Proud to Be an American

Drones closed last weekend, and while I was relieved because I started to drown by the end of the process, it's typical to feel slightly sad when a show is over.

The cast after opening night.

Our curtain call music was "Proud to Be an American"--a song I've always despised. It takes me back to middle school when it played incessantly on the radio post-9/11. Even at that age I was skeptical of it's message. I have a vivid memory of hanging around a Poms competition and that song blasting through this giant gymnasium and all these people singing and clapping, and all I could wonder is "Why is being terrorized something to be proud of?"

I'm not anti-America. I'm really not. I love my country f'real, but the song is hokey and a bit unwarranted. Drones was about military ethics and, in my interpretation of the play, how screwed up they are. Our director chose that song kinda ironically, and I loved bowing to it.

So, while ten years ago a super emotional song did nothing for me even though it was linked to horrible tragedy, now, I will always feel nostalgic when I hear "Proud to Be an American" because it will transport me back to the black box in Arizona, waiting for my cue lines with Simba next to me making faces and scrolling through Instagram.

And I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free.

And I won't forget the men who died, and gave that right to me.

Sleepy Writers

Thought I had been doing pretty well keeping on top of my work and grading, but dutifully grading forty papers throughout the week still left me forty to finish when I got home yesterday. I drank a buttload of pumpkin latte and buzzed away into the night. At midnight I got the tumble grumbles and ordered takeout chips and queso. I didn't want the delivery guys to ring and wake up my roomsters, so I sat on our front porch typing manically "You need a clear topic sentence" and "Avoid the use of vague summary" onto my laptop.

It was a silent night, holy night. The dark reflection of palm trees on the pool, breeze. I stayed on my stoop until 3 AM snacking and reading and feedbacking. I took a photo because it occurred to me "Man, I'm young. It's the middle of the night and I'm eating nachos outside on a weekday."

It's been a pleasure and a treat to have the playwright of Drones with us in this first week of rehearsal. He's a great dude, and I'm learning so much about the production process from a writer's perspective. Tonight he wandered out of the theatre, and when I was released I opened the door to this very accomplished and talented guy slumped across the maroon-splashed mini sofa in the foyer of the building--legs wide open and propped on a footrest. 

"Are you sick of your play already?" I asked.

"I came out here to make a phone call," he said with half-closed eyes, "and then I couldn't get up."

Consequently, excuse me as I crash into my pillow.

(Edit: I fell asleep on this entry as I was posting it last night.)

Where Does Being Nice Get You?

"Nice" is basically an insult these days. I mean, I think so. I take it as "in lieu of a real compliment:" It's the backside of a silver spoon or a perfectly triangle slice of yellow cake.

And most of us at one point (or many) times in our lives have asked "Where will being nice get me for real?" Indeed, there are times we feel we cannot be heard if we're nice, successful if we're nice, loved if we're nice.

When you're an educator, and a student meets with you, and the student is nice, it's really hard not to help her succeed in the class. I wouldn't act immorally and pass a failing kid or offer extra help to some and not all, but I am hard-pressed to find flaw in a nice student.

When I worked at at Marble Slab, I remember it was literally as simple as Please and Thank You if I was going to help a customer out of a credit card jam, getting a discount, putting a cherry on top. Just being nice, the whole world opened up for those people.

In rehearsal this evening we discussed the US involvement with Pakistan. Complicated to say the least. And Jersey said, "It's so stupid. It's like paying a schoolyard bully not to beat you up, but, meanwhile, you're a six-foot juicehead!" Point taken. But, part of it is about...niceness. There's a niceness.

Nice flowers at a nice wedding in 2010.

Seriously consider what could have been avoided in the history of crime, violence, and hatred if everyone were nice. The immediate reaction is to say, "No, no. The nice guys would just get taken advantage of." But would they? If EVERYONE was nice. If everyone were nice, wouldn't domination seem a hassle?

Major Life Update Two (of Two)

Did something I haven't done in years. I auditioned for a straight play. I read this play (Drones) last fall because I was on the Theatre Production Committee, and I fell in love immediately.

Auditioning felt like something I needed to do, but I was actually pretty scared. Not of being cut. I am swamped this semester, and it would really be pushing it to be in a show. Plus, it's not personal to be cut from a hundred person audition for a play with six parts. No, I was scared of simply...looking stupid. A fellow MFA (director) was in the audition room, and all my confidence drained right through the floor when I walked inside. I haven't been seen as an actor since college. Was I the idiot with no training waltzing oblivious to how not an actor I was?

I did alright, and the next night I got a call-back. Nice. I held my own, that's all I could want. Didn't look like a dope. Check.

Saturday I showed up at the call-back with five other MFA actors before undergrads dropped in on the scene. And I had a blast. Doing those scenes with different partners and getting direction and having A SCRIPT that I DIDN'T HAVE TO WRITE. Man, it was just fun. At this point, I'm like, "Wow. I've gotten more than I bargained for in this process, and I'm grateful."

Flash forward to yesterday when I walk into the theatre on my way to writing workshop, and, bam. Cast list up, and I'm on it. Holla holla, y'all. I'm doin' a play.