I vacillate between thoughts of should and could and would-do’s if I could settle on one thought. I finish a crossword in the People magazine I bought with Betty White on the cover and ponder in an open mouthed blank stare how interesting it is that each pen I use evokes a different handwriting. This Oz-green felt marker compels me to write my answers in all caps. The slimy blue pen I used yesterday makes everything lower case and bubbly, adding touches to things I wouldn’t normally do- like how my “a’s” all have little visors on.
I stew in the poisons I’ve ingested to fight one ailment as it likely provokes another. This ‘quick fix’ I’m privileged to fill: this culpable con is added to the list of things I’ll later count: like stay forever lip stains and toxic glitter polishes as possible perps that pushed my vital organs to vital statistics.
Today felt like yesterday and the day before. Today, we acquired more tests and determined I was the only one in the house officially afflicted with the crumbs of omnicrom…. This cunt I’ve avoided through two Covid wards and bundles of brush in’s with fate - so easily swept up into my saliva at this season’s end to shart me in the face with seasonal shortcomings. Huzzah.
Admittedly: it had its moments of goodness. I realized I hadn’t stopped. I would not have stopped. This year, I was non-stop…barely breathing while juggling it all. I took a giant inhale and looked ahead to the next week of cramming in work and preparing for the big end of year shows, and I put my game face on. I barely looked back on the previous week of work and gigs and preparing to be Santa and party planning and all the things…. As I exhaled, I coughed and a chill ran over me. My boss who has never heard me call out sick was eager for results. If it was just sickness, I would use up the last of my personal time and I’d be doomed. I’d possibly get reprimanded as a “no-show” and run through the hoops of FMLA and getting “cleared” to resume work. Healthcare workers can’t get sick and be out- not now. Howeverrrrr….If it was Covid, it would come from the extended illness bank of time that no one ever really uses…. A gift of gold dangling above your head that’s an untouchable, heavy sack of gold you pay into and pray it dissolves without ever needing it- because ya’ can’t use it unless you’re battling for your life…. Orrrrrr you have Covid. And it comes with the mandatory sentence of five days of quarantine. As I shivered in the parking lot of the Disney-length lines at my local testing center…. I hoped it was… then I could actually not have to hurry up to be well. I could heal and rest and I wouldn’t be reprimanded. I wouldn’t lose my job or lose paycheck earnings because COVID is coded as some unavoidable formality that excuses everything. Ummm….?
Normal sick? Not ok. One day maximum.
Covid-sick? Well, that’s a horse of a different color!
Maybe I could even rest up in time for New Year’s Eve… ??
Two little lines lit up like the negative pregnancy tests from my 20’s and a moment of relief hit me as I poured myself back into the car and dreamed of my bed.
I got home and as I waited for my NyQuil to kick in, I looked at Betty White on my magazine and read how she is just living on vodka and hotdogs and “avoids green foods” as her secret to longevity. I peered across the table at the half drunk warm kombucha I’ve been nose-pinching my way through for three hours and shrug at the absurdity of the tinctures of rancid tasting health elixirs I’ve ingested in order to get through life so far while this broad simply avoided kids and ate enough nitrates to stay pickled. FFS.
Oh, and I guess the holidays are over and we can all go back to being cunts!
Today, someone dressed as an Amazon delivery dude and barely made it passed the Ring camera to reveal him stealing my kid’s package from the front stoop. I wish I believed it was something he really needed (it was a $12 mouse pad), so I could will it to the universe as some sign that someone needed it more…. Alas, it was just a punk. “He’s so cancelled” my kid would say as we reported this theft to Amazon in hopes of getting a refund. The idea of “cancelled” rang through my Nyquilled runny-nosed notions and reminded me that I forgot to write back to Mr. Michael… I wanted to tell him who he was to me and how he changed me and thank him for his gift. Why did this word make me think of him…? He’s been a name on a post-it along with “reschedule teeth drilling and dermatologist” and “make set list…” and this dumb term made me think of someone I could never cancel. He’s the opposite of cancel. He is all keep. Forever.
I’m delirious. Roll with me…
I’d been riffing on the cancel culture thing a lot… in my head and on my face with a healthy, disapproving eye roll when I hear it. I’ve seen it mostly among celebrities. Some, perhaps were worthy of a good public shaming after misbehavior. Some were notorious for being generally shitty people and thrived on public praise. It seemed only natural that the same fans who revered these superstars should be made aware of how they have the capacity to be less ethereal and hurt others. Some of these celebrities should be offered some form of retribution in the form of calculated draining from their reservoir of public admiration.
Some I even agreed with. Like, Leah Michele always rubbed me wrong and I found her character in Glee to be annoying. I get it that it must be a pretty spot- on portrayal to have people sneer at the actress even when she was not in character. It felt redeeming to know that I wasn’t just sucked up into the fantasy and that she was actually capable of being a crappy human (who got her just deserts when a number of colleagues called her out for treating others poorly). I was down for a good box seat for a public stoning. Then it got ugly. She recognized that her behavior impacted others - perhaps, because it was the first time someone actually called her out for it and held her accountable. The public shame had its intended impact… She apologized. She was silent. She listened. She was attacked from all angles. And then, it wouldn’t stop. I sort of felt bad for her. Like “ok, she got it. Give her a chance to change.” The public was relentless. She was already down, but they went for blood. “Cancelled.”
I was reading about how people are boycotting films based on not casting roles as the genders, races, cultures or afflictions as shared by the actors portraying them. I find this confusing. People are likening this to “black face” which is/was of course, demeaning, deplorable. As was the shit from Shakespeare in Love. Like, woah… Women couldn’t act? But we are supposed to marry men. All we do is act.
So, I looked into it… I weighed the varying sides. I learned about inclusiveness and how creating a character about a person who is Asian or Trans or non- binary or Downs -creates an opportunity for these marginalized populations to actually act and portray characters they are connected to!
Asians and African Americans and Women and Jews and people with visible mental afflictions and physical disfigurements….and so many things preclude the consistency of being cast, already. To create a character that represents one of us/them, and then to cast a non-affiliated/non-afflicted person?!?! It’s infuriating! I get it.
Ok, but selfishly- I also loved the challenge of working as an actor and playing an age or character within a population I am unaffiliated to …. You know…that would stretch my skills and allow me to transform into someone drastically apart from my own reality. #acting? But where to draw the line? When is it offensive? How can we evolve our “woke” culture and grow in art? How do we avoid offense without losing the art form of mimicry?
I personally don’t find it super fun to get cast as the 40-something Jew mom who is tired and ate too much sushi. I play that shit everyday and it’s boring. Not too many roles for me out there.
I guess coming from theater school and community theater, we worked from what sparse resources we had:
Whatever makeup was available and whoever could play/fake it- got it. A sort of “as-is” approach. We suspended our imagination and went with it. We liked a good stretch. I loved playing the 80-year old New Yorker. I loved pretending to be British or Southern or Hispanic… Guess those days are over now. I mean, yeah… there are plenty actors who could portray those roles…. more authentically… But without becoming a Chameleon, what do we do with these incredible skills of mimicry? What will become of Cate Blanchett, now? Just a pretty, Caucasian, 40 year old actress? Zzzzzz…
On the other hand, the school my kid goes to just had to recast a whole show for not initially casting a trans woman in the role of a traditionally cisgendered cast female. They made concessions because she felt left out and spoke out. The cisgendered female who lost the role to her trans friend couldn’t argue, because she was no longer as marginalized as a woman as her trans partner. Now we are rating who’s gender/association/culture/race had it worse historically and who should be punished now. Ultimately, this young lady killed it. Maybe it changed the course of casting for those who have yet to admit to this program. Maybe it creates an unfair advantage to be a minority and challenges work ethic and talent? Is this everybody gets a trophy culture or true inclusiveness?
Broadway is now casting trans people in traditionally hetero-normative roles to be more inclusive. I LOVE this. But, then I ponder: Sia created a beautiful movie with the ingenue role centered around an autistic character, but she cast a neurotypical actress; so, now: she’s cancelled. Cancelled. It hardly seems productive to reprimand people for varying artistic perspectives. It’s also hard to get old minds to catch on to evolved thinking when they’re presented with information while their fists are forced up.
I get that we have to be more inclusive. It’s progress. It’s needed. But, why do we have to shame and put down others to raise up another group of people? Why do we have to replace someone in the shame spot in order to elevate someone else? Just because we’ve changed spots on the cheerleading pyramid doesn’t mean the chicks on top have to shit on the new recruits below… Am I wrong?
I’ll even go in another more controversial layer…
Kevin Spacey was a drunkenly sexually assaultive shitstorm as a budding new actor in his 20’s. Someone who is also now famous recalled said former shittiness when he was too young to defend himself. New fame casually mentions how he dodged inappropriate, underaged advances from Spacey (20 years ago) during an interview, and now Kevin Spacey is done for.
Forever.
The deed? Super shitty. The repercussions? Hmmm….
Even convicted rapists and perpetrators of assault get a day in court and a sentence that has an end date… Will there always be a stigma, even after release? Perhaps. Depends on where you move. Do perpetrators get offered rehabilitation over retribution as an initial solution? Well, that’s another thesis for another day…. But: supposedly, yes.
I am not the shitstorm I was at 20. Thank goodness I’ll never be famous enough to evoke stories from those who shared space with me during that time.
Ok… but, wait… there’s more….
A couple of kids at this hoity toity school in LA made the news recently for making a list of the coolest to the lamest of all the students. The Principal found it and EXPELLED them.
EXPELLED. Not suspended. Expelled.
I listened to Sarah Silverman riff on what a great teaching moment it could have been, but instead they were kicked out of school- like with the same gusto as someone who threatened to sh00t the school up. Silverman remarked that it felt more like the principal was expelling his own bullies from his own childhood through this “superhero” act. Missed the mark, yah. He CANCELLED them. Did those little douche muffins learn the lesson? Through retribution and fear? Unlikely. They’ll more likely be the Chads of another institution in no time.
Roseanne Barr made a totally racist comment. The public made an example of her and CANCELLED her. Her whole career: gone. This woman had tremendous power and a huge platform. What a great opportunity to teach her and use this prowess, this connection to various age brackets and communities and to turn it around and teach the world about the harms of this type of thinking and how people can reform…. Publicly force her into culturally competent coursework! Throwing her on the same stake and torching it as punishment for regurgitated archaic malarkey? Eh.
Effective for those looking for a good witch hunt… the Esquire/Sun readers on a Walmart grocery line variety…. These aren’t your readers and policy changers. These aren’t even your waffle waitresses. Missed the mark.
Cancelled to me seems a lot like bullying. And bullies are a trigger for me. I’ve watched my kid get bullied by some particularly mean kids. I can’t encourage him to fight back or throw the first punch like my parents taught me, because then he is a “Karen” or “a white kid hurting a minority.” He is no longer allowed to be the victim of his perpetrators, because these particular kids who are punching him and calling him names happen to be black. He is not allowed to stand up for himself or HE is labeled a racist. No, really. I’ve watched it happen. He is an easy target as a chubby, white Jew who dresses a tad too feminine.
In Elementary school, a bunch of kids taught him some rap song (we don’t listen to rap at home so this word isn’t reiterated: ever). He never had a bias to color and I wasn’t about to teach him a bad word for him to reiterate simply because he knew it was bad. He didn’t know it. We didn’t talk about it. My bad.
We picked him up from aftercare one day and were asked to sign a suspension form for “hate speech.” I asked if he used this “n” word at someone. He denied it. The kids around him confirmed that he was reciting the rap lyrics they fed him. I forced them to remove the words “hate speech” from the referral in order to sign it. He wasn’t using hate speech. He wasn’t being hateful. He didn’t even know what it meant. Kids were reciting lyrics that were on the radio. He was still suspended.
Now in middle school, after the fourth offense- against him (he is a total pacifist)- I reported it. Again. He retracted his statements when they “investigated” the bullying because he was petrified of being a “snitch” and having things get worse. They offered us a “Hope Scholarship Application” to try “another <whiter> school”. I always prided myself on going to a predominantly black middle and high school. When I tell people I went to Dillard, I get automatic street cred. But, if I’m honest…I was the minority and I was NEVER targeted for my race. Ever. Not once.
No, I don’t want him in a whiter school. I want him in a more tolerant environment where people are fucking kind and the adults work to stop hatred without governing by fear tactics -and actually TEACH these kids how to be kind people.
I had hoped by eventually sending him to an artistic school that this would help alleviate some of the division amid his quirks…. But, should he lean more towards heterosexuality, he may again be a minority again and a target of new bullying: by girls who mistake his awkward flirtations and immature potty mouth as sexual assault, etc… oh, yeah… That’s also a thing.
Females are fleeing unwanted flirtations by perceiving any unrequited feelings as assaultive. And some are. However, instead of redirecting and educating the young male perpetrators, they’re being branded as offenders and are the new foxes in the hound race.
How do I advocate for victims and validate their experiences while simultaneously protecting the awkward “perpetrators” from falling into a trap? No one can mess up without being expelled, cancelled. How do we grow within such tight margins for error?
Why did James Michael make me think of this stuff?
Then…. I remembered…wait… a little more backstory… #Nyquil
When I was younger, I was a chubby only-child who felt like a Punky Brewster character who didn’t quite fit in to the very non-artistic environment I was thrust into. We joined the YMCA to use their pool. My mom obliged my whim to go into acrobatics when I saw all the kids jumping off the trampolines and into giant pits of foam. My first day was anything but that. We had to earn our one jump into the foam.
They forced us into pretzels and onto high beams. They made us walk cold, sterile planks while being stared at by pictures that lined the walls portraying masculine 6-year old, pit-bull olympians adorned with gold medals, jaw muscles, and hair tinsel with little plaques dating the years of their triumphs.
They taught these intricate routines, but my fat stomach wouldn’t let me do the backwards somersaults as easily as the flimsy blonde string beans in my cohort. They all had long pony tails and perfect shiny leotards. I had a Kmart one-piece, rainbow bathing suit and runny tights. They made fun of me. I quit.
I went into dance at age two, but always felt the girls who were thinner and better than me were always judging me. I used to collect the sequins that fell off the costumes and keep them in little jars and use them for art projects. I tried to be bigger on stage and more expressive, and the other kids just made me feel like a clown. I vaguely remember this feeling resurfacing one other time when I worked at an Olive Garden for a few weeks when I was 18. I wore a beret and glitter eye shadow and greeted my tables in different accents and cleaned up in tips. However, the angry, cigarette-mouthed serial waitresses told me to “cheer down” cause “this ain’t Friday’s, flare girl.”
As a tot, my favorite movie was always the Wizard of Oz and I would make my first best friend Bennie play all the other parts and I would always be Dorothy. We would dance to the Nutcracker ballet for our parents and I just loved expressing myself in these forms… The art was in me, but I couldn’t seem to conform to the environment where such art was made.
Some traumatic shit happened back then that I’m only carefully unpacking now- that caused me to pull out all of my eye lashes and briefly behave abnormally in public settings.
I got to perform in some little shows and benefits and I met lots of other singer-dancer types who sang louder and had formal training. They looked down on me for not being rich or having private lessons.
I remember this one benefit show where I sang “You’re a Grand Ole’ Flag” because it was the only song I knew by heart and it went with the 4th of July theme. The producers told me I had a voice like “apple pie” and I was mortified by this comment for some reason. I think I was 8. This younger, thinner girl came on this short tour with her tap shoes and rehearsed number called “Showstopper” and she did a whole routine and sang like Ethel Merman. She was 6.
They always freaked out over her. I watched every performance and applauded loudly. She was really nasty to me. I once asked her and her mom if I could make a copy of her cassette tape so I could try to learn the showstopper song just to dance to in my living room or use for an audition someday. “Julie” and her mom told me it wouldn’t be right because they paid someone to make this track especially for her. They disingenuously pouted and apologized that they simply couldn’t share this shitty synthy karaoke track made for herrrrr.
I would later have to encounter this girl a lot. She would still be tapping and singing loudly around me until she moved onto bigger and better things. She’d periodically beat me out for a role and would swing by to win the hearts of everyone I adored. Even now, no one knew what a cunt she really was. Although I recently ran into someone she went to high school with who confirmed she was as shitty of a person as I remember. She’s still picture- perfect with three kids and synchronized Tik-Tok daughter dances, and promotes charities and posts videos of her teary-eyed “graaaaaatitude” for all the money she raised to save the world or the local theater in the town she partially owns anyway and all the other typical nightmare shit you’d expect your bully to grow into where no one else knows if you ripped her mask off, she’d scooby doo reveal herself to be the Stepford Wife Realtor-baby killer alien she really is. But, I digress…..
When I started at the Hollywood Playhouse at age 9, I immediately lied and said I was twelve. I wanted to be in the intermediate group and not with the babies, but I didn’t have the tits to pass off as a “senior”. Yet.
I didn’t know anyone there except for Bennie, so this was a shot to reinvent myself. Bennie tried to out me as not 12, and I told everyone I didn’t even know him.
Everyone else there had money. Theater camp was expensive and we were on the welfare-reduced fare kid payment plan. Eventually, I had to go full scholarship after my dad left because the money just wasn’t there and I think my mom knew I would die without theater. Or at the very least, go full-on 12-year old addict/pyromaniac.
I felt… at home. I was cast right off the bat into a singing role: “Little Red” in The Trial of The Big Bad Wolf. They dressed me in a scratchy burlap dress and posed me as a Mae West character, sensually bumping and grinding as a proper 9-year old’s first role should be. It was like a play of Looney Tunes characters that was fun for the kids and with the dry humor that went over our heads and kept the adults in stitches. I was an extroverted introvert who was secretly shy, but I gave it my all. The first time I heard the applause, I looked down and saw my Great-Grandma Bea in the audience look approvingly. I was hooked.
James Michael or “Mr. Michael” was among the cast of teachers that would forever form us into the beings we became. Ron, the lovable dance teacher guided us through stretches, movement, and choreography. He was a total caricature. His flamboyant morning stretches made us explode into giggles. He was also so seasoned as an artist, yet, so humble and so willing to take our shit and call us out -only when necessary. He was like a parent who we just inherently loved and respected. Collin: the flirtatious, British pianist would guide us through vocal warmups and teach us songs that will be forever ingrained in our heads…even teaching us the “cheeky meanings” behind the scandalous lyrics. He mysteriously disappeared one semester and we had another swarm of pianists that all had their own quirks to adore or make fun of- that were part of the charm of the program. Ingrid was this larger than life super star who basically was everyone’s best friend and who we all wanted to be when we grew up. Pauly the puppeteer who taught us we could basically make ANYTHING a puppet with some imagination. Kara, the box office trolls… all of them made up our wonderland.
But…. Mr. Michael (usually called Mr. Michaels with the same derrr as people who say “Happy New Yearsss”)… he was different.
He captured us through “acting” and taught us about human behavior through reactions: physical, facial and emotional- to all situations. He taught us the history of theater. He taught us about the parts of the stage and why they were named as such. He toured us through the fly system and the underbelly of the stage through the trap doors. He showed us costumes and how to sew them. He taught us about props and set design and how to make them. There was nothing untouched or unused. Even as kids, we wore every vintage piece and explored and performed every theme, every genre. He let us touch everything and explained their value. He didn’t need to worry that we would ruin something of value in this otherwise operational theater-house, because he taught us to respect every piece of it: from the curtains -to the cage of furniture -to the spotlights. Of course, with 60 kids, there are unsupervised accidents… but not resulting from total recklessness.
He often performed for us and we all sat in awe as he guided us through revealing his own talents. My favorite was his rendition of “Music of the Night.” He pushed us. He helped us resolve conflicts. He made us laugh and made us cry. He didn’t care that we were kids. He exposed us to everything and explained what we couldn’t understand. He also fiercely protected us.
Dolores Miller ran the show… a sort of Glenda… and Ron and Collin and Mr. Michael were the Lion, the Tin-man, the Scarecrow.
He cast me in parts I would need to push myself to play. He empowered me. When I was goofing off, or becoming arrogant, he pushed me into chorus parts to humble me.
I had historically disliked the Julie character almost as much as the Jennifer character. They ran in tandem. Both who famously played Annie in local professional productions and who were both professional assholes. They had stage moms who supported them unconditionally. They were talented (in that Annie/Ethel sort of way). Both were not particularly kind to us lesser folk. Julie couldn’t care if I existed or not. She never even remembered my name when I ran into her.
Jennifer was particularly cunty to me. We shared a mutual friend, and for whatever reason, she felt particularly like being a jerk to me. I would bump into her casually and she always turned her nose up at me. Even her mom thought of me as trash. I’d like to assume jealousy, but I always felt she was more talented. Probably because she was louder and more confidant. We used to measure talent in volume back then.
Years later, I would try out for my dream role of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Like… my first real, non-theater camp role to play the part I have been acting out since I was like 2….and…
SHE
SHOWED
UP
I was furious. She had told some kids that because her parents monetarily contributed to the theater, that it was “in the bag” for her to get this role. She was always doing big touring shows, but this was MY chance- and here she fucking was to ruin it for me. She gave a fair audition and I gave my best munchkin reading after my Dorothy portrayal. I made everyone laugh. I was resigned to being a good sport and being a munchkin. I remembered that this version wasn’t the musical one or she would run circles around me… maybe my long brown hair would finally beat this Annie-looking fire crotch redhead out ….FOR ONCE?!
When Mr. Michael called me a day later, I swallowed my face and said “hello?”
He said…
“It was a hard decision. There was a lot of great talent, as you know. I thought your munchkin reading was great!…
(I threw up in my mouth at this point)….
I thought you did a great job at the auditions….
<40 years of silence>
How would you like to be my Dorothy?”
I screamed. I died. It was a dream come true. I won something more than my dream role that day. I won over the louder, richer, fancier bitchy types. Me, the fatherless, scholarship-reduced fare lunch twit won the lead over THE HAND WALKING QUEER.
At one of the first rehearsals, the kids and I got together backstage to rape the vending machines and to marvel over how insane it was - how close we were to have to be a munchkin or Ozian to this bitch’s version of Dorothy. My bestie (Randy fucking Rainbow) at the time knew her phone number by heart and orchestrated a call where I would say:
“Hey Jen, I heard you didn’t get the part…?”
And then everyone would erupt into a chorus of witchy cackles and we would hang up. Solid plan.
Jennifer was not used to losing out on much. I wasn’t used to winning. It wasn’t my plan, but it felt good to smack her back somehow and be the idol of other victims of Jennifer’s smugness…
Our 12 second phone performance went as planned and we laughed ourselves through the rest of rehearsal- bursting with pride at the proverbial watering of this witch.
The next day, Dolores sat me down to confront me about what she heard had happened. Jennifer’s mom called the Playhouse and explained what I did (leaving out the part where everyone else basically set it up and willfully participated). I had to later go upstairs in the dance room to find Mr. Michael and confront him as he set up rehearsal for another play…. He couldn’t even look at me. He was furious.
I eventually admitted my part in it. I tried to explain that it wasn’t my idea and that she was just so mean to everyone… It didn’t matter. She was allegedly devastated. I had no idea she even had a heart to be broken. Everything thereafter was a Charlie Brown fog-sound. He was put in the position to have to do the unthinkable. They were doing what they thought best- they were firing me and offering the role to her. They even wanted me in earshot to hear them do it. They wanted me to apologize.
I went limp. I was hysterical.
My dad was gone. I just got my period for the first time ever. My mom was dating Satan. My cat died. And now I lost my dream role. And I had to apologize to this smug, horrible chick.
I heard them call her and offer her the role. I felt like I was going to throw up and die.
She declined the role. She wasn’t a sloppy seconds sort of gal.
Mr. Michael was angry at me. He laid into me and told me how disappointed he was and how mean of a thing it was to hurt someone. He explained the repercussions of hurt that is caused from being mean like that. I tried to tell him she was the mean one. He explained how I was being just like her by making that call and how we need to teach others to be kind through acts of kindness.
Me disappointing him hurt worse than losing the part.
I sobbed myself stupid. He later said that because she turned down the part, he would simply have to give me another chance to make things right, because they didn’t have time to recast the show. I had to promise to be kind, learn all of my lines, and not be a problem at ALL during this run. I vowed to be everything he needed…and I got to do the show.
I had initially wondered if they just pretended to call her to teach me a lesson… Alas, she later bragged to everyone that they offered her the role but SHE turned it down because she was so busy with other projects… Naturally, omitting certain key details from the story….
The show was everything. It was so special to me. I kept a small jar of the ruby sequins that fell off from my slippers. I still see them and smile.
I’d perform for a few more years at the Hollywood Playhouse, touching the stage and absorbing every moment of this magical place. When my scholarship ran out, I tried a new theater school that would be the source of a whole new set of wounds. I was about to start performing arts high school, anyway, so it was time for me to move on.
I went back to see the last kids’ show there and watched Mr. Michael teach the younger kids. I sat as a teenager in awe of him. I thought maybe I was in love with him. He could sense I was being weird. He kept raising his eyebrow at my deep sighs and stares of admiration.
Years later, he invited me to be in some of his adult-lead children’s shows, like for money. It was then that I watched him interact without the kid-filter. I also learned that Mr. Michael would likely never be my boyfriend. We shared a lot of things in common: love for theater… and music… and men. I was moderately devastated. I got over it quickly enough. He was my mentor, my dad, my friend, my teacher… it was probably a bit overkill to also tether him intimately to the deep wounds of my trauma.
I eventually moved to New York. I made a family. I dribbled in theater until finding my way back to school to formally combat the bigger bullies through working as a professional advocate.
I always tried to find him but “James Michael” “Mr. Michael” “Mr. Michaels” didn’t turn out much from a Google search.
Eventually, in an “I Worked at the Hollywood Playhouse” group on Facebook, we found comments from member: James Michael Yuenger - and all of us HP kids lost our minds to find our old friend. He was working up north a bit and was putting on shows at Century Villages. It was perfect to think of him going from growing us tots to keeping the elder folk young.
We had a few brief exchanges and I longed to tell him how much he meant to me. But would he remember me more than the hundreds of kids that came through that program over the years? They all remember the famous ones, but me?
One day, a few weeks ago, I was working on filling out my “Hope Scholarship Application” after my kid was bullied again. I got a photograph of the little twirp who boarded his bus who felt the need to point out that she didn’t like him and swore he was a girl: corralling the other chumps to chime in with chortles. I wondered how to skillfully wait by the bus for her and tower over her and frighten her into leaving my kid alone.
Mr. Michael wrote to me that day on Facebook asking for my email address. In the email he asked for my physical address. He said he had something for me. It broke me away from my plotting revenge for my kid and left me wondering what it could be…. Why would he reach out? Is this like what people do when they find out they’re dying? Is he like saying goodbye to everyone he has ever met? Is he coming back to yell at me once more for being a douche to Jen? Did I not hang up a costume?
Weeks later… a package arrived.
A program from the Wizard of Oz.
A framed picture of me (the frame has fairies on it- IYKYK),
and a letter…
“
Dear Sami “Little Red”,
Throughout our lives, we are lucky to meet a special person who helps us find joy and laughter….You are one of those people who came into my life and left a spark of joy that only grows stronger each time I think of you.
I was going through some of my memories and my heart smiled. I am grateful to you for this joy and smiles.
Here you were part of the rainbow that has filled my life.
Please stay well and continue to bring joy, music, and laughter to all those you come in contact with. They will feel your blessings throughout their lives.
Love & Memories,
“Mr. Michael”
J. Michael Yuenger
“
It’s like…. He knew. He knew special parts of me were being bullied again and he needed to remind me not to combat hatred with hatred. He was still guiding me towards art and music and being the inspiration and the kindness people need.
Mr. Michael…. When I think of you, I’m still picking that confetti glitter from Hansel & Gretel out of my hair…
I am Thumbelina and finding myself through growth.
I am Little Red and fighting for justice for my family.
I am Dorothy, still collecting the heart and brain lessons from all I meet while trying to find my way home.
I immerse in your giant land of make believe where everything is possible and anything can happen.
It doesn’t matter how I was born and what I look like or how I affiliate. I can be anyone. I am anything and everything: the sum parts of all of the characters. I can keep pretending and even detach, as long as I am kind and govern with love.
You made theater magic. You created a world where for moments, I could dive deep into the fantastical world of Oz and Wonderland and forget the real world for a little.
I didn’t become the famous star we predicted… like Randy, Josh… and neither did you… Thank G-d… or maybe I wouldn’t have met you here on the ground.
And I went from being the bully, to fighting against the effects of bullies. I help people. I heal people. I fuck up a lot and still make snarky comments, but at the heart of it, I still feel I’m good.
And I raised some pretty artistic, kind little people, as well…
And… I’ve never stopped asking myself…
I wonder what the day has in store for me.
Whatever will the new day bring?
I wonder what’s behind that door for me.
Could there be, can there be someone?
It was you. It was always you, Professor Pretend.
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