The Big Bad Wolf

Well, as long as we’re on the subject of growing up female, I guess I should just leave the vent open and get it all out.

“Wolf-whistling.” 

Chelsea and I were recently schooled on this particular form of the whistle, (which we all know by sound, but which we didn’t know by name), when we went to a Burlesque Brunch at a local bar.

Wikipedia defines it as “a specific sound made to show appreciation for something or someone, (originally a person thought to be sexually attractive).”

“Originally” my ass, take it out of the parenthesis y’all, that is what it is used for, and what it always will be used for, for the rest of eternity.  Wikipedia further comments that the term “wolf-whistle” developed around a slang use of the word “wolf” meaning a man who gives unwanted sexual attention to women.

I was talking to Jo Anne recently, and I believe we were on the subject of feeling irritated when someone is interested in you based solely on your looks, which you deduce based on the fact that A) You’ve never had a conversation with this person or B) You’ve never even met this person, and yet, there they are… all up in your grill.  It’s a little insulting.

This is interesting because, we all want people to think we’re attractive, and it does play a huge part in the initial chemistry between two people… so why does it bother the hell out of me?  I think it comes from this thick skin I’ve developed after a lifetime of being stared at, “wolf whistled” at, made to feel overly conscious of and protective over this body.  This body that learned to feel ogling eyeballs from across the room.  Old men, young men, strangers, men I knew… the butcher, the baker, the mother trucking candlestick maker; they’ve all been reasons I’ve lowered my eyes in crowds. Reasons why, while my sisters were putting on glam make up and flat ironing their hair, I was not.  I was avoiding getting dolled up because I felt it would be inviting more of that negative attention.  Dressing down, blending in, basically trying to disappear… that was my gig because that kind of attention made me completely uncomfortable. It was being put on display without permission, and I never felt that I could just relax.

Of course not all men do this.  I was raised in a family of men who do not do this, and I’m well aware that women are capable of it too.  It’s an exercise of power, and it makes me wonder why I never exercised my power and my voice to put an end to it and protect myself.  Call some of these wolves out.   Why did I let these rude people influence how I dressed, or didn’t dress, and how I carried myself?

It’s a crime I tell you! And I’m still cleaning up the crime scene, sorting it all out.

Tinsel panic

When Chelsea came over to babysit last night, she brought this.

And these.

Uh oh.

One of last week’s babysitters anonymously left this new friend on our bookshelf. 

Little does he know he’s about to be dressed in tinsel.

Happy Thanksgiving! (ten things)

This season I am thankful for:

My husband.

The rain.

James Joyce, Charles Dickens and Dr. Seuss.

The way my son eats noodles and points at trees. 

My babysitters.

The lesson of humility.

The passage of time.

Barack Obama.

That my family has enough to eat.

and…

The Moxie’s.

You?

Free. Will. Power.

Pickle Face

The Chini dog made this hat-wearing pickle costume for Diversionary’s production of Scrooge in Rouge. Crafty, much?

naked dance party

So, last night I got to hang out at a naked dance party.  No it wasn’t in the basement of some bookstore in Hillcrest or on a rooftop somewhere downtown, it was in my sister’s living room.

The participants:  Jaiden (the only male of the group, age 1), Lily and Bella (age 3), Kiaurah (age 4), Star (age 5); four of my five nieces and my nephew.

It was bath time, so post-nakedness and pre-scrub-a-dub-dub, the gang spent fifteen minutes or so shakin’ and shimmyin’, playing a little air guitar… basically just reveling in their nudity.  

I guess having my brain geared towards The Sugar Syndrome has brought about some feelings of vulnerability, knowing that I have all of these little girls racing their way to teenhood, and praying that they’re lucky enough to get through it without feeling humiliated by, ashamed of, disgusted with their bodies.  But have any of us escaped that completely?  

Watching the naked dance party reinforced the truth that we’re really taught body consciousness very early.  We’re taught shame very early.  I played witness to a group of kids who hadn’t been touched by that yet.  No one was looking around, checking out what other people had, or how what they had measured up… it was complete freedom.  It’s probably best my oldest niece Jazz wasn’t there… she wouldn’t have participated.  She would have wanted to really badly… but she wouldn’t have.  Her dad, coming from a place of fear no doubt, taught her very young what it was to be a  ”hoochie”… you don’t just go around showing your business to other people, period.  No matter if you’re two years old, no matter if it’s just with the family… nakedness is reserved for the shower and when you get out, you best not linger too long in your skivvies.  In her daddy’s mind, he wanted to curb any behavior that made his daughter comfortable with her body, because in his mind, being comfortable with your body = letting other people be comfortable with your body = sex = teenage pregnancy = a life down the toilet.  Whew.  A close one, ay?

That is so sad to me.  Our culture makes us ashamed of the bodies we have, and gives us images to aspire to that are, at the very least unhealthy, if not completely unattainable.  We get it from Hollywood… we get it from home… it’s no wonder that more than 90% of people who suffer from eating disorders are adolescent girls.  Who’s checking in with them, (or rather not checking in with them), who’s building their confidence?  Even if we’re doing a bang-up job at home, how do we protect them from all the crap they see elsewhere?

Where’s the accountability?  When do we say to Hollywood, enough is enough?  How can we be more successful in protecting our little sweethearts?

I think awareness is where it starts, and I’m so proud that MOXIE is producing The Sugar Syndrome and shining a light onto the world of young women.

 

The girls…

Congratulations, DW Jacobs!

Doug Jacobs just wrote to tell us that the Rubicon Theatre production of his play, R. Buckminster Fuller: The History (and Mystery) of the Universe has won two Los Angeles Ovation Awards! The January production, also directed by Doug, earned a Best Actor Award for Joe Spano and Best Play, Large Theatre for the Rubicon Theatre in Ventura, CA.

Another production is now running at Portland Center Stage.

Doug performed with us in Limonade Tous les Jours in Season Two. By chance, I just posted a picture of it a few days ago. Here’s another one.

Congrats, DW!

Thursday Inspiration

Weeks passed, and the little Rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the Boy loved him just as much. He loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded. He even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn’t mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn’t matter.

…from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams.

My green, furry heart

Do you all know Chelsea? This is Chelsea.

She’s the MOXIE IT department, and a director and photographer. She has the rare gift of being a genuinely helpful assistant director, and with her artist’s eye and mathematical brain, I’ll wager she’s going to make a very fine lighting designer as well.

She’s helping me with my Christmas shopping.

Lest you think that she’s helping me to organize my list, or to brainstorm gift ideas for those hard-to-buy-for adult males, let me clarify.  She’s helping me with Christmas shopping. Any Christmas shopping. I’ve been told that there comes a time in every parent’s life when you rise above your personal likes and dislikes in order to do the right thing for your family. (Besides poopy diapers, that is.) For me, that time is Christmas.

Hello, it’s nice to meet you, I’m the Grinch.

I’ve tried a lot of ways to make Christmas livable.  I’ve worked sixteen hours at a nursing home, wondering why I didn’t have more competition for those prime shifts that earned double-time-and-a-half and no family. I’ve gone to church. I’ve gone out for Chinese food and a movie. I’ve gone out for Thai food and a movie (same principle, better food.) I’ve spent days and hours making elaborate homemade Christmas presents, and I’ve foregone them completely.  Two years ago I got rip-roaring drunk and punched my husband, or rather I got rip-roaring drunk and punched my husband, twice.  Sad to say, it didn’t really make me feel better.

Still, every year, without fail, the calendar page turns and my green, furry heart starts to hurt. For this child of divorce, Christmas will always bring me the memory of my mother loading her kids onto a Greyhound bus, the small, squishy misery that is snow without boots, and the struggle to make out the dark shape of a closet in the unfamiliar downstairs bedroom where I was expected to sleep all by myself.

I don’t like Christmas.

This is where Chelsea comes in. She has experienced the loss of more than one dear family member in recent months. I’ve been pretending to offer some kind of emotional support: an attentive ear, appreciative company, apple cinnamon tea. But in fact, I’m basking in her wealth. A hundred losses can’t take away Chelsea’s family. Death can’t take away Chelsea’s family. Chelsea loves her family.

And I feel blessed to witness the richness of her grief.

Chelsea tells me that it is her personal goal to make her mother cry every Christmas. She smiles as she says this. I’m looking at her like she’s an alien.

But we’re enjoying this exchange, particularly in the interest of increasing positive energy.  We’re not the only corner of the MOXIE tapestry that is working on positive energy these days.  This bizarre late Santa Ana has carried with it some lonely times, and some challenging times, and even some sorrow for a few of the MOXIE’s and a few of the people we love.

MOXIE community, activate.

Chelsea and I are working on the idea that inviting someone you like to spend time with you is neither dangerous for your health, nor necessarily a sign of weakness. Extroverts, we hear, have been doing it for centuries. But Chelsea and I are not extroverts. We are worker bees. We work and work and create and selflessly support other people’s creativity, and if you want to be friends with us, it’s probably going to be up to you to pick up the phone, because we’re still at rehearsal.

Obviously, we run into a snag when trying to be friends with each other.  But we’re working on it, and at least when I’m not busy blogging, we’re making progress.

The other aspect of my “Christmas problem” is an embarrassing sensitivity to tales of heart-opening and generosity. The season never passes without some NPR human interest story turning me into a sobbing mess at the side of the road, and even though I’ve stage managed A Christmas Carol three times now, I still can’t get through even the sloppy first run-through with dry eyes.

In Cygnet’s production, Tiny Tim sings a little solo:

What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb. If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part, But what I can I give Him, give my heart.

Thanks, Chelsea.

Talking about teen sex

We had a marketing meeting this weekend. Here’s Delicia in her most productive couch slump.

And the babies playing at her feet.

We’re talking about how to talk about teen sex. It might as well have been a gathering of parents of teens, even though none of our kids are out of grade school…yet.  We did drop topic long enough to spread a safety net for August, Delicia’s oldest.  She has offered the MOXIE babes as trustworthy sources of information regarding sex, just in case he doesn’t want to talk about things like that with Mom. I kind of hope he asks somebody else instead of me.

Back on topic, we’re determined not to let a play that touches on “issues” become an “issue play.” Jen may have already told you this, but as far as I know, since The Sugar Syndrome was short listed for the Susan Blackburn Prize in 2004, it has received only two full productions in the entire United States. The winning play, Clean House, was produced six times in just one month.

Okay, so Sarah Ruhl is American and Lucy Prebble is a Brit. And what’s not to like about Clean House? I love that play. And I love Sarah Ruhl. But I don’t love a national theatre community that flocks en masse to the easier play and skips out on the challenge. Sugar Syndrome is funny. And honest. What is it that is so scary about talking about teenagers and sex? And if we aren’t talking about it…who is?

Maybe it isn’t Dani’s budding sexuality that scares away the potential producers. Maybe it’s her bulimia. I don’t know, I can’t throw a diet book without hitting an eating disorder survivor, and anorexia and bulimia are near the top of Esther’s List of Things We Ought to be Talking About. But that’s just me.

Incidentally, we’re planning community outreach nights on several of our previews, and I’m organizing Eating Disorder Survivor night. If you want to be involved, drop me a line.

And then there’s the pederast. 

Did you flinch? Sorry. I didn’t mean to take you by surprise. It’s a particularly American problem, to be tongue tied by the subject of child sex abuse. What an awful crime. What an awful, awful, problem in America, which isn’t getting better. 

The pederast isn’t the main character in The Sugar Syndrome, but he is a character.  He’s three-dimensional, human, sometimes funny, and played by an actor, who has to find a way to respect the character he inhabits.  It’s impossible to honestly play someone you hate.

What if we didn’t have a blanket, flinch-inducing hatred for the race of pederasts? Would the moral fiber of the country start to erode? What if we were open to talking about it…before it happens? Would it endanger our children further? Would it make us all into child abusers by extension? Or would it give us a chance to save some struggling souls? I don’t know. That’s scary stuff. I don’t have any answers, but I’m proud to have the courage to ask the question. 

I’m glad we have enough MOXIE.