More adventures in over-thinking

Some more ideas I’ve been tossing around…
I started reading a book in the Freshman Academy office called “Generation Me.” It’s one of those books about my generation written by someone of my parents’ generation voicing the same complaints we’ve heard our entire lives. It was amusing if not totally edifying.
It did get me thinking. What is my generation? I was thinking about this in my Dramatic Literature class today. (Yes, it was a productive day for me in TMA 396.) Theatre majors spend two semesters dealing exclusively with what people have written about theatre. We look at theories, at criticism, at different movements in the history of performance. (We spend two other semesters just talking about this history.) We read plays but only incidentally, only to see how they illustrate, refute, confirm, or engage in some sort of dialogue with one theoretical idea or another. We report on assigned reading and try to prove we’ve understood the concepts presented. We sit at desks, listen politely, raise our hands, and engage in academic conversation.
Sound familiar? Probably, if you’ve ever been a student. I started thinking about the play “The History Boys,” a text that questions the validity of academia and examines how this all-too-familiar scene intersects with the ubiquitous “real world” we hear so much about. In one memorable scene, a teacher’s excitement about his student’s understanding of the Holocaust is met with hostility on the part of another instructor. When Irwin, in response to this student’s astute comment, exclaims “Good,” Hector responds: “No, not good. Posner is not making a point. He is speaking from the heart.” Bu that’s what we do, isn’t it? We make points, we prove our worth, our intelligence. We prove it to our professors, our peers, and most importantly (of course) to ourselves. We have learned from a young age that success, meaning, and some sort of transcendent worth comes from the classroom. I’m no exception to this rule. I tear up at the end of “Dead Poets’ Society” just like the rest of you. BUT, when the dust settles, what happened in that classroom means nothing if it is not followed by something meaningful, if those boys’ newfound self expression or sense of individuality does not lead them to lead good lives, to help others, to be productive, and to overcome the resistance they’ll meet out in the real world.
Granted, I am not saying that the classroom is a useless arena for self-discovery and enhancement. I am saying that I’m afraid that all too often it stops there. That’s where “my generation” comes into this. We are the inheritors of postmodern thought and have grown up with the assumption that questioning anything and everything was the norm. Actually, maybe more and ideal than a norm. My generation would bristle at the suggestion that the classroom or lecture hall was paramount. We are all about alternative methods of education and deconstructing the accepted behaviors and ideas in society. But what does that really mean? Are we still trapped by the legacy of the past that tells us that the pinnacle of understanding is a thesis or dissertation? We talk a lot about alternate schools of thought. But often that’s what we do. TALK. (“Yes, you’re absolutely right. We can’t take for granted that traditional forms of expression are the most effective. Why don’t you write a paper about that?”) So, what do we do? As someone who has played the game of academia (and quite successfully at that) for fifteen years, how do I escape this black hole of original thought? Is it worth playing the game to be able to have the chance to fix it? Or am I already a sell-out? Yes, I’m getting my degree. Yes, there is probably more school in store after that. But I have to keep asking myself: “Then what?”

I don't have a title for this

I’m sitting in my Dramatic Literature class, thinking about life. Actually, I’m thinking about how much I hate Sam Shepard. I wonder sometimes if I can still call myself a theatre artist if I hate Sam Shepard. I also hate “Endgame.” I’m going to theatre major hell.
Lately, I’ve been reconsidering plans and dreams I have taken for granted for years. Mostly, I am tired of being an undergrad. I’m tired of trying to balance school and education. I’m curious as to how different my life will be in grad school. Will I still have to do silly little “response papers” and “reading reports?” Will I find myself wondering on a Saturday afternoon if I should take time away from writing the play I care about to do the class assignment that I don’t? Most of all, I wonder if my desire to get my MFA is tied more closely to my growing fear of going out into the “real world.”
When it comes down to it, I suppose, I’m either talented or I’m not. I’m either working hard enough or I’m not. Is it really prudent for a writer (who would be ill-advised to predict a future of plentiful monetary means) to spend several years and thousands of dollars to sit around a table and pontificate about every draft I write? I can’t hide behind a master’s degree once I’m out of grad school and greatly in debt. I need to improve, of course, but I don’t know if that’ll happen if I continue to spend all my time in a classroom.
Cynical? Maybe. I should, perhaps, adopt the role of the idealist and assume that all my dreams will come true when I get to Yale, NYU, New School, the Mischner Institue, or wherever I end up. Perhaps I should believe whole-heartedly that I’ll graduate from one of these exemplary institutions ready to revolutionize the literary and theatrical worlds. But I can’t buy it.
I’ve recently had a crazy idea bouncing around in my head, a wild hair, if you will. I want to be a high school teacher. I KNOW! I haven’t given up the dream of teaching at a college or university either. And I find myself passively looking for other employment opportunities, perhaps something part-time, something to tide me over while I’m making my way as a writer or director. Or something else.
It’s frustrating, but it’s kind of exciting. I have a little while until I need to make any real decisions. But they need to be made. Soon enough. Let me know if you have any guidance for me. But for now I’ll leave it at that.
Class is over.

A love letter to the theatre...

Sometimes I wonder why I do what I do. Let’s be honest, I’m not going to become a millionaire (unless I can indeed write the next “Twilight”-esque phenomenon) and theatre is not the easiest filed in which to carve out a life for oneself. I still have days when I consider throwing in the towel and becoming a civil engineering or business management major. However, today was not one of those days. Today was the antidote to days like those.
The designers came to the “Berenice” rehearsal tonight and gave their presentations to the cast to show what they’re looking at in terms of how the show will look sound and feel. (“Berenice” is a new script that I wrote/adapted, in case you didn’t know.) I listened to the director talk about how she sees the script and the story she wants to tell. And I heard the actors talking about their characters and the major themes that speak to them in the script I wrote.
This was an incredible feeling! People are sketching costumes for characters I created and scoring scripts full of lines that I wrote. People are finding meaning in something that I generated, something personal and close to me. I was honestly awestruck seeing the coming together of diverse talents to create something that will hopefully be a beautiful work of art. I put words on a page and for the first time I think tonight I saw what that can actually mean. Creative minds are coming together and synthesizing; I don’t know if there is much that is more exciting than that.
I love theatre. I love creation. I hope to create things of worth, things of beauty. I feel that this is something divine that I have been given, the ability, as Racine put it, to create something out of nothing. And, like I said, it’s nights like these that can get me through the frustrations that inevitably follow an obnoxious temperamental artist such as myself.

Learning the Rules

(This is another piece I wrote for that creative writing class last semester.)

It must have been a strange day, the first time my father led me into a public restroom and introduced me to the amenities there. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine it was quite a relief; boys who are young enough to go in the women’s bathroom with their mothers are still old enough to be humiliated by it. I wonder what he said to me, or what I’ll say to my own son when the time comes. What’s funny, I suppose, is the fact that going to the bathroom is the most basic, most uncomplicated process I can think of. We’re born without inhibitions but that freedom is squashed soon enough and rules are gradually introduced. We are told when to go, where to go, and, as soon as young boys are brought into the bathroom, how to go.
Rules are important. I’ve always appreciated them and the comfort they seem to provide. I was never a Tom Sawyer or a Dennis the Menace. I was never “up to no good.” I liked to do what I was supposed to do; life was manageable then. I learned that in the bathroom, when your first choice urinal is taken, you take the one furthest from that in use. After that, you fill in, leaving a buffer zone between you and the man to your side. This presents an uncomfortable grey area for a law-abiding citizen such as myself who needs structure in order to feel at ease. Still, ruminating on options means loitering and another potential infraction. So a decision has to be made. I learned that your eyes face front and that before you turn to move to the sink, a decisive step backwards from the wall must be taken before truing to one side or another. (This is especially imperative in the unfortunate circumstances in which no “privacy barriers” are present between the urinals.) I think even Dennis the Menace would agree that these rules aren’t worth breaking. That is, if we ever discussed these rules out loud.
I’ve been told that when I was three years old or so, I would watch my mother iron. Always the inquisitive little tyke, I asked her one day if I could touch the iron. She told me I could not. As the story goes, I asked if I could touch the “white part” of the iron (the handle I knew full well was not hurting her) and she conceded. My curious little finger got closer and closer to the “hot part” until a quick burn met with three-year-old tears and a loving scolding from my mother. My finger swelled under cold running water and I determined in my young mind that the “hard way” is not the wisest choice when a lesson needs to be learned.
The “hard way” was often unavoidable, however. When I got a few years older, I would learn that I was not an athlete. My one-year tee ball career culminated in being awarded the “best dancer in the outfield” honor when my coach handed me the trophy my parents had paid for. I’ve wondered what possessed the man to crush a little boy’s athletic dreams with a single joke. I doubt this occurred to him, though. In a desperate attempt to find something to say, he must have remembered a fateful afternoon when his outfielder, in desperate need of a bathroom, couldn’t stand still and pay attention to the game. Little did he know, perhaps, that the snow cone at the end of the game was the only motivation keeping me out there. Even before the pizza and trophy party, I knew I didn’t share my teammates’ dedication to the sport. The other boys watched baseball games, spent hours a day playing catch, and knew terminology so mysterious and useful that I wondered why we never covered it in Mrs. Menz’s kindergarten classroom. With every trip or screw-up came an assertion that the baseball diamond was not the place for me. But the other boys stayed.
I remember little else about my life as a baseball player and even less about my early bathroom experiences; I do remember the same way walking into a crowded restroom that I’d felt in the Little League dugout: exposed, intimidated, under scrutiny. The bathroom isn’t a frightening place, but the same meticulous care is taken to avoid a misstep, one that might get you labeled as the “best dancer in the outfield.” That team party was forgotten for years, until it turned from a painful memory to an amusing anecdote. I was thrilled a couple years later as opening night of my first play approached. Excited as I was, I was careful whom I invited to the occasion. Boys don’t do plays and, though I’d seen plenty of men onstage, I knew this very well. The confidence that I’d found my niche was tempered with a healthy does of self-consciousness with regard to where I’d finally resolved to “belong.” I’d broken some mold. I was a maverick, an exception to the rule, and too young to feel anything but embarrassed.
I certainly wouldn’t say I never break the rules. I defy expectations and push boundaries when I feel secure in doing so. But for the most part I think there is strength in security. And rules give security. A calculated risk loses its flavor when rebellion becomes a habit and I take pains to ensure that the charm of a step out of line remains a “special occasion” of sorts. I often skip breakfast, I cut across the grass, I don’t brush my teeth on nights when I’m especially tired, and I eat Top Ramen far more often than I ought to. I’m ashamed, sometimes, by how fervently I want to “fit in.” But there is a time and place for living on the edge, I suppose. And I’m grateful for those who showed me the rules.
My dad is an obedient man. He’s also a strong man. He knows what to obey. He’s religious, and I’m fully confident that if he were in Abraham’s place I’d be tied up on the altar and he’d raise a knife in faith to sacrifice his son according to his God’s command. That thought is strangely comforting; the father taking care of me always had a Father taking care of him. And my dad follows His rules. He also likes to fall into line when convenient and when doing so doesn’t disrupt his highest priorities. When he steps up to a urinal, he faces front and takes a step back before turning to wash his hands. And my dad always washes his hands. I’m sure as I was running out of the bathroom to rejoin the rest of my family he made me stop at the sink and wash thoroughly. I have always trusted my father, and for the most part I still do what I see him do. He watches ESPN but he’s been at every opening night performance and has always made it clearer than the boys in the dugout ever could what it means to be a man. And I think that dancing in the outfield or loitering by the sinks can be forgiven. Some rules overrule the rest.