The Importance of Cleaning the Whiteboards

When class ends I say, "Goodbye! See you all [next class day]," and I always get up to clean the whiteboards. Every teacher is supposed to clean the whiteboards before leaving classrooms because it's annoying to show up to class with some previous professor's scribbles everywhere. But even if I am staying in the room a bit longer to grade papers, or even if I know the janitor will be visiting the room shortly after class, I always slowly wipe down everything from the day immediately after releasing the students. In the year I have been teaching community college, a lot of really key conversations have happened while I cleaned whiteboards. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I've heard that many gay high school students come out to their parents in the car because they're side by side instead of facing one another. Also, the teenager knows he won't be beaten. Not at that particular moment anyway. In a similar, less dire vein, I like giving students time to talk to me while my back is turned. It's funny. I'm very aware this is happening. I'm not sure if they do. If they get why suddenly they feel ready to explain the absences or admit they really don't know what the heck they're doing when it comes to next week's exam. On the flip side, while I clean white boards is often when the little sweeties make themselves known. The quiet kids who want to be my friend, who are looking for a mentor-figure to share a piece of good news. I think these students typically see authority figures as very busy and perhaps uninterested. But, ah ha, "those five minutes she's not grading or teaching or really doing ANYTHING. I can swoop in and show her my drawing right then. When she's just wiping dry erase dust into the air." The days I haven't written anything (and thus don't erase), fewer people linger. The days I haven't written anything I don't usually hear any stories and no one unravels apologies. Again, I don't think they know this. I'm not sure if there is a larger metaphor at play or simply some useful teaching advice for those interested.

On Our Own

Missed Monday rehearsal and found out today our musical improv team set tonight was going to be a golden age musical about a pop culture event. NBD.

I felt nervous, which is unlike me pre-improv set. There's just a lot to juggle when creating a specific style musical on the spot. And what if I didn't know anything about the pop culture reference? I couldn't do it on my own.

Our suggestion of a pop culture event was "Dumbledore is gay." I made the first move--I set our ensemble as kids reading the 7th book at an opening night party. One of them questioned, "Is Dumbledore gay?" Soon Cashew was gay Dumbledore even singing, "Accio spotlight." We became Slytherin snakes, talking portraits, and quidditch stars. There was a Hagrid dream sequence, and all of these moves were made bit by bit, evenly, from all ten of us. By the end (a finale ensemble number in which Dumbledore announces "I'm gay/ I was sorted that way") we had a great little piece of theatre that will never be seen again. And guess what? I didn't have to do it on my own. I couldn't have. If I would have tried, I would have failed. Them's the facts.

The Problem with America

SHELLS: Alice and her boyfriend etc. etc.
SHELLS' ROOMMATE: Wait, I always thought Alice was a lesbian.
SHELLS: What? Why?
SHELLS' OTHER ROOMMATE: You know. She's all about women's rights and vegetarianism.
SHELLS: So she's gay because she's a...strong person?

Shells Birthday last April.

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.

Repeat

Tuesday was Hill's last day of classes. Ever. It's on and up to her dissertation now. I met her outside the library. It was hot. That's a given now. Our classmate who I think looks like Edward Norton walked by and joined us. A friendly guy.

They discussed "___Cake" (an affectionate name for a professor who I do not know very well). ___Cake loves you, they tell me. Or, rather, loves to talk about me. This is news. I ask About What? and our friend says, "Oh, mostly your rack." Which is said so sweetly I would never feel uncomfortable, plus also he is of the gay variety (although I definitely don't think that is a Get Out of Harassment to Women Free card). Anyway, there was a real reason about playwright's rights or something. Neither here nor there.

What is here and there is why I am telling you about this exchange, which is to properly offer exposition to the next chunk of story. Friday night Hill and her beau (Neek) and me and my beau were having post-theatre* drinks and dessert at a swanky downtown restaurante/bar. I had the Aztec hot cocoa with pumpkin whipped cream and s'more.** There was a DJ, whom we were seated right next to. At one point boys were talking about sports*** and Hill and I were all academia on our side of the tabletop. She referenced the ___Cake mentions of me again, and I jokingly was all, "Oh, about my rack?" But, I actually was more like, "OH, ABOUT MY RACK?" because the Regina Spector had been like, supes loud. But at the very moment the DJ was actually like taking a break? So he was like, "..." and the boys were like, "..." and my face was like...I mean, insert clip art of a tomato I guess. Real stuff that happened, y'all.

*We saw Clybourne Park, and it was phenom, and I want to dedicate an entry to that alone when I have more mental space/sanity LOL FINALZ.
**I told this to Chelle yesterday, and she said, "they literally put all your favorite things together" and I was like, "I know. Believe me, I am aware."
***I wish I were less of a stereotype so I didn't have to type that sentence, but, YOLO, how many quarters are in a basketball game?! idk.

Roommate Things

My roommates are perfect. They are friendly, considerate, clean, and we're all pretty quiet. We keep different schedules, and I sometimes don't see one of the other for a few days at a time. Zeta, generally a bit shy, recently told me I should get a leather jacket to look tough on my scooter. Beta watches a lot of Teen Mom. I find them both very attractive looking humans, and they don't even have to try. Their whole family is this way. When I come home and the sisters and parents are all in the kitchen sorting leftovers from some family event, I feel like Charlize Theron in Monster. RAWWWWR I HIDE IN MY ROOM AND WRITE PLAYS YOU GUYS COULD ALL BE MODELS RAWWR GONNA GO MEET CHRISTINA RICCI AT THE ROLLER RINK.

Here's some proof from Zeta's birthday last year:

Pretty Roomies. 2011.

So, I like 'em, but we're not friend-friends. We're profesh. SO, Beta texts me sometimes, but not like "Haha joke joke joke" texts. Like, "the hot water will be shut off tomorrow at 10" texts. Hence, when I got a text from her yesterday that said "Hey I accidentally opened your book package! I didn't read the label and thought it was mine!" I was kind of surprised she even bothered. Not a big deal obviously. I texted back "OMG MY PRIVACY! Just kidding, it's fine."She: "Haha ok good lol." Odd. ESPECIALLY when I got home and the package was only halfway opened. No big!

And then I saw what Beta would have seen.

Just the title of the textbook peeking through the package.

In huge black all caps,"GAY SHAME."

Uh oh. It was for a class! I was taking an English class on Queer Theory (that I actually ended up dropping but already had bought some books)! I laughed and called out to Beta in the living room, "OH! Haha this is for a class! You were probably like 'what?'! Haha! But! It! Well, it was a class at least, I'm not in it anymore...but ha...ha..." I trail off and Beta does a really giant I'm-Letting-You-Know-I'm-Comfortable smile. This is what I call some STRAIGHT SHAME.

8

Last night I saw the play 8. If you don't know, 8 was "written" by Dustin Lance Black (writer of Milk) using mostly court transcripts of the appeal of Prop 8 in California. You know, the play wasn't going to move a mountain in my heart. Boulder and I talked on the way over saying, "I hope it's actually a good play. I hope there's tension, and it's not just a blatant GAY RIGHTS, GAY RIGHTS, GAY RIGHTS FOR ALL." Because if I wanted to hear that, I would just get out a Talkboy and listen to my own diatribes. I go to the theatre to be moved--even if that just means having empathy for the other side.

Well, it was pretty one-sided...but, then again, IT WAS A TRANSCRIPT OF THE COURT PROCEEDINGS. So, actually, that was pretty crazy eye-opening. Did you know the defense could not keep witnesses to save its life? There ended up being, like, one dinky witness who had any potential say in the matter. And he was proven as an insufficient witness by the end of the trial. No one with any credibility could testify against gay marriage. Lead defender Cooper's final stance in front of the judge and the State of California was that there are no reasons or facts that say gay marriage will harm our society, but the fact that we don't know what will happen is reason enough to keep prohibiting it.

And that's how Prop 8 failed.

So, while the play wasn't, like, amazeballs, it was a reminder for me--this is an issue that has no business still being an issue. We have to keep pushing.

Afterward, a couple guys in the play I knew and some other colleagues went out for froyo. A bunch of them are in a Theatre for Social Change class right now, and they just finished a lesson on ethnography and presented monologues. "You didn't present yours," someone said to one of the guys. For some reason, we all pressured him to deliver it right there, and for some reason he did, very casually.

To write it here sounds melodramatic, but this man was once a boy who liked the arts, and his father was embarrassed, and this boy who liked the arts ended up loving other men, and he was kicked out of the house, and this man grew up to be sitting in a froyo shop tearing up, others tearing up around him, talking about this. Because PREJUDICE HURTS. And that is SAD. And, sometimes it's tempting to think, "Okay, the gay issue has gone on enough. There has been progress. It's not that bad anymore." Wrong, muchachos. Keep fighting.