If I Were King -

A few weeks ago I posted about the very cool experience of writing with the residents of Huger Mercy Living Center nearly 10 years ago. I had so much fun over my two years with these beautiful people that I wanted to take the project into a school environment. I spoke with a high school drama teacher, and she put me in touch with a middle school language arts teacher.

So, I found myself carrying an even larger bag of supplies into Montecito Community School. For two years, I hung out with the 6^th graders. My first day in Ms. Bond’s room, I passed a table of five boys who were, in a word, spirited. I was assured they would be kept under control. No way… I wanted to play at their table!

The kids and I wrote on paper bags, paper plates, and construction paper. We played Exquisite Corpse. We wrote together and we wrote apart. She shared, and we withheld. I learned so much from them – and even though it’s ridiculously cliché – I know I took more away from that experience than they did.

After our first free writing exercise, I told the kids to wad up their colored paper and shoot it into the trashcan. I told them, “the only writing you waste is the writing you don’t do today.” – which you know, sounds pretty good. Funny how I forget about that all the time.

These 6^th graders wanted to be reckless and fearless, and once they trusted me, they opened the barn door. We had 8 English Language Learners in this class. They wrote in Spanish and their classmates translated. My favorite table of havoc wreakers was the most prolific group in the class.

I think of them often. What trust looked like in their eyes. The weight of their faith. And their stolen irreverent laughter. And one - one stayed with me long after I left.

If I Were King

If I were king I would rule the whole wide world.

If I were a god I would control everything. If I could fly,

I would meet the stars. If I could have one wish,

I would wish for a star to own.

If I could, I would soar into the future.

If I were an angel I would watch over my family.

If I were a different person,

I would so love your puzzles.

-- Isaac

When I Was Alone

When I was lost (under neath my belt)

my stomach was a stone.

Sinking…

was the way

I felt.

And hollow

And alone.

-- Josephine

Survive

There’s no way I’ll fail the test today. There’s no way

I’m going to quit. There’s no way I’m stopping.

There’s no way I’m going to die. There’s no way I’ll

forget. There’s

no way I’ll ever go dark.

There’s no

way I’ll die. I’m going to survive.

There’s no way I’ll be a loser.

I will always be a leader.

There’s no way they will win. There’s no way I’ll

be forgotten. There’s no way

I’m going to stop writing.

There’s no way I’ll ever ever quit.

I will live.

-- Anonymous.

Blank Verse

Nine years ago I visited a rest home for patients living with Alzheimer's Disease in Stages III and IV. There are very few care facilities available to this population in the Phoenix area. I approached the activities director, and asked if I could come in once a week and lead them in creative writing. Lorraine sat down. I wanted to gather several members together in one of the cottage living rooms for a group writing session. Lorraine was surprised that I just showed up out of the blue. I had my reasons.

We talked about creative writing and how that might come together in an environment where inhibitions are low and free association and lyrical speech are readily accessible to them. She agreed and I came back the next week with pictures and prompts and an easel. Over the next several months, I asked questions and wrote down their reflections. We had a wonderful time.

Every now and again, I’m going to put up one of their poems for you all to enjoy. These writings were not compiled within the framework of any kind of poetic structure. I called them poetry because when I read the first one back to them, Nancy shouted, “A poem!” A poem indeed.

This is one of the earlier pieces. The line breaks are where thoughts ended or another individual started to speak. Fifteen residents participated in this session.

Others More Recent

Redwoods in Northern California the size of a dinning room

Reflections

Creations of God

Snow on mountain tops

Hiking for flowers during spring

It’s really good – that part of it

You can just look at it—

And that makes it almost…

Nebraska—Lincoln—the capitol where my father was born.

Eight of us picking pears along the Northern Coast

Old cactus country—Douglas, Arizona

Climbing trees all the time - when I wasn’t falling down that is (sly smile)

Swinging on ropes ascending too high, more than mama wanted.

I looked all around that place—

My most favorite thing was climbing those mountains.

Off to the woods…where we got into a lot of trouble was what we got (laugh)

My cousins and our gang, my brother and sister, and me—oh boy!

Then there was the time my father took me to see Harry Truman give a speech…now that was somethin’…

Places I’ve gone and mountains I’ve climbed, some long ago, others more recent.

What's so damn funny about that?

I suddenly realized last week that the first decade of the 21^st century is coming to an end. Since then, I’ve been thinking about what the last ten years have looked like for my family and me. I wanted to wax poetic here, but that is best left to the poets in my life. So, to sum up, we have experienced love and loss, victory and defeat, renewed hope and bitter despair. Not much different from your lives, I’m sure.

What made these years, and every year, bearable and illuminated, has been our ridiculous and fairly inappropriate collective sense of humor. Our familial meta-humor if you will. We make each other laugh to the point of gasping for air, pulling stomach muscles and shedding tears.

Even when my brother and I are at total odds with each other – barely able to be in the same room together – he can pull just the right movie quote out of thin air and make me pee in my pants (which is not that hard since I’ve given birth to two children). Or how about the days when my daughter would rather drill under her finger nails than hear my voice one more time, she will sing out “I LOVE YOU, MOM!” which is meant to sound like the F-bomb curse. I always laugh and then she laughs.

But sometimes the feelings are just too big for humor right in the moment, and so we make a gesture in unsure and awkward ways to give each other space for a little while. And sometimes, maybe especially in those times, we need permission to laugh again.

My mother died in 2007. That first week, I cried, but mostly I withheld so many tears that I could barely swallow. A whole gaggle of family arrived at Sky Harbor International Airport that week in August. Twenty minutes later they crossed the threshold of our back door. My aunt Betsy marched into the house demanding, “Where is she? Where’s Mare?” She found me leaning against the kitchen counter. Betsy pulled me close and whispered the most inappropriate and off-color statement in my ear. I erupted in surprised hysterics. For the first time since my mom passed, I let go of a belly laugh, and I let go of clenched sobs on Betsy’s shoulder.

Ask any kid and they’ll tell you that inappropriate laughter is the best. Getting the giggles when you’re supposed to be quiet, or good, or polite is more contagious than a summer cold. Or how about when someone says the wrong thing at precisely the wrong time, and another someone starts snorting? Those are the moments that will unite any group of strangers.

Laughter is the call for emotional presence – for filling up with feelings of euphoria and of overwhelming fear. Laughing when I’m angry (because I’m really feeling sad) helps me come up for air, and eventually moves me into the solution. I said eventually. J Laughter is validation of my victory and my injury; permission to celebrate and to bleed; and the next step toward a dream and a revelation.

Sure it’s all hard and some days are just so unbelievably sucky that I'm just sure the suck can’t get any worse – like when my mom died. Even then, I craved the bridge between the suck and the hope. I needed that orchestra of laughter that I share with my family and friends: deafening howls, snorts, giggles, guffaws, hiccups, and honks. That is where I want to live. Where I want to rest my head. Where I want to feel it all.

the road to god knows...

Generally speaking I don’t follow the graphic novel genre. Three months ago I couldn’t name one author – okay well, I could name one, but I definitely couldn’t name two. Von Allan changed that for me.

Von Allan lives in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. I met Von on Twitter (@VonAllan). We immediately talked “story” and found we had a great deal in common. When I saw the mock up of “the road to god knows…” I was easily taken with Von’s artwork and his beautiful ability to illustrate “silence” on the page. The cover art is actually my favorite frame in the book. The detail of the "Lost Cat" sign on the light post sets a perfect tone. The more intriguing part of this book, and what made me Von’s fan, is the story.

Marie is 13 years old and lives a very difficult life – one that must be told fearlessly and honestly in order to resonate with an audience. The first part of her story is that of an 8^th grade girl navigating the landscape of teachers and peers. It’s pretty daunting for our girl.

The second layer of complexity is Marie’s mother, Betty, who is just home from a stay in the hospital. Betty suffers from schizophrenia – an illness that not only comes with a clinical diagnosis but also a societal moral judgment. Marie struggles to make sense of her teenage world while trying to protect her mother from others and herself.

I know something about chronic illness. My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when I was eight years old. The medical community didn’t know much about MS in the 1970’s. My mother’s neurologist said there was a 90% chance she would be dead within 10 years. By the time I was 13 I was so resentful that I was almost absent from my mother’s life. After I started driving, I rarely saw my family.

MS doesn’t carry a stigma the way most mental illnesses unfortunately do. One symptomatic crossover is the lack of appearing sick – at least in the beginning. I had to field a lot of questions and deal with a lot of awkward silence.

When I read this book the first time, I immediately wondered how I would’ve felt about it when I was 13. Would I have pushed it away? Would I have exhaled warm air from my lungs in the kind of way that can change a teenager’s trajectory? Marie’s future is uncertain. Her giggles are stolen between day-to-night worries. Von leaves Marie’s story open so the reader can walk with her on – the road to god knows…

Where's the Great Pumpkin?

Halloween 1997. It was 5:45pm when I walked through the front door after taking both kids, 2 years old and 3mos, to the doctor with ear infections. Brad was standing in the kitchen with pumpkin guts laying all over the table and a partially carved pumpkin. Before I could yell at him, I noticed that he was reading our pediatrician’s emergency handbook. Then I noticed that his left forearm was bleeding. So I said in the most, you know, casual way, “Hon…what are you doing, and um…why are you bleeding?”

“I’m researching what to do for a stab wound."

“A what? You’re researching a what? WTF? Let me see your arm!”

And there it was. He had a knife wound in his left arm. “WTF?” I repeated as if clarification of the previous “WTF?” was necessary.

“The knife slipped and went into my arm.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a cry for help?” Which made us both crack up. I still could not figure out what he was researching. “You need stitches.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

By this time it was 6:30pm and kids were ringing the doorbell. I sent Brad to the hospital while I passed out candy. My son had fallen asleep in his car-seat-baby-bucket-thing. My daughter was cranky with ear pain and hunger. I got her some food and sat her down in front of her favorite video: Winnie the Pooh.

Halloween 2009. This year my daughter is 13 and my son is 12. Driving home from school last week we passed one of a bazillian pumpkin “patches”, and I said, “We need to get you guys to the patch so you can pick out of few pumpkins.”

Silence. (Internal WTF?)

“When would you like to do that?” I asked casually.

“We don’t need a pumpkin this year. They’re kind of a pain.” My daughter said.

“Yeah.” chimed my son.

WTF? [I repeated in my head as if clarification of the previous WTF? was necessary.]

“Seriously? You guys! You don’t want a pumpkin?” I stumbled, “okay, that’s cool.”

I was momentarily elated. And then suddenly I was sad; lachrymose in fact. We have other decorations up: orange lights, a ghost and signs. We even “booed” our neighbors across the street. But no pumpkin? I wondered if there was a tab in the pediatrician’s emergency handbook for this.

So I’ll feed everyone and sit them down in front of a basketball game or the World Series. The grown ups will steal candy from our own bowl, and my brother will fall asleep in the big red chair. My daughter is helping a family with four kids go trick-or-treating, and my son bought a scary mask to wear while HE hands out candy.

I’m not a mom who laments every stage of maturity as a sign of lost youth and innocence. I love being with them every step of the way. I didn’t mind when we left the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny and Santa behind. I wasn’t sad the first time they didn’t want to watch Winnie the Pooh. I wasn’t crushed when they stopped watching every animated holiday special. But for some reason losing the pumpkin for a holiday that I don’t even particularly like made me cry. This year Linus will be all alone in the pumpkin patch, and for the first time, my kids and I won’t be there to watch him.

Holding On To A Thread

I had lunch with my friend Kerry. We’ve known each other for nearly 30 years. We have wreaked havoc, loved and lost together. She is dear to me. We met for coffee at one of my favorite local coffee haunts, Copper Star Coffee. Two large lattes later, she asked me, “So, how are you?”

“Breathing. I’m practicing breathing right now.” Kerry scooped up her handbag (a lovely turquoise bag I might add) and produced her key chain. She unfastened a string doll hanging from her ring. Handing it to me she said, “You need Willow, that’s what she does, she helps you breathe.”

“What is it?” Kerry pulled out a single sheet of glossy paper well creased and worn, “She’s a string doll from this company. They’re kind of like personal voodoo dolls for good. Check ‘em out.” So I stuck the makeshift catalog in my bag, and we continued our conversation. I had to admit that I was taken with Willow. She’s cute and kind of a nice reminder to take a deep breath… and then have a meltdown.

The next day, my kids looked at the glossy flyer on the way to school. Seven hours later, at pick up, my now 12 year-old son asked for the flyer again. Halfway home, he announced, “These things are really cool. Monster Man is my favorite and Red Devil is my second favorite.” I was intrigued, “What would you do with them, buddy?”

“I’d put Monster Man in my swim bag because he ‘helps you see the beauty inside the not-so-beautiful.’ Sometimes after practice I don’t feel very good about myself. I’d put Red Devil on my desk since he ‘helps keep your temper in check during those extra trying times.’ You know how homework really gets to me sometimes? I thought he’d be good for that.” Wow. He had clearly given this a lot of thought. Then he added that he also liked E-Moe because that doll felt sad so you don’t have to.

Big feelings and big thoughts springing from just the idea of String Dolls that might help him get through the day. We got home, the kids unpacked, and got their snacks. I wandered back to my office and wondered about faith. My son has literally survived many trials in his life. For him, faith or religion or… whatever, is a waste of time. Pointless. Naïve. And yet, in less than 24 hours with just the idea of String Dolls, he’s ready to place his emotional care within the wrapping of just a single string. He talked about them again last night. “What do you like about them buddy?” “I don’t know,” he said, “I just do. I really want them.”

I have several tokens on my desk, in my purse, and in my pocket that remind me who I am and what I’m about. Like Willow. So I ordered Monster Man, Red Devil and E-Moe so he can find little reminders of himself in his life. I hope he sees the beauty within, the cool in his anger, and bravery in his sadness. Mostly I want him to find hope. Holding on. To a thread.

Gratitude Cool

Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and 20 minutes after that, Christmas. Because it’s that time of year to really look gratitude in the face, I wanted to write about two gifts I received some years back. I don’t like “looking for the silver lining” or “counting my lucky stars”. I’m interested in gratitude that feels real to me – that is part of the world where I live. I look for the cool in the yuck.

Rather than “looking for the silver lining”, a woman I knew for a short time many years ago suggested that I be grateful for the rain cloud. In other words, I am grateful for the roof I get to put on my house, the apology I get to make to my brother, and the havoc I get to wreak in my checking account. I like turning the problem on its ear and forcing myself to reconcile the privilege with the pain. It’s so easy for me to forget that the keys on my keychain are important representations of privilege: house, car, work, storage unit, and my brother’s house. If I’m honest, I probably complain about one of those things every day. When I can remember to be grateful for the quality of those problems - the “get” within and not the “silver” without - I am in a much better place.

I look up in the night sky as much as the next person, but personally I’d like something more tangible to count than “my lucky stars” – if counting is what I’m doing. I heard about the ABC gratitude list from a new friend when I first moved to San Diego. To be honest, I thought it seemed ridiculous. Simple for the simple-minded. And then one day… as the story goes… I landed in the emergency room pregnant with my first child, in trouble, and alone. I lay in that room waiting for Brad, and my friend’s list came to mind: “Start with the letter ‘A’ and name something you’re grateful for that begins with ‘A’.” So for me it went: A:apple, B:Brad, C:cat, D:dad and so forth. I repeated the alphabet very quickly without thinking about or judging the associations I made. It was sweet and kind of funny. I was still scared and alone, but that was a little bit more okay.

These stories are not meant to be Pollyanna band aids and in no way an echo of “this too shall pass.” For me they’re just a way to mix it up – to challenge my current perspective even for a few minutes. Of course I’ll still be sad, scared and angry. I don’t believe that gratitude is the absence of common sense or survival instincts. Gratitude is a fleeting infusion of context and peace. And the only way I know how to find it is by looking for the cool in the yuck.

Apart From -

My friend, Sterling, has written another illuminating blog post, which I am once again hijacking for my own purposes. Sterling discussed women’s fashion: who decides, who plays and who cares. I strung together a few ideas to post as a comment, but after typing two paragraphs I thought about something else…

I thought about Friday afternoon. I took my 12 year-old son to a Vans store for shoes. It’s been more than two weeks so he had yet again blown through his kicks. Honest to god I think his voice is changing too. I rarely restrict my kids’ clothing choices. My son’s situation is slightly different. Because he spent so many years away from school and school playgrounds, and the fact that he doesn’t understand his peers, I do intervene every now and again. “Are you sure?”

“Why do you care what everybody else thinks?” And then we had to go there…

“Buddy, the only reason I care is because you already feel apart from.” I told him that there’s a difference between doing his own thing and feeling rejected, ostracized and less than. Unfortunately, social acceptance is often determined, or at the very least influenced, by external presentation. I completely support his choice to wear whatever he wants, and if whatever grief he got wouldn’t crush him, I’d buy him any pair of shoes he wants. I told him that he needs to find an acceptable level of rejection and self-acceptance that allowed him to express himself.

Sterling was talking about women finding identity, power and acceptance as a matter of fashion; I was having the same conversation with my 6^th grade boy. My son wants to step on the playground before morning bell to smiles that say “cool” and not “idiot.” He wants to have the confidence that Lilly has with Her Purple Plastic Purse – to wear her proverbial “crazy sunglasses and red cowboy boots” not in defiance but in freedom. We all struggle to find just the right measure of self-expression and conformity. And I imagine that for some of us that still looks a lot like it did in middle school.

The Girl Next Door

I wear shirts that say things like: “Support original theare: Dial S for Stripper.” Or, “phx fringe festival: go fringe yourself.” My dentist didn’t even know what to do with that shirt. It’s like when people found out that I smoke(d): “You smoke??!!” I seem to have this whole girl-next-door thing going on, and I’m just so, well, not. I don't fit into a category. Most of us, most of the women I know, are not one anything. I think we aspire to be more...and less...than is expected of us.

My friend Sterling and I were discussing one of his plays a few weeks ago. First you have to know that Sterling is brilliant, generous and hilarious. He is a good friend of mine. In our exchange, he commented that his experience has shown him that young women are possibly becoming the men that they were taught not to be. (Alright, everyone, take it easy… J) He was disturbed by this observation and open to my comments. Below is my response (in part) to his suggestion. I addressed him, and his cohort, directly. Tell me what you think:

You all are Gen X and as such the women in your generation totally got the shaft in terms of finding mentors and roll models. Agreed. I am the very last year of the Boomers. I worked in Corporate America – specifically in public accounting – for more than 10 years. The women who managed to scratch their way to the glass ceiling did so by using all of the women around them as ladders.

When my peers left Corporate America – and we did in droves in the mid-90’s – we justified our departure by having children. My kids were born in ’96 and ’97. And the fascinating thing about this “career” change was the birth of the Mommy Wars. More of the same competitiveness, and again, we had no roll models. And yes, pre-feminist male roles are the obvious fall back. Sadly.

However, women in their 20’s are being lazy. They do have a generation of women to look to – namely my peers. We may be making a mess of our own lives in the process, but we are positing alternatives for the next tribe. To that end, 20-somethings whining that they can only be pimps or sluts is bullshit. J Get a grip. (…)

And for the record, nobody can ever figure me out. I’m a designer purse whore, jewelry snob, and if I could afford it, I’d get a pedicure every week. I’m also devoted to all things Converse and denim, and I have no friggin idea what’s in style nor do I care. I have three pairs of cowboy boots and 3” platform sandals. I talk to my kids about everything from group-think to bigotry to date rape and the very real possibility of being prosecuted as a sex offender for sexting. My kids can use every cuss word properly in a sentence. Other mothers generally don’t like me. I don’t mind; I kind of like it. J

If those young women have to fall back on stereotypes at the close of this decade, then I have one thing to say - stay out of the next generation’s way. My daughter and her friends know who they are, where they want to go and who they want to become. They are ready to kick some ass. J

From House to House

About once a week my teenage daughter and I lie on my bed for an hour…or two…while she unburdens herself of all that is her world. Most of the time I make sympathetic sounds and turn down the ceiling fan.

One of her best friends is jealous, another is chasing her first love, and still another – one of her guy friends – confides in her about all that is his world. Then there is the work: AEP classes, NJHS, and babysitting. The fun: theater auditions, swim team, and her gaggle of girls. And how to make it all work.

I’ve wondered about the similarities before – between her life and my own. Last night while she talked about her relationships with peers and all of the authority figures in her life my suspicion crystalized.

My problems are the same now as they were then. I am navigating relationships, struggling to meet deadlines, find time for fun, and trying to balance it all. Wow. Could this really be true?

My mom used to say, “Things don’t change from house to house except the names.”

The same seems to apply to each one of us across time. Brad weaves his way through those core issues: relationships, work/fun and balance, as does our tween son. Of course the older we get, and the greater our responsibilities to others, the bigger our struggle.

I don’t know. I think my struggle would be more manageable if I took half of the advice and counsel that I share with my kids: keep your side of the street clean, check your motives, and ask for help.

Away we go...

So I've been blogging on my playwriting website (marebiddle.com) about all things in my theatrical world. I love being a playwright and am grateful for the opportunity to work with amazing theater artists from England to Canada to New York (NY is its own country for our discussion purposes). Recently I started blogging about my conversations with other artists and how they approach an element of craft. During these conversations we veer off into what they find embarrassing, nauseating, and infuriating. If I'm lucky, we wander into the private and the precious: their yucky-sweet. Such places where we keep our cavities and our most sincere pet rocks; torn cuticles and a gift from a child tutored seven years ago.

This theme keeps spilling over into the rest of my life both in simpler and more complicated ways. And so the part of me that is writer wants to stretch beyond the limitations of the four edges of the page. The people, places and playgrounds that I come across are fascinating to me. These experiences are past and present, real and imagined, one and many. Included in all of that mess is myself as person: of family and friends, and as project manager, accountant, and exterminator.

Here's what I'm talking about - Away We Go is far and away my favorite movie this year. First I loved the actors and the story. Then I went back brandishing a notebook and small light to time each scene and beat change. I knew the arc was perfect; I could almost touch it. Here's the great part of that experience. I saw a mid-week 4:30 show so the audience consisted of myself, a dozen or so women who seemed to be ditching the last hour of work, and sitting two rows ahead of me was an elderly couple. They shared popcorn and a medium soda. They smiled and chuckled together. He fetched extra napkins, and she thanked him sweetly.

I wondered if they were prepared for the kind of subject matter and language in the film, but either way, I had to give them props for their willingness to ride the rapids. Lights. Previews. Opening scene... Okay, I swear I can't remember exactly when this happened, but at some point the woman leaned over to her husband and whispered loudly, "What did she say?" Obliging his wife he leaned over and nearly shouted, "She said.... "

You might think this was annoying until you realize the language that was in store for them. Let me assure you, he did not hold anything back when repeating dialogue so his wife could hear it. As for the rest of us, well, I could feel our anticipation hanging in the air. Humidity. Every time I heard a really outrageous line, I looked over waiting to hear this lovely woman ask her husband for auditory help. They were fabulous.

I so loved his dedication to her, her trust in him and their unity in these interesting circumstances. Like Burt and Verona at the end of the movie.

Roll credits.