I intentionally missed posting on the anniversary of my mother's passing. I didn't do anything on the 15th of this month, except hang out with a good friend, drink and watch This is the End (cause she hadn't seen it and I thought it was the funniest movie EVER. MADE.)
But that doesn't mean I wasn't thinking about her or that I would let this month pass without commenting on how, after all these years, I'm still deeply affected by her absence in my life. I haven't written about that in the past couple years because since I was working at The Institution that shall not be named (Hillman), I didn't want any of my students to stumble upon this site and know all my business. But she's never been far from my mind. Ever.
I'm always extra emotional during the 31 days of October. At first it's kinda good stuff cause my grandparents' anniversary is the 5th, and this past year they celebrated their 67th Wedding Anniversary, so that's always cause for celebration. But just underneath that, I always have this sense of anxiety. Cause everyday is one day closer to that day. And I hate that day.
While I was enjoying myself, my brother text me to check on me, and I immediately felt shamed that I hadn't thought to reach out to him. He wasn't doing too well. He said he had a headache and was in a foul mood. Of course I knew he would be. October 15th and December 8th are hard days for him. The latter being our mother's birthday. My brother is a man of deep sensitivity. In our family, that word was always used as a curse. To be called sensitive was pitiful. And him being an athlete, I'm sure he tried, as did I, to never be so described. It wasn't until I became an adult, an actor actually, that I realized there's nothing wrong with being sensitive. It's a good thing, really, because it shows how connected you are to your feelings. As an actor, that's an invaluable trait to have. And as a woman it's kinda expected. But for a man, because of our society's notion of masculine and feminine gender roles, it can be a black mark on your personality. I'm sure he's been told countless times and in various situations to man up. And I believe he's taken that to heart.
But more than that, my brother is also a de facto care taker. He knows as the oldest, people look to him to know what to do. To handle the situation. And he does so, as is expected. I know that's a message he got loud and clear when were kids. My parents were always telling him to look out for me, and to take care of me. As the big brother, I was his responsibility. Mommy even went so far as to tell him to take care of a boy who was bullying me at school. I remember that, kinda. I didn't know until years later that she told him that, but I remember the kid picking on me in middle school, and me doing my best to handle my own situation, but really just wanting to disappear. I mean, I got a mouth on me and I unloaded it on him, but the kid was relentless. And I was tired. I wasn't gonna last much longer. My mother noticed something was wrong and her instincts were confirmed when I told her that I hated school. That surprised her cause she was under the quite erroneous impression that I loved school. Not sure how she came to that conclusion, but ok. Years later, in high school, both she and my brother told me their versions of this conversation, and they mirrored each other, so I'm guessing it was basically true.
Mommy goes up to him one night, and with a bit of edge to her tone, asked him what he was gonna do about the fact that I was coming home from school crying every day. He looked at her in silence. She said to him, quite sternly, You're her big brother. You're supposed to take care of her. What am I supposed to do? he implored. Take care of it. She's your sister and some boy's makin' it so she doesn't wanna go to school. She paused for dramatic effect and stared with razor sharp accuracy deep into his eyes before continuing. I don't want her coming home crying anymore. He got her meaning clearer than ever before. I was his responsibility. We're family. We can fight and annoy each other, but I'm his little sister. He has to look out for me and protect me. I'll take care of it, he said. Mommy, satisfied, left the room.
The next day, we went to school in silence. His mind must have been heavy with that responsibility. And maybe a bit of good ol' fashioned big brother-ness was there too. I don't know what he said or did to that kid...he never told me, not even to this day, but after that, that boy was my best friend! I was surprised at the turn around but always kept that boy at arm's length. He wanted to carry my books to my classes for me...really weird shit. L must have threatened his life or something.
When she told me the story, I was amused at first, but then I asked her why she did that. She said that having a big brother was the best relationship she'd ever had. They were so close and she loved him a lot. And when she had L she was so excited that he came first, cause she knew whatever gender the next baby she had was, it would always have a big brother. And her dream was that me and L would be as close as she and her brother had been.
She loved us. And we loved her. He was her little boy, and I was her baby girl. And she knew that one day we'd be all the other had. Sure, the hope back then was we'd become adults, get married and have families of our own, but that we'd still only have each other in a way. And that it'd be important for us to love each other, protect each other, draw on each other for support, so that when she and Daddy were gone and times got tough...say, one of us winds up going through a divorce or something, we'd have the other to lean on and get each other through it. Since neither one of us has met that special someone and remain single and childless, that truth seems more salient now. Daddy's not well. And she's gone. And we are all we have. One day, that'll be the truest thing. And he's been protecting me since day one, at her direction. He knows his role and he's really good at doing it. But where he falls down, is in taking care of himself. He's the rock for everyone, but he doesn't seem to have one himself. I think she was his, as she was mine.
What I know about my brother is that he feels things so deeply, that on the surface it can seem like he's not really feeling anything at all. But that's a lie. And because he doesn't let it out as often as I do, he holds onto it longer and that, in turn, means he doesn't always cope well. I worry about him with that. Because eventually, rocks crumble.
Till next time, lovers!
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
"12 Years A Slave"...A Meditation
I've been eagerly awaiting this film since I first saw its trailer this past summer. I remembered the book vaguely, as I'd come across it in passing while in undergrad. I'd taken a class, Early African-American Literature, wherein the reading and discussion of slave narratives and autobiographies were the topic. But more than my passing interest in seeing a book I'd kinda heard about years ago up on the big screen, was my desire to see a film that would try its best to authentically capture the tortures and dehumanizing aspects of slavery, that peculiar institution. Hollywood doesn't seem to ever do it right. Maybe that's because it knows America, post slavery, only ever wants to forget it. Films depicting this topic in any kind of realistic way don't tend to fare well at the box office, and so, not many are produced. And when the great Celluloid City on the hill does decide to tackle race relations between black and white, it's usually some watered down version designed to leave everyone feeling comfortable and satisfied that horrible things and people are punished, and all is now right with the world, thanks to that Great Emancipator...and JFK.
And while I was sitting in that darkened auditorium, surrounded by strangers (many, many strangers), I prepared myself for some really intense images. Something told me from jump, that this wasn't gonna be The Help, or Remember the Titans, or The Blind Side, or some cartoonish piece of film fakery ala Django Unchained (though as I type this, I fully admit that I quite enjoyed the revenge tragedy that was Django, if only to see a slave exact some cruelty and retribution of his own).
I'd never heard of the director Steve McQueen prior to this film, despite having seen his second film Shame, which I thoroughly enjoyed. The only other encounter I'd had with that name was the old school actor of the movie Bullit fame, his son Chad (of the original The Karate Kid--he played Dutch, the other blond psycho of the film and one of Johnny's Cobra Kai brothers. Damn I love that movie. And Ralph Macchio! Daniel-son forever!), and his son Steven R. McQueen of The Vampire Diaries tv show (I no longer watch that mess, but yes...I did). Clearly I'm very acquainted with this particular family name and their projects. So, while I didn't think there was another "famed" McQueen member named Steve who was also a director, I kinda thought there was a relation. Which is to say, I assumed this director was also white. And that troubled me. The thought of a white man taking on the subject of slavery...it felt like it was gonna be The Help all over again. And since I knew the director, like many actors in the film, was British or at least European, I was very worried.
Imagine my surprise to learn that Mr. McQueen was indeed...black! I can't call him an African-American, as he's not American...so I guess, an African-Britain? Just black then. Well that certainly made it a horse of a different color! And thank God for that!
Rightly or wrongly, according to some, I totally disagree with white people's ability to tell black stories effectively. I just don't believe that a white filmmaker or screenwriter can accurately capture what our struggle, our story in this nation is and has been. Through the lens of white guilt or entitlement, our most noble features and attributes come across as laughable and cliched. So the silent strength of a black woman enduring the indignities of constant rape and physical abuse, become eye roll inducing and expectant. Of course the black woman will endure. She's strong as an ox. That's what she does. We continue to be dehumanized in our own stories and the white masses can't recognize that, because to them, they're seeing a story or telling one of great depth and pride. They don't notice their own condescending tones that permeate throughout.
It was also curious to me that a significant number of actors in very pivotal roles, including the lead, were not Americans. Including the director himself. And so, I wanted to see how a group of folks would perceive the legacy of racial discord that exists within a country not of their own. How they would depict our ugliness; and would it be possible for outsiders looking in to do so. Kinda like watching the older, yet somewhat physically diminished sibling trying on the ill-fitting clothes of the seemingly more attractive and bratty younger one. Watching these actors take on our history--a history not their own; and wear it comfortably as though they grew up with it in their bones, as we have--is something I find both intoxicating and fascinating. I should also say, that I feel the Brits are the best actors on the planet. That's just my personal bias. They come from a country that has a storied history of celebrating the arts and its artists for generations. Us...not so much here across the pond.
What I found compelling about this film, is how much it made me feel. The brutal scenes of violence were unrelenting. When you wanted the director to cut to another scene or another angle to alleviate the horror befalling your eyes, he refused to do so. He put it in your face and forced you to acknowledge the dirty, little secret that still festers in the core of this nation. A white woman was sitting beside me in the comfy recliners of the AMC theater. And not fifteen minutes into the film, shortly after Solomon Northup's abduction, she bolted. Nothing cataclysmic had even occurred yet. He was tricked, passed out, and woke up in chains. She made a lot of "umm's" and "oh my's" just at seeing that. I knew she wasn't long for this film, and that if she stayed, things were gonna get increasingly more difficult for her.
And listening to her annoyed me slightly. Not just because I'm a movie Nazi, which I am, but because I felt that since she knew she was sitting next to a non white woman, that maybe she needed to really demonstrate how appalling she felt everything related to slavery truly was. As if her audible recriminations would absolve her in some way of being white, and therefore, being associated with this monstrous circumstance. I, of course, rolled my eyes (internally) and watched her put her shoes on (she'd taken them off during the trailers, why I have no idea), un-recline herself, get up, and briskly exit the theater. I took a sip of my soda. None of the black folks at my side stirred at that moment. That wasn't the treatment that got us. Unfair and duplicitous as his captors were, it's not unlike the life we still live here in many ways. We're used to a certain degree of unfairness in America. So watching a man be duped into slavery and waking confused and chained to the floor, and then beaten for his questioning insolence, was par for the course as far as we're concerned.
This film gives me much to ponder about the current state of race relations between black and white in America. It goes without saying that this country deals with it, by not dealing with it. Not in any truthful way. That we had an opportunity way back then, and threw it away. That in many significant ways, life for blacks here is not that different from the lives we led back then. Sure, it's unlawful for us to be owned and beaten openly, but as Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant, Yusef Hawkins, Michael Griffin, Emmet Till, and countless others attest, we're far from being seen as equal and legitimate citizens of this country. The election of a black president, while monumental and something that certainly couldn't have happened back in Solomon's time, hasn't changed a thing. He has been met with open vitriol and disrespect in a way no other president ever has been.
But the thing I find the most unchanged, is the depiction of black life in film as it specifically pertains to this issue. Movies, in particular, that deal with slavery are usually muted. And movies that deal with black and white in non-slavery films, but that still touch on the inequalities existing between the two, are equally watery. I think it's because since the nation hasn't dealt with the problem in a real sense, films are usually hesitant to tackle the issue head on. Rarely have I seen any race movie give it to us full on. There's usually some type of can't we all just get along kinda thing goin' on. That whites and blacks can eventually work it out. And audiences find comfort in that, yet, that's not true. We haven't really been doing that. I get that it's a hope. A dream. But like Herm Edwards says a dream without a plan is just a wish.
I saw the white characters in this film walking around cloaked in the skin and privilege of white entitlement. The security that their white skin affords them. And how that security emboldened them to walk wherever they felt like, and do whatever they wanted to whoever they wanted. And seeing them know and understand that their white skin protected them from any number of atrocities the world could heap on them. Something they never thought should be extended to others bereft of that same skin. Seeing the complete disregard for the men, women, and children around them that I share an ancestry with, fueled the annoyance I felt at the white lady who couldn't even stomach the moderate discomfort of an intolerable cruelty in the first damn act.
I left this movie feeling that while I'm physically free, and would in no way want to compare the cerebral acts of racism and intolerance we deal with today, to the actual brutality of slavery that my ancestors endured (so that I could in fact, one day BE), I do fear that I may never live to see the death of white entitlement. Not in America.
Till next time, lovers!
And while I was sitting in that darkened auditorium, surrounded by strangers (many, many strangers), I prepared myself for some really intense images. Something told me from jump, that this wasn't gonna be The Help, or Remember the Titans, or The Blind Side, or some cartoonish piece of film fakery ala Django Unchained (though as I type this, I fully admit that I quite enjoyed the revenge tragedy that was Django, if only to see a slave exact some cruelty and retribution of his own).
I'd never heard of the director Steve McQueen prior to this film, despite having seen his second film Shame, which I thoroughly enjoyed. The only other encounter I'd had with that name was the old school actor of the movie Bullit fame, his son Chad (of the original The Karate Kid--he played Dutch, the other blond psycho of the film and one of Johnny's Cobra Kai brothers. Damn I love that movie. And Ralph Macchio! Daniel-son forever!), and his son Steven R. McQueen of The Vampire Diaries tv show (I no longer watch that mess, but yes...I did). Clearly I'm very acquainted with this particular family name and their projects. So, while I didn't think there was another "famed" McQueen member named Steve who was also a director, I kinda thought there was a relation. Which is to say, I assumed this director was also white. And that troubled me. The thought of a white man taking on the subject of slavery...it felt like it was gonna be The Help all over again. And since I knew the director, like many actors in the film, was British or at least European, I was very worried.
Imagine my surprise to learn that Mr. McQueen was indeed...black! I can't call him an African-American, as he's not American...so I guess, an African-Britain? Just black then. Well that certainly made it a horse of a different color! And thank God for that!
Rightly or wrongly, according to some, I totally disagree with white people's ability to tell black stories effectively. I just don't believe that a white filmmaker or screenwriter can accurately capture what our struggle, our story in this nation is and has been. Through the lens of white guilt or entitlement, our most noble features and attributes come across as laughable and cliched. So the silent strength of a black woman enduring the indignities of constant rape and physical abuse, become eye roll inducing and expectant. Of course the black woman will endure. She's strong as an ox. That's what she does. We continue to be dehumanized in our own stories and the white masses can't recognize that, because to them, they're seeing a story or telling one of great depth and pride. They don't notice their own condescending tones that permeate throughout.
It was also curious to me that a significant number of actors in very pivotal roles, including the lead, were not Americans. Including the director himself. And so, I wanted to see how a group of folks would perceive the legacy of racial discord that exists within a country not of their own. How they would depict our ugliness; and would it be possible for outsiders looking in to do so. Kinda like watching the older, yet somewhat physically diminished sibling trying on the ill-fitting clothes of the seemingly more attractive and bratty younger one. Watching these actors take on our history--a history not their own; and wear it comfortably as though they grew up with it in their bones, as we have--is something I find both intoxicating and fascinating. I should also say, that I feel the Brits are the best actors on the planet. That's just my personal bias. They come from a country that has a storied history of celebrating the arts and its artists for generations. Us...not so much here across the pond.
What I found compelling about this film, is how much it made me feel. The brutal scenes of violence were unrelenting. When you wanted the director to cut to another scene or another angle to alleviate the horror befalling your eyes, he refused to do so. He put it in your face and forced you to acknowledge the dirty, little secret that still festers in the core of this nation. A white woman was sitting beside me in the comfy recliners of the AMC theater. And not fifteen minutes into the film, shortly after Solomon Northup's abduction, she bolted. Nothing cataclysmic had even occurred yet. He was tricked, passed out, and woke up in chains. She made a lot of "umm's" and "oh my's" just at seeing that. I knew she wasn't long for this film, and that if she stayed, things were gonna get increasingly more difficult for her.
And listening to her annoyed me slightly. Not just because I'm a movie Nazi, which I am, but because I felt that since she knew she was sitting next to a non white woman, that maybe she needed to really demonstrate how appalling she felt everything related to slavery truly was. As if her audible recriminations would absolve her in some way of being white, and therefore, being associated with this monstrous circumstance. I, of course, rolled my eyes (internally) and watched her put her shoes on (she'd taken them off during the trailers, why I have no idea), un-recline herself, get up, and briskly exit the theater. I took a sip of my soda. None of the black folks at my side stirred at that moment. That wasn't the treatment that got us. Unfair and duplicitous as his captors were, it's not unlike the life we still live here in many ways. We're used to a certain degree of unfairness in America. So watching a man be duped into slavery and waking confused and chained to the floor, and then beaten for his questioning insolence, was par for the course as far as we're concerned.
This film gives me much to ponder about the current state of race relations between black and white in America. It goes without saying that this country deals with it, by not dealing with it. Not in any truthful way. That we had an opportunity way back then, and threw it away. That in many significant ways, life for blacks here is not that different from the lives we led back then. Sure, it's unlawful for us to be owned and beaten openly, but as Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant, Yusef Hawkins, Michael Griffin, Emmet Till, and countless others attest, we're far from being seen as equal and legitimate citizens of this country. The election of a black president, while monumental and something that certainly couldn't have happened back in Solomon's time, hasn't changed a thing. He has been met with open vitriol and disrespect in a way no other president ever has been.
But the thing I find the most unchanged, is the depiction of black life in film as it specifically pertains to this issue. Movies, in particular, that deal with slavery are usually muted. And movies that deal with black and white in non-slavery films, but that still touch on the inequalities existing between the two, are equally watery. I think it's because since the nation hasn't dealt with the problem in a real sense, films are usually hesitant to tackle the issue head on. Rarely have I seen any race movie give it to us full on. There's usually some type of can't we all just get along kinda thing goin' on. That whites and blacks can eventually work it out. And audiences find comfort in that, yet, that's not true. We haven't really been doing that. I get that it's a hope. A dream. But like Herm Edwards says a dream without a plan is just a wish.
I saw the white characters in this film walking around cloaked in the skin and privilege of white entitlement. The security that their white skin affords them. And how that security emboldened them to walk wherever they felt like, and do whatever they wanted to whoever they wanted. And seeing them know and understand that their white skin protected them from any number of atrocities the world could heap on them. Something they never thought should be extended to others bereft of that same skin. Seeing the complete disregard for the men, women, and children around them that I share an ancestry with, fueled the annoyance I felt at the white lady who couldn't even stomach the moderate discomfort of an intolerable cruelty in the first damn act.
I left this movie feeling that while I'm physically free, and would in no way want to compare the cerebral acts of racism and intolerance we deal with today, to the actual brutality of slavery that my ancestors endured (so that I could in fact, one day BE), I do fear that I may never live to see the death of white entitlement. Not in America.
Till next time, lovers!
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Discouragement, Thy Name is UNEMPLOYED
So...I'm a bit down in the dumps at the moment. I feel like I keep making fool hearty mistakes, and really, that's been my pattern all my life. I always manage to plunge straight ahead with naive abandon, only to find out that I've done myself a huge disservice. Why should relationships and employment be any different?
I've been trying to land a work from home job as lucrative and bountiful as the one that my friend, KD received with Apple. Now, while I was ecstatic for her (cause she'd been through hell the past several years and really deserved this!), I really, really wanted a job like hers too. Something that I could do from the comfort of my own home, which would allow me to save on gas, and pay all my bills.
Ever since I can remember, I've always been intoxicated by the thought of being able take care of myself. Having my own place, and my own extensive cable channel package (complete with all the things I find essential in comfy living), a bulky Netflix account, and some cheese left over to save in my Roth IRA account, was like mother's milk to me! Ah, the American Dream coming true. Eventually, I'd be able to own my own home. Having never grown up in one, that's my gold standard. How I measure my own success. I think growing up in apartments and two family homes all my life, owning a home means something more to me than probably most.
But now I'm facing the end of that dream. At 36 yrs. old, I find myself spinning in place. I'd only come to realize my true calling and fall in love with a job that could lead to a career once I started working at Hillman. Teaching was no longer something to fall back on, but it was a great passion I'd never even known was there. My true raison d'être. But, a lack of teaching and real world acting experience, cost me that job. And since I met the Man through that job, I guess it stands to reason that that relationship would fall apart as well. No job, no guy, no prospects for either...and no means of providing for myself. And I'm pushing 40. Needless to say, I'm scared shitless.
Everyone keeps telling me to have faith, and that I'll be alright, and every other platitude they can think of to quell my fear. But, that doesn't make me feel better. I'm gonna have to pack up all my shit and move...somewhere. Jersey's always the default option, and while I'm grateful to have it, it tastes and feels like failure to me. Going home with my tail between my legs can't feel like anything else.
I have no space at my grandparents' place, literally. They have 60+ years of things in that house. There's no room for me and my stuff. And they don't have all the channels I do, and I don't wanna force them to pay for shit they can't really afford just so I can keep up with Shameless and Homeland (they have HBO, so thankfully Game of Thrones is safe).
Atlanta gave me a lot, but it took away just as much. But at least here, I'm an adult. My own woman. There, I'm still 16. Alone and single, while my friends there have mortgages, and spouses, and children. They want me to come home, but it doesn't feel like that anymore to me. It's the place that I come from and carry with me, but it's not home. Not without Mommy.
So, in advance of keeping my life here and with great naivety, I bought some things with the hope of getting one of those work from home customer service jobs. But it doesn't look like either one is gonna come to fruition. I've been applying for other jobs like gang busters but to no avail. And so now, I'm stuck. No job. No money. Every time I leave Atlanta, it's never a joyful choice. Last time I left, I felt intrinsically, that I would return. I was 10 yrs. younger. I'm not as hopeful this time around. I'm gonna miss the life I built here. This time, it truly does feel like the end.
Till next time, lovers!
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Same Ol' Song, Same Damn Dance!
Hey peoples! Long time it's been. Being absent for the better part of two years has me talking like Yoda for some reason. At another juncture, investigate that, I will.
I took the 24 month hiatus because of my job. Now that I'm riding the unemployment express lane to hell, I figured it was time to fire up this old engine. I found myself re-reading previous posts, and laughing out loud. Turns out I'm pretty damn funny! And now I feel immense pressure to be that hysterical again. This probably won't be the post to do that, but here's hoping. And again, ain't nobody reading this but me, myself, and...oh yeah, I had a falling out with me and the others, so she's not reading this. But two outta three ain't bad.
I'M BACK BITCHES!!!! SUCK ON DEEZ NUTS, YA HEARD??!!
Had to get that out. So, I'm feeling some type of way about a situation and naturally, I feel the need to anonymously share with all and none of you at the same time.
Last year, this month actually, I was re-acquainted with a guy I knew from college. He was a director in the department with me. He was a senior and I was a lowly, scared, freshman. Usually I disguise people's names but I won't extend any such courtesy to him. Not just cause I wanna be a bit vindictive, cause naturally that plays heavily into it, but also, we've established that don't no damn body read this blog. So he's safe from detection.
Anywho, Stephen G. Dye-Morehouse man class of '96, hit me up cause he needed some vocal talent for an audio project he was working and thought to try his Alma mater and use some students. A quick perusal of the faculty webpage found my name listed. Surely since I'm the only one on the planet with my name spelled the way it is, he knew it was me, the one and the same as the girl he cast in his class projects.
Now, this was a big deal--my being cast in a senior director's midterm and final projects. They were supposed to use senior actors first and then branch out. I was so scared...of everybody and everything back then. But I went to the audition and was really surprised to be cast. I didn't think I'd done that good to tell you the truth. But this was my first acting gig in the department, and as a lowly freshman, I felt really proud of myself. Me and Stixx (that's his own nickname by the way) were the only freshman cast in these senior showcases. And the class was taught by the much feared Chair of the dept., PROFESSOR. Woman's been gone for a year, and she still scares the shit outta me. Anyway, he liked me so much, that he cast me in his final project too. I felt pretty damned pleased with myself. So the year goes on, I saw him a few times after that in the hall but didn't think too much about him. He was a kinda quiet guy, seemed to keep to himself, and we only dealt professionally with each other. The year ends and he graduates, and I continue with my life.
Fast forward seventeen years, and here he is on my phone. Sounding the same. Probably looking the same too. Brown skinned dude with glasses and dooky dreads. Ok, whatever. Catch up and see what's goin' on and how I can help. And pray that the kids don't embarrass us again by showing their unprofessional asses at a real audition.
We Skype to get further details. No video for some reason (on his side, not mine), but cool. Nice conversations. Just catching up. Find out he's been living in Japan for the past several years and just moved back around the same time I moved here. He's a native ATLien. So months go by with this kind of communication. I couldn't hook him up with students initially cause I was directing a play for the department and my father was sick in the hospital, so I told him next semester would be better. He was fine with that.
So several more months go by and we stay in touch but to me, it's just some dude I used to know and some kids I'm trying to find outside work. Nothing more than that. He's not even on my damn radar. But we finally meet up again for the audition and we talk and chill in my office. He got rid of his dreads. Everything else is still the same. But he looks older. Kinda handsome, but, not quite setting the loins aflame. Anyway, this is not about that. He's just some dude I used to know.
June comes. And that's when everything changes. By now, I've been released from my contract with Hillman and I'm trying to get my unemployment shit together down here. An arduous task that makes me miss the days of blue state livin'. So we're shooting the shit. He's returned from his comic con (wherever it was) and asks how things are with me (he knew my Dad was ill and I wasn't working and whatnot). I apologize for flaking on him (I was supposed to help with some voices for his project but shit was too real for me, being as I wasn't working and stuff), and he was like, no worries and blah blah blah. The thread reads as follows (all mistakes & typos are those of the author, not mine. I'm smarter than that):
SD:...just don't want you to think I think u flaked or anything. U helped me pass PROFESSOR's class way back and pimped my project, so I owe u. Lol
Me: Oh...lol. well cool, then consider the debt paid. And yeah, just wanted to apologize 4 flaking. I do feel a bit guilty cuz I gave my word I'd help u out. But as long as u dnt give me the side eye, I'm cool :)
SD: Well I must admit that I did give you the side eye, but it was a good thing and about something entirely different ;)
Me: Oh, really? Lol.
So, at this point I'm all surprised. WTF? Not sure how I feel about a dude I hadn't thought twice about in that way, hitting on me. But I went with it cause I just kept hearing Mommy and assorted friends telling me to just see what happens. What's the worst that can happen? I've been following that advice for far too long now, cause obviously, it doesn't seem to work for me. I should stick to my damn instincts and give dudes a wide berth when I feel like I'd never date them to begin with.
So it goes on and on. I ask when he first noticed me and he said back in school when he cast me. I told him I was flattered and he said:
SD: I'm glad u r flattered and didn't simply tell me to fuck off lol
Me: I'd nvr tell a man 2 fuck off who's complimenting me...unless he was being an asshole about it ;)
SD: Well I should have done it more. Seeing you again took me back...The only difference being you weren't a kid anymore under my direction. I felt a little bit better checking you out then...people would have had other ideas of why I cast u twice. Maybe not just because you were talented. I left out bits of conversation when confronted with casting you in those roles. I told PROFESSOR I thought I were very cute and attractive, but talented enough to transform into any role. Emphasis on cute/attractive
Hook baited. And my simple ass starts nibbling on it.
Me: Ooohhh...& lemme guess, she took issue w/that...
SD: No. She just said ok mr. Dye and just stared at me smirking...I have no idea what she was thinking. Probably her thoughts went from i was type casting to that I was sleeping with you and that. that's the real reason a freshman was cast twice to perform in front of her...Who knows...But yes, I did notice you. And it wasn't just for your acting.
Feeling emboldened now and a bit attractive, I pressed on, even though I wasn't quite sure I wanted to.
Me: So I get why u didn't ask me out back then, but what about now?
SD: I've been thinking about it a lot, but never knew how you would take it. I've been dropping hints...We should hang out, lets chat if you have time, etc. you never really bit so I figured there was no interest on your part.
I'll spare you the rest of the conversation, this was just the interesting part to me. I should have turned him down. Should have followed my gut and said, thanks but no thanks. Let's just keep this platonic. Gotta learn not to fuck with these men I knew in college. Not a damn one of them is good for me it seems. Cause none of them want my fat ass in the least.
So we go out. We see Man of Steel, which we both hated. Had a chill night, came back to my place and talked for a few hours. Something had happened to me during the course of the night, however. I went from actively dreading the date the days, and hours before, to sitting beside him in his Jeep Liberty, and feeling suddenly smitten. I don't know what it was or when it changed exactly. Maybe it was when he came to pick me up at my place...something I NEVER allow. I usually meet the guy at the restaurant or movie or whatever. But hell, I knew this guy from back in the day, so it'll be ok. He won't stalk me or anything. Maybe it was the five + hours we talked the night before where there was a bit of flirting going on. Maybe it was that the package didn't necessarily match the contents inside. He's still kinda quiet, but not timid. He's a bit dangerous it turns out. A scrapper. He doesn't have to raise his voice or argue, but you can tell he means business when he talks. Maybe it was his scent. Egyptian musk oil. Maybe it was the way he looked directly in my eyes when he spoke to me. Or that he paid for my meal and movie ticket (even though that made me wanna peel my skin off). Or that he ushered me into the theater before him by putting his hand on the small of my back. Maybe it was that he was nice to me and attentive. I think it was all of those things. And that he, at the time anyway, made me feel like he legitimately wanted to be next to me, with me. He made me feel desired, and that made me feel sexy.
Sitting next to him in my living room, talking about everything and nothing, I was stalling. Trying to figure out if I wanted to kiss him. If I wanted to sleep with him. No. No sex. That's clear. But...do I wanna kiss him? I don't know. What's he doing? He's really close right now. He says he wants to hold my hand? At 4am? Yeah right. So, I extend my hand to him and he takes it. Then he's kneeling before me, hand still clutching mine. He puts his other hand behind my ear and pulls me toward him, planting one helluva kiss on my unsuspecting, yet dripping with anticipatory excitement laced lips. Oh shit. He's a good kisser. I'm fucked.
And it was a wrap. That night, three + years of neglect ended the desert drought that had overtaken my loins. And I was in trouble.
The next morning I told him I didn't just want this to be about sex and asked if that was ok. He said yes. That he didn't just see me as that and that he'd never disrespect me that way. So now, I'm all drunk with the idea that I finally, after all these years, have a SOMEONE to talk about! I have a SOMEONE! And it felt nice. I was seeing someone. We talked for HOURS...from 9pm to 5am most nights...days at a time this was our schedule. We didn't see each other much, but he'd reach out to me. Instigate conversations. Usually it was me who'd have to almost chase a guy down to talk to him. But not Stephen. He wanted to talk to me. He wanted to get to know me. He wanted me. And I've never been wanted like that. Commitment phobe that I am, I was freaked out by it at first. Many a frantic phone call was made to several of my girls and there was lots of talking-down-from-ledges goin' on. Most of that really had to do with me trying to recognize what was truly normal between a man and a woman, and what was my normal. And was I freaking out cause I had a real reason to do so, or was it because my relationship compass was skewed due to my fucked up experiences and what doesn't feel normal to me, actually is just that and I should relax. So I'd relax. He never saw the crazy though. I kept the cap firmly on that bitch in his presence. But we talked about so many things. I learned a great many things about him, or so I thought. And I was open with him in a way that I'd never dare to do with any other man. Suddenly, the idea of sleeping with someone else, dating someone else even, was of no interest to me. I only wanted him. I only wanted to be with him. And it felt like he felt the same. And that was new. And it was soooo nice. A long time coming.
And we went on like that for two months. Most of the summer. It sustained my three week absence as I traveled home to check on my Dad and friends. We talked almost as often while I was away as we did while I was here. We saw each other one more time when I came back. He took me karaoking. It was the most fun I'd had with him or anyone in awhile. We come back to my place and have sex. It wasn't our best, but I figured it was cause of the time we'd spent apart. I wasn't worried though. He left, text me when he got home, and that was virtually the last time I heard from him. And definitely the last time I saw him.
I've spent the past two months trying to get a response from him. He offers none. He just disappeared. Cut me off. I've gone through the I hope he's ok thing and realize, of course he is. He's just not that into you. And that hurts. I've replayed all our conversations, and the events of the very last time we were together. What did I do? What did I say? Is it my fault? Could I have done something different? Put myself through the wringer. Cried and cried and CRIED my eyes out. Some tears fell for him and what I thought we were building, but most fell because he clearly fits into a larger pattern of mine. One that points to me being unlovable and undesirable...one that has me living the rest of my life alone. And that scares the hell outta me, cause that's my biggest fear.
I'm trying to obtain closure for myself cause I know I won't get what I want from him. I can accept our dalliance is over. I can accept that I let him in when I shouldn't have. I can accept that despite only knowing him for a few months, this hurts like hell. I can accept that I'll move on cause I have to. I can even accept that I'll never get the answers I want. And I can accept that I'll never stop wanting them.
We're pushing forty...why is this a thing that guys still do? We're not kids anymore, and I didn't think we were dating like kids. I'll close this very long post with the actual email I sent him a few hours ago.
Stephen,
I took the 24 month hiatus because of my job. Now that I'm riding the unemployment express lane to hell, I figured it was time to fire up this old engine. I found myself re-reading previous posts, and laughing out loud. Turns out I'm pretty damn funny! And now I feel immense pressure to be that hysterical again. This probably won't be the post to do that, but here's hoping. And again, ain't nobody reading this but me, myself, and...oh yeah, I had a falling out with me and the others, so she's not reading this. But two outta three ain't bad.
I'M BACK BITCHES!!!! SUCK ON DEEZ NUTS, YA HEARD??!!
Had to get that out. So, I'm feeling some type of way about a situation and naturally, I feel the need to anonymously share with all and none of you at the same time.
Last year, this month actually, I was re-acquainted with a guy I knew from college. He was a director in the department with me. He was a senior and I was a lowly, scared, freshman. Usually I disguise people's names but I won't extend any such courtesy to him. Not just cause I wanna be a bit vindictive, cause naturally that plays heavily into it, but also, we've established that don't no damn body read this blog. So he's safe from detection.
Anywho, Stephen G. Dye-Morehouse man class of '96, hit me up cause he needed some vocal talent for an audio project he was working and thought to try his Alma mater and use some students. A quick perusal of the faculty webpage found my name listed. Surely since I'm the only one on the planet with my name spelled the way it is, he knew it was me, the one and the same as the girl he cast in his class projects.
Now, this was a big deal--my being cast in a senior director's midterm and final projects. They were supposed to use senior actors first and then branch out. I was so scared...of everybody and everything back then. But I went to the audition and was really surprised to be cast. I didn't think I'd done that good to tell you the truth. But this was my first acting gig in the department, and as a lowly freshman, I felt really proud of myself. Me and Stixx (that's his own nickname by the way) were the only freshman cast in these senior showcases. And the class was taught by the much feared Chair of the dept., PROFESSOR. Woman's been gone for a year, and she still scares the shit outta me. Anyway, he liked me so much, that he cast me in his final project too. I felt pretty damned pleased with myself. So the year goes on, I saw him a few times after that in the hall but didn't think too much about him. He was a kinda quiet guy, seemed to keep to himself, and we only dealt professionally with each other. The year ends and he graduates, and I continue with my life.
Fast forward seventeen years, and here he is on my phone. Sounding the same. Probably looking the same too. Brown skinned dude with glasses and dooky dreads. Ok, whatever. Catch up and see what's goin' on and how I can help. And pray that the kids don't embarrass us again by showing their unprofessional asses at a real audition.
We Skype to get further details. No video for some reason (on his side, not mine), but cool. Nice conversations. Just catching up. Find out he's been living in Japan for the past several years and just moved back around the same time I moved here. He's a native ATLien. So months go by with this kind of communication. I couldn't hook him up with students initially cause I was directing a play for the department and my father was sick in the hospital, so I told him next semester would be better. He was fine with that.
So several more months go by and we stay in touch but to me, it's just some dude I used to know and some kids I'm trying to find outside work. Nothing more than that. He's not even on my damn radar. But we finally meet up again for the audition and we talk and chill in my office. He got rid of his dreads. Everything else is still the same. But he looks older. Kinda handsome, but, not quite setting the loins aflame. Anyway, this is not about that. He's just some dude I used to know.
June comes. And that's when everything changes. By now, I've been released from my contract with Hillman and I'm trying to get my unemployment shit together down here. An arduous task that makes me miss the days of blue state livin'. So we're shooting the shit. He's returned from his comic con (wherever it was) and asks how things are with me (he knew my Dad was ill and I wasn't working and whatnot). I apologize for flaking on him (I was supposed to help with some voices for his project but shit was too real for me, being as I wasn't working and stuff), and he was like, no worries and blah blah blah. The thread reads as follows (all mistakes & typos are those of the author, not mine. I'm smarter than that):
SD:...just don't want you to think I think u flaked or anything. U helped me pass PROFESSOR's class way back and pimped my project, so I owe u. Lol
Me: Oh...lol. well cool, then consider the debt paid. And yeah, just wanted to apologize 4 flaking. I do feel a bit guilty cuz I gave my word I'd help u out. But as long as u dnt give me the side eye, I'm cool :)
SD: Well I must admit that I did give you the side eye, but it was a good thing and about something entirely different ;)
Me: Oh, really? Lol.
So, at this point I'm all surprised. WTF? Not sure how I feel about a dude I hadn't thought twice about in that way, hitting on me. But I went with it cause I just kept hearing Mommy and assorted friends telling me to just see what happens. What's the worst that can happen? I've been following that advice for far too long now, cause obviously, it doesn't seem to work for me. I should stick to my damn instincts and give dudes a wide berth when I feel like I'd never date them to begin with.
So it goes on and on. I ask when he first noticed me and he said back in school when he cast me. I told him I was flattered and he said:
SD: I'm glad u r flattered and didn't simply tell me to fuck off lol
Me: I'd nvr tell a man 2 fuck off who's complimenting me...unless he was being an asshole about it ;)
SD: Well I should have done it more. Seeing you again took me back...The only difference being you weren't a kid anymore under my direction. I felt a little bit better checking you out then...people would have had other ideas of why I cast u twice. Maybe not just because you were talented. I left out bits of conversation when confronted with casting you in those roles. I told PROFESSOR I thought I were very cute and attractive, but talented enough to transform into any role. Emphasis on cute/attractive
Hook baited. And my simple ass starts nibbling on it.
Me: Ooohhh...& lemme guess, she took issue w/that...
SD: No. She just said ok mr. Dye and just stared at me smirking...I have no idea what she was thinking. Probably her thoughts went from i was type casting to that I was sleeping with you and that. that's the real reason a freshman was cast twice to perform in front of her...Who knows...But yes, I did notice you. And it wasn't just for your acting.
Feeling emboldened now and a bit attractive, I pressed on, even though I wasn't quite sure I wanted to.
Me: So I get why u didn't ask me out back then, but what about now?
SD: I've been thinking about it a lot, but never knew how you would take it. I've been dropping hints...We should hang out, lets chat if you have time, etc. you never really bit so I figured there was no interest on your part.
I'll spare you the rest of the conversation, this was just the interesting part to me. I should have turned him down. Should have followed my gut and said, thanks but no thanks. Let's just keep this platonic. Gotta learn not to fuck with these men I knew in college. Not a damn one of them is good for me it seems. Cause none of them want my fat ass in the least.
So we go out. We see Man of Steel, which we both hated. Had a chill night, came back to my place and talked for a few hours. Something had happened to me during the course of the night, however. I went from actively dreading the date the days, and hours before, to sitting beside him in his Jeep Liberty, and feeling suddenly smitten. I don't know what it was or when it changed exactly. Maybe it was when he came to pick me up at my place...something I NEVER allow. I usually meet the guy at the restaurant or movie or whatever. But hell, I knew this guy from back in the day, so it'll be ok. He won't stalk me or anything. Maybe it was the five + hours we talked the night before where there was a bit of flirting going on. Maybe it was that the package didn't necessarily match the contents inside. He's still kinda quiet, but not timid. He's a bit dangerous it turns out. A scrapper. He doesn't have to raise his voice or argue, but you can tell he means business when he talks. Maybe it was his scent. Egyptian musk oil. Maybe it was the way he looked directly in my eyes when he spoke to me. Or that he paid for my meal and movie ticket (even though that made me wanna peel my skin off). Or that he ushered me into the theater before him by putting his hand on the small of my back. Maybe it was that he was nice to me and attentive. I think it was all of those things. And that he, at the time anyway, made me feel like he legitimately wanted to be next to me, with me. He made me feel desired, and that made me feel sexy.
Sitting next to him in my living room, talking about everything and nothing, I was stalling. Trying to figure out if I wanted to kiss him. If I wanted to sleep with him. No. No sex. That's clear. But...do I wanna kiss him? I don't know. What's he doing? He's really close right now. He says he wants to hold my hand? At 4am? Yeah right. So, I extend my hand to him and he takes it. Then he's kneeling before me, hand still clutching mine. He puts his other hand behind my ear and pulls me toward him, planting one helluva kiss on my unsuspecting, yet dripping with anticipatory excitement laced lips. Oh shit. He's a good kisser. I'm fucked.
And it was a wrap. That night, three + years of neglect ended the desert drought that had overtaken my loins. And I was in trouble.
The next morning I told him I didn't just want this to be about sex and asked if that was ok. He said yes. That he didn't just see me as that and that he'd never disrespect me that way. So now, I'm all drunk with the idea that I finally, after all these years, have a SOMEONE to talk about! I have a SOMEONE! And it felt nice. I was seeing someone. We talked for HOURS...from 9pm to 5am most nights...days at a time this was our schedule. We didn't see each other much, but he'd reach out to me. Instigate conversations. Usually it was me who'd have to almost chase a guy down to talk to him. But not Stephen. He wanted to talk to me. He wanted to get to know me. He wanted me. And I've never been wanted like that. Commitment phobe that I am, I was freaked out by it at first. Many a frantic phone call was made to several of my girls and there was lots of talking-down-from-ledges goin' on. Most of that really had to do with me trying to recognize what was truly normal between a man and a woman, and what was my normal. And was I freaking out cause I had a real reason to do so, or was it because my relationship compass was skewed due to my fucked up experiences and what doesn't feel normal to me, actually is just that and I should relax. So I'd relax. He never saw the crazy though. I kept the cap firmly on that bitch in his presence. But we talked about so many things. I learned a great many things about him, or so I thought. And I was open with him in a way that I'd never dare to do with any other man. Suddenly, the idea of sleeping with someone else, dating someone else even, was of no interest to me. I only wanted him. I only wanted to be with him. And it felt like he felt the same. And that was new. And it was soooo nice. A long time coming.
And we went on like that for two months. Most of the summer. It sustained my three week absence as I traveled home to check on my Dad and friends. We talked almost as often while I was away as we did while I was here. We saw each other one more time when I came back. He took me karaoking. It was the most fun I'd had with him or anyone in awhile. We come back to my place and have sex. It wasn't our best, but I figured it was cause of the time we'd spent apart. I wasn't worried though. He left, text me when he got home, and that was virtually the last time I heard from him. And definitely the last time I saw him.
I've spent the past two months trying to get a response from him. He offers none. He just disappeared. Cut me off. I've gone through the I hope he's ok thing and realize, of course he is. He's just not that into you. And that hurts. I've replayed all our conversations, and the events of the very last time we were together. What did I do? What did I say? Is it my fault? Could I have done something different? Put myself through the wringer. Cried and cried and CRIED my eyes out. Some tears fell for him and what I thought we were building, but most fell because he clearly fits into a larger pattern of mine. One that points to me being unlovable and undesirable...one that has me living the rest of my life alone. And that scares the hell outta me, cause that's my biggest fear.
I'm trying to obtain closure for myself cause I know I won't get what I want from him. I can accept our dalliance is over. I can accept that I let him in when I shouldn't have. I can accept that despite only knowing him for a few months, this hurts like hell. I can accept that I'll move on cause I have to. I can even accept that I'll never get the answers I want. And I can accept that I'll never stop wanting them.
We're pushing forty...why is this a thing that guys still do? We're not kids anymore, and I didn't think we were dating like kids. I'll close this very long post with the actual email I sent him a few hours ago.
Stephen,
I'm not sure what's happened, or why, and I guess at this point it doesn't much matter. But I liked you. I really, really did. I didn't know how much until I stopped hearing from you. To talk as often as we did, for as long as we did, made me think whatever we were doing had some potential. I see now that it didn't. And I really feel like the biggest fool on the planet. I allowed myself to believe you when you told me that you'd been attracted to me even way back in school. And to feel like you liked me too. Clearly you didn't like me as much I did you, and that's ok. That happens sometimes. But why the silent treatment? You never gave me the sense that you were "that" guy. You always seemed so upfront and honest and I came to rely on that and find comfort in it. That everything you said you meant. So when you told me that you've told women that you no longer wanted to see them, I thought, "well, if he ever reaches that point with me, he'll tell me. I won't have to wonder". And then you do the exact opposite. And it's been confusing and painful, actually. Devoid of any real information, I'm forced to fill in the gaps myself. And I've worried about your welfare…are you ok? Is your family ok? And hoping that nothing serious has happened to any of you. And then I realize, naturally nothing's wrong. Your phone isn't malfunctioning. You just don't wanna see me anymore and it's easier for you to ignore me than to tell me the truth. I remember telling you once that I'm not one to chase after a man who doesn't want her. The only reason why I continue to contact you is because I'm trying to get some closure, so answers to my questions. The quickest way to get me to leave you alone was for you to be upfront with me. I would have asked some questions, say what I needed to say, wished you well and moved on. I don't know if you were afraid of me crying and making a scene, but I think I've let you know I'm not that type of woman. I just feel given our shared past, and that I wasn't some chick you met on the street, and because we're older and not a couple of stupid twenty year olds, that I deserved more than this. A simple conversation about how your life is too hectic and you don't have time for dating right now, or that you don't find me attractive, or that we're not sexually compatible, or whatever the issue is, and that we shouldn't see each other anymore would have sufficed. And it still would have been disappointing and sad, but at least I wouldn't be twisting in the wind. Just for future reference, don't pull a disappearing act on another woman again. It's really hurtful. I have no idea whether you'll read this or not, or respond if you do. Honestly, I fully expect you to delete this once you see it's from me. I'm writing this more for myself, so I can say all the things I've wanted to these past several weeks. A purge before closing this door. And if you get this, acknowledge it or not, it's all incidental to me. If you think I'm angry, please know that I'm not. I'm just a little hurt, that's all. I did enjoy the time we spent together and I'd be lying if I said otherwise. I just wish it hadn't ended so soon; and that it hadn't ended this way. I really do wish you all the best and that your family's well; and that you have great success with all the projects you're working on. I'd hoped that at some point down the road we could remain friendly and keep up with what the other's doing from time to time, but it's clear that's not what you want. I won't bother you anymore. So, take care of yourself Stephen and I hope you make it back to Japan one day.
Till next time, lovers!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Glee Problem
So here's the thing. I've been on the Glee band wagon since day one. I have a deep and abiding appreciation for musicals and All that Jazz. I was a member of the Drama Club in high school for Pete's sake, so if anyone knows what it's like to be derided at that age, c'est moi! And that's one of the main reasons why I fell so unabashedly in love with this show. Television dramedy conventions aside, I felt the writers really did a great job of tapping into what it felt like to be a creative teen in high school, living on the outskirts of popularity due to a talent that had nothing to do with throwing, kicking, or dribbling a ball. To bask in the unadulterated joy of being enveloped amongst your quirky peers in a room with (sometimes an equally quirky and dare I say downright creepy) adult facilitator, and talking about all the same things. Acceptance at the core. To look into the eyes of others and know that they get you. Oh how good it feels to be got at that age. Hell, at any age really.
And because it felt so authentic in its delivery and its experience, I reacted overwhelmingly with delight and (for sheer cheesy/corny affect) GLEE, at watching a fictionalized version of what I remembered about the best and oddest moments of my teenage years. To put it bluntly, they had me at first slushy. And I've been a faithful Gleek ever since.
I find myself at times, skimming the comment sections as they pertain to this show, just to see what the tweens are thinking. And for the past year and a half, they've been clearly upset with certain choices that have been made in the writer's room. I recall similar dissention in the ranks of the Ugly Betty viewership, but that at least could be blamed partially on the writer's strike. No such excuse this time around. Being an adult and further removed from the redundant and quite mundane activities of the American high school experience, I chalked most of that petulant discourse up to adolescent ignorance, and I kept it moving. Much of what was bothersome to them didn't seem to affect me really, as my main concern is and has always been, the plight of Mercedes. From jump I could see the romantic triangle situation--the Rachel, Quinn, Finn of it all. Then, since they couldn't make Rachel and Finn skip off into happily ever after in the first season, I knew they'd pair her up with someone else. Didn't know it'd be two someone elses (insert Puck and Jesse now). But as I knew it was coming as a way to create jealousy in Finn and get him to realize that Rachel's who he really desires, I wasn't that emotive about it. Color me indifferent. It was entertaining as it needed to be, but I really didn't care as much. Mainly because I'm not a Rachel fan. She reminds me too much of the crazy theater bitches I grew up with, and so she serves as the fictional stand in for my very real (and still salient) hostility. Guess it's true. We never outgrow high school.
Some say last season took a veer off course, and many (critics and friends alike) claim it was weak. I didn't feel that way. I still tuned in week after week. I still enjoyed how the songs chosen for the most part furthered the plot, and it was clear to me anyway, that they were chosen with the character's intention in mind. I enjoyed that even if i didn't particularly like the song. I watched the inevitable reconciliation of Rachel and Finn at season's end. I endured their quadrangle thing with other folks. And more so, I was really easily roped into the whole Kurt situation. I felt season two was finally paying attention to the forgotten members of New Directions. That they were finally trying to delve into other characters' stories, and I was ready for that. Mercedes continued to be stuck in the background, but hey, she's not gay or tormented. She's just the fat black chick. She can wait.
I felt a show like Glee had a responsibility to tackle a topic that was so prevalent in high schools across the country. They were on the cutting edge of the issue of teen suicide and teen homosexuality; and I felt they handled it with integrity and maturity. Very reminiscent of John Hughes, who never condescended to his teenage audience.
But just like with gangsta movies, there's a time to tell that story, and a time to move the fuck on! And what I'm saying to Ryan Murphy et al is precisely that. MOVE. THE FUCK. ON. It just feels like they're stuck in this rut of bullying and gay teens and more bullying, and more gay teens, and Rachel and Finn, and Puck and Quinn, and bullying and gay teens. And oh! Mercedes has a diva fit. And then we're back to bullying gay teens. And Rachel. And Finn. And Santana now and her lesbian gayness and bullying. Are these really the only stories left to tell? Out of all the characters bursting at the seams of the show? And since that singing reality show is gonna breed more nuts to the factory, is this all we, the viewers, are gonna be subjected to? I hate it when I can see the strings. When I know where we're going before we even get there. That's not a journey. It's the road trip from hell in the back seat of my grandfather's Buick listening to Glenn Miller all the way.
Let's see some real truth. I mean, TV truth, but still. I'm sick of watching these kids love all over top of each other. The unending support for one another is sickening. The kids I went to school with would shank each other with a sharpened toothbrush in order to get the lead in the school play. That could be cause I'm from Jersey, but still. There was always a fair amount of death at stake for a good role. And I don't see that here. Everything feels so sanitized. Like unless we decide to make an episode about kids being mean to each other and bang the hell outta that drum, then we have to make them all love each other. I don't know too many people who would continue to be kind to someone who constantly and viciously berated them. Again, this could be cause I don't know many kind hearted souls. But again, not the point.
I guess what I'm really saying is let's get some other stories goin here--get into some other characters. And let's give this dog some bite. Give him some teeth and watch him rip the tender flesh from the succulent bones of opportunity. Then again, I guess I have The Walking Dead for that.
Till next time, lovers!
And because it felt so authentic in its delivery and its experience, I reacted overwhelmingly with delight and (for sheer cheesy/corny affect) GLEE, at watching a fictionalized version of what I remembered about the best and oddest moments of my teenage years. To put it bluntly, they had me at first slushy. And I've been a faithful Gleek ever since.
I find myself at times, skimming the comment sections as they pertain to this show, just to see what the tweens are thinking. And for the past year and a half, they've been clearly upset with certain choices that have been made in the writer's room. I recall similar dissention in the ranks of the Ugly Betty viewership, but that at least could be blamed partially on the writer's strike. No such excuse this time around. Being an adult and further removed from the redundant and quite mundane activities of the American high school experience, I chalked most of that petulant discourse up to adolescent ignorance, and I kept it moving. Much of what was bothersome to them didn't seem to affect me really, as my main concern is and has always been, the plight of Mercedes. From jump I could see the romantic triangle situation--the Rachel, Quinn, Finn of it all. Then, since they couldn't make Rachel and Finn skip off into happily ever after in the first season, I knew they'd pair her up with someone else. Didn't know it'd be two someone elses (insert Puck and Jesse now). But as I knew it was coming as a way to create jealousy in Finn and get him to realize that Rachel's who he really desires, I wasn't that emotive about it. Color me indifferent. It was entertaining as it needed to be, but I really didn't care as much. Mainly because I'm not a Rachel fan. She reminds me too much of the crazy theater bitches I grew up with, and so she serves as the fictional stand in for my very real (and still salient) hostility. Guess it's true. We never outgrow high school.
Some say last season took a veer off course, and many (critics and friends alike) claim it was weak. I didn't feel that way. I still tuned in week after week. I still enjoyed how the songs chosen for the most part furthered the plot, and it was clear to me anyway, that they were chosen with the character's intention in mind. I enjoyed that even if i didn't particularly like the song. I watched the inevitable reconciliation of Rachel and Finn at season's end. I endured their quadrangle thing with other folks. And more so, I was really easily roped into the whole Kurt situation. I felt season two was finally paying attention to the forgotten members of New Directions. That they were finally trying to delve into other characters' stories, and I was ready for that. Mercedes continued to be stuck in the background, but hey, she's not gay or tormented. She's just the fat black chick. She can wait.
I felt a show like Glee had a responsibility to tackle a topic that was so prevalent in high schools across the country. They were on the cutting edge of the issue of teen suicide and teen homosexuality; and I felt they handled it with integrity and maturity. Very reminiscent of John Hughes, who never condescended to his teenage audience.
But just like with gangsta movies, there's a time to tell that story, and a time to move the fuck on! And what I'm saying to Ryan Murphy et al is precisely that. MOVE. THE FUCK. ON. It just feels like they're stuck in this rut of bullying and gay teens and more bullying, and more gay teens, and Rachel and Finn, and Puck and Quinn, and bullying and gay teens. And oh! Mercedes has a diva fit. And then we're back to bullying gay teens. And Rachel. And Finn. And Santana now and her lesbian gayness and bullying. Are these really the only stories left to tell? Out of all the characters bursting at the seams of the show? And since that singing reality show is gonna breed more nuts to the factory, is this all we, the viewers, are gonna be subjected to? I hate it when I can see the strings. When I know where we're going before we even get there. That's not a journey. It's the road trip from hell in the back seat of my grandfather's Buick listening to Glenn Miller all the way.
Let's see some real truth. I mean, TV truth, but still. I'm sick of watching these kids love all over top of each other. The unending support for one another is sickening. The kids I went to school with would shank each other with a sharpened toothbrush in order to get the lead in the school play. That could be cause I'm from Jersey, but still. There was always a fair amount of death at stake for a good role. And I don't see that here. Everything feels so sanitized. Like unless we decide to make an episode about kids being mean to each other and bang the hell outta that drum, then we have to make them all love each other. I don't know too many people who would continue to be kind to someone who constantly and viciously berated them. Again, this could be cause I don't know many kind hearted souls. But again, not the point.
I guess what I'm really saying is let's get some other stories goin here--get into some other characters. And let's give this dog some bite. Give him some teeth and watch him rip the tender flesh from the succulent bones of opportunity. Then again, I guess I have The Walking Dead for that.
Till next time, lovers!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Penn State: A Goddamn Shame
This horrific situation has been on my mind since it broke a few days ago. I wondered in vain for days why Herman Cain and his bullshit were the lead story. I really don't give a damn if he pinched some blond asses in 1994. They're grown. They handled it. Got paid and moved on with their lives. But a coach accused of molesting troubled youths (read BLACK) for over a decade, while coaching at a prestigious powerhouse university in the Big East Football Conference--that's not more important? Who cares about the idiotic pizza guy running as the Republicans' Anti-Obama & his all too predictable sexual peccadilloes with young white women.
I read about ten pages of the Grand Jury indictment report against Jerry Sandusky, and I haven't been comfortable since. The graphic nature of how he abused these children haunts me worse than last night's episode of American Horror Story (and if you've been watching that show, you know that's a helluva statement).
I can't go into what was said. You can Google it if you want to have those images seared into your brain, but I still find it so goddamn troubling that so many people witnessed what he was doing and said NOTHING! One janitor in 2000 (according to a CNN report) claimed to have seen Sandusky pin a child against a wall in the shower and perform oral sex on him. IN THE LOCKER ROOM. ON PENN STATE'S CAMPUS. And did nothing. Another, more disturbing account, detailed that of a graduate student (who by the way, is now an assistant football coach for Penn State) who witnessed Sandusky anally raping a boy around the age of ten, also in the shower. And did nothing.
At first, when I read this, I felt for the grad student. The report said he was visibly distraught as he left and called Joe Paterno (the head coach) the next day, after having first discussed the matter with his father. But as I thought about it, I was like, why the fuck didn't he stop it? How could he see that and just leave the child there? How could he not help this little boy? I thought of how scared and confused this child must have been. How much pain he endured. The report said that both the child and Sandusky saw the grad student see them. And I thought how he must have wished for that man to come over and save him. How could he turn his back, go home, eat dinner, talk to his father SLEEP, that night after seeing that? And how could he resume life as normal with this man? Work with him every day knowing what a monster he was. How?
Initially, I didn't preoccupy my mind with the thought of race. I kinda assumed the children were white, even though they allegedly came from Sandusky's foundation Second Mile. A foundation he started for troubled youth. That term is quite telling because it connotes something very specific to most folks. When one hears troubled youth or at risk youth, it is almost automatically assumed the youths in question are black. If not black, then some other minority but definitely not white. But in my mind, I just couldn't fathom that really. I didn't have time to think about it while the despicable details were bombarding the nightly news at a rapid fire rate. But now, I find myself inquiring about it because I think it's a serious factor.
I don't have any confirmation about the race of the alleged victims, but a friend of mine said she heard they're black. And if this is true, it shows how insidious race relations continue to be in this country.
Among my black friends, we always laugh and joke about CWP shenanigans. For those that don't know CWP stands for CRAZY WHITE PEOPLE. They're always doing something stupid, fearlessly stumbling along the way, cloaked in their whiteness and using it as a shield or a kind of currency if you will, to pay their passage. Most times it works out. The joggers jailed in Iran? White. Freed. Those Christian missionaries jailed in some Muslim country for trying to convert the citizens to Christ? White. Freed...eventually. The kid caned in Singapore. White. Oh, guess it didn't really work out that great for him, huh? Still, the country rallied for him. When was the last time you saw an international incident involving American citizens in peril who weren't white? Or related to Lisa Ling? Lemme rephrase. Were any of those folks black? Hell no! Cause we know if we get into some shit oversees we're on our own! Even if President Obama was ready to send in the troops to save his own, best to believe Congress would impeach his ass first. We kinda joke about it and make light of the fact that our government won't lift a finger to save its black citizens from being accosted, raped, or killed should we fall into less favorable international hands. That's just the way it is. And there's something sobering about that. It keeps us from acting crazy in international time zones.
But what's funny in a Dave Chappelle comedy sketch, or as a joke when I'm chillin with my friends, loses its humor when the topic of sexual molestation comes into play. My cousin posted an article to my facebook page--the topic, how poor black children are more apt to be victims of molestation. Why you may ask? Because who's gonna protect them? They're easy targets because still, with a black President, African Americans are still second, third, and fourth class citizens in our own country. We're non persons. A predator like Sandusky, wants to get away with his crime. So he's gonna choose accordingly. Who's gonna care that he's raping a black boy in the showers? Who's gonna even give it more than a moment's thought? Apparently no one.
And I was angered when I thought and then heard (unsubstantiated though it may be) that these alleged victims of abuse are possibly black. Because I thought, is that why you chose them? Because you knew you could do whatever you wanted, in front of whoever was around, and no one would stop you? Is that why none of these adult men called the cops or pursued it any further? Great, you told your boss that this guy was being inappropriate with young boys, but what then? Did you harass your boss until action was taken? Did you call the cops? What kind of follow up did you do? Oh, that's right. Nothing. It was better, safer for you to keep your damn job. What if these children had been white from good homes? Had money? Would the police have been notified then? What is so sick and twisted about us as a people that our racial indifference extends all the way down to the children? Damn. Heartless.
I was initially against firing Joe Paterno. I don't care that much about college football. But I feel his accomplishments there are certainly legendary and commendable. I'm not a gung ho football spectator, but it's a huge part of my life. Or had been. It's a part of my family's genetic make-up just like the DNA strands in our blood. Every man in my family has played it--my father, my brother, my uncles. My cousin's husband makes his living as a coach in the NFL & has done so for over a decade. He also coached on the collegiate level. So I enjoy it as much as some, maybe not as much as most. And I feel bad that Joe Pa as he's affectionately referred to, was fired due to the vomit inducing actions of one very sick son of a bitch. That now his legacy is tainted and not really by something he did himself. But as I think about it again and listen to his statements of regret, I realize that his inaction was an action. That he chose to let sleeping dogs lie and continue to think about football and his players and everything else except for this child predator in his midst. How the hell could he sit across a coaching table from this man and talk about plays, attendance, boosters, players & players' eligibilities & all that other shit, and KNOW he was looking into the eyes of Satan himself. That the man before him enjoyed having sex with children. I keep coming back to that question HOW? because it just baffles the mind. Seriously, my mind is literally blown by this whole thing.
I'm sorry these grown ass men didn't make better choices. I'm sorry that the team is now covered in the same shit stains as their former assistant coach & athletic director, and that they have to pay the price. I'm sorry that they, as boys themselves in some respects, can't just play the game they love, but have to undergo this stress and turmoil of losing a beloved coach before their season comes to a close. I'm sorry that they can't have this time again. I'm sorry that football on the collegiate level (more so than on the professional level even) hasn't been a game for a long, long time, and that because of that everyone lost sight of good old fashioned human decency.
But most of all, most importantly--I'm sorry that Penn State University, its officials from the President on down, that the coaches, the interns, the Athletic Director, the Director of Finance, their attorneys, the board of trustees, Second Mile Youth foundation, the janitorial staff, all who either knew or should have known, let a predator rob these defenseless children--these little boys, of their innocence. That they allowed him to do it with impunity, without fear of discovery or punishment. And that their voices were silenced for far too long, and threaten to remain so amid this circus.
But mostly, I'm afraid that the firing of everyone involved will fail to keep this from happening again at Penn or anywhere else. That's the symptom. It's not the disease. When the welfare of the few (the college & it's lucrative football program) comes before that of the many (the innocent children) the result will always be the same. The only thing to change are the players, not the play.
Till next time, lovers!
I read about ten pages of the Grand Jury indictment report against Jerry Sandusky, and I haven't been comfortable since. The graphic nature of how he abused these children haunts me worse than last night's episode of American Horror Story (and if you've been watching that show, you know that's a helluva statement).
I can't go into what was said. You can Google it if you want to have those images seared into your brain, but I still find it so goddamn troubling that so many people witnessed what he was doing and said NOTHING! One janitor in 2000 (according to a CNN report) claimed to have seen Sandusky pin a child against a wall in the shower and perform oral sex on him. IN THE LOCKER ROOM. ON PENN STATE'S CAMPUS. And did nothing. Another, more disturbing account, detailed that of a graduate student (who by the way, is now an assistant football coach for Penn State) who witnessed Sandusky anally raping a boy around the age of ten, also in the shower. And did nothing.
At first, when I read this, I felt for the grad student. The report said he was visibly distraught as he left and called Joe Paterno (the head coach) the next day, after having first discussed the matter with his father. But as I thought about it, I was like, why the fuck didn't he stop it? How could he see that and just leave the child there? How could he not help this little boy? I thought of how scared and confused this child must have been. How much pain he endured. The report said that both the child and Sandusky saw the grad student see them. And I thought how he must have wished for that man to come over and save him. How could he turn his back, go home, eat dinner, talk to his father SLEEP, that night after seeing that? And how could he resume life as normal with this man? Work with him every day knowing what a monster he was. How?
Initially, I didn't preoccupy my mind with the thought of race. I kinda assumed the children were white, even though they allegedly came from Sandusky's foundation Second Mile. A foundation he started for troubled youth. That term is quite telling because it connotes something very specific to most folks. When one hears troubled youth or at risk youth, it is almost automatically assumed the youths in question are black. If not black, then some other minority but definitely not white. But in my mind, I just couldn't fathom that really. I didn't have time to think about it while the despicable details were bombarding the nightly news at a rapid fire rate. But now, I find myself inquiring about it because I think it's a serious factor.
I don't have any confirmation about the race of the alleged victims, but a friend of mine said she heard they're black. And if this is true, it shows how insidious race relations continue to be in this country.
Among my black friends, we always laugh and joke about CWP shenanigans. For those that don't know CWP stands for CRAZY WHITE PEOPLE. They're always doing something stupid, fearlessly stumbling along the way, cloaked in their whiteness and using it as a shield or a kind of currency if you will, to pay their passage. Most times it works out. The joggers jailed in Iran? White. Freed. Those Christian missionaries jailed in some Muslim country for trying to convert the citizens to Christ? White. Freed...eventually. The kid caned in Singapore. White. Oh, guess it didn't really work out that great for him, huh? Still, the country rallied for him. When was the last time you saw an international incident involving American citizens in peril who weren't white? Or related to Lisa Ling? Lemme rephrase. Were any of those folks black? Hell no! Cause we know if we get into some shit oversees we're on our own! Even if President Obama was ready to send in the troops to save his own, best to believe Congress would impeach his ass first. We kinda joke about it and make light of the fact that our government won't lift a finger to save its black citizens from being accosted, raped, or killed should we fall into less favorable international hands. That's just the way it is. And there's something sobering about that. It keeps us from acting crazy in international time zones.
But what's funny in a Dave Chappelle comedy sketch, or as a joke when I'm chillin with my friends, loses its humor when the topic of sexual molestation comes into play. My cousin posted an article to my facebook page--the topic, how poor black children are more apt to be victims of molestation. Why you may ask? Because who's gonna protect them? They're easy targets because still, with a black President, African Americans are still second, third, and fourth class citizens in our own country. We're non persons. A predator like Sandusky, wants to get away with his crime. So he's gonna choose accordingly. Who's gonna care that he's raping a black boy in the showers? Who's gonna even give it more than a moment's thought? Apparently no one.
And I was angered when I thought and then heard (unsubstantiated though it may be) that these alleged victims of abuse are possibly black. Because I thought, is that why you chose them? Because you knew you could do whatever you wanted, in front of whoever was around, and no one would stop you? Is that why none of these adult men called the cops or pursued it any further? Great, you told your boss that this guy was being inappropriate with young boys, but what then? Did you harass your boss until action was taken? Did you call the cops? What kind of follow up did you do? Oh, that's right. Nothing. It was better, safer for you to keep your damn job. What if these children had been white from good homes? Had money? Would the police have been notified then? What is so sick and twisted about us as a people that our racial indifference extends all the way down to the children? Damn. Heartless.
I was initially against firing Joe Paterno. I don't care that much about college football. But I feel his accomplishments there are certainly legendary and commendable. I'm not a gung ho football spectator, but it's a huge part of my life. Or had been. It's a part of my family's genetic make-up just like the DNA strands in our blood. Every man in my family has played it--my father, my brother, my uncles. My cousin's husband makes his living as a coach in the NFL & has done so for over a decade. He also coached on the collegiate level. So I enjoy it as much as some, maybe not as much as most. And I feel bad that Joe Pa as he's affectionately referred to, was fired due to the vomit inducing actions of one very sick son of a bitch. That now his legacy is tainted and not really by something he did himself. But as I think about it again and listen to his statements of regret, I realize that his inaction was an action. That he chose to let sleeping dogs lie and continue to think about football and his players and everything else except for this child predator in his midst. How the hell could he sit across a coaching table from this man and talk about plays, attendance, boosters, players & players' eligibilities & all that other shit, and KNOW he was looking into the eyes of Satan himself. That the man before him enjoyed having sex with children. I keep coming back to that question HOW? because it just baffles the mind. Seriously, my mind is literally blown by this whole thing.
I'm sorry these grown ass men didn't make better choices. I'm sorry that the team is now covered in the same shit stains as their former assistant coach & athletic director, and that they have to pay the price. I'm sorry that they, as boys themselves in some respects, can't just play the game they love, but have to undergo this stress and turmoil of losing a beloved coach before their season comes to a close. I'm sorry that they can't have this time again. I'm sorry that football on the collegiate level (more so than on the professional level even) hasn't been a game for a long, long time, and that because of that everyone lost sight of good old fashioned human decency.
But most of all, most importantly--I'm sorry that Penn State University, its officials from the President on down, that the coaches, the interns, the Athletic Director, the Director of Finance, their attorneys, the board of trustees, Second Mile Youth foundation, the janitorial staff, all who either knew or should have known, let a predator rob these defenseless children--these little boys, of their innocence. That they allowed him to do it with impunity, without fear of discovery or punishment. And that their voices were silenced for far too long, and threaten to remain so amid this circus.
But mostly, I'm afraid that the firing of everyone involved will fail to keep this from happening again at Penn or anywhere else. That's the symptom. It's not the disease. When the welfare of the few (the college & it's lucrative football program) comes before that of the many (the innocent children) the result will always be the same. The only thing to change are the players, not the play.
Till next time, lovers!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Peace and Mommy
It's September. For most, this is a difficult month. And this year, as the 10th Anniversary of September 11th approaches, it's gonna be even more unbearable. But for me, September not only represents our national tragedy and remembering my brother's best friend who lost his young life on that day, but it also reminds me of the end of summer. Not just the season itself, but what that season has always represented in literature. Summer is youth, innocence, and folly. After Summer comes Fall, a season that lingers blithely between youth and age. The healthy and the infirmed. Life and Death. Me without Mommy. Fall, the end of September, pushes on relentlessly to October. The month that I lost my anchor. When I lost Mommy.
It'll be two years this October 15th. It seems so unreal and yet, it is unflinchingly so. I've found a normal rhythm now to my life that I didn't think I would. More importantly (and honestly), one I didn't want. In the beginning, I didn't want to accept life without her. It was too painful to touch that thought, too painful to actually deal with. So I didn't really. I managed to immobilize myself with endless hours of TV watching, some drinking and socializing, watching lots and lots of Football (this is amazing cause even though it's my default sport cause I was kinda raised on it, virtually every man in my family--including my father--played the sport, I was always kinda disinterested in it), and making and maintaining friendships. I seemed alright on the outside, and I think to everyone else, myself especially, I believed that meant I was. I could go for days without crying and that was a pretty good gauge of how I was doing. 'You saw something or someone that reminded you of Mommy and you didn't lose it, good. You're getting better.' But that wasn't true. It always came apart when I least expected it. In the shower. In bed at night. The wheels eventually fell off the bus when there was no one there to help put them back on.
Those initial days, months, hours, breaths...without her were unquantifiably brutal. And I think my brain saved me by placing her somewhere else. She's in the hospital again. She's on another cruise. Wherever. Anywhere but here. And anything but dead. We spent a lot of time together, but we also spent heaps of time apart, as is natural and normal. So I was used to her not being around. And I was comforted by that. And then I felt guilty because I felt so normal about her not being here. And then as if on cue, without much practice or coercion from me, my mind would hone in on where she really was. Images of her in her casket would flood my memory. I'd recall kneeling/collapsing before the white casket she was lying in, holding onto it and crying so hard my head hurt, not wanting the cemetery workers waiting solemnly behind me to lower her into the open grave below. I didn't wanna leave her there. Alone. She's claustrophobic after all and doesn't do well in enclosed spaces. How can I leave her there like that?
And everyone kept telling me from day one that she's in a better place, and she doesn't feel any pain now. 'She's still with you. You can still talk to her'. Look folks, I don't wanna hear that shit. Cast no aspersions on my Christianity, but that doesn't comfort me. I don't wanna talk to her ephemerally and I don't wanna imagine her laugh or have a sense memory recall of her hugging me. I wanna feel her arms around me. I wanna hear her laugh. I want her to really be here, not her spirit. Though I understood why they were saying these things, it really was all I could do not to curse some good hearted Christian person out or punch 'em in the fuckin face. Leave me alone with that bullshit. Sell it to someone who's interested in buyin it, cause it ain't me.
But at night, I would want to feel her around me. I was angry, but I wanted those people to be right. I wanted to feel her spirit around me. Something to let me know she wasn't really gone. But I felt nothing. She wasn't here. And I thought, 'how could she ignore me like this? She knows I miss her. She knows how hard I'm struggling. She knows I put on a brave face for everyone else so they don't feel awkward around me, but alone in my shower or in my bed, she sees me fall apart. Doesn't she?' She knows how much I wanna be alright but can also see how clearly not alright I am. So why won't she come?
And I think now I know. It's been something I've been kicking around in my head, first as a new play idea. As a component of a new play idea I should say. But it kinda came to me. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the reason she can't come. Maybe I've blocked her out unconsciously. And as a story convention, that sounds lame. But I think because I'd become so disconnected with the thing I love to do, the thing I was put on this Earth to do, I became disconnected from her. Because I was so sad and broken, she wasn't able to come to me. I wasn't at peace. And now, I think I'm on my way there. Finally. I just got a new job teaching theater at my Alma mater. And from my inside out, I feel the joy seeping out. I don't know if this is real or imagined on my part, but I do know this. Ever since I got this job, Mommy's been showing up in my dreams. Even the mini naps I take now in front of the television (I feel like my grandparents now. They're always dozing off in front of the boob tube). And when she comes, she's always laughing. Even in the dreams about nothing. Like last night, she showed up and we went to Chik-Fil-A. She said she hadn't been in awhile and wanted to go, so we went. And she was smiling and laughing. And it felt so real that when I woke up, it didn't feel like I'd be asleep. It felt more like a memory.
So I think this means I'm doing better. I feel better. All I really wanted was for her to come back to me. And knowing that she didn't leave me, that she can come now, has given me such peace that I can't fully describe it in detail. It won't make sense if I tried. But more than that, I see that what I was really searching for, was a way to make peace with her death. And that's infinitely so difficult, but something that's supremely important. Something that has to happen. I see that now. I had to make peace with moving on. And I think that journey has now, finally begun. Thank you Mommy. You always seem to know what I need way before I do. And more than that, you always manage to give it to me. Still taking care of me. I'm still your baby.
I love you.
It'll be two years this October 15th. It seems so unreal and yet, it is unflinchingly so. I've found a normal rhythm now to my life that I didn't think I would. More importantly (and honestly), one I didn't want. In the beginning, I didn't want to accept life without her. It was too painful to touch that thought, too painful to actually deal with. So I didn't really. I managed to immobilize myself with endless hours of TV watching, some drinking and socializing, watching lots and lots of Football (this is amazing cause even though it's my default sport cause I was kinda raised on it, virtually every man in my family--including my father--played the sport, I was always kinda disinterested in it), and making and maintaining friendships. I seemed alright on the outside, and I think to everyone else, myself especially, I believed that meant I was. I could go for days without crying and that was a pretty good gauge of how I was doing. 'You saw something or someone that reminded you of Mommy and you didn't lose it, good. You're getting better.' But that wasn't true. It always came apart when I least expected it. In the shower. In bed at night. The wheels eventually fell off the bus when there was no one there to help put them back on.
Those initial days, months, hours, breaths...without her were unquantifiably brutal. And I think my brain saved me by placing her somewhere else. She's in the hospital again. She's on another cruise. Wherever. Anywhere but here. And anything but dead. We spent a lot of time together, but we also spent heaps of time apart, as is natural and normal. So I was used to her not being around. And I was comforted by that. And then I felt guilty because I felt so normal about her not being here. And then as if on cue, without much practice or coercion from me, my mind would hone in on where she really was. Images of her in her casket would flood my memory. I'd recall kneeling/collapsing before the white casket she was lying in, holding onto it and crying so hard my head hurt, not wanting the cemetery workers waiting solemnly behind me to lower her into the open grave below. I didn't wanna leave her there. Alone. She's claustrophobic after all and doesn't do well in enclosed spaces. How can I leave her there like that?
And everyone kept telling me from day one that she's in a better place, and she doesn't feel any pain now. 'She's still with you. You can still talk to her'. Look folks, I don't wanna hear that shit. Cast no aspersions on my Christianity, but that doesn't comfort me. I don't wanna talk to her ephemerally and I don't wanna imagine her laugh or have a sense memory recall of her hugging me. I wanna feel her arms around me. I wanna hear her laugh. I want her to really be here, not her spirit. Though I understood why they were saying these things, it really was all I could do not to curse some good hearted Christian person out or punch 'em in the fuckin face. Leave me alone with that bullshit. Sell it to someone who's interested in buyin it, cause it ain't me.
But at night, I would want to feel her around me. I was angry, but I wanted those people to be right. I wanted to feel her spirit around me. Something to let me know she wasn't really gone. But I felt nothing. She wasn't here. And I thought, 'how could she ignore me like this? She knows I miss her. She knows how hard I'm struggling. She knows I put on a brave face for everyone else so they don't feel awkward around me, but alone in my shower or in my bed, she sees me fall apart. Doesn't she?' She knows how much I wanna be alright but can also see how clearly not alright I am. So why won't she come?
And I think now I know. It's been something I've been kicking around in my head, first as a new play idea. As a component of a new play idea I should say. But it kinda came to me. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the reason she can't come. Maybe I've blocked her out unconsciously. And as a story convention, that sounds lame. But I think because I'd become so disconnected with the thing I love to do, the thing I was put on this Earth to do, I became disconnected from her. Because I was so sad and broken, she wasn't able to come to me. I wasn't at peace. And now, I think I'm on my way there. Finally. I just got a new job teaching theater at my Alma mater. And from my inside out, I feel the joy seeping out. I don't know if this is real or imagined on my part, but I do know this. Ever since I got this job, Mommy's been showing up in my dreams. Even the mini naps I take now in front of the television (I feel like my grandparents now. They're always dozing off in front of the boob tube). And when she comes, she's always laughing. Even in the dreams about nothing. Like last night, she showed up and we went to Chik-Fil-A. She said she hadn't been in awhile and wanted to go, so we went. And she was smiling and laughing. And it felt so real that when I woke up, it didn't feel like I'd be asleep. It felt more like a memory.
So I think this means I'm doing better. I feel better. All I really wanted was for her to come back to me. And knowing that she didn't leave me, that she can come now, has given me such peace that I can't fully describe it in detail. It won't make sense if I tried. But more than that, I see that what I was really searching for, was a way to make peace with her death. And that's infinitely so difficult, but something that's supremely important. Something that has to happen. I see that now. I had to make peace with moving on. And I think that journey has now, finally begun. Thank you Mommy. You always seem to know what I need way before I do. And more than that, you always manage to give it to me. Still taking care of me. I'm still your baby.
I love you.
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