July Postcards-24 July

    These are not even remotely in order. Just sayin'.

 24 July 2014
     After a frustrating day at school in JULY, with no air conditioning, wrestling the light issue which should have been fixed ALREADY and is now pushing my fall show out of the picture...I decided to be the kid who sits at the top of the driveway on my white, Walmart chair with the American Flag sticker, watching my nearly dead, crippled dog enjoy the evening air and slurp a Redhook.

    As I did, my 25 month old, pantless neighbor shouted "HI" from her balcony. Her name is Vesper. She is frequently pantless, which is familiar to me as my children were also, frequently, pantless.
    "Hi Vesper! How are you?
     She extolled a monologue filled with semi-familiar words interspersed with Vesper trying to climb the balcony.
       I asked her how old she is now. She replied "three".
       I know for a fact she is a liar.

      "Where's Jim?" she asked. She loves Jim. Kids and cats love Jim.

       "He is paying bills."""

       She looks at Sundown (who is a dog) "Where's kitty?"

       "I dunno."

        "I have a cayo. A yayo cayo."

        "Yes," I agree, smiling at the orange crayon she is waving at me. "It's orange, I think."

        "Yayo. Yayo cayo."

        At that time, Sock emerged. Sock is, in fact, a feline.

        "Kitty!"

        "Yes, that is Sock."

         "Sock," she sings as she continues to try to climb the balcony. "Where's Hapa?"

        "Harper went to the store."

        "LOOK!" she points at Sock. "Cock!"

        "Yep. That's Sock."

        "Cock! Cock!"

         I continue to drink my beer as the naked two year old yells "cock" from her balcony in my general direction.

         Cleary I am the coolest kid on the block.

 

 

             

   WEDS        I have said it repeatedly and I have said it loudly, there are only two reasons to run:
             1. Someone is chasing you.
             2. Eric Pung has cancer.
          Neither of these are true today, yet I just ran. For the first time in six years. Nobody chasing me. Nobody has cancer. Well, people have cancer, but Eric does not have cancer.
           I am officially that bored.
           Or something.
           Mostly I'm home without a car. I own a car, but Harper takes it every day because she has friends and places to go. Genoa has her own car. Jim has his car which he takes to work.
            I have a motorcycle, but the battery is dead and I can't scrape the money together to get it fixed. I can ride Jim's Harley, but that would require putting on pants. I don't so much want to put on pants.
            So after a week and a half of being home, without wheels, I must have snapped.
            I went out for my daily constitutional, however they are fixing the water main down the street. I do not wish to walk past the guys fixing the water main. It's a weird thing I have. I am too old and over myself to think I will be subjected to cat calls, I just do not want to walk past them. That's all. the fewer humans I have to engage the better off we all are. So. The only option is to schlep around open space for an hour.
           Which is fine, I suppose. It reminds me that "the road less travelled" is less travelled because it is poorly maintained and there are snakes. Wear hiking shoes and carry something more threatening than your iPhone on shuffle.
            So Immma schleppy up and down hills and what not. Denver is foggy from up here today. I take photos that are inscrutable and mean nothing to anyone except for me. It's kinda hot, but not terribly.
            The last mile or so is downhill, and the heat must have gotten to me, but I ran it. I just...ran.
             Nobody was chasing me.
             Well, okay, "run" is a strong word. I would say "jog". Or "fast paced galumphing". Some might even call it "stumbling". But to my bones and knees, it feels like running. So there's that.

              My iPod on shuffle was a fun game. It went from Beastie Boys to Wicked to Steve Martin to AC/DC to Spamalot and I started laughing out loud, remembering that Tina Fey warns us to never let anyone put your iPod on "shuffle" because no matter what, the lame songs will play and everyone will know who you really are. Nobody heard me laughing, because I was in open space, away from people. The grass is really tall, and many bugs buzzed at me, but one can laugh like a loon in open space and be unafraid of judgment. So I hiked and laughed and sang along with Steve Martin "Athiests ain't got no songs!" I love Steve Martin. I wore white to his concert last summer, hoping he would marry me. He did not.
              But I digress.
              Which is a lot of what happened this afternoon. Schlepping and stomping and galumphing and running freed up my mind and I thought about a cornucopia of unrelated things of interest to no one but me.
_____
THURS
         So the hike today, a bit shorter. And no running. A) It's hotter than yesterday and B) I am older today than I was yesterday. I had hoped walking for two days in the heat would help me drop 20 pounds by tomorrow.
         iPhone on random revealed more musicals than I knew I had.
         And Christmas music, which I acquiesced to listen to since it's 96 degrees out. And it's Bob and Doug McKenzie, it's ok that it's not actually Christmas. They are still funny in July.
          And Talking Heads. Asking "How did I get here?" and since it was hot and my mind was melting, I pondered that question.
           I just finished 10 years at LHS. Ten years, one building. I would have to check, but I'm pretty sure I've never done that anywhere. B. Dalton lasted ten years, but that was Littleton to Green Mountain to Baybrook to Houston. So not in one building.
           I had decided after only a year of subbing that I needed to teach. Turns out I'm good at it. But How to apply? No teaching license. Only a B.A. Two children. Somehow I fumbled my way to the CDE website (which I knew existed, I had to get a sub license. I am prone to hyperbole in my storytelling.) Anyway, located open jobs. "Littleton High School, part time Drama Teacher. Tech expertise preferred but not required." Well, that's not me. Another school also had a listing, and they did not care about tech. However their application was inaccessible without magic Teacher Certification Numbers or computer know-how. LHS' could be downloaded and printed. I filled it out with a bic pen. I mailed it, in an envelope, with a stamp.
           About two weeks later, I received a call for an interview.
           I over shot the main entrance and parked by the cafeteria, then weirdly entered by the Forum door tucked away on the side of the building. An omen of things to come.
           I was interviewed by the current teacher, John Kron, and the Asst Principal, also a John. They were both weird, nobody really asked me any tech questions, it seemed I had been invited to watch them tell inside jokes to one another. They asked what musicals I would do and I said HAIR and Little Shop of Horrors and The Pirates of Penzance, because those are the only musicals I like. They made naked jokes about HAIR.  Kron showed me around and acted like I was hired. I left.
           Kron called the next day and said "We'd love it if you would start driving to LHS to teach theatre! There is just one formality, the principal wants to meet you."
           Ummm..."meet" me? Shouldn't he decide if I'm hired or not?
           Also, shouldn't someone address the fact that I am not certified?
           So I return, wearing the same skirt I wore at the first interview because I am superstitious. The principal seemed unimpressed with me, my skirt, my resume or my presence in his office. He acted like I had the job and he was just making sure I wasn't a child molester. It was fine, I was jazzed to teach part time theatre and it was my first interview with a principal. I had nothing to compare it to.
           The principal's phone rang half way through our "interview". He answered it because I am that important and nobody holds calls while I'm present. I insist that it be that way. I sat quietly and waited for him to finish.
           He put the phone down, looked at me and said "Do you want to work full time instead? A part time lang arts position just opened. You could teach both."
            I Am Not Lying.
            That's how I got here.
            I was hired at LHS because I am not computer savvy enough to figure out the other applications. I loved them for that.
            And now, 10 years later, they think we're a STEM school but all my lights have melted in the theatre. Which everyone should have seen coming when they hired me! 
            See? I got that going for me.
                      
            
            

Summmmmer Tiiiimmmeee

  
  11 am   So last night and this morning, for just a few hours, I thought it was summer.
    I put the bike rack on the back of the FJ. G rode her bike up the street, albeit briefly. H jumped on the skateboard and coasted down the driveway.
    It felt like summer, I felt like I'd been asleep all of June and finally, I woke up and it was summer.
    Then nobody wanted to do anything today, Harper took my car and I cleaned the living room, did laundry and some IB training....just like every other day "off".
    Awesome.
    G is watching Breaking Bad, she's experiencing it for the first time. It's hard to watch since I know how it ends.
     The kitten is sleeping, the dog is panting even though he has done nothing today. He is just old.
      I offered to make G a grilled cheese, but we're out of cheese. I could go to the store in her car, but I hate her car. Nobody wants to go to the store in her car, including her.
      I kinda hate summer.
      It was okay when I was doing Hairspray, Jr. 'cause I was doing something. It'll be okay next week when I have the DCPA 'cause I'll be doing something. If you can't afford a vacation then at least you should be doing something. IB Training online is okay for a few hours, but it's mostly frustrating. At least it's doing something.
       G's job is only two days a week, and H has kinda given up on her gig. It's a long way to go to Aurora, even for $12 an hour. She's trying to find a "real" job here in Lakewood. 'cause a job is at least something to do.
       We dug hanging out yesterday at City Park, I suppose that counts as something to do. But you can't do that every day.
        So this was fun. Remember Diana how you said I should write a book 'cause I'm funny? Clearly that is what I should do...
___________________________________________________________________________________

  1 pm. Apparently I'm watching Breaking Bad with Genoa today.
  1.20 Tried to turn on the sprinkler thing. It won't rotate. Of course it won't. Why would it?

_____________________________________________________________________________________
7.19 pm.
              Went to the store in Genoa's car. We both hated it.
              Came home, put Breaking Bad back on. Poured a glass of wine. Went outside.
              It is no longer hot. It's a nice night.
              Made Genoa write two thank you cards.
              Put the kitten on her leash. Which is attached to the water can. Which goes "Clamp-CLUMP" every time she tugs on it, frightening her. It is funny to me.
              Outside is really nice. Wine is really nice.
              Walter White running over homies with his Aztec. He is not so nice.
               Clamp-CLUMP.
               This is nice.
                I tried to put on the sprinkler earlier, evoking summer. But someone stepped on it, it does not rotate. I got depressed and turned it off. I turned it back on. Who cares if it's broken? So am I.
                But if it's on, the kitten doesn't want to go to that part of the yard so much. Just to the grass where she can graze. Because she is clearly not feline, but bovine.
                 Clamp-CLUMP.
                 Sippy the wine. Ahhh...
                 The sound of our neighbor's toddler singing in her yard. Summer candy.
                 Clamp-CLUMP.
                 The sound of the water in the sprinkler. The hell IS it about that sound that makes it summer for me?
                  And of course it's broken, everything I own is broken. My freaking THEATRE is broken and it's not even mine. Well, it's not mine when the Principal wants it, but I think it's mine when it's broken.
                   Clamp-CLUMP.
                   Sippie.
                   Sound of neighbors behind me. They have a pool.
                   I hate them.
                   Neighbors on the other side, sound of guests chatting. Smell of bar- b- cue.
                   I hate them, too.
                   This is why I have no friends. And I'm ok with it until I have no friends and other people have friends. And a pool. And I can hear them.
                   Clamp -CLUMP.
                   Kitten has no friends. She just wants away from the terrible Tin Meanie so she can graze in peace.
                  kryssi has no friends so she listens to a drug cooking science teacher while torturing her kitten and hating her neighbors.

                     Yop. It's summer.

             

Community Theatre

   Tina Fey on her community theatre experience growing up: "We should strive to make our society more like Summer Showtime: Mostly a meritocracy, despite some vicious bacikstabbing. Everyone gets a spot in the chorus. Bring white shorts from home."

    Kryssi on community theatre: "Community Theatre is where young actors are born and where old actors go to die."

   I almost did  a show with Lakewood Players back in the day. Halfway through rehearsals the director quit. I never tried community theatre again, I thought that my experience was the norm:  All directors are prima donna assholes, and it's weird for a fourteen year old (me) to play "Electra" in Gypsy,( who is a stripper), with full grown women playing the other strippers. And mostly full grown men in the male roles. It was too weird, so I stuck to shows at school. Everyone I did shows with, however, had been in ACT shows and had warm, accepting experiences in community theatre. Even if Reno Sweeney was 14 and Sir Evelyn was 28.

   When I was hired to do Hairspray, Jr. as a two week summer camp for 7-12 graders, the age thing was not on my mind. Mostly on my mind was doing Hairspray in Highlands Ranch with one black kid, who was bussed in from Arvada. The hell? But I was willing to just go with it, as I seemed to be the only one consistently giggling when the white girl playing "Motormouth" sang "The night is black as my skin."

    During a final rehearsal we had a kissing class. 'cause Tracy and Link need to kiss, and Seaweed and Penny should kiss. Seaweed and Penny came to me during lunch,  Penny deeply concerned about kissing because Seaweed is "so much older than I am. He's four years older than me."

          And of course, the delightful demon in  my head began jumping and clapping and singing "And he's black! Mostly it's because he's black! You don't want to kiss the black kid!"

    To his beautiful credit, the kid playing Seaweed was very supportive of her and agreed he thought the age thing made it weird. Penny had not had her first kiss in real life yet. Rather than explain at great length that she's acting and stage kisses do not count, I let it go. In addition to the cavernous difference in their ages, he was about three feet taller than she was. That made him look older.

    Also, he's black.

    I kept trying to tell myself that she really was worried about the age thing, because it's HAIRSPRAY and the whole show is about race. Well, the whole whole show is about race. In the "Jr" version they remove huge chunks of story line, so truly, unless you're paying attention you could miss it, particularly when there is only one black actor.  So I smiled and made it work for them, and they were happy.

    Theatre camps are a thing now. When I was a kid we had community theatre. That was it. Theatre Camps were back east, or in the Catskills, where the richie rich kiddos went for a summer of theatre instruction and performance. I imagined they were like the movie, CAMP. (Which everyone in theatre should watch, by the way. Those are your people.) And those camps still exist, and they go all summer. But they aren't community theatre-esque. They are a different beast. They are expensive and full of truly talented, Broadway bound kiddos. Or so I imagined. I do not know for a fact since I never attended such a camp.

    Theatre camps seemed to have taken the place of community theatre. We still have community theatre, yes, but it's  moved toward young adults and adult teachers who do theatre over the summer. Teenagers get left out unless they are a true triple threat. Theatre camps have taken that spot. But you have to pay tuition for the camp, so it cannot truly be "community" theatre when many kids cannot afford to attend.

    Which reminds me of the immortal words of Edward Albee: "Theatre is too fucking expensive."

    I really dug the way things were set up with Hairspray, Jr.  It felt like a real community theatre, everyone got a spot in the chorus. But not everyone got to be a part of it, because it is tuition based. My friend Dr. Megan did several shows with ACT in high school, and she said they sent home what your costume needs were and your mom made it. Her mom drove her all over Lakewood for rehearsals, and after the shows they would all go to the Organ Grinder. It was truly community. Everybody got to do it and nobody paid tuition.
   
      Clearly I  haven't been "out there" in a while, as I'm struggling with the new definition of "community theatre" as it exists with theatre camps. I'm also struggling with the way working on this has altered my thinking about how I teach, in general.

     I was flabberghasted at how willing and eager these kids were to learn theatre. Since it's a "community camp", it's weird. The kids who sign up aren't necessarily theatre kids. Their talents are all over the map. I had assumed--and every time I assume I'm wrong--that because it is called a Performing Arts Academy, there would be a level of experience and talent among the kids. Nope. We had kids who had never been on stage before in their lives. And several who were practically raised in this program, who use it as their theatre outlet because they are in sports or clubs at school that prevent them from doing theatre. And everyone in between.

     And every single one of them was respectful. Kind. Willing to help. Excited to learn something new. Jazzed about being on stage. The camp runs two shows -Aladdin, Jr. was second through sixth grade and they shared time and lunch with Hairspray, Jr. So the older kids mingled with the younger ones, ate lunch and snack together. Started and ended their day as a big group. Everyone showed up happy and left happy.

    Nobody was a prima donna. Nobody was rude or tried to direct another actor. When Genoa came in to give them instruction on how to create hair and makeup for 1962 they were attentive, and excited and willingly did their research.

    They gave me candy and love notes. They asked if I was coming back next year. They thanked me.

     This "camp" was the closest thing I have ever experienced to a true community theatre. It doesn't mean that other programs do not exist, I just haven't worked for them. There were bumps and issues, mostly attributed to the fact that this program is growing. So what? Growing pains are not a bad thing.

     I'm not sold on a "no cut" show at the high school level, but I did love feeling appreciated. It was gratifying to see them work so hard, even if they did not have the talent to pull it off. Even if there was not enough time between class and performance for them to synthesize, they still did the work. I told Eric after the show that's what was frustrating for me, but I know what they learned on this show will show up the next time they do a show. An Acting Grenade. I pulled the pin, but it didn't quite blow up yet. That's ok. It's waiting to go off.

   If the lights in my own theatre do not get fixed, this is my back up plan: Work this camp and the DCPA. There is no retirement plan, so I'd have to teach Lit at LHS. My husband is very wound up about my retirement plan.

     Or I can just take what I've learned, and return to this next summer. If the lights at LHS do not get fixed, my kids can bring flashlights from home instead of white shorts.

      So I got that going for me.
    
  
    

Act 1: The Theatre Is Dark

    May 2014
  School has been out since 22 May. G's graduation was 23 May.
    It is promptly 2 June, and I'm presently aware that it is summer.
    In those 10 Days, Genoa has graduated from high school, I logged in my final grades, pulled my desk out of my office and did the first office purge in 3 years, went over the set design for "Hairspray, Jr.", worried about the set designs for Harvey and Beauty and the Beast, had a sad budget meeting with the department chair, attended "New Teacher Training" at the DCPA, attended the Bobby G Awards, received a phone call from our instrumental music teacher which began with "I can't get the theatre lights on and it smells like something is burning", threw Genoa a graduation party, started lesson plans for both St Luke's and DCPA, checked and rechecked my calendar to make sure I wasn't missing something...and oh ya...briefly wished my husband HAPPY 25TH ANNIVERSARY.

     In the tradition of Gruesome Playground Injuries by Rajiv Joseph, I will tell the story out of order. Broken. Like my memory. And my spirit. ;)

     
      Thursday afternoon, 29 May, as I was cleaning the house and watching Bar Rescue, my cell phone rang.
      "Hi kryssi, it's Don. I'm in the theatre and I can't get the stage lights on. I was wondering if I was missing something."
       EXPOSITION: The dimmers started failing in October. We walked in on Halloween to a completely dark theatre. Many light instruments had melted as it appeared there was a power surge right before the dimmer(s) popped. This event killed our Stage Manager box and three dimmer packs. Since then you have to switch on three dimmer packs, a newly installed "oven switch" hard wired to the house lights, travel to the lights booth to get the stage lights on and flip the master switches for the work lights.
       The dimmer packs are old and the company that built them is out of business. They cannot be repaired except, according to the theatre light professional trying to fix the debacle, by some phantom man who lives in Canada. He is referenced as "There's a guy who lives in Canada who can repair these", but then nothing more is said. Or done. It's neat. And that is the abbreviated exposition.
        Also Note: I am not an electrician. But I play one daily at school.
        I know Don knows this routine, so I suspect he's done everything except check to see if any of the fuses were tripped. This is a thing that happens when the dimmer packs go blooey. "Did you check the fuse box by the dimmers?"
        "Yes, one of them has been tripped. I should reset it. Also I smell something burning."
         My brain is yelling "shit" at this point.
        "Don, it sounds like the dimmers are going again. Maybe you should just leave."
        "I have marching band on stage."
        Okay...
        "Try the fuse box in the light booth, the one on the wall."
        "Right! I didn't try that one."
         "Or, just leave. Something is burning."
         "I'll go try the one in the lights booth. Thanks."
         Don is one of the most positive people I know. He will flip every switch and reset every fuse before admitting defeat. Even if he smells something burning. Not snow nor rain nor searing heat, nor something burning that is likely electric will stop marching band rehearsal.
         "Call me back if it doesn't work, k? See you tonight."

         I did  not hear back from Don, but I did receive an email from our principal entitled "Theatre Lights: DO NOT USE" which began "Dear Friends". It ended with "Let's hope someone in the continental United States can fix this..." Somewhere in the middle of the email it is mentioned, casually, that there is ash by the dimmer packs, it smells of burnt "something", it appears one of the dimmers may have melted and the principal has now locked the dimmer cabinet.

         Now if you recall from the beginning of this post that this issue began in October. If you look at your calendar, it is June. In those seven months we managed to put up a musical, the seniors put up Lend Me A Tenor and we had Choir Pops, Instrumental Pops, Performing Arts Awards and Senior Convocation. We did it by turning on three dimmers, the oven switch, running to the booth, troubleshooting and backup planning when an electric failed, or turned itself on and off...and on again... and buying flashlights as a backup light source. Within days of school being over, the system decided to complete its death throes. Of course I can only hope that the district electricians shut down all power to the theatre before locking the wood doors six inches from failing, melting electrics.

       One of the reasons I had to clear out my office is that my floor is made of asbestos tiles. They must be waxed yearly, and according to the district environmental guy asbestos is misunderstood, and only dangerous if it is chipping, which my floor is, and waxing it yearly keeps the danger at bay. They haven't waxed my floor in three years. I can rest assured that if the theatre burns down, my office floor will be safe.

        So I got that going for me.


     
    

 
 

    Tonight is Genoa's senior prom night.
     Interestingly, I do not feel compelled to drag up my own Senior Prom Night Crap. Other than to say: It Was Crap. GMHS felt that in order to insure that kids didn't drink, the best choice was to have DINNER and PROM together at a hotel downtown. In your expensive prom dress, eating buffet. NEAT. For The Record: I took Jim. I had a recovering mohawk/mullet. We wore matching tuxes. I went because my mom said I would "regret it your whole life" if I missed my senior prom. It Was Dumb. I am not glad that I went. I regret not going.
      But Genoa is there. The LHS prom is at Coors Field. With her boyfriend, who lives in freaking Thornton for God's Sake, but whatever. Harp is not at prom, she is babysitting. Her choice: make money babysitting or spend money and go to  prom? Easy one for her. I can always rely on Harp to be pragmatic. I do love my kids.
     Becuase Prom is Fucking Stupid. Why am I the only one who sees this?
     I quote Buffy The Vampire Slayer: "And this isn't important? This happens to be the dance."
    "It's a stupid dance with a bunch of stupid people that I see every stupid day."

     And THAT is how I feel about the prom. Always have, always will. Scene.

     Now I suspect that Genoa feels the same way. However, she does have a need to feel like she is a part of something outside of theatre. God Bless her, she auditioned to be a graduation speaker, she's playing golf, she is really trying to branch out of her comfort zone. Which is THEATRE. And theatre is where everybody else goes to branch out. But Genoa, having been raised with The Beast of Theatre, has to work to fit in everywhere else. Her comfort zone is where others venture tenuously. Where others thrive and judge and snark and live- High School- is where she is uncomfortable.

    My girls grew up in theatre. With the crazies. The broken, the damaged. I said once that the symbol for theatre was the Statue of Liberty, paraphrased: Give us your broken, your crazy, your disenfranchized, your gays and your creative geniuses. Everyone laughed, but...it is true. It never occured to me that raising the girls in theatre would cause them to be uncomfortable in the main stream.
    And by "uncomfortable", I mean smarter.
    No judgment. But when you are raised around creative minds, honest emotions and playwrights who examine the human condition...you are a step ahead of your peers.
    And you do not, so much, "fit in".
    At least in the general population of a high school. What do they call that in prison? Gen Pop?
    Unfortunately, even inside a theatre you can be perceived as weird. In G's theaco there is fear and judgment and crazy entitlement and privelege.
     Sigh.
     Theatre calls you or she doesn't. In high school it's hard to hear her voice, to feel her loving arms because you have issues and think you have to prove something. So sometimes, you really aren't called at all. She does not want you, but you are determined, or angry, or think you deserve it or your friends are there or whatever your deal is.
     It is interesting to me that in the last ten years, I have watched my theatre department become "popular". I wish I was kidding. The theatre kids are perceived as "popular".
     The Hell?
     What this means is that I am inundated with many who have not been "called".
     And frankly, they are the ones causing problems for those who have been called.
     And that's why Genoa, who has been called, is playing golf and going to prom. Because the influx of High School has made its nasty way to my precious sanctuary.
     Or it could be that she finally just got enough guts to talk to the golf coach.
  
     Meh. Have another glass of wine,  kryssi.

 

     

    


 

The Main Stage

      As I watch Genoa twist and squirm as she tries to make her college choice, and as I myself twist and squirm as I try to stay out of it, I am forced to reminisce about myself. And nobody wants to hear me talk about myself, so I'll write a blog.
      I was never a "Main Stage" Kid. At least in reality. In My Own Head it was always about Me, yes. But in the real world, not so much. In high school I was fringe. My GPA was pathetic and I liked choir and theatre and lit. I have no recollection of ever doing homework, but I know I felt like garbage when the kids who did do their homework went to College: Ft. Lewis, ASU, Somewhere In Iowa, CU, UNC etc etc. By the Grace of God and the Will of K.Starkey I enrolled at Metro, thinking I'd be a lit major and teach English. I had decided, you see, that theatre wasn't going to work out for me because I couldn't afford to go to New York. But that is not the point of this story.

     I switched from Metro, to UCD, to the University of Houston, to CU Denver (they'd changed the name by then) to Metro for my teaching certificate. At UH I worked with Edward Albee in the Black Box, and took a  class with Jose Quintero, but never made it onto the Main Stage. I just wasn't talented enough crack that proscenium. Or so I thought. Now I believe it was just a round hole and I was a square peg. Fringe. Not Fit For The Main Stage.  I loved my time at UH, and to this day if someone asks me where I went to college I say "UH". But I was not a Main Stage kid. Like the kids we called "lobby rats", I scuttled around the edges and learned what I could from those willing to teach, but ultimately, I left no impression. I was not a star.
      Now I work for the "Mane Stage", named before I arrived since we are the Littleton Lions, and I run the joint. I scuttle and schlep and galumph around the edges, poking actors and yelling "Commit!", stitching buttons or hot gluing hems. Waving my arms at the kid in the grid as I explain 45 degree angles and bastard amber. Even occasionally walking the set with a drill. (It is NOT a good day if I have to walk a set with a drill. Someone is fired at that point.) I design or try to, teach design or try to, unlock doors, keep the stage manager on task, offer a shoulder for the weeping and a Mohawk for the annoying. I take away fridge privileges and supervise as the dead microwave is smashed to pieces. I yell at them to go to college: "I don't care where, just GO!" and preach "You get out of college what you get in. Do not go for a NAME stamped on your diploma. Follow your heart, find the program that feeds your soul and will not bankrupt your family."
       And then I cannot practice what I preach, because I was never hand picked for a conservatory program and offered a scholarship, but my daughter was, so she HAS to go there, right?
       Oklahoma City University has turned out to be one hell of a powerhouse department. Who knew? And Genoa was all about it, but it's a degree with a double emphasis in Theatre Costume design and Set design. No stage time as an actor. Internships and a guaranteed job at the end. But a double major is impossible, and minors are not recommended.
       Genoa was sold up to that point.
       So she decided to visit Ft. Lewis. She likes Durango, they have a solid liberal arts program, are kinda hippie-tastic without being too annoying and the theatre had offered her a scholarship.
       So we visited.
       Ft. Lewis could not be farther away from OCU if it was on Pluto.
       She could double major in theatre and poly sci and pick up a minor in anything else she wanted. She thinks maybe she'd like to go to law school. She could work in theatre her whole life, she doesn't see that going anywhere, but is not ready to give up being an actor. Ft. Lewis ain't OCU. There is no stellar architecture, stained glass or three stages. No BFA with connections and only 3,000.00 students on campus. She cannot say she was "hand picked" for a degree program that has 35 kids in it if she chooses Ft. Lewis.
       Ft. Lewis' theatre is smaller and possibly older than the one she is in now.
       She's a slam poet. She decided to play golf senior year. She is a Makeup and Hair designer with an interest in costume and set design. She lights up when she talks about religion or philosophy. She wants to study abroad. She gets distracted by history and literature, and has entertained the idea of being a teacher.
       In a nutshell: she truly has no idea what she wants to do with her life. Only that theatre will be a part of it.
       And she says "I'm waiting for a sign to tell me where to go."
       And I have to stand there, on the fringe, and watch her twitch on the Main Stage and be supportive and try not to point out that, the sign is there.
        Are you listening to yourself?
        The answer is there.
        But mom...me...must stay out of it.
        She was practically drooled on by the Ft. Lewis Dept Chair who sounded like he'd give her full tuition if he could. He Loved Her. And She Loved Him. He talked to her. The OCU department chair--who is my new best friend --talked to me.
        But that was not a sign.
        Keeping my own shit out of my daughter's life has never been easy. But man, it sucks right now.
        She has to make her own choice. And I want her to be happy.
        And I don't want her to go through what I did.
        That is the American Dream, right? To give your kids the chances you did not have?
        I had to attend Metro because my GPA was a joke. I transferred to UCD as soon as I could because I thought it would look better on my transcript. Moved to UH because Jim moved to Houston and enrolled at UH because it was there. No research at all. I literally wandered onto the campus and enrolled. I had to leave UH when I ran out of money, and returned to Denver to re-enroll at CU Denver to finish my damned degree, once and for all. I worked 2-3 jobs regularly while attending all the schools, got married, had everything I owned stolen, owned cats, acted and auditioned everywhere, all of the time.
        12 years after I graduated from high school, I had a B.A.
        Financially we'd have to take a second on the house to make OCU work, even with the generous scholarship. But I would do it, because...
        Well, she's been given that chance.
          Right?
          She'd have a shot at the Main Stage.
          SIGH.

         So Genoa just came home. "I've made my choice."

               ...