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.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
The NoBusiness in Show Business
My first paid gig, I worked on a show called Hannah. It was a show about a jewish POW camp prisoner. After 10 hours in the black box watching rehearsal, I was starving. I tried to break off a piece of someones 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. In two seconds, 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. The reason is this: It’s theater. When something as amorphous as theater in which extremely passionate people have to collaborate their work ethics with their emotions, things can go awry. In fact almost always, they do in some form. And the best week to witness these breakdowns is one of my favorite weeks: Tech week.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
"Eye" essay....
For my eye essay, I will be writing about the constant delicate balance of work and feelings in theater production. Working in the theater is unlike any other profession to me because there is a constant ego orgy going on between production team, running crew, and "artists". It's a constant battle not to offend someone and the most volatile time is usually tech week, a week or two before the performance actually premieres. Knowing about enough falling outs based on small insignificant things, I have decided to write a piece of that high tension environment.
I will also think about quoting from a directors book I read this past summer which best defines the finicky nature of the jobs in the theater and their self proclaimed importance.
I will also think about quoting from a directors book I read this past summer which best defines the finicky nature of the jobs in the theater and their self proclaimed importance.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Essay #2
“I was born a poor black boy.”
-Steve Martin
When I was in 3rd grade, I was bullied by a kid named Jamal Alexander. I later 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 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 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.
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.
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 handshake. 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.
-Steve Martin
When I was in 3rd grade, I was bullied by a kid named Jamal Alexander. I later 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 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 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.
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.
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 handshake. 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.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
what I would like to know from comments...
I want to know if the subject matter is interesting. I have dismissed it several times and said no. however, with the recent passing of my grandmother ( i consider her my grandmother) who is a black woman and the speculation i got from the court for attending her funeral I thought back on this loss of identity and how untraditional my relationships to people culture and the world is. So i would like to know if its interesting enough.
Essay #2...ideas and structure....
Last time, I mostly just wrote. A lot of it flowed. this time i am going to play with structure. I have decided to write a series of little peisodes that relate to my lost identity.
I have a very white father and relatives that do not shake my hand because i am brown. but when they find out out that we are related they swallow the differences in complexion and hug me.
My mother is mexican and her side of the family is deeply rooted in East LA culture, Chicano ways of life, and gang life.
My brother has always looked like a white boy and I have always looked mexican(ish). the fight for custody during the divorce was only over my brother. in the same token when my brother developed blonde hair and my features got darker my racist great grandmother used to say every time i visited her "you look like shit".
My mother married a black man. i became estranged from my father and was newly adopted into a black family through the love of my stepsister.
I can't speak spanish even thought it was my first language. I don't know yiddish even though I was taught yiddish when I was three. I don't have a religion either for obvious conflicts in beliefs between judaism, christianity, catholocism, and assimilation into american culture (holiday wise).
The other part of the essay is going to express how my identity has evolved and also how this is not a taboo subject since there is no sympathy factor for being half oppresssed and half privileged. However i think the struggle of that should be expressed. finding identity with no home base is a hard thing to find.
I have a very white father and relatives that do not shake my hand because i am brown. but when they find out out that we are related they swallow the differences in complexion and hug me.
My mother is mexican and her side of the family is deeply rooted in East LA culture, Chicano ways of life, and gang life.
My brother has always looked like a white boy and I have always looked mexican(ish). the fight for custody during the divorce was only over my brother. in the same token when my brother developed blonde hair and my features got darker my racist great grandmother used to say every time i visited her "you look like shit".
My mother married a black man. i became estranged from my father and was newly adopted into a black family through the love of my stepsister.
I can't speak spanish even thought it was my first language. I don't know yiddish even though I was taught yiddish when I was three. I don't have a religion either for obvious conflicts in beliefs between judaism, christianity, catholocism, and assimilation into american culture (holiday wise).
The other part of the essay is going to express how my identity has evolved and also how this is not a taboo subject since there is no sympathy factor for being half oppresssed and half privileged. However i think the struggle of that should be expressed. finding identity with no home base is a hard thing to find.
What worked what didn't?
I am a little behind so I will post two blogs today.
What worked. The sunject matter of my essay was still tender. i liked the idea of people responding toward a trauma thatpeople sympathized and empathized with.
what didn't work?
I think I could have been clearer on exactly what the trauma was. but now that I think about it i like the idea of keeping it open for interpretation as far as the loss of a child.
I have also decided to tie in some other ideas of choice and the idea of something being ripped away in the same moment as the realization of opportunity.
What worked. The sunject matter of my essay was still tender. i liked the idea of people responding toward a trauma thatpeople sympathized and empathized with.
what didn't work?
I think I could have been clearer on exactly what the trauma was. but now that I think about it i like the idea of keeping it open for interpretation as far as the loss of a child.
I have also decided to tie in some other ideas of choice and the idea of something being ripped away in the same moment as the realization of opportunity.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Another draft (fixed grammar and typos.)
“I don’t take life or anything in it lightly.” It has been my motto for years, ever since emotions engulfed me at the age of 13. It was the phase in which feeling led us to do everything, it woke us from our bed, made us sneak out of our parents windows, made us listen to the music of bitter relationships and obsession. I have always kept at least a part of me invested in that phase, deeply rooted in the notion that our emotions, our obsessions, our most innate feelings are inescapable because they are a part of your soul. A part of your purpose in life on this earth.
For as long as I can remember I have always wanted a family. Not the best family, not the most loving family, just anything but what I had. What I had was two divorced parents, each of them trying to reconstruct their lives from the ground up. I went to half a dozen schools due to custody battles, and eventually, the result of custodies were pendant on the mature decisions of a 5 and 8 year old. Oddly enough most of our choices on who would be a better parent laid heavily on the most recent toys or priveleges we received from parents. Thus the never ending custody battles ensued over my brother. I unfortunately was baggage for my brother attached to the moral rule of never separating the children.
My idea of family became an amorphous concept at an early age and I became immediately aware. The biggest blow to my loss in normalcy was the clear idea that I was the only kid with divorced parents in my class. When kids were drawing pictures of their families and their houses, I had two sheets of paper and I drew two families. Mom and Dad were never on the same page. Dad was always with a stick figure with a skirt with different color hair every time I would draw. Mom was always by herself with us. She didn’t have a house, so I drew her car, which also always changed. My second major clue that I was always moving. As a military child, it’s normal to be stationed in several states. Combine that with a mother who likes to move and two people who like nothing better than to win their children, we were on relocation overload. I never had a best friend until 3rd grade and that last 2 years. I don’t have any friends that date back more than 3 years due to this constant moving.
A few years when the dust settled from the War Over The Children, my brother and I were separated. I lived with my mother and went to school in Willingboro NJ, where I planned to make lifelong friends and adjust to my mother’s new boyfriend and his daughter. I would have a family and although absent of my brother I had a female substitution in his place. This was also invaluable to me because I would be living with a mother, a father figure and a sibling. In a house. With a real yard. A real address. I began rooting immediately.
I was not exactly welcome. A regrettably ugly and smart child, I did not make friends easily. In fact, I couldn’t’ make real friends at all until high school. Coincidentally, that’s when I fell in love. His name was Andrew and he would make a huge impact on my life for the next six years. Shy at first, he let me feel stable. My home life had proven to be not a family, but another war zone. My step father became abusive and addicted to drugs, he estranged himself from all things of and resembling a family. My sister sought adventure and I weighed her down by being younger and less attractive. My mother threw herself into work, and spent her free time saving face in front of other moms in the neighborhood. My family was in pieces again. But there was Andrew. He came from an equally, for lack of a better term, fucked up household as well. We were in love. We stayed together throughout high school, with no breaks, no huge fights in the halls, no teenage lapses of judgement. We were just together, no matter what. He graduated a year early and moved to Brooklyn. I woke up at 5:30 every Saturday morning for a year to catch the trains to New York. When I graduated we lived together. When we got sick of New York, we moved. Together.
In Oregon, things became rocky and the lapses of judgement that we had not explored in high school made themselves ever present by the time Andrew decided to go to college. It was the phase I like to call College Douchebag phase, defined on exploiting the concept of being free, young, and attractive. I too, had explored it. My phase was over in 2 months. His? It may not ever be over yet. He occasionally returned to the same longing for stability that we had originally shared. He proposed to me. Followed by that were, 3 other girlfriends besides me who knew nothing about each other. Needless to say the engagement ended. My stability had ended and I was forced to rebuild.
I went back to New Jersey where I enrolled at Kean University. As always, I would be a theater major with a concentration in lighting design and I had decided that I was going to plant myself here for at least 3 years. I was going to make myself stable. In the meantime, men would be equated with the occasional meal, cup of coffee or movie. Until I met Shmustin.
Shmustin would be the most complex and fickle human being I had ever laid eyes on and had the mishap of dating. He proved to be extremely interested in me, unlike most people in this new school and I obliged him with small stories from my life. He also disclosed many feelings and anecdotes from his past relationships, each one, had I been listening carefully, disclosing why this was not the guy for me. Looking back now on the myriad relationships he had including both men and women, I should have not fell pray to the one thing that allured me about him the most: his family. His parents were married forever and he had two sisters. They lived in Jacksonville Florida and he visited them for the holidays. He loved them and talked to them on a pretty regular basis and I thought this guy is stable. This is what I need.
In hindsight, it took him 5 months of waiting to obtain the position of his girlfriend, he was frequently flirting with others in our department as well as friends of friends outside of the university, lost multiple jobs, and relied heavily on me for financial security. I became stability for him. This was obviously stressful and I felt like I had become his mother. However, every time I thought he was too much of a child, I would be rewarded greatly. Our relationship was punctuated with joint visits to his parents in Florida. We would sleep in the spare room they had. His mother would cook, his father would watch television. His sisters lived not too far away in the same city, one of which had two children and a husband of her own. Every visit to that particular sister resulted in a conversation of Shmustin not wanting to be married or have children. This idea changed frequently as well.
A year later, we were still together, but this was stability. There were semi annual breakups and arguments and difference in opinions but we always returned to one another. I, for the love that I lacked and the stability I didn’t want to admit I lacked, and him for the life that I provided him with: cooked meals, help with his homework, someone who admired him constantly, and would be there no matter what.
In the winter of 2010, our department began to work on the production Sweeney Todd. Shmustin was Assistant Stage Manager and was there from the beginning of rehearsals. As a lighting designer, I am not brought on board until the final few weeks before opening night. Preceding the project, I had been broken up with but we had agreed to steadily work on our relationship. As far as our behavior nothing had really changed. He was always at my house or vice versa. We spent time with mutual friends, we spent days together, we got along and for the most part we were perfectly comfortable being intimate. That is, until his birthday.
I had been brought on the show a few days prior and we started to work non stop. Shmustin and I barely had time together that week and he asked me if I would have lunch with him. I rejected him coldly but what I had planned had to be done on our lunch break. I had ordered a cake for him and needed to pick it up along with a card for the entire cast to sign. I did my best to conceal this plan from him and I started running errand. Luckily everything was done in time and I had a bleeding red velvet cake stabbed with a razor prepared for him by the time he would get back from lunch. However, I was missing a lot of cast members signatures. I called Shmustin thinking maybe he was eating with them. To my surprise, he was eating with a particular cast member. Alone. One whom he had hinted to me about before. He had texted me messages on accident that were meant to go to her late at night. I thought it mostly harmless until he guiltily admitted he was having lunch with her. I explained my hurt feelings and what followed were several falling outs that day. However, I happily greeted him later that night with a gory cake full of candles and a whole cast singing happy birthday.
He later apologized for everything and swore we would work on things exclusively. So we stayed near each other. We hung out, went to dinner, talked, slept together. I occasionally caught him lying about who he was speaking with, still received intermittent text messages intended for the leading female role of Sweeney Todd. I cried but hoped it was a phase.
It wasn’t.
The show ended and so did our relationship. We ended things harshly when I dropped by his house and “Johanna” was there. I cut off communication when I found out that he didn’t have just one infatuation but a few. I felt the pattern of infidelity forming. I decided to end things as quickly as they had began. I blocked his number and text messages. Just like that. Six weeks later it was April. I had been single and completely content with the idea that maybe I was not suited for relationships. Maybe I was supposed to be alone. For now. Or so I thought.
I called him that month composing myself and trying to hold back my tears. I failed to keep calm. He had been trying to contact me desperately for the past few weeks and I wanted nothing to do with him. In fact I could have let him go scott free. But this. This was too important to me to let it go. He needed to know. If he felt even a small portion of what I felt, he needed to know.
He reacted sympathetically but as I suspected, he thought it should bring us closer. That it would allow us to communicate again so we could relate to each other through our pain. I could not allow that. I hated him more for reaching out to me. I wanted him to suffer. Just the way I had to suffer through the cheating. The way I would suffer through this. The way I would fill out forms at the clinic. The way I would swallow this every time I listed the number of pregnancies as 1. The way I would list my number of children as 0. Alone.
I always remember him saying, “ I see myself as a father before a husband.” I hear it in my head and it turns my stomach. He would be neither in my eyes. It’s what haunts me to this day. This possibility of family. This feeling of being accompanied unknowingly with something that was us. The thought that we may have not even had the choice but to be a family. We would have been forever bound and obligated to one another for a lifetime. I was feeling deserted and alone, coping with this solitude and I wasn’t. For six weeks I wasn’t.
I see him now and remember the week it was conceived. He had slept with that girl in the same week. Moreover, he bragged about it with friends. I crumble when I think about how my future was pendant on this fickle excuse for a man. I wince at the possibility of what we may have had to do if our ‘family” had lasted longer. I shake my head reflecting on how I was almost a mother and he was infatuated with girls who held the same unpredictable and childish whims. Every time I hear Sweeney Todd play on my Ipod, I cry with the meaning the lyrics hold for me. I feel you, Johanna.
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