Should New Acquaintance

Due to an impromptu road trip, I have little time to write the year-end retrospective blog I intended to put together to close the 2007 year. However, the last few days of this waning year have brought new sights, new ideas, new friends... and hopefully this is just a bit of pre-game spillover from the hopeful, brighter year that 2008 is destined to be. Wishes to all for a safe and happy holiday, and a wonderful new year ahead.

In Memory of Benazir Bhutto

A dark day for agents of change around the world. May former Prime Minister Bhutto's legacy be long remembered, and may peace and not violence follow in the wake of her tragic death. Her many supporters killed not only today, but also since her return to her country, should also be remembered. There is no political conversation when murder silences the voices of protest. Terrorists, regimes and politicians willing to kill their opposition, and their own citizens and countrymen? Shocking, but not surprising. The scariest thread of this news story is how unsurprising Bhutto's assassination seems to be. Thank you for your courage, Prime Minister Bhutto. May this loss to the world community not be in vain.

"What?" Doesn't Kill You.

"Question Authority."

That's the quote that was emblazoned in big white letters on the matching red T-shirts my parents bought for the five of us that made up the Kander family in the mid-1980's. Mom, Dad, Jake, Adam and I wore those t-shirts with pride. We even had a picture taken of the five of us, standing in the gravel driveway behind the green-roofed white duplex on Main Street in Brighton, grinning ear to ear, red and white and questioning all over.

(Note: wearing matching shirts is okay when the kids are all under eight and the shirt carries a bold message of independent thinking, which counteracts the whole lookalike/matching-thing. Also, a family headed by alterna-parents might have something to do with making it work...)

Anyway. My brothers and I probably didn't really know what the quote meant at the time. Frankly, speaking as someone who's done a lot of work with kids... a six-year-old showing up donning such a shirt might make me a little nervous. Informed or not about the nuance of our apparel, all three of us knew it had something to do with questions, and we loved questions.

• Why is the sky blue? (It's NOT?!?! What color is it REALLY? Why do our eyes trick us?)
• Why are there different countries?
• Why don't we live in a different country?
• Do all things taste the same to all people, or is that why some people like some foods and some people hate those same foods? Does the FOOD taste different, or do WE just like different tastes?
  

Questions are important. We knew that as kids. Sure, somewhere along the way, questions went from safe to risky. The answers we got from other people were often important to us, and entirely contingent on them.

• Do you like me?
• Will I succeed?
• Why isn't she here anymore?
• What does he really mean by that?

Questions can be scary. But the questions unasked, the authority unquestioned, the "facts" unchecked are far more dangerous. Yet looking around, the unasked "why"s and unshared "what"s fill silent football fields all around us.

Why the fear of questions?

I think some people fear questions because they feel that not already having an answer is some sign of weakness -- and the risk of not getting an answer once a question is posed seems terrifying. But is blind acceptance less terrifying? Is it more comforting to have an answer that you accept without really owning, than to do a little probing and reach a more informed conclusion... or avoid a conclusion at all, and keep your mind a little more open?

Just a little reminder: "What?" doesn't kill you... and "Why?" might even make you stronger.

Entrances and Exits

I was fascinated when I heard of a diptych* of plays written by Alan Ayckbourn, entitled "House" and "Garden." The two plays are designed to run simultaneously, on adjacent stages. After exiting a scene in House, actors have only a few moments before their entrance into a scene in Garden. (If nothing else, it's a great marketing ploy - intrigued audience members will need to shell out money for two tickets to see both shows and learn what happened when the character left one play and joined the other!)

The idea really captures the imagination. (Sadly, most reviews of the work can be summarized as "good idea, weakly written"...) As an actor, it sounds like a tremendous amount of work: scurrying from one set to the other, remembering lines, blocking and a set for two different shows. Trying to keep everything straight must be a daunting challenge.

Then it occurred to me that, in fact, constant exits, entrances, and set changes are actually a rather true to life sort of experience... a very pronounced one for some of us at the moment. Costume and even role changes aren't unheard of, even when the same character is maintained in real life.

Performances of a show are often referred to as the "run." "Run" is also an accurate description of my current schedule. Forget House and Garden -- I am currently appearing in House, One Play, Another Play, Office, Additional Work, Volunteer Gigs, Classes, and a small, under-funded little improv show called Social Life. (Unfortunately, that leaves time for few performances in Blogging, so the script has been cut significantly this week.)

Take that, Alan Ayckbourn - and run with it!


* I am not ashamed to admit that I had to look up the word diptych. The basic meaning is "two things hinged together." You can get lengthier definitions at dictionary.com's entry, or Wikipedia's entry, or in your thesaurus of choice.

The Top 25 Most Dangerous Cities

This past week, a study was released about the most dangerous American cities.“City Crime Rankings: Crime in Metropolitan America,”published by Washington-based CQ Press, analyzes FBI crime statistics released Sept. 24. They focus only on cities with at least 75,000
residents. The danger score uses zero as the national average. Below are the top 25 most dangerous cities, according to the study:

MOST DANGEROUS 25:
1. Detroit, 407.2
2. St. Louis, 406.2
3. Flint, Mich., 381.0
4. Oakland, Calif., 338.9
5. Camden, N.J., 323.8
6. Birmingham, Ala., 268.8
7. North Charleston, S.C., 254.3
8. Memphis, 245.6
9. Richmond, Calif., 245.1
10. Cleveland, 244.4
11. Orlando, Fla., 237.4
12. Baltimore, 236.7
13. Little Rock, 233.8
14. Compton, Calif., 223.6
15. Youngstown , 222.0
16. Cincinnati, 218.3
17. Gary, Ind., 214.0
18. Kansas City, Mo., 203.4
19. Dayton, 201.5
20. Newark, N.J., 197.3
21. Philadelphia, 192.9
22. Atlanta, 189.9
23. Jackson, Miss., 188.8
24. Buffalo, 187.8
25. Kansas City , 187.6

You may note that cities #1 and #3 are both in Michigan. Blogger and Flint surviver Meg wrote an amusing little Cliff notes on how not to die in Flint. Dramamama also noted that her two cities, Detroit and Flint are two of the top three places where you're most likely to be a victim of a violent crime- and they're also places she basically visits everyday. Amazingly, she's still alive too. I am happy to report that I miraculously survived a childhood with many years spent frequenting both Detroit and Flint. I've also spent many a night in some of the other Most Dangerous Cities, such as Memphis, Birmingham, Atlanta, Baltimore...

My current hometown, Jackson, Mississippi is now ranked the 23rd most dangerous city in America. Having survived the crack dens and drive-bys of two MUCH more dangerous cities, I feel imbued with the authority to nod sagely and affirm that we're actually quite safe here. Do not worry, fellow Jacksonians! We'll make it!!

What's interesting is to track and see how the numbers have changed over time, and then to try to play a bit with cause and correlation. To wit: in 2004, Jackson was ranked #16... significantly more dangerous than the 23 where we fell this year... but then, in the year 2006 (representing data from 2005) Jackson was out of the top 25 completely - in fact, we were #42. Now, based on the past year's crime levels, we're back in the top 25. The Insurance Journal notes the skyrocket in Jackson crime over the course of 2005-now. What's the story? Why did we go from 16 to 42... and then back on up to 23? What happened post-2004 to drive crime levels up again?

• Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath?
• How about our certifiably bonkers, gun-toting guerrilla mayor, Frank Melton?
• Couldn't possibly be the lack of effective infrastructure, and the fact that here, as everywhere, funding for good community-based programs is often the first line item on the budget to get slashed... 'cause you know, education, empowerment and social services have NO effect on crime...

But hey, could be worse. We could be in Michigan. (Wait a minute...)

*It should be noted that three of the 25 Safest Cities, according to the same study, are also in Michigan. Not so for Mississippi. Then again, we only have so many metropolitan areas of over 75,000 people down here...

Urban Family Thanksgiving

Last week, my good friend K approached me and said, "Hey Beth, you know how you always refer to our little crew as our 'urban family'?"

"Yes?" (It's true. I do. I probably overuse the phrase, in fact.)

"Well... I was thinking... what if we had a little Urban Family Thanksgiving?"

That small conversation kicked off our planning for the event, to be hosted by Mama K and Crazy Aunt Beth. With quick enthusiasm, our little crew all pitched in: M designed the lovely graphic for our invitation; A brought extra tables and chairs; EVERYONE offered to bring food or alcohol... and despite one friend's protest that "eatin's cheatin', we should just drink!", we had an incredible spread of food when the urban family gathered this past weekend.

There were no speeches about what we were thankful for, no toasts, no words of prayer said before diving into our food. But there were about two dozen people, of varying ages and backgrounds, sharing stories and drinks and laughter. As I sat surrounded by the members of my urban family, sipping my seasonally appropriate cranberry martini, I began to feel genuine gratitude fill me. I was lucky enough to be born into a terrific family, but through choice and circumstance, my nearest biological-family members are several hours' drive from where I live, and most are much further... yet here, with this motley crew, we have created a strong network of support, love, and encouragement, fortified with healthy doses of gossip and neuroses, and maybe even a little dysfunction... we are, indeed, an urban family of the most wonderful sort. A collaborative holiday meal was a fitting, and filling, reminder of just how much we have to be thankful for in our little corner of the world.

I believe a new tradition has been born.

May all of you, your urban families, your biological families, your traditional and non-traditional families, and everyone, have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Beth Is Where the Heart Is

Saturday morning, lying in shavasana pose in my yoga classroom. I am finally beginning to feel a little relaxed. My mind begins to drift.

I have been traveling for the seven weekends prior to this one. I have long been dealing with the existential crisis of our far-flung and continuously mobile society, and the resulting fact that no matter where I live, I will never be able to be physically proximate to all of the family and friends I most deeply love. Being on the road so much lately, it has been a delight to realize that wherever I go, I have a port in every storm - but also sad to depart each port, and sadder still to feel rootless, and miss even those who live near where my mail is currently delivered.

As my mind drifts deeper into the yoga-soothed meditative state, I begin thinking of home. What is home? Where is home? Who is home?

A long-buried memory resurfaces.

When I was in high school, I took a summer Hebrew course offered by an Israeli-Frenchman. For anyone who knows any stereotypes about the French, or about the Israelis, you can imagine that such a combination would produce the most condescending, chain-smoking, dubious person ever (stereotypically speaking, of course). Well, this man was that stereotype personified. He asked us to all go around the room and introduce ourselves, and if we had Hebrew names, to share them. As it happens, I do have a Hebrew name, Beit.

"Beit?" Sneered the Israeli-Frenchman. "Beit, that means house. Your parents, zey named you House? Are zey stupid?"

The rest of the class tittered. They all either didn't have Hebrew names, or had good solid ones like David, Daniel, or Rivka.

"It's a name, too," I defended weakly.

"Oh sure, sure," shrugged the Israeli-Frenchman, pursing his lips, probably less at me and more at the stupid rule that barred him from smoking in the classroom. "But no one is actually named that anymore. It is, how you say, old-fashioned. Out of date." He snickered. "It is not normal, to just be a girl named House!"

I had no further defense, and truly - I thought of my name as meaning "house." Even after seven semester of college-level Hebrew, when I thought of my name, I translated it as "house." But unexpectedly, in the midst of a yoga meditation, years later and wholly out of context, revelation: Beit means, even more literally than it means "house"... "home."

Such a simple realization, such small semantic differences - but the room felt suddenly warmer. It was odd to be named house, but what did mean to be named home?

I began to mull this over. Meanwhile, I left the sanctity of the yoga studio and life continued to hit, with complications and twists and surprises and confusions arising as they do. I sent a frustrated email to a friend, and I received a response that soothed me more than this friend can know. I had not shared my "home" revelation with anyone, but this is what my friend wrote to me, about me:

"...this Beth keeps a lot of people sane, safe, comforted, fed, smiling, and feeling good about themselves. And that's just for starters."

And all I could think was, is that me? I really do that? That sounds like... home.

If it is true, how lucky I am to live up to the incredible name my brilliant parents gave me. Like a snail with its shell on its back, wherever I go, I will take home with me. It is who and what I should be: I will bring with me, for those I love, the gifts of a solid home: trust, shelter, safety, love.

I am not, as the Israeli-Frenchman wrote me off more than a decade ago, a girl named House. I am Beth, and I am home.

*************************************************************************************
Rejected titles for this post:

• The Beth that Ken and Lisa Built (because "Beth" there would be substituting for house instead of home, AND because it makes me sound like a weird robot my parents constructed using aluminum and shiny buttons)
• There's No Place Like Beth (I'm a place now? ....Are you calling me fat?)
• Beth Sweet Beth (Too saccharine)
• Bethland Security (Too militant)
• Beth, Beth On the Range (Too cooked-sounding, frankly.)

Nobody's Body But Mine

There was a strange song on one of the children's records I listened to as a kid. Strange in hindsight: growing up, I didn't find it weird in the least. Tucked in among all the tracks from early-80's kid-music rock stars like Rafi, Gemini, and Bert & Ernie, my music collection contained a little Peter Alsop ditty called "My Body." Six years old, every time the song was in the player, I would dance around freely, jumping and swiveling and calling out these lyrics:

"My Body"

CHORUS: My body's nobody's body but mine! You run your own body, let me run mine!

My nose was made to sniff and to sneeze/To smell what I want, and to blow when I please!/My lungs were made to hold air when I breathe,I am in charge of just how much I need! (CHORUS)

My legs were made to dance me around/To walk and to run and to jump up and down!/My mouth was made to blow-up a balloon/I can eat, kiss and spit, I can whistle a tune! (CHORUS)

No one knows my body better than me/It tells me, "Let's eat!", it tells me "Go pee!"/Don't hit me or kick me, don't push or shove/Don't hug me too hard when you show me your love (CHORUS)

Sometimes it's hard to say "No!" and be strong/When those "No!" feelings come, then I know something's wrong/'Cause My body's mine from my head to my toe/Please leave it alone when you hear me say "No!" (CHORUS)

Secrets are fun when they're filled with surprise/But not when they hurt us with tricks, threats and lies… (CHORUS)

The fact that this was a "safety song," subtly teaching me to "just say no" to any unwanted intrusion into my personal space, was lost on me. I thought it was a celebration of my body back then, back when we were all young enough to genuinely celebrate our bodies: this is MY body, and I LOVE it! You have your own body that tells YOU when to pee, and mine tells ME when to pee, and it's AWESOME!

I recently remembered this song, and tracked down the lyrics above. Looking at the words that once seemed to me a joyous celebration of self, I now feel entirely new and different emotions. At what point did I learn that, in fact, bodies need to be protected? That tricks, threats, and lies inflicted by others against our physical selves, can be a harsh and painful reality?

On another, but equally important level, when did I stop celebrating my body? Safety is one issue, but so is security-- as in, when do we learn all this insecurity? When and why do most of us transition from loving our bodies to worrying whether or not other people will judge them too harshly?

We don't self-generate all this paranoia, of course; lessons are often learned through repetition and life experiences. I am struck by how frequently people think it is all right to pass judgment on bodies -- particularly on women's bodies. This past weekend, after I delivered a speech, someone said (to a colleague of mine, who he had only just met) something along the lines of "That Beth sure is cute... a little too skinny, though." Meanwhile, just a few months ago, someone else commented directly to me that I "could stand to drop a few pounds." Both times, I was in a professional or academic setting -- and the levels of frustration I have with these comments are multiple.

First of all, I clearly can't win -- I'm always too thin or too fat, apparently. It's like cold weather: always comes a little earlier than we expected, or a little later than we expected -- never right on schedule, is it? Secondly, how is my weight or appearance relevant to the speech or presentation I just gave? Not too sound overly feminist-soap-boxing, but how often do men stand up, give an engaging talk, and then receive feedback along with a hearty handshake: "Joe, I have to tell you, those pants you're wearing just aren't very flattering..."

Third -- who asked you, anyway?!

I'm beginning to recall a lesson I internalized many years ago, while dancing around a tiny duplex filled with the sounds of scratchy-vinyl music:

My body's nobody's body but mine! You run your own body! Let me run mine!


*P.S. I have no explanation for the creepy Peter Alsop record cover that Google Images yielded for me. Safety songs for children by day... movies out on the town with a mannequin by night? Well, if nothing else, Creepy Peter Alsop Album Cover reminds me that I want to see Lars & The Real Girl...

Ready, set...

"If you want something done, give it to a busy person."

I don't even remember the first time I heard this pithy little quote, but it's been part of my life for a good many years now. Generally it's cast in my direction as someone shoves a folder, a flash drive, a set of car keys in my hand, knowing that if they give me the the task, said task will be completed.
Busy is good, bustle is terrific, chaos is an environment in which I am generally quite comfortable. However, at some point, it is possible for one's plate to become too full.

A favorite friend and I went out to brunch earlier this month, and she ordered the special that morning: scrambled eggs and fried chicken. This struck me as oddly avian-cannibal in composition (but I'm a vegetarian, so what do I know?). I politely asked her:

"How's your chicken-and-egg meal?"

To which she perfectly replied: "I think it's good... I just don't know what to eat first."

Indeed. Now imagine if her plate had contained not only chicken and egg, but several dozen other food items getting in the way of her classic dilemma. Where to begin? Where to begin?

Welcome to Crazyville, Population: Everyone.

The other morning, my good friend and I were discussing Crazyville. Crazyville is a neighborhood with which we are both familiar. You have probably lived there at some point, too -- and if you haven't, you will. It's a transitional neighborhood, and the epitome of "transient community," but everyone winds up there. It's a requirement of life: not everyone has to be mayor, but every single one of us has to spend a few nights in Crazyville.

In Crazyville, the houses are always full, but there are also always vacancies. It's hard to point to the charm of Crazyville. People are drawn there for mysterious, unknowable reasons. After all, the neighbors can be bizarre. The night life is lacking. Most city services are insufficient (though there is a recycling program...).

The postal system there is decent; messages from outside of Crazyville are delivered with astounding frequency, though many residents of Crazyville leave their post office boxes unchecked for months on end... so news from the outside world is often delayed.

It's a city of contradictions: people say one thing, then do something else. Dramatic posts on sites like LiveJournal and MySpace reach epic proportions, all originating from the various corners of Crazyville. There are few co-ops, but lots of co-dependency. Everyone there knows, either vaguely or poignantly, that this isn't really the place for them. Some people do take up permanent residence in Crazyville, giving up their rental and purchasing real estate, but most of us ultimately pass through this railroad town. Sometimes, though, moving on is difficult.

Why is it so hard to move out of Crazyville? Well, the rent is low, and you know where all the good restaurants are, and sometimes, there's this roommate who co-signed on the lease...

And, as we all know, moving is a big old pain in the ass.

Thing is, once you're out of Crazyville, you realize just how much you love your new neighborhood. It's strange, at first, but gradually, you make new friends, take a few classes, learn that the new restaurants are actually becoming your new favorites. You think, why didn't I move before now?

Occasionally, you get wind of some friend or loved one who has taken up residence in Crazyville. Knowing how much better things are where you reside now, you send them a postcard. Getting no response, you send a longer letter, perhaps even a real estate brochure for properties outside the Crazyville city limits. Then you remember: the letters make it to the Crazyville Post Office, but the message doesn't really get through until the citizen of Crazyville decides it's time to check their box...

Because it's too good not to share...

Details, details, details

Dear Readers:

October is an extremely travel-heavy month for this little writer, and while I will try to keep up some semblance of a Bethweek posting schedule, it may be a bit erratic for the foreseeable future. The good news is, travel tends to yield stories, so when I do post, I'll try to share the most poignant or gut-busting of the moments.

This week's story is a little of column A, a little of column B -- and mostly a reminder to pay attention to detail, and really clarify your requests:

My travels this week began at 5 a.m. in Jackson, Mississippi. I remember literally nothing about my first flight that day; I somehow stumbled through security, made it onto the little plane bound for Newark, New Jersey, and slept my way up North. I arrived in Newark, and before catching my next plane, an even smaller one destined for Providence, Rhode Island, I had just enough time to get a coffee.

Getting the coffee was a mistake. Getting the coffee meant that I was awake to fully realize the condition of the small second plane.

To begin, the "door wasn't aligning right" with the normal walkway, so we had to all walk outside and climb a rickety staircase to enter the shuddering aircraft. The layout of the tiny space went old-school-overstuffed-leather-seat, aisle, old-school-overstuffed-leather-seat. (Except for my part of the plane, since I was seated in the back, and my row went old-school-overstuffed-leather-seat, aisle, bathroom-with-door-that-wouldn't stay closed). The old-school overstuffed leather seats did not match: some were blue, some tan, some gray, with no evident pattern in their placement.

The only appropriate word for this plane was "hoopty."

As the Air Hoopty began to back away from the terminal, there was this horrible creaking and rocking sound, like a car with poor shocks or off-bearing, only magnified, sounding something like:

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK WONKA WONKA WONKA WONKA...

... as we lurched around the tarmac. More terrifying noises rumbled and squealed and belched their way forward when we began to prepare for takeoff. I closed my eyes and began to pray:

"Please God let me make it to Providence today, let me make it to Providence today, let me make it to Providence today..."

As Air Hoopty heaved its way into the sky, shaking and moaning, realization hit me. I re-examined the words of my prayer. My eyes flew open and my mind quickly edited:

"Providence RHODE ISLAND! Providence RHODE ISLAND! Providence RHODE ISLAND!!!!"

On Being a Grown Up

Senior year of college, several of my friends shared one-quarter of a sprawling old New England manor, a house depressed by its own conversion from affluent one-family home to ramshackle, under-manicured, spliced-int0-four-apartments college rental housing. I, too, lived in once-lovely old home, but way off-campus, so it was my friends' house that became my second home: close to campus, filled with a constant parade of people. It was the site of countless parties, movie nights, celebratory wine bottle-uncorkings as one by one we got into graduate school, accepted jobs, decided to move to Europe and bartend. At weekly dinner parties, all our clever, hilarious, and ridiculous quotes were written on poster-boards on the wall, preserved for us to laugh at again the next weekend.

Towards the end of our senior year, the parties picked up in their frequency and intensity as we all tried to experience as much undergraduate abandon as possible. Sometimes it would become too much for me and I would slip outside, often alone but just as often joined by another temporary refugee. Such was the case one night less than a week before commencement. Sitting on the crumbling first-floor porch of the once-grand house, the din of the second-floor party became a dull background hum. I was sitting, eyes closed, breathing in the brisk-Massachusetts May evening, when a friend eased himself down on the steps beside me.

"Hey," he said. "Seen my girlfriend?"

"She might be in the kitchen," I replied.

"As well she should be," he said with a smirk.

I punched him.

He laughed. "So. Sunday. We'll be Bachelor's, or something. College graduates. Grown-ups."

I shook my head. "Nope."

He raised an eyebrow, gave me a this'll be good look. "Nope?"

"No, I decided that's not how it works," I said, making it up as I went along: "See, you get four years in high school... freshman year, sophomore year, junior year, senior year. Same thing in college, four years, freshman-sophomore-junior-senior."

"We were first-years here," he corrected me. "They called us first-years, not freshmen, because freshmen is sexist. We're at PCU, remember?"

"Says the guys who just said women should be in the kitchen. Anyway, the point is, you get four years. That's the increment. So I've decided that post-college, you get four years before you have to be a grown up: a freshman year--"

"First year."

"Fine - a first year, sophomore year, junior year and senior year out-of-college. You have all that time to figure out how to be a grown-up outside of the college bubble, and then, that fifth year out of college... that's your first year as a grown-up."

He considered this, then nodded: "Good call."

So let it be written, so let it be done -- we had established a new precedent, comfortably far away. After all, freshman year felt so long ago. How quickly could another four years go by?

I woke up a few mornings back and realized: in the blink of an eye. I've used up my four years. In fact, I missed my theoretical commencement, which would have fallen several months ago... and now I find myself halfway through my first year as a self-designated grown up.

I thought, that can't be right. I started to look for clues and the evidence mounted quickly: I not only pay taxes, but complete and file them on my own. I own my own car. I've been paying my own housing, insurance, and general expenses for years. I have a dog and a Master's degree and have been chipping away at my undergraduate loans for some time now. I have business cards. I've moved cross-country multiple times. Last week I had a conversation about pop culture with someone who was born in a year that began with "20" instead of "19" (this is a first-grader who knows her reality television like no other). The friend who bore witness to my post-college adult-track curriculum is soon to be married, and many others are showing similarly alarming signs of maturity.

At some point, we crossed over.

There are plenty of adult milestones I have yet to hit in my own life - I don't think marriage, buying a house or having kids are activities on the immediate horizon, and I'm still sketching out the exact structure of the blueprints for "what I want to be when I grow up." But standing in this new location, surveying the land of Adulthood, I have come to a terrifying realization: There are no grown-ups. It's just us out here, looking around with the same puzzled expression, wondering where all the adults went, and trying to pinpoint just when it was that we stopped having any friends living on the second floor of a decrepit old Boston mansion with insistent music, and quotes on the wall, and a quiet porch for refuge.

What Broken Hearts Can Learn from Broken Noses

The pain of the initial impact is blinding: a baseball slams into your face and shatters the sensitive bones of your nose. Reeling and bleeding, you have two choices. You can either go to the emergency room, where you will likely have to endure the pain of having your nose re-broken by the doctor to ensure it is properly set for healing. Or, you can quickly mute the pain with ice, tell yourself it's not that bad, and stay in the game.

However, when a nose is first broken, it is, medically speaking, more efficient to right then and there reset to its original position and allow it to heal correctly the first time -- whereas if a broken nose goes untreated, deformity of the nose occurs, usually resulting in a crooked bridge, a bumpy bridge, or a combination of the two. When this is the case, at some later date, when you have trouble breathing, or just can't look at yourself in the mirror any longer, a doctor or cosmetic surgeon will need to reset it, which involves re-breaking the nose.

With the heart, there seems to be a parallel. After the initial blinding pain, the shattering of your heart, you have two choices. You can either spend some time immediately re-breaking your heart - resisting the urge to fall back into familiar arms, ignoring phone calls, doing the difficult work of dealing with yourself. Or, you can "stay in the game:" you can choose to sidestep that immediate re-breaking, understandably wanting to save yourself more simultaneous pain - and you "heal" by seeking immediate comfort in those familiar arms, that familiar voice. Though your heart was shattered, you quickly erase all memory of the injury

... and thus untreated, some deformity of the heart occurs... and later, when you finally realize that you are having difficulty breathing, or you can no longer look at yourself in the mirror... your heart must be re-broken, only then to have some hope of healing and restoring itself to full functionality.

There are some differences between broken hearts and broken noses, of course. For noses, there is anesthesia. For hearts, there is only time.

As Claire Danes' character, Mirabelle, said in Shopgirl: "Hurt now, or hurt later? .... Hurt now." Tears were in her eyes, as she slowly nodded her way through her wrenching choice. Biting her lip, she made the most difficult but most healthy call, and walked away from the person who might give her a few more good moments, but would undoubtedly hurt her again in the end.

The fictitious Mirabelle had the wisdom to know that delaying payment of pain owed is a finite layaway plan - the bill always comes due, and often the amount has compounded and increased while we pretended it wasn't there. In real life, most of us are not so wise. We have to keep breaking and breaking and breaking before we finally learn: pain later is often pain greater, and part of that pain lies in the knowledge that while the initial wound might be blamed on someone else, this pain ... we could have spared ourselves.

The truly tricky part? Knowing when our heart is broken, and when it is only bruised. When do we stay, and when do we walk away? Broken hearts can learn something from broken noses... but there is still so much unknown.

Channeling Lynne Truss

Do not bring unpaid merchandise into the bathroom.

The words leered down at me from a placard on a lavatory door in a major department store. It took me a moment to identify the funny feeling in my tummy. Why did the sign instantly irritate me? What was this odd sensation? Who or what exactly was this persona taking over my senses?

Then, in a moment full of secret identity-shedding, superhero-revealing glory, I became the Grammar Rodeo Queen.

Who, you ask, is the Grammar Rodeo Queen? Ha! Ha HA!

...all right, no need for dramatic buildup: it's me. "GRQ" was my high school boyfriend's nickname for me. (Romantic, no?) Friend and foe alike would ask me to edit their essays and school reports. Incorrectly spelled words, incorrectly used words, and incorrect grammar were unacceptable. In fits of syntactic rage, I would turn green and SMASH sentences into proper forms.

Eventually, I learned that this is a rather irritating trait. Though all too happy to utilize my editing skills when a grade was on the line, most friends found my obsession with words boring-- pretentious, even. I learned to rein in the rodeo queen and leave grammar alone. In fact, I submerged so much of GRQ that these days I would find diagramming a sentence to be quite a Herculean task. Transitive, intransitive... I rarely pick apart grammar these days. GRQ has been largely subdued.

She surfaces occasionally. When I first read "Eats, Shoots, and Leaves," there was copious snorting, and I blame it all on GRQ. Usually, though, her appearances are not so jovial. After months of near-invisibility, an unbidden trigger sets her off. It can be something small. In fact, it's usually something quite small, a subtle trigger such as the unexpected sign:


Do not bring unpaid merchandise into the bathroom.

This is a clear violation of the English language!

Pay attention to the noun, people! The first "person, place, or thing" in question here is the merchandise. Now look at the mangled member of the verb family limping along between "bring" and "merchandise." Pay? Really? Before I enter the bathroom, you want me to pay the merchandise?

No matter what you do, merchandise will rarely be paid. Workers can be paid or unpaid (though they are happier when paid). The distributor or manufacturer or retailer can be paid. Merchandise cannot. (Of course, if the worker and the merchandise are one and the same, perhaps the merchandise can be paid. Aside from prostitution, I can think of few examples where this is the case, and I highly doubt this was the sort of merchandise to which the bathroom sign was referring... although... it was the bathroom door...)

The sign, therefore, should have read something along the lines of:

Do not bring UN-PURCHASED merchandise into the bathroom.

The purchasing is what happens to and therefore directly modifies the merchandise, not the paying.

Am I wrong? Where is Lynne Truss when you need her? It's high time she and I had tea. Oh, Ms. Truss! I understand that "Call me, Ishmael" and "Call me Ishmael" are two completely different sentences. I love appropriately placed commas, and adore correctly-applied vocabulary. Thank you for serving as an international grammar role model.

(My apologies to everyone who found this blog boring and/or pretentious; I simply had to let fly the lasso of the Grammar Rodeo Queen. She's been eating me up all week.)

... And a Dollar Short

Due to yet another hectic weekend, this posting is tardy, and now appears on Tuesday, September 11, 2007.

With apologies to former UnshelvingBeth readers, I am reposting the reflection on 9/11 I wrote last year. Though innovation is important, there is something to be said for tradition as well, and it seems appropriate to share a second-annual post reflecting on the tragedy that occurred six years ago today, on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

Living Stories

My creative writing class. A table full of young writers, headed by a vibrant Southern author who tsk tsk tsks us when we use clichés like "her eyes are filled with tears." It’s a 9am class, and we are commenting on a classmates' story of new love -- a difficult topic to tackle without using any clichés. Almost immediately after the class begins, a cell phone rings. This elicits an instantaneous tsk as our professor's eyebrows hit her hairline. "Which one of y'all brought a cell phone to class?"

We all turn innocent faces back to her. We know the rule. In honor of our beloved professor, our cell phones are all off or absent. The phone keeps ringing.

She flushes crimson. “Oh good Lord, it’s mine,” she chuckles, reaching into her oversize knit bag. “It’s my husband – must be some sort of emergency. Please forgive me,” she says, taking the call. “Honey, I’m in class, so this better – what? Well that’s strange. How very odd. All right – bye.”

She places her cell phone back in her purse, and reports with a puzzled face, “My husband says that a plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”

We are all mystified, all tripping over similar bemused questions: A small plane? Anyone hurt? Was it a navigational error, or some sort of mechanical failure? One student, saying her father works near there, excuses herself to see if she can reach him. The rest of us return to our stories, confused but not shaken.

The phone rings again.

Flinching slightly, our professor takes out her vibrating cell, looks at the caller ID. “It’s my husband again. I can’t think why he’d need to call back – I won’t be a minute – I’ll just – hold on. Hello? Hi, sweetheart… what? … What? I… That’s just … okay. Okay. I love you too.”

She ends her call and somehow seems to meet all of our eyes at once. Her voice wavers like the watery air above a blistering fire. “A second plane flew into the World Trade Center. They’re pretty sure we’re under some sort of terrorist attack.”

Too stunned to speak, we stare. It never crossed our minds. Our naïveté had shielded us from the first crash, but the second plane went right through us.

The professor speaks again: “I don’t believe there’s anything we can do just yet. Shall we stay in our stories a little while longer?” It is not yet 9:30am on Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. We mutely nod: we want to live in our fiction just a little while longer.

But then our other classmate walks back into the classroom, and her eyes are filled with tears.

©Beth Kander (please do not reprint without permission of the author)

"P" -ness Envy

A few weeks ago, my good friend D was in town for a conference, and I was fortunate enough to get a few hours with her post-conference. We embarked on a mini-road trip to Grenada, Mississippi. Towards the end of our drive, D let out a small yelp, and said "Oh my God! I didn't tell you about discovering my p-ness."

I have known this woman long enough to know that if I just raised my eyebrows, she would likely clarify.

Seeing my brows and registering what she had just said, she burst out laughing and said "No no no, that came out wrong, I mean my inner p-ness."

"I think whatever you're trying to say is still coming out wrong," I said, suspecting she was probably not identifying herself as a hermaphrodite.

"Yeah yeah yeah, wait a minute, I just got so excited to tell you about this, I'll back up," she said quickly. "Have you ever taken a Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test?"

I was, in fact, familiar with the MBTI, a personality test that gauges "preferences" across four categories, each of which has two possible letters/types. For example: "Do you prefer to focus on the outer world or on your own inner world?" If you choose outer, you are Extroverted (E); if you choose inner, you are Introverted (I). Of course, the questions are asked far more comprehensively and far less obviously, but that's the basic gist. By the end of the test, you have your own specific letters across the four preferences; there are 16 different general "profiles" into which a person can fall.

"Well," said D, "For years I've tested as INFJ -- introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging. But I recently re-tested, and I'm on the cusp of J (judging) and P (perceiving). And since Js are supposed to be more organized and decision-oriented and I'm just not like that, I'm so thrilled to consider exploring my P-ness--"

At that point I requested that she begin referring to her "P-quality."

"Anyway," she said, "It's very liberating. You're totally a J, right? Because you're so organized and decisive--"

It was my turn to burst out laughing. "Organized? Decisive? Are you kidding?"

"Well," she said, "If that's the case, you hide your P.... quality really well."

P's, you see, are process-rather-than product, ideas more than implementation, leaving doors open rather than confidently selecting ... and while in my professional life, I can be product-implementation-decision focused, the truth is it's difficult for me... and for how many others? Apparently, I am a P in J's clothing. (We shall refer to this phenomenon as my PJ's.) I can fake people out and have them think I am a solid J.

But I know the truth. The ENFP (extroverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving) label fits me well; it calls me out on several of my strengths and weaknesses:

ENFP
Warmly enthusiastic and imaginative. See life as full of possibilities. Make connections between events and information very quickly, and confidently proceed based on the patterns they see. Want a lot of affirmation from others, and readily give appreciation and support. Spontaneous and flexible, often rely on their ability to improvise and their verbal fluency.

What this brief cheery overview glosses over is the tendency of P's to have difficulty staying on track... and for all my alleged J-posturing, every once in awhile, I get so caught up on whatever else I have going on I get caught, for lack of a better phrase, with my "p"ants down. Like in this crazy time, when I've kept plates spinning at work, and taken on a few additional tasks - but neglected my blog. I "p"romise to re-engage in this site and apologize for the lapse.

(Due to the tardiness of this post, I briefly thought of titling it "Two Weeks Late Due to P-ness," and while I know that would have elicited a few chuckles, I just couldn't imagine that every reaction would be quite so jovial - and I myself would have turned bright red had someone else used that title - so it was quickly scrapped. Call it a well-played J decision.)

... but I can tell you why fire engines are red.

Why are fire engines red?

Fire engines are red because newspapers are read, too, and two times two is four, and three times four is twelve, and twelve inches is a ruler, and a ruler was Queen Mary, and Queen Mary was a ship that sailed on the sea, and in the sea there are fish, and on fish there are fins, and everyone knows that the Finns fought the Russians, and fire engines are always rushin' around, and THAT'S why fire engines are red!

A magician shared that little wordplay at a company picnic my father's former employers had one summer, circa 1988. For some reason, though I heard him say it only once (and there was no Google in those days for me to go search for the spiel later), my very young brain retained every word. I repeated it for my parents later. I made my little brothers memorize it. We incorporated it into our Entertain All Guests at the Kander Home-and-Road-Show routine.

I probably haven't said those words in close to two decades.

Then last week, a coworker handed me a ruler, and said: "Beth, I'm giving you this because you rule!"

I said, "Well, I don't know if I rule, but I can tell you that rulers factor in to why fire engines are red."

And then, like I'd been saying it every day for the last twenty years, without stumbling even once, I told him why fire engines are red. (And then he called me a weirdo and went back to his office.)

How did I pull that out of the recesses of my memory? The human brain is endlessly fascinating. Lately I feel that my memory has been poorer than usual. I will meet six new people at a dinner party and remember the names of only three. I'll forget to check email before I leave the house and have to stop by my office to log on and get the directions I needed that were waiting in my inbox. I'll pack a lunch and leave it on the counter when I exit the building.

Lately, I can't tell you what I had for breakfast the day before, what outfit I was wearing before I put my pajamas on, what the house number is on the apartment directly across the street from me...

...but, as I'm sure you'll be relieved to know... I can tell you quite definitively why fire engines are red.

"The whole world is a very narrow bridge/and the most important part/is not to be afraid..."

The bridge collapse in Minneapolis is difficult to fathom because the prologue to the tragedy is so familiar: rush hour. Downtown, major metropolitan area. People talking on their phones to their friends, yelling at kids in the backseat to be quiet, sipping a Starbucks latte. Maybe noticing the gas tank needs to be refilled. Crossing a big, sturdy bridge.

And then plummeting faster than comprehension allows towards the murky waters of the Mississippi.

Earthquakes are considered a particularly psychologically-damaging form of natural disaster; evidently, the sensation of the very earth becoming unsteady has a deeply unsettling impact. Where can you go, what can you do, when the foundation you have trusted countless times before suddenly gives way? A bridge collapse must be similar: trapped in your car, no longer with a road beneath you...

It seems that the fear of other imminent bridge collapses now haunts the country. While still reeling from and dealing with the Minneapolis disaster, reporters across the country have raced to proclaim what impending potential doom awaits. Of the 10,000 bridges in metro-Jackson, one reporter warned me as I strode on the elliptical machine, almost 3,000 are in need of major repair.

The dangerous state of our nation's bridges and the lack of funding for repairs is the focus of most conversations about the Minneapolis collapse. On the radio this morning, as I drove familiar roads to work, a road commission official being interviewed was clearing his throat nervously, assuring the public: "Yes, many bridges out there are in need of repair, and deemed structurally deficient. But that doesn't mean they are going to collapse. You can't start being afraid than any bridge you drive on might crumble. You have to keep on driving."

It brought tears to my eyes, not only for those impacted by the recent bridge collapse, but for all of us who must live with that tenuousness. Nearly all the bridges are shaky, but we have to drive across them, though they might break. We are all structurally deficient, but we have to open our hearts, though they might break. We have to keep going, keep driving, keep hoping.

Then I made it to my desk, and on my NPR homepage, there was this picture, with this caption:


Lorena Trinidad-Martinez is baptized following a funeral mass for her father, who was killed in the collapse of the I-35W bridge on Wednesday.

A family keeping faith in the wake of tragedy. Moving not only metaphorically but also achingly literally from water to water, one death, one life. It is not fair; it just is.

And so we keep crossing the next bridges as we come to them.

If you really want to be President of the United States

"Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber." ~Plato

It was around my sophomore year of college that I gave up my serious political aspirations. In a huff, turned off by too many smear campaigns and political scandals, I decided that someone else could be the first female president. Actually, the reasons I decided to forgo politics were identical to the reasons I decided I could not pursue being a professional actress: a certain thickness of skin and a certain willingness to plunge knives into the skin of others seemed to be pre-requisites for having any prayer at advancing through the ranks. Brains and talent would always be secondary to ruthless ambition. When it came down to it, I had a huge liability, a fatal character flaw: too nice.

So I gave up my politics and pre-law focus and set up camp in the American Studies department, deciding to focus on cultural, environmental, literary and journalistic realms (clearly, all topics far removed from any politics...). I tried to keep out of direct engagement with politics. I did note the irony that in Boston, my social/political views were labeled "moderate," yet when I moved to the Deep South I was slapped with a new label: "flaming liberal." When I went to graduate school in Ann Arbor to get a Master's in Social Work, the paradigm shifted again; relative to some of my classmates, I was no longer a liberal or even a moderate but a "borderline conservative." The funny thing was, over the course of those years, my opinions and stances never really changed. It's like living in an area of increasing urban sprawl, where your area code or zip code gets changed three times while you still live in the same house.

I took one course in the politics department when I was in graduate school. There were plenty of politics in the social work school, and plenty of classes on policy, but not really classes on politics. My politics professor, an intimidatingly brilliant man, shared an anecdote about voting choices of low-wage workers in England, not so many decades ago. Though there was a Labor party candidate, theoretically representing the interests of the working class many of the actual laborers voted for the nobleman opponent, and one worker gave the explanation: "On such things [as politics], I defer to my betters."

"Defer to my betters"? As in, the wealthy and well-bred are more deserving, automatically? A social caste system? In modern England? Difficult to fathom...

... but then again, here in the United States, bastion of democracy, we tend to elect older, privileged, good-family-name, non-minority male Presidents. In fact, it's really all we've ever done. Are we somehow subconsciously deferring to our perceived "betters"?

Rather than vote for "my better," I want to have someone better for whom to vote. Someone who has not only met the requirements of being born in this country, over 35 years ago - but who has also experienced what it's really like to live in this country. Not a career politician, but a hard-working, educated, life-experienced American citizen. I know it's a tall order... but as my genius mother and genius friend and I discussed the other day, real-world on-the-ground experience of what it's like to be an "average American" (whatever that means) is really not such a crazy idea. So, based largely on our conversation a few days ago and then some continued musing, here are the five reasonable basics that I think we should require of our presidential candidates.

PRE-REQUISITES FOR THE PRESIDENCY

1. Spend at least a year living below the poverty line. Go through the process of applying for food stamps and federal assistance, weaving your way through the beurocracy, dealing with the stigma.

2. Have a passionate interest that has zero to do with politics, and pursue it. Get rejected a few times. Fall off the horse. Get back on. (Don't subsequently use the photographs of yourself sailing as proof that you're really a fun person; just be a fun person.) If you have done nothing but work on political campaigns, first for others and then for yourself, you are automatically disqualified; you clearly cannot be president, you can only work on campaigns.

3. Travel overseas, and learn at least one foreign language. Before making decisions that impact other nations, spend some time having to obey their laws and getting to enjoy their flavors. Don't stay at ritzy hotels. Stay at hostels.

4. Be a philanthropist. Even during the period of time when you're living below the poverty line, remember that someone else has it worse, and volunteer for a literacy program, donate a dollar to medical research, spend some time with a kid who needs a mentor, listen to an older person who has stories to share. Philanthropy, after all, means "love of people." Demonstrate that love.

5. Know what it's like to be an outsider. If there is not much diversity within your own family tree, seek out diversity in your circles of friends. Go out on a limb and be "the only" sometimes - the only girl in the pick-up baseball game, the only guy in the yoga class, the only young person at the senior citizen center. You don't have to do this constantly, but you do have to do it, even if it is uncomfortable. How can you run the nation of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free if you have never known breathlessness?

I can think of many other instructive guidelines, but if someone could nail all 5 of these, that's an excellent start. Perhaps if these requirements were in place, I would rethink a bid for the presidency. After all, I'd still be too nice, but I would have taken care of all the prerequisites necessary to enable my candidacy. Which presidential hopeful in 2008 can say the same?

What other requirements would you like your president to complete?

Technically Speaking

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

It's tech week, also affectionately called "hell week" by those who have lived through such a phenomenon before. The last few days before a show opens: everyone who has been learning their own choreography must become part of the larger dance. The actors, the directors, light, sound, props, set - all critical elements. Though I'm involved as an actor this time around, I'm under no illusion that my role is any more important than any other. As I learned when performing at the London Fringe Festival a few years back, without the costume, lighting and sound crew, actors would be nothing more than naked people emoting in the dark.

However, there is a certain pressure that comes with being an actor. You're the one up in front of everyone, all eyes upon you, spotlights making the sweat trickle down your make-up caked cheek. Though I've kept my hand in the theatre world through my writing and some occasional directing or teaching, it's been three years since I've appeared in a full-length production. I've become accustomed to being the name on the page, not the girl on the stage.

Learning lines seems a little more difficult than I remember. Driving home tonight, I kept thinking:

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

I know the lines. I do. They're there. Yet sometimes, when I reach for them, they get away from me. I stumble over a word, get the sentiment right but the words wrong, or start to say something too early and realize I need to transpose my sentence right as it begins to come out of my mouth. I know what I'm supposed to be saying, and more importantly, I know the impact of the words. Not just the abstract impact they might have on the audience, but the concrete impact that they have on my fellow cast members, and our crew. My words are cues. Others will respond verbally, visually, or through the flick of a switch based on the words that I utter. Yes, sometimes a good team will save you when you fumble - but who wants to be the one who drops the ball?

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

When talking us through a difficult stretch where we feel pulled in opposite directions, yoga instructor Jean Powers frequently says, "...and isn't that just like life?" It's tech week. Other people are counting on me, and I'm counting on them. I know what I'm supposed to do, but it still requires some thought and effort, and will not necessarily be easy... but is ultimately so deliciously rewarding.

It's tech week... and isn't that just like life?

Stop. Start. Repeat.

Fondren Theatre Workshop's first-ever Ten Minute Play Project was a tremendous success. The evening was one of those unexpectedly electric nights, where audience, entertainers, crew and writers all share a tingling anticipation for what will unfold. No one knew exactly what they were getting themselves into, but everyone was glad to be along for the ride.

The auditorium was filled with the sort of audience you just want to bottle up and take with you to every one of your future performances -- responsive, respectful, engaged. When they were supposed to chuckle, they laughed; when they were supposed to laugh, they guffawed. You could see playwrights beaming as their words evoked uproarious hooting from the enthusiastic crowd. As one of my favorite directors oft says, the audience is one of the most important, influential elements of a performance. This audience deserved a standing ovation.

The first piece of the evening was Brent Hearn's "The Redneck Bard of Verona Flats." In a unique combination of kitchen sink comedy and Shakespearean tongue (in cheek), Shakespeare's Ghost flitted through the trailer home of Mark and Maylene, a pair of, er, star-cross'd lovers. The most original, oh-my-God-I-just-snorted moments came from Maylene's bumbling inadvertent paraphrasing of classic Shakespeare lines, such as "The worst thing in here is the smell... there's something rottin' in the den, Mark." The audience was rolling in the aisles. The skilled direction of Diana Howell and the animated expressions of actors Brad Bishop, Seth McNeill and Lisa Fenshier made the play as visually entertaining as it was clever. Brent, however, may well have had the easiest prop pieces to incorporate into his piece (see last post for explanation of the guidelines for this ten minute play project) : a telephone, an apron, and a plush platypus.

The third show was Opie Cooper's screwball comedy "Legal Mumbo Jumbo." With a secretary with temporary hearing loss, an overstressed attorney and a client whose wig goes sailing off her head, how can you go wrong? Opie's props were more challenging: a plush elephant wearing a key-charm, a large pink tin rooster, and the aforementioned wig. However, Opie's clever turns of phrase enabled him to wrangle every prop into the script, and the almost-frenzied level of energy displayed by his cast, directed by Bettye Edwards, kept the piece popping from start to finish (or Stop to Start, as the case may be... again, I refer to the rules as outlined in the last post!). Alyssa Silberman, Katrina Byrd and James Anderson were quite the comedic trio.

The show wedged between the two comic successes was my piece, "Baby Steps." I won't comment on my own work, but will say that I was blown away by the take-charge direction of Richard Lawrence. Actors John Howell, Hannah Bryan and Lea Gunter slipped into their characters like second skins. I will also say that I had, I do believe, the most challenging props of all: a belly dancer costume (including headgear!), a concertina, and a watermelon on a leash. Knowing the comedic genius of Brent and Opie, local improv gurus that they are, I scrapped the absurdist comedy I was originally attempting to create and instead alternated humor with emotion in a ten-minute dramedy. Watermelon on a leash and all.

Much as I'm often tempted to write eloquent passages, particularly in reviewing arts performances, it seems a bit inappropriate in this instance. There is no such need for decorative articulation: this weekend of breakneck-speed play creation was just plain fun.

10 Minutes in 24 Hours.

At 6:30 pm tonight, they will gather. Actors, writers, directors, techies: they will assemble in the Fondren neighborhood in Jackson to build a play festival from scratch. No scripts yet exist, no parts yet assigned, no sets yet constructed -- but the windows of local art galleries and cafes boast fliers publicizing a Saturday night showtime. In 48 hours, three as-yet un-conceived ten minute plays will take stage.

Welcome to Fondren Theatre Workshop's new Ten Minute Play Project.

Each of the three writers will be randomly matched with a director, a stage manager, and three actors. The three writers will be assigned three miscellaneous props or costume pieces, which must be incorporated into their ten minute script. Each script must begin with the word "stop," and must conclude with the word "start."

I am one of the three playwrights. Beginning at 6:30, I will have 24 hours to write a 10 minute play, which my director, actors, and stage manager will then have 25 hours to rehearse. I know the two other writers favor the comedic genre, so I have some freedom to perhaps descend into the dramatic. Maybe due to my introspection of late, I have an inexplicably keen awareness of being the sole female voice amidst the writers. I cannot escape this metaphor of nurturing this new script, creating a new life -- conception and delivery, all in one weekend. Although oddly enough, in any sort of baby-metaphor here, I guess all the writers, myself included, are more like the male partner: we contribute some raw material, the performers and stage crew finesse and develop it into something to share with the world. Maybe together we'll produce something wonderful.

The basic point is, we will produce something. I have to write tonight. I've committed. I'm in the playbill. The show goes up in two days, so there damn well better be a script cranked out by tomorrow night. The pressure is on...

... which is such a relief.

Sound counterintuitive? Not really. It's why, at least in theory, the strict setting of military school is often turned to for unruly children: sometimes we need structure to guide us in the right direction. In times tumultuous as these, I often find comfort in writing. Immersing myself in stories and settings of my own creation (or theft), imagined lives I can learn from and impact at my own discretion... these interactions help me feel less lonely. More empowered. What I am afraid to say or realize about my own life, I can delegate to my characters. Aside from my oft-belated posts on this blog, I have done so little writing lately. Perhaps the widening chasm can be halted tonight, as I write with purpose and deadline.

Expect a report on Sunday. I'm striving to meet all writing deadlines this week.

Independence Day

People in coffee shops on holidays surely have stories.

There is a woman sitting a few tables away from me, a large black woman in bright cheerful hospital scrubs, light blue with garish yellow and pink shooting stars. She is cradling a cell phone between her shoulder and her ear, chuckling knowingly, a Dell laptop open in front of her and a large textbook resting on her lap. She is in her fifties. I imagine she is a returning student, possibly pursuing a nursing degree, just finished a shift at the medical center up the way and is preparing for her next examination. The person she is speaking with is maybe her daughter, a freshman at a college several states away, and they are commiserating about having to study on a holiday.

Beside her, one table over, there is a young white man in his twenties, scruffy hair, lazy beard and eyes too jaded for his face. He has a cup of coffee in front of him but has not touched it. Is his heart broken? Could be. Could be that the girl who was, until recently, his fiancee, his high school sweetheart, is out at a cookout with another man, throwing back her head and laughing to reveal huge white teeth with a distinguishing gap between the front two, holding a Bud Light in her hand and letting the other man catch her by the waist. It begins to rain outside the coffeeshop, and the pensive young man's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but a little satisfaction: rain is bad news for people at a cookout. He reaches for the cup but still does not sip the coffee.

Outside on the patio, protected by a black-and-white striped awning, enjoying the sudden shower, sits an elderly man with a middle-aged woman. The elderly man is a librarian, gay and fastidious about topiary and household upkeep. My imagination is not running away with me this time- these facts are true, because I know him; he used to be a neighbor of mine, up until about two years ago, when I left for graduate school. He glances at me occasionally, because something about me is familiar, but he can't quite place me. I don't know the woman he is with. What if she is his daughter? What if he had this whole other life before he was my neurotic shrub-loving neighbor? On this holiday Wednesday, where is his male companion, and who is the woman taking his place?

The two men sitting behind me are loud, brash, both wearing solid gold wedding bands, going over blueprints for a house or an office. One man is clearly the client, one the architect. They are talking about foundations, pouring cement, deadlines for city inspections. This couldn't wait until tomorrow? Where are the wives indicated by the rings, the children each alludes to having? Perhaps one has a wife who recently left him, and he wants no one to know, so he keeps the ring, keeps his mouth shut, and keeps all appointments, in order to get out of his own empty, well-designed home. Perhaps the other is a workaholic, unable to meet during the workweek with an architect for something to be constructed in his personal life. Maybe his family is keeping hot dogs warming on a cooling grill, waiting for him to finally give a little bit of time over to them.

The most interesting table is all the way in the back, a family that looks lost or at some halfway point on a road trip, out of place, painfully stereotypically rural-Southern. They were standing in front of me when I waited to order my coffee. Two older women, one middle-aged woman, one middle aged man, and one little girl, ten at most. They are all dressed in red, white, and blue. The little old women whispered to each other the whole time, and paid jointly for their coffees but not for the younger set, though they are clearly all together. The middle aged couple seem to be married; they stumbled over the pronunciation of the fancy espresso drinks, and when the woman teased the man, he threatened to slap her, evoking more whispering from the little old ladies and a small shudder from the little girl. When they finally finished ordering and headed to their seats, the big comfy chairs in the back that I had been eying for myself, I could see that the little girl was clutching a Jonathan Kellerman novel to her chest, eagerly telling the old ladies about the latest plot twist as they ignored her, continuing to whisper to one another. My heart broke a little and I wanted to ask her to tell me more about what she's reading, ask her if she's read any of Faye Kellerman's books.

I wonder if any of these people are wondering about me - why I am so overdressed, a young woman by herself, sitting at a coffeeshop on Independence Day. I wonder if they can guess the histories I have created for them, the names and traits and stories I have assigned to them. I wonder if they think I am anything like any of them.

The truth is, I am like all of them. I recognize them all, and though I don't know their real stories, I feel as if I do. After all, we do have a few things in common. We all have stories. And we're all the sort of people you could find at a coffee shop on a holiday. Somehow, being here feels a little bit patriotic.... and now it's time for me to leave the cafe. Happy 4th of July.

Worth a thousand words, right?

Due to travel and a hectic Monday schedule, the full Bethweek post will not appear until later tonight or tomorrow morning. For now, enjoy some lovely faces as a temporary substitute.

Letter to a Terrible Waitress

Dear Terrible Waitress:

Waitressing is a stressful job. I say that with all sincerity - you're on your feet, having to be nice to people even when they're jerks, managing information, remembering orders and specials and faces, dealing with kitchen staff, dodging traffic... it can be a really tough gig.

I also understand the sexist stigma that comes with being a waitress as opposed to a waiter. Or at least, I do now, after doing a Google image search - when I searched for waiter, lots of charming clip-art surfaced immediately, featuring men in coattails carrying silver platters, smiling bus boys, and so on. When I plugged in waitress, several naked pictures turned up, along with ads for topless bars and strippers. (And the only word I was searching for was "waitress." That was it!) So I get it, and I'm sorry.

However.

You, sweetheart, you in particular, are just about the worst waitress imaginable.

First of all, when my friends and I are seated at the table, ready for you to take our drink order, you instead first spent no less than five minutes ranting to us about what bastards your last customers were, and how they didn't even leave you a tip. Initially, though a little weirded out by your over-the-top rant, you did have our sympathy.

Then, when we asked you what the specials on tap were, you didn't know. You had to go check. You took ten minutes to come back... and when you returned, you said "Oh, gosh y'all, I already forgot what all's on tap, it's so hard to remember! I do know we have Bud Light, or maybe it's Miller, or that other one?"

Like the nice (thirsty) patrons we are, we said anything was fine, really, and put in an order for an appetizer as well. Besides, tap lists change, sometimes it's hard to remember, no big deal.

Forget the fact that the appetizer didn't arrive until after the meal. Forget the fact that you got every salad dressing order wrong. I suppose we could blame the kitchen for those things; never know, it could be their fault. But these poor moves, I pin squarely on you:

• Talking with the cute guys one table over for 15 minutes, after we gave you our order and before you turned it over to the kitchen.
• Rolling your eyes when we asked where our appetizer was.
• Calling me sugar, baby, sweetheart, while keeping your eyes fixed on the men.
• Calling me sugar, baby, sweetheart, when you told me the kitchen was closing so you couldn't fix my mis-prepared order.
  
• Calling me sugar, baby, sweetheart, though you are probably about 5-10 years younger than I am (and I am not generally so irritated by overly intimate terms of endearment from strangers, but you really overshot your quota).
  

These were all bad calls, but the last straw was when we were waiting for our check, and I went inside to find you, and I saw you sitting at the bar doing shots with some other patrons.

And when you saw me, you hid. Like literally, dropped the shot glass, ran into the kitchen, and hid there for another 10 minutes before you brought us our bill...

...and I'm such a sucker, that when you brought us the bill and singled me out as the perpetually sympathetic one and gave me the tear-jerker line about how it's your first night and you're so new and overwhelmed, I typically would have been guilted into leaving you a gigantic tip.

Except that you told me it was your first night the last time you were my waitress. At this restaurant. Six weeks ago. So, sugar, work up a new routine, or find a new job, baby, because you are really a terrible waitress. Sweetheart.

Follow up to this post, 6/26/2007: due to our first choice venue being closed, my friend Mac and I wound up back at TW's restaurant again last night. And of course, we were seated in TW's section. And of course, TW was, well, T. But I felt so guilty about venting online, anonymously as it was, that I left her a 20% tip this time. Mac nearly killed me.

Father's Day

June 21, 1964: a Sunday. Three young civil rights activists journeyed to Neshoba County, Mississippi, to investigate the burning of Mt. Zion church, a gathering place for "the movement." James Chaney, a 21 year old black man, hailed from nearby Meridian, Mississippi. Michael Schwerner, a 24 year old white Jewish man, was a social worker, originally from New York, working for COFO out of Meridian. Andrew Goodman, a 20 year old white, Jewish college student, also from New York, had just completed training on strategies for working for black voter registration. He arrived in Meridian on June 20, ready to tackle the segregated South. June 21 was his first full day in Mississippi.

The three men visited the Mt. Zion ruins, then met with the local COFO group before heading back towards their Meridian base. Chaney, more familiar with the area than the two New Yorkers, was driving the blue Ford station wagon through the winding rural roads. Somewhere around 5pm, Chaney was pulled over, allegedly for speeding, and all three men were arrested and taken to the Neshoba County jail, where they were denied any phone calls.

The sweat that must have trickled down each back: Mississippi in late June, in the early sixties. Three civil rights workers, one black, two Jewish, all young and achingly idealistic, apprehended in one of the most notoriously racist areas of the country. No air conditioning. No equality. Local law enforcement violently protective of their right to white supremacy. Imagine the smell of salt and fear, the rising temperatures of both weather and men.

Probably much to their surprise, Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner were released around 10 p.m. that day, permitted to return to their vehicle. They climbed into the Ford, navigated their way back to Highway 19, once again Meridian-bound, undoubtedly both angry and relieved at their capture and release, eager to leave Neshoba County.

Only they never were permitted to leave Neshoba. Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner disappeared that night. On June 22, 1964, the charred remains of the blue Ford station wagon were found near Bogue Chitto swamp. Nearly a month and a half later, the remains of Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner were found buried in an earthen dam, fifteen feet deep, on a farm six miles outside of Philadelphia, Mississippi.

Justice did not reside in Mississippi in 1964. The brutal murders of three young men went virtually unpunished. As Ben Chaney, James' younger brother, noted in a 1999 speech, the many, many guilty conspirators were essentially slapped on the wrist:

"Three years after their murders, twenty-one Klansmen were arrested by the FBI, and on February 27, 1967, a federal grand jury for the Southern District of Mississippi indicted nineteen members of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan (White Knights) under Title 18, section 241, for conspiracy 'on or about January 1, 1964, and continuing to, on or about December 4, 1964, to injure, oppress, threaten, and intimidate Michael Henry Schwerner, James Earl Chaney, and Andrew Goodman.' A two-week federal trial in Meridian, Mississippi, resulted in seven guilty verdicts and sentences ranging from three to ten years."

It would be more than 40 years before anyone was convicted for the deaths of Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman, rather than merely conspiring to "injure, oppress, threaten and intimidate them." In January of 2005, Edgar Ray Killen, a Neshoba County minister, was indicted by a Neshoba County grand jury for the murders of the three men -- and on June 21, 2005, exactly forty-one years after the three civil rights workers disappeared, Killen was convicted -- on three counts of manslaughter, not murder. Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman were murdered.

Here in Jackson, Klansman James Ford Seale, was just convicted on two counts of kidnapping and one of conspiracy in connection with the 1964 murders of two black teenagers, Henry Hezekiah Dee and Charles Eddie Moore. Kidnapping and conspiracy, not murder. Dee and Moore were murdered.

Cases are difficult to try more than 40 years later, and the progress this state has made in the willingness to try, convict, and try to right old wrongs should not be overlooked. However, it's also a tricky balance between moving on and not losing our memory. There is something to be said for forgiveness. There is something to be said for honesty. There is still work to be done, and it is not any one person or group's responsibility to do the work. It is a collective imperative.

June 21, 1964, was the day James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner were killed. June 21, 1964, was also Father's Day. All of these men died in their early twenties. One of them, Michael, left a young widow, Rita Schwerner, who continues to work for social justice. None lived long enough to experience fatherhood. On this Father's Day, June 17, 2007, I sat again in the sanctuary at Mt. Zion United Methodist Church in Philadelphia, Mississippi, where the three civil rights workers are memorialized each year. The crowd was smaller than it has been in years past; the 40th anniversary in 2004 was a huge media event, but after the big anniversary, and the subsequent conviction of Killen in 2005, the media has largely exited now. There are fewer cameras, and the story seemed less emphasized, even at the service. So I wanted to tell the story. On this Father's Day, what happened to these three young men should be clearly remembered -- and Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner deserve to be remembered not only as martyrs to a cause, but also as true fathers of change.

This post is dedicated to my dad, Ken Kander. Happy Father's Day...
The information (details of timeline, convictions, etc) was gathered from the following sources: the program and service at Mt. Zion United Methodist Church, Philadelphia, MS; Wikipedia entry on "Mississippi Civil Rights Worker Murders;" Clarion Ledger and Jackson Free Press articles on the trial and convictions of Edgar Ray Killen and James Ford Seale; National Public Radio archives on Chaney, Schwerner, Goodman, Killen, and Seale; and a speech delivered by Ben Chaney to the American Bar Association in 1999.

Technical Difficulties

Due to technical difficulties, this blog is being published on Monday rather than Sunday. I still have not had internet set up at my apartment, since I will be moving again this week, but there are several open networks I had been able to tap into... until last night. Suddenly, the friendly unencrypted network named "default" was gone, and had been replaced by an encrypted network called "CHRIST." Seriously. I ask you, what is the message in someone naming a network after their divine, and then closing it off to the rest of the world??

Due to the aforementioned technical difficulties, I scrapped the original posting I was working on (a nice warm-fuzzy one about working on a Peace House build in downtown Jackson) and have decided to focus instead on technical difficulties. This blog is supposed to transcend my own experience and attempt to probe the universal (nothing like a nice, easy goal), but this time I'm curious: is this a universal phenomenon? Does everyone have the same battle scars from strange tech wars that I do? Does anyone?

Technical, and specifically technological difficulties, have long been a theme in my life, and for this I blame my mother. My mother is certainly a more wounded soldier in the tech wars than I am. She has something that our family has dubbed the Personal Electro-Magnetic Forcefield, or PEMF. Due to her PEMF, my mom is something of a mutant. She has this bizarre, uncontrollable power to alter every clock she touches, any car she drives, any household appliance she so much as looks at. Maybe at one point I doubted the power of the PEMF, but I have been a believer for years now. When she inhabits their space, clocks literally stop working, people. She even made a microwave explode once.

As you might imagine, then, technical difficulties are pretty routine for our family. We long ago learned to just plan around mom's PEMF, by adopting some simple principles: if a drop of rain falls, the power will go out at my parents' house, so always have candles and flashlights. Expect frequent car breakdowns, so always have a cell phone and some high-calorie snacks in the trunk. Do not let her touch the DVD player.

The fear is now that I might have inherited the PEMF. Like an X-Man's mutant powers, it does not always manifest until early adulthood, and then suddenly, BAM: your physiological construction is just different, and you have to live with it. The evidence is mounting for the existence of my own PEMF. To highlight just a few indicators:

• My car has seizures that the mechanics can't explain.
• My cell phone sometimes calls me. (Seriously, sometimes the phone rings and when I answer it, it's my voicemail. And it was calling with a call-ring, not my voice-mail beep, and there are no new messages. I can't explain it.)
• Wireless networks appear and disappear when I touch my Mac.
• My Mac, a laptop I purchased due to the "Macs never crash" mantra invoked by all Macaholics, frequently crashes. And every time I re-start it, the time/date is set to 7pm Wednesday, December 3, 1969, so none of my programs will work until I correct the time/date. Every time.
  

There appears to be nothing I can do, so the goal now is to learn to master the PEMF. It has been suggested that if my mother were to go and hug all the nuclear bombs in the world, they would all be instantly disarmed. Perhaps her technical difficulty is the answer to world peace. Perhaps those of us who cannot help but move through life with technical difficulties should unite and learn to channel our strange little power.

Chew on that one the next time you can't program your DVD player.