Losing My Mind at a Third Grader

I had to halt after school improv class on Friday. My brain imploded, and I literally put out my hands like tiny stop signs to give an internally steaming (hopefully externally only rigid) lecturelet (mini lecture).

We were doing an ensemble monologue. Someone would stand in the middle of the circle and give a monologue. After a line of two I would pause the student and ask, "Okay, who has an idea about what might come next?" And then all the 9-year-old hands shoot up. Usually, honestly, they're already up--no matter how many times I explain, "When you raise your hand before the person has even finished their sentence, how can you possibly have an idea for what you will say next?"

People wax saccharine about the purity of children, the darling, the unconditional love. In improv, the most experienced teachers gospelize "Play like a child!"But every week I do see children improvise, and, man, they are selfish little pufferfish. Some things that are normal in the classroom: students who talk endlessly when others are on stage, students who refuse to play games they "don't like" despite never having heard of them before, students who refuse to have a three-line scene with the physically disabled student, students who refuse to stand near the hilarious and brave autistic kiddo, students who are disappointed literally every time I do not call on them, students who kick each other. I teach twelve children. Two are the exception to these behaviors. The others openly show disgust for even the suggestions of their peers. This is not all children. This is one class of third graders in Evanston. Still. We discuss respect every week, we have "positive" rules ("hands to yourself" vs. "no hitting"), I congratulate good behavior, I ask politely, I ask sternly. I try to proctor ensemble exercises. They won't.

I pump myself up before class hoping that despite the climate of the room, perhaps the lessons of teamwork, listening, and self-awareness are being internalized? Maybe specks? So, we're doing this monologue thing. B, one of the most challenging students I have ever had, is playing. He waffles between playing and not playing. He likes to sit behind the teacher's desk (not allowed), roll in her chair (not allowed), and make fun of other people's lines (not allowed) when he is not the star of a scene. The new rule is that anyone is allowed to sit, but then they're not allowed to participate until the current game is over. B usually starts sitting, then screams, "I wanna play!" and whines when he is not allowed to jump in a scene immediately. He was playing this monologue game. A girl volunteered to start. When I asked for a new volunteer, every single hand (as usual) went up. Then I chose another girl to continue. He screeched, interrupting the piece. "THAT'S TWO GIRLS IN A ROW." So I said, "STOP." I asked, "B, how many boys in the class are there?" He answered four. "Yes, and how many girls in the class are there?" Eight. I said, "Right, so in this class, girls will always be performing twice as much as boys. If boys performed the same amount as girls, that would be extremely unfair. Why should we go boy-girl anyway?" He shrugged.

I know the answer is probably that in his homeroom class his teacher calls on students boy-girl (which is disgusting and ridiculous). I don't think I snapped. I think I maintained cool, despite having to restart the activity. I know this child is merely a reflection of glass shards from the world we've given him. I'm just so tired of women being marked as to when they can and can't do things. My tolerance is waning.

Not Helping Feminism?/Submitting to Misogyny

A couple years ago many of my Arizona comedy pals had a mass exodus of our improv group. It was time for me to go too. I knew my final year of grad school should be spent focusing on my thesis, and the group was getting younger anyway. The director put together a final send-off show on a Sunday night. It was pretty packed, and it was a great night for all of us. We bowed, and I felt a bittersweet twinge for these four other guys who were moving on. And then something "organic" happened. The director took the mic and thanked the huge crowd for coming out. But then he went on to say how much the group meant to him. Hm. And then he rambled about the legacy of the group. (At this point the audience started squirming a little. They just watched an hour plus of improv and were kinda ready to scoot.) Then the director starting giving personal shout-outs to guys who had been in the group when he was just starting. Then he gave little speeches about each of the guys leaving on stage. He said something like, "These guys are the funniest people and my best friends, and the ladies are lovely as well." It was pretty embarrassing. I was hurt too--I considered this person my friend. Oh well, it was almost over. NOPE, PSYCH. He handed the mic to someone else onstage. The audience let out a collective discomforted sigh and waited while three other dudes gave basically the same speech calling out the same dudes from previous generations. Not a single guy recognized the female director who had cast most of them initially. Not a single one called out any of the women who had been on teams with them. My female teammate took the mic and gave gratitude this is how she met her boyfriend, an ex-cast member. The whole goo-fest was probably fifteen minutes strong when I got the mic last. I, again, was feeling bad for the audience who was listening to this pretty self-referential sludge, so gave a polite shake of my head and the night was over. I had been thinking about what the group meant to me though. I just chose to appropriately tell the important people I met in-person, not assuming a crowd of strangers wanted to hear about it.

Some of those important people (specifically three other girls I formed an independent group with) were in the audience that night. I hugged them and told them why they meant so much to me. "But you didn't say it onstage!" Kale said. It was such a trap, I realized. I wasn't egotistical enough to sing my own squad's praises, and therefore, they went unsung. I didn't mean to submit to misogyny. I didn't mean to quiet the very few and underrepped female voices in comedy. I acted rationally as a person regardless of gender, but.

Shellz and I writing sketch comedy years ago.

Important Conversations

Last week there was a photo posted on the Humans of NY Instagram of a uniformed woman (EMT?) and he quote was about how hard it is to be a single working mom. The examples she cited: the school play was at 10 AM on a Tuesday. How am I supposed to be at that? Also, the Mother's Day Tea was a Friday afternoon. (Noted: The Father's Day lunch was a Saturday.)

The comments, as usual, were overflowing with "Keep up the good work!"s and tags and emojis and, of course, some haters too. I don't usually write, but I felt compelled to. Sometimes the photo subject finds the account and reads the comments. I wanted her to know! I wrote that I also had a mom who worked (of course, I also had a dad, which was pretty important). Nevertheless, I had a mom who worked, and she couldn't always be there for every little "mom" type thing. She did make it to a lot, which is very impressive. What she couldn't make it for...whatever. So, I wrote my mom has had a long, fruitful career in an interesting field. She has a lot of advice to share with me about education and the workplace in general. She is a valuable resource in my adulthood--not just as my mom, but as my peer. These conversations about her expertise mean much more to me than a conversation we could have about that time she helped make a craft for my Girl Scout troupe. I'm sure there is something very lasting, a foundation, set up from having a parent's presence--some psychological "someone is here for me"--but I think there's something just as lastingly important in growing up knowing my mom was out at work. She had important things to do, and I would do important things too one day.

As a side note, I liked that my dad picked my bowling team up from middle school. I liked that he took me to and from tap class and video taped our dress rehearsals. I liked that he gave me bowls of Rice Krispies and even let me play beauty parlor on him. I believe I am a stronger person and I hold others accountable for their actions based in gender identity because my gender equality education started quite young, quite naturally. Dads can make food, moms can wear suits, whoever is there is there, and today I have two helpful, smart people accessible anytime.

Subliminal Teacher Power!

When I write grammar quizzes I decide on a theme for the "correct this sentence" sentences. For example, tomorrow's grammar quiz:

Add the commas:

"Sherry had fun at the bar but she woke up with a headache."

Correct the pronoun:

"A parent should consider how much they drink in front of their children."

Revise for clarity:

"Spending tons of money on advertising is something alcohol companies do."

These are just quiz questions, but I believe everything we consume is changing us from the inside out. Some other things I like to do--women in example sentences are always extremely successful, men are often sensitive and talking about their feelings, the environment is a reoccurring character. Nobody is mad.

Binders of Tony Women

Obligatory blog post about the lack of female representation at the 2014 Tonys. I didn't watch The Tonys, mainly because I don't have TV and secondly because I didn't hear about literally anything that even piqued my interest on Broadway this year. So I just read the results the next morning. Of course the lack of women was obvious. Like, where the woman at? Especially playwrights. Especially because the Pulitzers were female playwright bonanza.

A positive outcome from the whole kerfuffel is how many people are cognizant of the inequality. Jason Robert Brown publicly dissed Broadway, the internet exploded etc. etc. But I'm just so tired of women being counted all the time. One one hand, apparently we have to keep doing it. Because there aren't women in things women need to be in. You know, little things like Congress and national artistic awards. But, like, EVERY TIME  thing of importance happens I feel like these really imporant (and rare) ladies are just numbers. (Only one woman in this category, only one previous winner in this category, this many seats in the House, and so on). So, like, yeah, since it;s ridiculous, we need to keep reminding people women are supes underrepresented. But on the other hand what kind of solution does that really inspire? Vote for for women based on the fact we're missing women? I'm annoyed there aren't many women on Broadway, but what can I do about that? Producers can certainly from now on feel they must at LEAST nominate a woman in each category every year, but then it's sort of a pity game instead of a talent game. Or at least it can feel that way.

What are the actual answers to these unfair numbers? I can't accept the answer is simply repeating the numbers over and over and pretending that's part of a solution or even the most useful data. Everyone laughed forever at Mitt Romney's "binder full of women" slip-up, but actually what he was even saying was highly idiotic. (Not trying to rip on Romney here, the most progressive people do this stuff.) Someone questioned his gender equality, so his first attempted answer is "All is good, a employ so many women." AKA Look at these numbers! I'm fulfilling the numbers!

I don't know how many college ads are based on the concept, "You're not a number here at Blerg Blagh University. You're a name/student/person/Chia Pet!" And yet, all of humanity cannot stop treating women as numbers alone. I am not a number!

Short Hair, Do Care

Been almost three weeks since I got my pixie cut. As my roommate said, "I feel like all liberal artistic women into gender equality have the short haircut at some point, so it was only a matter of time." If so, at least I am going through this rite of passage now when I am young and wandery and can look sort of like I got my head stuck in a sheep-shearer and its w/e.

Running is awesome. My head feels so light, there's no rat tail absorbing sweat and hitting my back. The shower after is divine. I feel like one complete person. No weeping willow vines. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm like, "Hey, this is okay. I kinda look like Anne Hathaway in Les Mis" and then I remember she was a street urchin who died of venereal disease. I dunno, guys.

I put on makeup a lot more. I have been wearing earrings every day. I grasp these bits of womanhood tightly. "You like a boy from behind," someone tells me, and I do feel flushed. Even though looking like a boy should be as much of a false insult as "playing like a girl." I get pizza with Shells, who also has a pixie, and I'm pretty sure our waitress thinks it's a date. Which also isn't inherently supposed to be an insult (but it's a little jarring). When I went on a real date this week, I felt a little deflated not being able to do anything with my hair. It is what it is now. Freeing, limiting.

Yesterday morning I went to the tiny hip grocery store for a cucumber, strawberries, and hummus. It was 8:30. I was in pajamas. (It's Spring Break.) As the dude checked me out he said

DUDE: Nice hair.
ME: Thanks.
DUDE: How do you like it?
ME: I don't love it. It's fine. This is the shortest it's been.
DUDE: I admire your guts.
ME: It's hard to have short hair. Which is a stupid thing because it's just a hair cut.
DUDE: A woman's hair represents so much in our society.

I mean, tell me something I don't know, dude. Mainly, I try not to think about it too much. Because it is just hair and it will grow back and it's all very vain in the first place. But thoughts are thoughts. Better to ruminate a little than suppress a lot.

Trefoil and chocolate chai ice cream in Virginia.

Look How Far We've Come

It's not uncommon for the guys in my improv class to play gay characters. I've known improvisers who introduce the fact that they're pretending to be gay as the joke. And that's the worst. That's just the worst. That kid who starts a scene with a lisp, and I'm like, "Cut. New choice."

The boys in my class end up gay because it's important to have a strong relationship in improv, and there are actually only so many of those in life: family, co-workers, friends, lovers. And which is most interesting? And because it's a college improv class the gender ratios are 1:3 girls to boys. Two-boy scenes are a thing. Two-boy love is a thing.

Monday two guys did this hilarious scene full of subtext about jealousy and inadequacy and they totally nailed it. Everyone hooted when I called Scene. The guys hugged because they had done good. No one felt uncomfortable. No one made a crack. There's a gay student in class (maybe a couple)--he (they?) were smiling. Sometimes straight boys date the gay boys' in improv land. All parties jump in free as birdies.

Boys Think They're Funny

Dance often has precedence over Drama in stage usage in the camp Great House on the account of only one sound system. This doesn’t bother me because I like the unenclosed sky of the deck. And. Really. I’m a summer camp counselor behind all the “Mhmm yeeees, I am a resident playwright of children’s theatre.” What, am I going to demand a diamond-encrusted director’s chair and a tech booth? We’ve got, like, some light switches.

However, girls’ Drama starts just as boys’ breakfast ends, so during warm-ups and the beginnings of our rehearsals, an ant line of boys passes us. The campers are actually well-behaved, but seriously every other counselor, not realizing that every other counselor does it, kind of pops into the class—either mimicking what we’re doing or shouting little “To be or not to be!”s at us. Sometimes falling down and saying, “Well, that was dramatic.” A har har har. The girls obviously get a little flustered because warm-ups aren’t exactly confidence-boosters. We’re often making weird noises or stretching or something.

I am very interested in the fact that none of these counselors realize that A) it’s still not funny the fifth time in the week they interrupt and B) half their kind practices this behavior.

On picture night the girls in their navy skirts and white tees bunched in cabins to take charming little photos for their parents to stalk on the camp website. As I waited for my chicklets to be called I watched as every single male counselor left the dining hall, crept up behind the cabin currently posing, made a stupid face, was shooed by the photographer, and laughed themselves out of the shot.

I wasn’t able to see my boys’ improv class perform last week. They had their showcase during girls’ dinner. I asked them how it went. “Amazing,” they said. Amazing. One, particularly adorable and willing to learn, said, “Oh man, Alice! We played Emotional Rollercoaster and we were mad, and then we got ‘blissful’ and I just changed my voice, and everyone cracked up! Including us on stage! We couldn’t finish the scene! It was the funniest thing ever.” I nod. Mhmm.

When I start girl’s musical theatre class I ask, “Who has performed before,” and we hear about high school and jr. high productions of yore from each individual. One girl was the lead this year. “Oh yeah?” I ask, “How was that.” She says “I think it went well,” but she has the tiniest corner of her lip upturned so we know she thinks she was good. And we all hate her for it.

Bein' a Woman! (Part I)

When I was 13 a boy asked me to put away an encyclopedia for him in the library. I said no.  Even though we were both sitting down at the same table, he called me a bitch. I have recently realized that I have been a little scared of speaking about womanhood since that moment, which sounds ridiculously dramatic, but, nevertheless true. I also recently realized that that experience may have had nothing to do with gender at all. Middle school boys are weird!

It is okay to be a woman and talk about what you and women have in common and how women might be perceived. It is not always true, but sometimes it is. It's not unlovable to note how being a certain type of person has affected your experience. Also, to recognize or confront times you have been victimized by your type does not make you annoying. It also doesn't make you a victim. It just makes you potentially victimized sometimes. More importantly, it makes you aware of your surroundings, which is always a good thing. Oh, yeah! Talkin'

oppression also doesn't mean you inherently are mad at men--even in general. Everyone is still learning!

Mostly, being a woman is fun. Why, just look at this hilarious photo of my sister. Clearly enjoying her gender.

I can only speak for myself, but it's been like this:

Be a human. --> Learn that being a woman human can make things tough, at least historically. --> Try to navigate how that applies to you today. --> Find some things and discuss them. --> Get rolled eyes. (See: middle school) --> Feel annoyed and talk louder. --> See other women doing that and find it unattractive. --> Be more reasonable/ maybe a bit too quiet. --> Want to explore womanhood but do not want to be roped in with the stereotypical feisty male-haters. --> Realize it's not your problem that some people don't talk about womanhood well. You can. There are no rules to this.

Some Thoughts on Dating (Part III)

Recently realized a sexist thing I think. We all know ladies who date guys and then are hyper aware of their critical opinions. I'm not that way, but even I understand. Like when Kay and I took Poetry I together our sophomore years of college, and I valued his opinion more than anyone else's--despite him being in the bottom half of knowledgable (in terms of that class).

I was thinking about a friend of mine who is very talented, but the guy she's into has a completely different style than she does. Thus, he doesn't appreciate her work. Thus, she doesn't appreciate her work. Super annoying.

Then, I wondered if I knew guys like that, and I realized I have, but in my eyes they've always been victims of pushy and over-bearing girlfriends of doom. Uh oh. I subconsciously always blame the girl! Never fear, I  have been shocked out of my own backwards thinking, and I will go forward with more understanding that sometimes girls who conform have been manipulated and sometimes boys who have been manipulated need to grow more spine spindles.

Bug and Kale at improv rehearsal last Sunday. I took a picture because she looked like she stepped right out of an episode of Dawson's Creek on her way to Lillith Fair. But the ladies of my improv troupe accepted her ANYWAY.

I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over.

I wanna know right now what will it be?

CTA Gender Politics

If I see an older woman standing on the bus, I feel I need to offer her my seat, but if I see an older man standing, he has to be really old for me to get up. Mostly I wouldn't mind, but it's really more for his benefit. Like it might be a little embarrassing for him to be seen as weak.

When I get offered seats, I don't usually know what to do. It's a gentlemanly thang, which should be encouraged maybe, but it's not really necessary. If the guy says nothing, I take the seat. If he says, "Here you go," I say, "Oh, its okay" for some reason and keep standing even though I really do want to sit down. If I'm with classmates or a friend and a seat opens and I am gestured towards it, I do take it.

Last week on an extremely packed train, I was annoyed to be standing. It was a very tiring day in class, and my feet hurt. I looked over and made brief eye contact with a guy I recognized from another section of the intensive. I can't be sure, but I think there was a glint of guilt in his eye. Every time I kind of peeked over, I could tell he was debating standing up or not. But he also looked very tired, and I'm sure he really didn't want to. If I had been him, I probably would have just stood. It's never worth it to be a wee bit more comfortable in the face of guilt. But, he didn't, and I endured the miserable, uneasy ride home.

Part of me is like, good for that guy because I really have no business thinking I deserve a seat. We both have feet. But the other part of me is like, WAAAAAH PAMPER ME, STRANGER DUDES! And the biggest part of me feels bad that guys have to constantly ask themselves these stupid questions about politeness (getting up, door holding, "after you"ing, etc. etc.).

UGH. I really don't get why we couldn't have all been created one asexual gender. There would be so many fewer problems in the world. That's a fact.

Watching How I Met Your Mother Even Though I'm Not Wild About It #Summer #Procrastination

Is it possible for a girl to be as ugly but as lovable as Jason Segal? Because the man is pretty darn woof.

But also.

Marry me.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

For my final Theory presentation, I have to pick a critical theory and apply it in some way to theatre--in general or a specific script or performance or something or something.

The sky is the limit, and I don't know what to pick. Two things come to mind:

1. Gender/Queer Theory--which is sort of a mini-field I've carved out for myself via research projects, lit papers, communal work/outreach. I'm interested in this field, and I find gender and sexuality issues very important in today's society.

But, also--

2. Marxism--Which is most intriguing to me these days. I couldn't tell you why, but it's just what I most want to read, most want to think about. It's new.


Adult convo at Sunday coffee with the bromeo and Juliets.

Honestly, either choice will be very interesting and enjoyable. But I still stand at the junction of building upon a strong foundation--beefing up my portfolio of gender/art work--or starting from scratch for funsies.

I believe...THAT THE HEART DOES GO ON. (Sorry. I've listened to so much Celine this week that it's impossible for me to say "I believe" without a follow up belt.) But, I believe in doing what you want to do, but not everything should be new. That's not how you become an expert. That's not how you most astutely address one nugget of academia, life, art, love.

Get it Out of Me

When it comes to art, Muff and I have no desire to leave our mark on the world. That's not what it's about at all. No fingerprint on the cake icing--it will melt in the sun.

It's more like, "If there's this Live stuff in me, I feel like it's my...duty? Yes, duty--to get it out."

However, most male artists we know have dreams of immortality. The marking bit and all. Is it just us, or is this genetic? Men want to spread their seed, prove their territory, make sure it is passed through the ages. Women want to just get the stupid Life out. It's gestating in there, and it needs to be born.

I recognize the inherent faults with such a simple metaphor and generalization in the context of gender and queer theory, but, it's still interesting to consider, no?

The Ataris: March 16, 2012

Yucca Tap Room is a d-i-v-e. I arrived alone--the curse of liking a crappy at best pop-punk band that hit its stride in 2003. I scooted right up to the front and planted myself by the mic.

Kris didn't start setting up until midnight. It was hot. I stood with my arms crossed, but I was inadvertently in the middle of a group of friends. Two super husky girls and two nice guys. One nice guy chatted with me. I was uninterested in making friends, but I couldn't walk away since I had to save my spot. This guy ended up asking me out and gave me his number. This doesn't really happen anymore, and I complain about it: "Remember when guys used to just ask you out at random?!" But, I will not call him. "He doesn't know anything about me. It's too random." Cake--eating it too--something something something.

The Ataris opened with "In This Diary"--highly surprising. And then BOOM EXPLOSION OF CRAZY. I had been to bonkers punk shows in high school, but I always stood far far away. The other times I've seen The Ataris, there was bopping, but not bop-ping. This time? I was shoved, beat, knocked--all before the first chorus. The crowd was insane and moshing like mad. The husky girls were being shoved against the speakers. I understood their husk. Survival!


Kris.

Things that happened:

-As I got ping-ponged around, I noticed a solid hand on my back. I followed it back to a large Mexican woman who looked at me with maternal love. "That's me!" she yelled. "I'm okay!" I yelled as the crowd jostled me. She shook her head. Her arm served as a wall around the hooligans for the first three songs. I was willing to get swept away, but she pulled me close. Said "NO!" to a scrappy little kid with gauges trying to worm his way front.
-When the major crowd-surfing started during "Your Boyfriend Sucks," I got knocked into the middle of the pit and almost fell backwards, but I grabbed the hand of some guy, and he covered me in a bear hug and pulled me sideways. I felt like he had dove from a lifeguard stand to pull me out of the undertow. All these people, holding each other, but then pushing. Like some real drama, but it was self-created. Is that how all problems are. We must rely on one another to save us from the catastrophes we've made for ourselves.
-I felt safe on the side by "Takeoffs and Landings," but, no. Out of nowhere, some guy shoved me right into a moving crowd and I fell the ground. I was about to be tramped when three guys rushed to pick me up. The Mustafa wildebeest scene, people. It occurs to me how absolutely lucky I am to be a girl. People will save me. I did not have to worry about saving anyone else. Unfair, but true.
-It was an all-star setlist, which was kind of a bummer. i wanted some older weird stuff, but the crowd was happy. By the end, I was safely in the very back patch of folks who weren't even singing along. I jumped up and down to "San Dimas." It was over.
-In the bathroom, I checked-in. I was covered in sweat, an earring had been ripped out, my headband long gone, hair everywhere.
-I left and breathed deep in the fresh air. I biked the three miles home unable to hear a darn thing.

Stay who you are. Stay who you are.

Overdue Hooks

It's been a month since I saw bell hooks speak. I am el horrible for procrastinating this entry. But, here it is now. On the eve after Pi Day. 3.14 hard core this year. But, the bell:

She talked a lot about The Help and how it was offensive, didn't go far enough, the author sucks etc. She also discussed race and gender today. Pretty standard. One thing she mentioned, which I knew but didn't know, is that Michelle Obama was a Harvard law student, but now she sort of plays Homemaker Susie America. Wow. I forget. I really did. Lots of good ideas, inspiring statements--but my notes aren't here in bed with me, and I'm very tired, and it't just not worth the long three foot journey to my desk.

One thing that really stuck out to me was that once a boy asked a question asking, basically, where the crossroads of gay rights and gender rights might be. And bell explained, "You know, it's a an important issue, but there's so much we don't think of." And she went on to describe how people come out of every corner to support or oppose gay rights, but meanwhile, we are burning coal and ruining the earth. That's a topic we don't really need to debate, and it's far more harmful.

And, it was sort of biting--this champion of equal rights basically dissing probably the biggest injustice in American culture right now. But, also, I really do agree. We have bigger fish to fry, and sometimes it seems like maybe the reason all this hooplah about birth control and gay marriage and abortion is purposely stirred up by people with much more power than I have to deflect me from the real issues. You know, the ones that are killing our habitat?

Anyway, that's what I have to say about bell hooks.

Please Communicate

On Wednesday everyone was happily piling into the big classroom we hold our sketch writing meetings at school. There's a bunch of us, and we get together joyfully--laughing, making cracks, bubbling. And suddenly a stern woman--probably my mother's age--stomped into the doorway and asked Sid--sitting at the front of the room--pointedly, "Are you even a real class? Do you even have this room reserved?" Yes, he answered. We have this room reserved. "Because I don't think you do. I don't think you do. People are trying to work here, and you're all very loud, and there is a lot of profanity." She was steaming at us, but to us, hyped up on creative promise, she appeared as a deflated balloon.

Sid tried to pull up the room reservation, but the system was down. The woman stood, actually rudely since...we did have a right to be in that room. Even if we hadn't reserved the room, which we had, people are allowed to be in a space, and if they are converging, it's pretty unloving to insert oneself abrasively. She hissed, "There have been lots of complaints!" I smoothed my shirt and said calmly, "Who has complained? You are the first person who has ever talked to us."

"People have complained. Lots of people have complained to me!" We couldn't show her the reservation, but, again, even if we hadn't had one, what could she say, "You're not allowed to be in this classroom that no one else is using right now"? She started stumbling in her anger, murmured to keep the noise and profanity down, and exited disdainfully.

She knew her actions were not appropriate, you could tell the way she backed down but didn't back down. She very clearly had simply been annoyed with us before and bottled it up until she couldn't take it anymore and exploded on a group unknowing young people.

Takeaways:
1. Going in angry usually makes you look like a fruit basket.
2. COMMUNICATE AT THE FIRST OPPORTUNITY. PEOPLE DO NOT KNOW!

I considered finding her office and apologizing--but I didn't because I suspected she would be understanding, but if she wasn't...I would have been extremely rude, which is a rarity for me, but definitely possible, and to be avoided. Here's why I would have been rude: our classroom is in the women and gender studies wing. The woman was most definitely a women/gender studies professor. Hence, she was probably so annoyed by some of the things she heard spilling out of our student sketch team pitch meetings, but she honestly has NO IDEA what really happens in those meetings. Because for every time someone screams an offensive slur in a script, we have a ten minute conversation about how the desperate single character at the Valentine's party should be a male so the sketch can be more progressive and less stereotypical. Lady, I would have yelled, I care so much about the stuff you care about it makes me sick!

So, I just left. But, Chelle did apologize. And, the woman was very understanding and apologetic herself. Also, we're moving rooms.


Baby chicks. State Fair 2011.

I did scream on campus this week. I yelled at a pro-life protester who stopped me on my way to work to tell me about how all fetus must live. I asked her if she was a vegetarian. Nope. I walked away. She stopped me. Bad move, girl. Bad move. Insert: 20 minute debate about the ethics of killing animals versus embryos. I believe everything I said was Right, but it definitely wasn't Good. She's not going to stop eating meat. She's still going to support over-population and starving children via her beliefs. Plus, I believe what I believe to encourage a sense of Love in this earth, and probs me literally pointing at her. yelling "HYPOCRITE!" with raised voice and hellfire eyes was not in accord with the whole promotion of Love thing. I'm working on it, you guys. I'm working on it.

In an interstellar burst
I am back to save the universe.

Bloody

It's really peculiar to me that boys and men generally enjoy (or appreciate) action movies/ graphic violence and sex, yet, no boys or men seem to have an acute interest in menstruation. Isn't that like...mixing the two interests into one super interest? Apparently not?


One boy who makes period jokes/ wrote me a letter this week

It's hard to do this backwards.
You should try it in heels.

Dream, Dream, Dre-eam

one day you're slingin' cash, feelin' so rejected, lightening crash, you get resurrected

Top Six Dream Roles Regardless of my Sex and Actual Musical Talent:

6. Nina- In the Heights
5. Nessa - Wicked
4. Gertrude McFuzz - Seussical the Musical
3. Baker's Wife - Into the Woods
2. Coalhouse Walker Jr. - Ragtime
1. Seymour Krelborn- Little Shop of Horrors

Sigh. One down.

don't it go to show you never know

Perfection

Watching this documentary on advertising and women last night called "Killing Us Softly 3" wasn't, you know, completely inspiring or anything. But, I did glean one awakening for myself. Although I am, for some reason, one of the lucky girls who is pretty much totally content with my self-esteem, NOT being "perfect" is still certainly a fact I have accepted about myself. I had never realized that I feel that way. It's like...I am totally content with Me, but I still succomb to the idea that there is greater beauty and more fabulous appeal out there that I just won't ever have. I think I can safely say that most women feel this way. Even models. Maybe especially models.

Once I realized this, I was struck by something even more saddening. Does that mean most guys are aware of this concept not only for themselves, but for girls they date? When a guy dates a beautiful and wonderful girl, does he think "this is the best--at least for what I can do. Do I feel that way about men?

A castmate from Wonderful Town once shared with me how in our English definition, Perfection seems to be the most and best--on the edge or totally ungraspable. In an African language (excuse me for forgetting) the English "Perfect" was determined to mean "not too much and not too little".