In theatre, TV, and films, there are props and then there are props, by which I mean there are props that are integrated into the script (that sword in the stone, or the rings of power, for example), and props that actors bring to a role to remind them of or present a character trait (a cane, a monocle), or even props that hint at particular plot point or piece of dialogue that’s giving them trouble. There is also set dressing – the kind of stuff you see in the background of a play or film: coffee tables with knick-knacks galore, bookshelves overflowing or sparsely populated, paintings and the like – all adding to the world, and the life of a play or film. And then there are personal props, which normally are fine and dandy – jewelry, gloves, hats, and – in this particular case – a handkerchief.
Ah, the lowly handkerchief. How much harm can it do? Well, that depends on who is wielding it, and why. Last year for the second year in a row, I wrote and directed a melodrama for a local non-profit; it’s exhausting but very fun; especially fun is (for me) the writing part, because using inside jokes that poke fun at local institutions, ideas (myths?) about rural living, and families is my thang, y’all. I also poke fun at Victorian mores, especially those around purity and chastity because why not? These ideas about virtue and decency survive to this day, limiting and harming women and girls – so, yeah, they’re fair game.
The melodrama is also fun because the audience has a blast, the entire production takes two weeks to mount, tops, and the folks involved are enjoying the heck out of themselves. Mostly. Because whenever performance is involved, appearing in public, oh my, can people’s egos get worked up. In this case, this summer, a young lady (not that young, mid-to-late 30s) came to our first read-through without a script, and when asked, she announced, ‘I don’t need one. I don’t have any lines’, which was patently untrue. It’s an all-volunteer thing, y’see, including my time and effort and while I just let it ride at the time, over the weekend I canned that bitches’ volunteer ass. Harsh? Maybe. She was the only cast member to fail to get in touch with me regarding any potential scheduling conflicts or needs and she was also, last year, the wielder of the infamous handkerchief.
It – we – always start so innocently, full of wonder and hope – and then over time people reveal themselves. This young but not sooo young person was a problem last year and the year before, when she made the process of rehearsing arduous for me by simply being unable to take direction. I don’t mean she couldn’t understand direction, or make a change in her position on stage or up the volume vocally, I mean any direction from me to her was taken personally by her, as an attack on her abilities, her talent, her intelligence – her Self. It was exhausting, and, as a volunteer myself yet one with a background and training in the theatre – the diva-esque ‘no script because no lines’ nonsense – making herself more important than anyone and everyone else – was the final straw. Buh-bye.
The handkerchief. Last year, in the minutes before our single performance (it’s a one and done type deal), this woman-child approached me asking if she could use a white handkerchief as a prop. Red flag, but did I follow my gut? No, I did not. Having worked with scene stealing nightmares before, instead of trusting my gut and my experience, I appeased the insecure woman-child, and said, sure, but don’t overuse it, remember we’re focusing on whoever is speaking. I did this largely because she was such a nightmare, because I knew she had convinced herself that I didn’t like or value her (a reality she has now created, for sure!!), but mostly because it is important when players – even amateur, volunteer players – have an idea, that a director make an effort, an honest effort, to affirm their desire to be creative, and to make a character their own. Only, no, not in this case. Mistake! While others were talking in scenes, when the focus wasn’t on her, when the dialogue wasn’t exiting her own mouth, that narcissistic cow waved that &%*$#*@ handkerchief like a flag of surrender at Fort Ticonderoga. I was livid. I had ignored my own red flag, and boy did she run with it.
Buh-bye. Because of this woman, the entire undertaking was becoming work, hard work for me, something I had begun to dread, and when anything done in fun as a volunteer and for the love of it is becomes work (I love to laugh, I love to make people laugh, I love the theatre, and I love amateur actors – mostly), when that happens, something has either got to give, or go. She gone, y’all.
*To be clear, I had never heard of Emily Calandrelli until I saw this post on a social media feed, and thought – what the heck, makes sense to me. Turns out she’s an engineer, TV host, author, social media maven, influencer, wife and mom (notice how I list them ‘domestic’ thangs last) among many other talents and interests. Whatever her many accomplishments, she was getting sh*t for being at the DNC last month, and posting positive messages about it while attending same. This is because – well, because the internet is a cess pool, and because some feel that if they’re followers of your NASA, science, and engineering (etc.) stuff, you should stick to that. Um, no – and especially no when it comes to women speaking up on any subject after being told to shut up and sit down for – literally – centuries. Encouraging girls to follow passions in science, engineering and all STEM fields (or, quite frankly any damned are they like!!), is a good thing. A link to her wiki page is at bottom, along with links to one of her social and other feeds. Go Emily!!
From Ms. Emily: To address the (somewhat infrequent but quite passionate) commenters who are upset about my posts this week:
I understand that you may be mad because you only followed me for kid-friendly science experiments. But keep in mind, I’ve been vocal about the things I believe in for years. Some are just now noticing, I guess.
After all, I was a citizen who fought for women’s rights, for LGBTQ+ rights, and more, long before I became host of Emily’s Wonder Lab.
We are not beholden to others’ expectations for us.
We are not limited by others *idea* of us.
Once you realize that others’ *idea of you* is not your responsibility – you feel a sense of freedom.
It’s my hope that me exercising my freedom to fight for the things I believe in gives others the confidence to find their voice to – perhaps for the first time.
Thank you for being here. I love this community we are building based on science, space, feminism and human rights.
In the continuing effort to keep myself humble, and real with y’all – I will share yet another mistake I made, and made twice!! Supposedly we learn from our past errors, and make every effort to avoid same going forward. Sure we do. Whatever. The summer before I was to study abroad, I was convinced by my mom’s hairdresser to get a permanent wave, otherwise known as a perm. This was a truly idiotic thing to do. My hair, which is very fine and very thin (almost non-existent at this point) was not a good fit for a perm, but what, Marcia insisted, I needed was more body, and a perm would give me body. Um, really? But I went for it.
It stunk, literally the bleach or whatever chemicals there are in permanent solution stunk to high heaven. And, it hurt, not hugely, but stinging and bothering my eyes and scalp. Hello!! The body knows whether you need this ‘body’ enhancing thing or not but – what can I say? I was eighteen going on nineteen, I knew nothing, and this woman was one of my mother’s most trusted friends (hint: not necessarily a good thing, as mother doesn’t like me, oh wise-foolish thin haired self). She was also very convincing, a bit of a bullock-er if you know what I mean, but – I had been letting her cut my fine, thin hair at this point for at least five years so… sure, let’s do it, make her happy, how bad can it be?
OHMIGAWD. It was bad. So bad I have removed nearly all memory of it from my brain and all pictorial evidence of it from the public or private record. I hope!!
By the middle of summer, I had cut the perm out of my hair, making myself a little short-haired pixie cut type gal in the process, which suited me to the ground. The ground. It was so easy to take care of; it totally fit my face and personality; it meant I could shower and go, no fuss, no mess, no – or very little – product. I was thrilled. No more barrettes that slipped outta my hair anyhoo, no more painful attempts at curling my hair (curling irons are clearly items of torture), no more nonsense and very little expense. Perfeck.
I continued in this vein, with this style, for many years until, working and auditioning in New York City, a director and acting coach recommended highly that I get a perm. Oh no. In my defense, it was the 1980s, a decade chock full of shoulder pads and massive hair, massive – if I wanted to compete (and I guess I did, sorta, mostly) I needed to pump up the volume. Sigh. What a disaster, and – you can see for yourselves – sure, not a bad photo – but WTAF. Ridiculous. I call it ‘my attempt at a ‘fro’ because it’s that sad, and embarrassing. And funny, given just how much of a honkey-ass white girl I am.
I was trying to fit in!! I was appeasing (almost always a mistake) a director I had worked with on several productions, hoping for more. I was in my twenties and not much wiser than I’d been in my teens.
Once again, a few months later, I had it all cut out. How do you spell relief? Short hair, y’all, short hair. Never again.
*and, as a matter of fact, it begins today, whether or not the leaves have turned, or fallen already, or just begun to show their oranges, reds, yellows, and deep purples. I cannot find the origin of the piece below, or much info on Vienna Hagen, and that’s okay (I guess), but I thank her for these words, as fall begins.
There is a night when fall happens. Neither a function of calendars, nor exactly weather, seasons, like Mary Poppins, arrive when the wind changes. Spring comes in the morning, with the soft scent of damp earth and the glimpse of a green bud. Summer arrives one day at noon, with a dry sky and a single bead of sweat. Winter sneaks up and slides in with the cottony sound that muffles the world right before it snows, but fall happens at night.
One night, after a warm day, when it seems like summer is never going to end, autumn dances in. Fall is not a thief, like winter, nor blatant as the summer, instead it is a gypsy strong and sure. “Come” it says, “see my pretties, I have colors galore and tastes! I have glowing lights and magic bells! Come and share!”
*a poem by Jim Moore, published – where I found it – in the print issue of the NYer July 29th of this year and notable not just because of its power, but also because it deals with a subject one so rarely sees anywhere: male rape, which does in fact happen. Moore doesn’t go into who, where, when, why – just, or simply how forever it is…
My friend and I had a cat we called Mother. I took the couch; my friend got the one bedroom because he often had sex and needed that private darkness. I had not yet had sex of my own volition. No one knew I had been raped. I was so unknowing I barely knew it myself, how lost I was to myself. I was maybe twenty. We loved that cat that had wandered into our lives, rubbing our legs, needing love and milk and a safe place to sleep like any creature arriving on this earth from God knows where and God knows why. One hot August day I was sitting outside when Mother joined me and sat on my lap, a thing she had never done before. And that was where she died. I called Jeff, who had gone to a motel somewhere with his girl of the moment. “Mother died,” I said. There was a long silence, then he whispered quietly, “Oh, no,” as if he wanted to keep his sorrow to himself. Many years later I told my actual mother about the rape. She cried a little and was angry on my behalf. I was calm. Relieved. Then life went on, as it does, without much of a pause. I was not healed by telling her, I am sorry to say. I am still not, at seventy-nine. The beautiful gray sky of a rainy May day, and the lindens coming into flower. That smell! You and I both love it. (Did you know all along I was writing this poem to you?) Often at night we walk to the river and stare down into the black current which has reached flood stage and carries everything before it.
