets paid. But she will not get work again from the same people. No. Not ever. Why? That’s where the ego orgy comes in. In order for things to run copasetic, you must be stroking everyone’s ego constantly. Make everyone feel good about themselves and their purpose. Let no one feel insignificant or underminded.
In theater it isn’t just enough to do your job, not even if you do it well. The Cellist was magnificent and had no problems once she started playing. And even if the Cellist hadn’t gone on a verbal rebellion, she still wasn’t very much appreciated. She forgot to play the game. The game is all about stroking egos.
Let’s start with the presumably most obvious touchy person: The actor. William Ball claims that the actor sees his job as sharing a piece of the universe that only he understands. He believes he’s shedding light on a knowledge that no one else has: “The actor sees himself as potential universe…He may have holes in his socks but he has an unlimited power of belief…There is no power on earth that can shake the actor’s belief that he is, in fact, Universe revealing; but he never says it out loud.” This self proclaimed purpose in the world and in life, taking the responsibility of revealing the universe can make an actor sensitive. More often than not, they are the refusers the, “No I WON’T” guys. Many of us have heard of the divas, the crazy actors, their weird demands, and theater is no different. They will dictate costumes, their own character against directors will and actors more than anything, upon trying to share their knowledge always try to dabble in something that isn’t their job.
“Maybe you should make the lights brighter,” I’ve been told, “It will make things pop more the brighter it is.” Shutup dumb cow and get on the stage, you don’t know what you’re talking about.
“We’ll see if that works, I’ll go ask the director.”
While working on a show with a man I will exaggerate the height to be 7 foot 11, I asked for him to come on stage. After calling his name from about 10 feet away at various volumes, he finally snapped at me. “WHAT?!”
“Can you please stand over here?”
“WHY?!”
“So I can light your beautiful face,” I explained with a light in my hand on top of a 10 foot ladder facing toward the set. What else could I possibly need from this sasquatch that was 2 billion feet taller than the rest of the cast?
“Just wait a second.”
“Listen dude, you don’t have to get up there. You’re face can be in the shadows. It’s no skin off my back.”
“You didn’t have to say it with an attitude.” This came from the man who repeatedly ignored me several times before yelling at me in order to acknowledge me.
But it isn’t about blame. It’s about both of us failing to play the game. Had I approached the actor in person and given his ego the blow job he believed it deserved then we wouldn’t even have this problem. He probably would have blown my ego back stroked it till I felt like a partial owner of this world, this show. Of course actors aren’t the only ones who believe in their positions as the most important or highest respected. I was once belittled myself by being told I was ONLY the lighting designer. And every actor always blabs about Aristotle’s poetics claiming spectacle to be the least important. Yeah Aristotle would probably say that but when was the last time Aristotle was forced to put on a show at night? Or in a blackbox? Or in any theater? What did Aristotle do if he had a play and it rained? Being visible is part of spectacle and my self proclaimed purpose is to make sure that no one is acting in the dark. That whatever the actor’s oh so important message (no matter what I think of it) gets portrayed, gets seen, and understood. I have bounced back from feeling insignificant by arguing with actors in my head. Listen here Cow, if it weren’t for me, you would be acting in the dark! It helps. My little secret of controlling visibility is my power trip. And everyone has one. That’s why stroking egos is so important. The more we all touch and tickles everyone’s little self righteous bones, the better the production gets. As long as everyone is on the same page with the ultimate vision and as long as there’s always someone who acknowledges each person’s importance, things will go beautifully.
For tech week the most powerful thing to say is “Yes.” It’s a wonderful thing to hear. More importantly if you say yes to enough things it gives you the opportunity to say no. Depending on your intentions, you can successfully cut someone back down to size or simple just get what you want. I haven’t nailed it to a science but for every 5 YES’s, I think a NO is allowed. If you are in theater this applies for you and to you. Yes and no’s are where your power lies, but all of your power needs to be masked in that generous petting. You must always be an active member of the orgy. This allows your NO’s to be heard and accepted. I never worked well by always being told and no one in the industry does. But I do know the height of my excitement and the results of hearing the Yes’s. Each yes is an opportunity to spread creative wings. The “yes” in itself its own stroking. Combine that with the flattery and consideration for each crew member and you create a rhythm. You create the rhythm and everyone falls into it kepping up with the tempo, following suit with all the ego pumping that is going on. It just works. It’s like good professional sec. After enough stroking we all climax together to the creative orgasm that is opening night. And you can always tell how good the orgy was by the product left behind the curtains.
In all fairness I wasn’t the only person told that. And to be even fairer, I’ve heard much worse. In all honesty its something we as a part of this industry have come to know. In fact we continue the cycle waiting to climb the ladder so that we may take our day and personal feelings on other subordinates.
This may exist in any other professional facet in the real world but there is something organically unique and obvious about this kind of behavior. It’s completely unapologetic and most times if you are the right person it is inconsequential. The is theater. When something as amorphous as theater, a place where extremely passionate people have to collaborate their work ethics with their emotions, things can go awry. In fact they always do in some form. And the best week to witness these breakdowns is one of my favorite weeks: Tech week.
First a brief outline on how a show roughly works:
A person decides to perform a show. A director gets involved. People are brought on board for ideas. Other members are added ahead of time to establish a crew. Auditions are held. Rehearsals are held. A production crew is established, a board of designers advisors, choreographers, etc. Finally all of the crew that has been established starts getting to work based on the design. It’s a tricky position no matter what your contribution to the production is. Depending on who is who, the rules change continuously. Also, some people are allowed freebies depending on who they are and how close to the opening night the incident happens. I once worked on a show in which the musicians left after an hour and a half of playing. The director said allowed for the student actors to hear “That’s Union Folks”. The Cellist snapped back “It’s not union it’s called getting a fuckin baby sitter. Do you wanna pay for it.?” I was shocked. However, I was even more shocked to see her return and play the entire run of the show, being just as mean and bitchy throughout the run. In retrospect it was a pretty smart move. The Cellist shows her true colors. She says and does what she wants. She still gets paid. But she will not get work again from the same people. No. Not ever. Why? That’s where the ego orgy comes in. In order for things to run copasetic, you must be stroking everyone’s ego constantly. Make everyone feel good about themselves and their purpose. Let no one feel insignificant or underminded.
In theater it isn’t just enough to do your job, not even if you do it well. The Cellist was magnificent and had no problems once she started playing. And even if the Cellist hadn’t gone on a verbal rebellion, she still wasn’t very much appreciated. She forgot to play the game. The game is all about stroking egos.
Let’s start with the presumably most obvious touchy person: The actor. William Ball claims that the actor sees his job as sharing a piece of the universe that only he understands. He believes he’s shedding light on a knowledge that no one else has: “The actor sees himself as potential universe…He may have holes in his socks but he has an unlimited power of belief…There is no power on earth that can shake the actor’s belief that he is, in fact, Universe revealing; but he never says it out loud.” This self proclaimed purpose in the world and in life, taking the responsibility of revealing the universe can make an actor sensitive. More often than not, they are the refusers the, “No I WON’T” guys. Many of us have heard of the divas, the crazy actors, their weird demands, and theater is no different. They will dictate costumes, their own character against directors will and actors more than anything, upon trying to share their knowledge always try to dabble in something that isn’t their job.
“Maybe you should make the lights brighter,” I’ve been told, “It will make things pop more the brighter it is.” Shutup dumb cow and get on the stage, you don’t know what you’re talking about.
“We’ll see if that works, I’ll go ask the director.”
While working on a show with a man I will exaggerate the height to be 7 foot 11, I asked for him to come on stage. After calling his name from about 10 feet away at various volumes, he finally snapped at me. “WHAT?!”
“Can you please stand over here?”
“WHY?!”
“So I can light your beautiful face,” I explained with a light in my hand on top of a 10 foot ladder facing toward the set. What else could I possibly need from this sasquatch that was 2 billion feet taller than the rest of the cast?
“Just wait a second.”
“Listen dude, you don’t have to get up there. You’re face can be in the shadows. It’s no skin off my back.”
“You didn’t have to say it with an attitude.” This came from the man who repeatedly ignored me several times before yelling at me in order to acknowledge me.
But it isn’t about blame. It’s about both of us failing to play the game. Had I approached the actor in person and given his ego the blow job he believed it deserved then we wouldn’t even have this problem. He probably would have blown my ego back stroked it till I felt like a partial owner of this world, this show. Of course actors aren’t the only ones who believe in their positions as the most important or highest respected. I was once belittled myself by being told I was ONLY the lighting designer. And every actor always blabs about Aristotle’s poetics claiming spectacle to be the least important. Yeah Aristotle would probably say that but when was the last time Aristotle was forced to put on a show at night? Or in a blackbox? Or in any theater? What did Aristotle do if he had a play and it rained? Being visible is part of spectacle and my self proclaimed purpose is to make sure that no one is acting in the dark. That whatever the actor’s oh so important message (no matter what I think of it) gets portrayed, gets seen, and understood. I have bounced back from feeling insignificant by arguing with actors in my head. Listen here Cow, if it weren’t for me, you would be acting in the dark! It helps. My little secret of controlling visibility is my power trip. And everyone has one. That’s why stroking egos is so important. The more we all touch and tickles everyone’s little self righteous bones, the better the production gets. As long as everyone is on the same page with the ultimate vision and as long as there’s always someone who acknowledges each person’s importance, things will go beautifully.
For tech week the most powerful thing to say is “Yes.” It’s a wonderful thing to hear. More importantly if you say yes to enough things it gives you the opportunity to say no. Depending on your intentions, you can successfully cut someone back down to size or simple just get what you want. I haven’t nailed it to a science but for every 5 YES’s, I think a NO is allowed. If you are in theater this applies for you and to you. Yes and no’s are where your power lies, but all of your power needs to be masked in that generous petting. You must always be an active member of the orgy. This allows your NO’s to be heard and accepted. I never worked well by always being told and no one in the industry does. But I do know the height of my excitement and the results of hearing the Yes’s. Each yes is an opportunity to spread creative wings. The “yes” in itself its own stroking. Combine that with the flattery and consideration for each crew member and you create a rhythm. You create the rhythm and everyone falls into it kepping up with the tempo, following suit with all the ego pumping that is going on. It just works. It’s like good professional sec. After enough stroking we all climax together to the creative orgasm that is opening night. And you can always tell how good the orgy was by the product left behind the curtains.
Description....
You and I wake together. Our foreheads are together and we are breathing out of time. I bring you in closer. You have outlasted all of them. I have loved you since I saw you and nothing has changed. I apologize silently for all the times I have left you. I know you’re bitter but at night we can always put it all behind us. We sleep. I close my eyes and you follow. I feel you rise and fall with each breath. Neither of us move for fear of waking one another. It hasn’t been easy you and me. I can always sense you’re resentment when I come through the door. I feel your cold shoulder when you leave the room. I know you’re not happy. I fall asleep with the guilt alone. But somehow you are here with me in my arms in the morning. Forgiving me for my indiscretions.
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