School Daze

It's been embarrassingly, unfathomably, unacceptedly too long.

"If in fact the Mayan calendar is correct, I gotta write again before I go spiraling through the universe, or get beamed up in a space ship, or become vapor. I should also do something with my idea to mash up Beyonce and Shakespeare with 'He's Got a Big Canon... Such a huge canon...' After all, he writes in iambs cuz he can back it up."

This is a glimpse into my pre-dawn, pre-caffeine, walk to the Belmont Blue Line psyche, while I'm on my way to the day job (maybe I'll win the battle against Microsoft Excel, maybe I'll help a third year med school student learn how to cooperate with the grouchy mother of an ailing toddler, or maybe I'll pass out candycanes and pretend I remember why y=mx+b, what's the day's adventure?), and sometimes these thoughts are mixed with questions about the Elmo doll standing sentinel in my neighbor's window, rueful considerations of Cheif Keef, and countless other cold morning inqueries. It is also a glimpse into the fact that I've lost my damn mind.

Nothing new there, so I digress.

Good, wholesome, public-private think-sessions on the train, on the bus, in the cubicle faking busy. Whenever I can manage some quick quiet amid all the get-up-and-go. It's hectic, but I won't complain.

This phase of my life is, however, more about the learning than the thinking, and how that knowledge impacts the next steps (see: If ya knew better, you'd do better).

It's December, harvest is past, time to look at what I reaped from this season, what I learned, what I'm relearning, what courses I'll have to retake because I ignored the lesson when it was taught the first time (or the twelfth... whatever).

I'm hearing Willy Shakes' words from Merchant of Venice tell me that mercy blesses the giver and the receiver, and learning that the truth worth of any blessing we are given is in how we use it for the benefit of another. This year has been fortunate, my world got a lot bigger, I surmounted some obstacles, reinvested in myself, grew- but that's in vain if I cannot be the spark for another. Hands to serve. I'm learning.

I am remembering the fact that a simple 'No' is a valid answer, be it in response to things that I am not able to extend myself to, or as an answer to a prayer. Everything you want, you don't need, and be thankful that you dodged some well dressed curses. My mom likes to remind me of the time I was three and considered putting Jello in the microwave to make it finish faster as a way to tell me that  1)  'You never had much sense' and 2) 'Be patient, it'll all work out the way it's supposed to.' Still learning.

I am remembering that art is an active decision, that the discipline of an actor does not begin and end at a script or audition. I come home, my roommate is perfecting his notes on his alto-sax, another is writing and re-writing, another has headphones blaring perfecting his latest productions. Each of them previously strangers are serving as inspiration with their passion, making me refascinate myself with the stuff humans are made of, what I'm made of, to better my own work on page or stage. They don't wait for the go-ahead to express. Review session, new teachers.

I was taught to take time yesterday when a student looked up at my fast and furious blonde-roast infused scribbles on the white board and asked if I was angry. I told him no, and his advice to me was to 'Go slower, it's nicer.' He doesn't know he was speaking to more than my chicken scratch scribe. Gold star, still learning. Breathe, Jess, take it easy.

Lynn Nottage's FABULATION taught me the importance of appreciating my roots and family, and a call from the west side took that lesson from a cerebral level to the gut. Next lesson: go back, remember to remember the ones who never forget you, love them like it's going outta style, and never take for granted the opportunity to ask 'How are you doing?' and really listen for the answer. It helps.

Treat the things and people you love like you love them. And word from second grade is to slow down. Out of the mouths of babes.

Supporting my habit

There are moments I catch glimpses of myself in the bathroom mirror at work and really see what I look like in my day-glo orange polo that's tucked into my khaki shorts with my visor on and I think to myself, "Jessica Dean Turner, you're living the dream."

Or I'll be getting yelled at by some shoe salesman in New Jersey who has demanded that "my people" take him off our call list, or I'll be sending out email after email to schedule and reschedule and re-reschedule my life around auditions, rehearsals, and my side job for my side job, and I'll remind myself the same thing.

I wear a lot of hats- or visors, or name tags, or reading glasses and button downs- to support this lifestyle of a young artist. Beyond the buckets of money I'm pulling in (I'll be doing my autumn wardrobe shopping at the laundromat lost and found, and splurging on nothing but the finest dollar menu treats) I'm also getting an untaxed education on what goes into supporting myself in a non-fiscal sense. Here's what I'm doing to support my actor-life that doesn't involve time sheets and sensible shoes:

1) Being more vigilant about the words and concepts I choose to describe my current state:

I am making the conscious effort to no longer describe what I'm doing as a "struggle". Not being able to afford a Starbucks blueberry scone and iced coffee everyday is not a struggle. Being tired because I have a job to wake up to early in the morning is not a struggle; not having one is. This is just new. It's just a different muscle, a different discipline, and as soon as I start allowing myself to slip into the song and dance about how I'm "struggling" is when resentment slips in, and it's a slap in the face to all the things that I am blessed with.

2) It's fine to lie down with Coltrane and a McFlurry when things are hard for a little while, but you have to get back up:

I have no delusions about the fact that things aren't always fair, people will let you down, feelings will be hurt, and things are just sometimes plain discouraging. I'm an optimist, but I ain't crazy. I know that things aren't and cannot alway be as rosy as I'd like and there are days where all I'll want to do is come in from the Blue Line, shut down, and try again in a decade or so. I'm learning that hiding behind strength and put-on positivity when you're hurting is just as detrimental as wallowing in your bad day, with no plans of resurfacing. In my last NPR binge, I heard the quote, "The heart that does not get the chance to break can only harden." I do a good job of finding the good, but sometimes the best service you can do for yourself is setting down your venerable load, having the hurt, and rising again, richer despite only have $3.53 in your checking.

3) Reminding myself that, "It's not a race, Jessica, don't try to keep up with anybody but yourself":

I'm taking myself to task on measuring my own progress by my own means, not avidly looking over the fence at what anyone else is doing; the neighbor's grass will always be greener if you spend all your time watching there's and not watering your own. Stay in your lane, pray for, support, be inspired by the work of others, but don't drive yourself crazy and miserable counting anyone else's blessings. If anything, steal from them.

4) Letting go. Not everything and everyone can make the trip with you:

One of the more bitter pills to swallow is that in support of myself, I'm taking some inventory on ideas that were once comfortable but are no longer serving me, things I at one time accepted despite the fact that they don't benefit me, situations that never lived up to their potential. Gotta bag and twist tie all them insecurities, all that self-doubt and deprecating attitudes, the fears, and throw it away. Forgive, and get out. Bag lady, you gon hurt yo back draggin' all them bags like that. I'm giving myself the gift of release, trying to. My apartment's too tiny for all that mess, I barely have the space for the things I actually need.

5) Treating the people in my life that I love like I love them: self-explanatory. To feel loved give it. Often. To those who deserve it.


My director recently asked me about my new apartment, and in my automaton Midwestern way, I replied "It's really nice." Then I paused, and corrected myself. "No, that's not true." I'm writing this from the busted couch on the back porch with the breeze blowing through the windows lined with Rex Goliath bottles, next to the mini-picture of the Dali painting of the melted clocks. No, this place isn't perfect, by any means. It's messy, and for right now, exactly what I need. It's mine. For the moment, the best thing I can do to support myself, is own where I am, be right there with it as it evolves in whatever way it does.

Til then, I better lay out my khakis and polo for the morning.

Viva la day job.

Love is what makes you smile when you're tired

Sometimes I think my family and friends are on the payroll for some basic cable network to keep me in the dark that my life is actually a reality show. My own little Truman Show that comes on a channel I don't get, probably with some pseudo cool name, like "Jess in the City", or "Lifestyles of the Broke and Shameless".

Moments like this past Monday make me certain that I'm going to turn and see a boom protruding from the wall before some hired hand hurriedly hides it. 

Maybe. 

Monday morning, after being turned away from the CTA for trying to bring my bike on board during morning rush hour- see: haters- I now had little more than an hour to peddle from the westside to my job interview at Navy Pier.  Dressed in my interview garb, Google Maps telling me I had to about 10 miles, and I had not had my Wheaties or even a swig of Great Value instant coffee. 

A girl's gotta eat, gotta work to eat, gotta have a job, gotta peddle. Zooming through Chicago morning rush hour, Motown Pandora providing ironic underscore ("Everybody plays the fool... Sometimes...")

I felt like I was on some strange "I Want to Work for Diddy" challenge, like I had fifteen minutes to get to the Bronx and get Mr. Combs a sugar cookie, but I made it, on time, a little sweatier from the journey, having been called some colorful names by drivers, and having lost a shoe from my bag that I had planned on changing into post-interview (if you see a pink and gray cross-trainer out there between Laramie and Sacramento on Lake Street, it's scared and lonely and wants desperately to return home) but I was there and ready nonetheless. 

Thank the lord for clean public restrooms  to freshen up and McDonald's large dollar coffees. Amen.  

One month ago today, I closed my first professional show in Iowa City, was living with six cats in an 1860s mansion. I was exhausted, humbled by the experience and the outpouring of love that came from the ensemble and community, and anxiously looking ahead to the next adventure, wondering what shape it would take and what permutation of the ever evolving Jessica would be embarking on it.

With my luggage, my bicycle bruises, my country road tan, and abundance of lessons, experiences, and new tribesmen and women who I'm proud to know as artists and have as colleagues and friends, I came back to Chicago to join the hustle. 

The event I described above was the most vivid example of what that hustle feels like, and it cannot be created in a classroom. My month being back in the city since Riverside's closing has been filled with building this new muscle, the willingness to audition for everything and go broke/tired/hungry for the opportunity to keep going. 

Lessons from the front have included:

The mathematics of "If I get on the train at 6:30 for a 7:45 audition, will I be done before my transfer expires or will I have to put more on my fare card?" Graduated from word problems to simply, problems? Word.

The grace and integrity of how to walk into the room as if you didn't just contend with a thousand degree heat and a string of unfortunate events involving friends, lovers, mailmen, and the realization that you are vying for a spot that so many others are-who, for all intents and purposes are exactly your "type"- and still do your best work, or at least try.

The bounce back ability when you walk out of an audition knowing that you just dropped some doodoo in that room, but not dwelling on it long enough to stop putting myself out there... Although long enough to ease my bruised ego with some mini bottles of Chardonnay and a movie. Then I got it together. 

How to, always, always, always remember the joy- even when, especially when, my feet hurt, my tires are flat, the things that were working are now missing, and when they smile in your face and you never hear from them again. The saltiest first date,  cue Prince: "All I wanna know is baby, if you said my audition was good, HOW COME YOU DON'T CALL ME ANYMORE?"... Can I at least get my headshot back? 

And most importantly, how to maintain my own process when nobody's there under fluorescent lights at 9 in the morning to coach me through anymore. How to trust what I've learned, use what I've learned, and move that forward, how to fuse all these things so that my training enhances my art, and my art enhances my self and vice-versa. 

Under is over. For real for real over. And while the sadness (and at times, joy) that knowledge brings me ebbs and flows, I'm feeling the beginnings of a different kind of strength that can only come with independence, the  

knowledge that this leg of the journey is my own. This is in no way meant to downplay the men and women in my life whom I am blessed to call my inspiration, my encouragement, my family, my friends, but to fully honor the gifts they give me continuously, I have to stand as I am and forge my own way. 

I'll close with this, since I've decided to celebrate the month of August Wilson August, with a quote of his from the preface of King Hedley II:

" Before one can become an artist, one must first be. It is being in all facets, its many definitions, that endow the artist with an immutable sense of himself that is necessary for the accomplishment of his task. Simply put, art is beholden to the kiln in which the artist was fired."

Let it burn. 

And stay tuned for Lifestyles of the Broke and Shameless.

The title of this post is a quote from Paulo Coelho.

   

Felonious Monk: The Ancient Art of Stealing from Smart People

I've started the process of packing up my room here in Iowa City, my first taste of the professional actor's itinerant life. Sometimes I take a step outside myself when I'm pedaling past farmland listening to Talib far too loudly and think about my own given circumstances:

I get paid to wear a corset and play pretend and possibly fill-in for a Moroccan prince. And I live with six cats. And I do it in the company of other mad men and women who may have previously been complete strangers but are nonetheless crazy enough to center their lives around make-believe, and willing to follow it- chase it- wherever it leads them.

Strange life. Eight weeks to become vulnerable, open, dependable. Then scatter, rinse and (hopefully) repeat.

One of the perks of my job is the opportunity to examine other actors at various stages in their careers, going on dressing room fact-finding missions. Something beautiful tends to happen when you hush up and listen good. Incidental moments become master classes, and you pick up more that way than by attempting to project how much you know (reminder to self: you're enough, you don't have to try so hard.)

So, in the company of men and women who are either currently in or have memories being in the same state I am, a young artist comprised of equal parts ambition, nerves, insanity, hope, and the belief that I might just turn out to be some kind of somebody in the scheme of things, I've been listening. 

The findings from combinations of conversations here at Riverside:

The quickest way to misery is to count someone else's blessings more than you do your own. Don't attempt to keep up with or compare your achievements to anyone but yourself. Work on yourself, for yourself.

Ain't a drop of shame in children's theatre.

If you're not drawing joy from the work, it's not worth it. Laugh heartily at yourself.

Learning only happens when you venture past your comfort zone. Practicing your strengths incessantly won't aid your weaknesses one bit. Stretch yourself.

You never have as much money as you think you do.

And lastly, your self is what you got. It's your instrument, it's your business. The work requires that you spend time examining your pieces and accepting your inner workings. You have to look at your stuff, think about your stuff, own your stuff.

I'm sitting in a room that a week from now I may never see again that I currently call home, bagging up a summer, letting all the lessons I'm picking up whirl around as I make plans to dive into the biz. Thankfully, they take up less space than all these shoes.

The Arithmetic of Counting Blessings

"Count it all joy."

I've heard this throughout my Missionary Baptist upbringing sitting on rough royal blue upholstered pews in the days where I still had the audacity to wear white stockings. I shudder to think. But at that point in my life, I grouped that phrase with other stock sayings I'd hear older black folk say, like "Lord willin' and the creek don't rise" and "Don't step on my grass", and I left it at that.

I got a little older, and my cynicism started to come of age as well. I was beginning to think of "Count it all joy" as nothing but a mantra for the downtrodden, something sighed out from bowed and shaking heads, a sentence akin to "Keep on keepin' on", "Gotta go through to get through", and maybe even "Grin and bear it". I thought it added some temporary, far-fetched hope that there was joy to be found in everything. I was overhearing it in conversations about loss, about grief, about heartache, sorrow, about minor and major hardships, and I was having a difficult time rationalizing what good, what joy, could be counted of the messes they were enduring.

I'm beginning now, just really really now to see that there is a beautiful defiance in counting it all joy, that I had preemptively esteemed as an unrealistic way of being. It says to the ills that we encounter that yes, while I may have shed tears, suffered a battered ego, a bludgeoned spirit, or a broken heart, I can still extract some strength and wisdom from it all, and ultimately that it did not serve to debilitate me. I'm still here, enjoying sunshine and Miles Davis and peanut butter and jelly and the knowledge that my pains are not permanent, and that there is no wrong in allowing myself the experience of being open enough to risk encountering them.

All these hurts we endure and scars we accrue are testaments to the fact that we are human. Breathing, growing, learning, adapting beings.

And there ain't an ounce of shame in that.

So a bird pooped on me during an outdoor rehearsal for Merchant of Venice the other day. I must admit I'm having some difficulty finding the joy in that...

If I was a part of speech, I'd be an improper noun

Words.

I spend my days with words. I wake up with hip hop, I have podcasts lull me to sleep, right now I have the privilege of hearing iambic pentameter for a large percentage of my waking hours, voiced prayers and internal conversations with myself, and on top of that I'm constantly filling notebooks with sloppy, crazy-person penmanship with musings, quotes,ideas, outlines, lists, poems, odes, treatises, manifestos- I could go on. Let's just say if I ever run out of paper, I'm pretty sure my home would look like the set of A Beautiful Mind.

I love writing them, I love speaking them, hearing them, thinking of ways to weave them together in meaningful arrangements, learning new ones, reading them, sharing my own and those of others that speak to me on a deep level, and discovering men and women whose words shift my foundations and make me think, act, and encounter the world in a different way.

I am so happy that I was hooked on phonics.

With that being said, it should come as no surprise that when I discovered the deeper meaning behind a word that I have been encountering since I was little Jess, it's been consuming my thoughts.

That word is courage.

A few days ago, while I was enjoying my early evening fiber-rich dinner and listening to a TED Talk- I am the oldest young woman in town, I'm waiting on my AARP membership card to be delivered any day now- the speaker Brené Brown in her talk "The Power of Vulnerability" broke down the word for her audience, stating that it derives "from the Latin coeur, or heart, [meaning] to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart."

I picked up my face and listened to that part over and over again; the act of fully, honestly, and openly being who you are is a courageous one. The actions we undertake as a result are courageous ones.

Courage demands that we go fully toward what we want, despite all the factors that tell us to aim lower, to stop in our tracks, to protect ourselves from being let down, all the voices (internal and external) that remind us of our imperfections and shortcomings, the voices that make the obstacles seem insurmountable.

Courage demands that we believe we are worthy beings. Courage requires an understanding that yes, I am imperfect, and flawed, and may fail at this but that in no way means that I don't deserve to strive with all I got in me toward the thing my heart wants me to do.

Courage says to the world that you're crazy enough to risk the leap but not foolish enough to never even attempt flying.

Courage says that your love is bigger than your fears.

I'm working on letting my guards down in wild pursuit of my goals and dreams, which sometimes feels like I'm playing Frogger with my emotional well-being, but that's okay, and saying with all of my being that this is who I am, this is what I want, and I will do whatever I can to get it.

I know that with every headshot and résumé printed, with every audition and interview, that there are no guarantees, just hope and timing and tenacity and training and hard lessons and mistakes and thick skin and tears and optimism and prayer that it will work out if I keep holding on, and more prayer for the courage to keep holding on.

I'm Jessica Dean Turner. I'm an actress, and a writer, and perhaps certifiably insane, but I'm not a coward.

Lastly...


I'm launching another project in the coming weeks. A risk, but one I feel like is worth the taking.


Bonus!
Here's the link to Brené Brown's TED profile. Beautiful.
http://www.ted.com/speakers/brene_brown.html

I'm becoming a crazy cat lady years ahead of schedule. Progress.

The journey to me figuring out how I wanted to frame this post became a lesson in itself. The process always involves copious amounts of outlining and erasing and rewriting and backspacing and walking away and coming back and sitting with my head cocked looking real confused at the jumble of ideas and half phrases in my notebooks or whatever scraps of paper were readily available at the point of inspiration, and plenty of cups of Aldi brand Earl Grey tea (I have to keep my bougie tastes within my not so bougie budget). This time, all those elements were present, as they always are, but there was also the desire to do extra in the writing, to augment and ornament the story I wanted to tell, to dress it up and jazz it up and equivocate- there was one draft that even included an anecdote about one of the six cats I'm living with. I cocked my head at the screen and asked myself what I was even talking about anymore, then I promptly got up and walked away.

I was getting too consumed in the packaging, devoting my energies elsewhere, and by result compromising the quality of the goods. I had to get back to the actual thing I wanted to talk about without trying actively to make it interesting- all this damn actor training, I should know by now that things are much more fascinating when they are unadorned, just people being exactly who they are at the exact moment that they are and being brave enough to be present fully in whatever state they're in.

Weeks of rewrites later, I now bring you back to the previously scheduled program. I recently shared my writing with my mother for the first time. This was spawned simply by the thought, what if sharing my work with her suddenly was no longer an option?

This time of the year, all the breezy days saturated in sunlight, reminds me of way back when, being in my backyard with my dad, hands deep in the dirt, defying all HGTV logic and planting our lush father-daughter garden (to this day, I don't think Whole Foods could hold a candle to our West Side cucumbers and cherry tomatoes). I know that the experience of working alongside him so we could have fresh peppers and collards and even one ambitious year strawberries taught me that something beautiful could in fact emerge from a place as unlikely as our littered bit of earth, and so much more than I could ever adequately put into words. I know it's all buzzing around inside of me.

By the time I had begun trying to figure out the power of putting my experiences into words, it was no longer the fashion to share early sunsoaked Saturdays with dad. I had entered my awkward artsy angst filled years, diving headfirst into notebooks, proudly assuming the role of misfit, hashing it all out with Bic pens. It was at this time that I felt at a distance from the rest of my family, and me and my father were a ways away from the bond we'd forged playing in the dirt. We didn't seem to understand each other as well. Lots of quiet car rides with him picking me up from the train station, just the sound of V103 filling space between us.

We began reaching a better understanding of one another right around the time I left for school, him seeing that I had found my happiness onstage, speaking to his own ability and desire to reach and entertain people (I remember the team of older heads who would crowd our front porch to listen to him talk, or his kitchen renditions of Isaac Hayes songs). We were finding our common ground again. I sometimes wonder what he would've thought of my writing, having influenced so largely who and what I am. I do not now and will not ever have an answer for that, only hopeful speculation.

As a person, I don't believe in regret, only lessons. True, I didn't seize the opportunity to share this aspect of myself with my father while I had the chance, but now I know to share generously the things that matter most to me with the people who make me feel most alive. It took a heap of courage to get me to hit send and share my writing with my mom. I just kept thinking "Oh, Lord, she gon know about the cussin and the drinking and the mess of a life I'm living." Then I laughed, thinking that if anyone doesn't know I'm a mess by now, they must not be paying very close attention.

Sent.

Her reply:

Absolutely great didn't know you were a deep thinker.  Divine order, love you.  Can I share with family???????????

You sure can, mom. Share away.

I wonder what she'll say about this one. I know she will be pleased about the lack of cat stories.

A week out of undergrad, and I'm lucky to be alive

Sometimes, it takes flying off of your bicycle in the middle of downtown Iowa City during rush hour in front dozens o f passersby and a Chipotle to put things in perspective. Or it did at least for me.


Here's the run down of my series of unfortunate events since embarking on my post-graduate journey:


My debit card is in Urbana. I am in Iowa City.

The piece of luggage containing all of my unmentionables is in Urbana. I am in Iowa City.

I spent the bulk of the wee bit of cash I had on Walmart replacement undies, and as a result am flat broke and a state away from my funds.

I've been subsiding on a steady diet of soup, theatre coffee, and hope.


I've been out of school barely a week, and I am failing brilliantly at adulthood. Now take all that backstory, and put it atop of my shoulders as I'm picking up velocity, heading downhill in the center of town, when my chain slips, my front wheel juts right, and me and the concrete unceremoniously collide.

My last word before impact: "YOLO".

As I collected my dignity off the pavement and said some hurried "I'm fine"s to concerned onlookers, I couldnt help but hear the choir from The Color Purple just a-singin' in my head "God's trying to tell you somethin'..."

Broke. Embarrassed. Bruised. Bleeding profusely from my knee and elbow, crying underneath my sunglasses, all while in Walmart underwear, no less.

Week one as a professional actress.

I got up, I fixed the chain, and I rode, head held high as to convince the people who just watched me eat pavement that it was all an illusion by virtue of how excellent my posture was.

For a second on the ride back to my host home, I considered the possibility that all the mini catastrophes that had befallen me my first week out of undergrad as a sign that I shouldn't be doing this (cue: "God's trying to tell you somethin'...") that this acting life wasn't for me, that I should pack it in before I do anymore damage to my ego or otherwise.

I knew that voice in my head speaking those concerns to me all too well, the fearful, enemy of art voice that second guesses passions, disputes impulses, that fuels the self doubt and limits ambitions. I was thinking from a place of fear, not hope, of impatience and frustration, not of nurturing and vulnerability, not empathizing with the fact that my journey is in fact just beginning. I know I'll keep falling, hopefully only metaphorically or at least on softer surfaces, and I know my love for what I do is enough to make me want to incessantly get back up.

Keep getting up, and keep getting up, and keep getting up.

A quickie: wind-chimes and such

It's been a long time, I shouldn'ta left you...


Sitting on my porch, enjoying an unseasonably warm day here in central Illinois (climate change, y'all, Al Gore tried to tell us) I wondered why my wind-chimes weren't making the sweet sounds that usually keep me company weren't offering up their music even though a gentle Urbana breezes were hitting them. I listened close, realizing that they were, just a much quieter, lower tone playing subtly that I'd neglected to hear due to my own desire to hear tings and clangs that I had become used to. There it was, a soft pitch playing steadily, almost imperceptibly that I almost ignored trying to hear music that wasn't there.

Wind-chimes, learning lessons from wind-chimes.

For weeks, I had been trying to force myself to write, to create, to cater to music that wasn't there while ignoring the quieter notes that have been trying to guide me all along. Trying to make ourselves contact the muse is useless; inspiration is there, we just have to be open to it, ready to embrace it however it comes, even when it doesn't match how we thought we'd encounter it.

A life in art is about being open to that possibility that we are an entity being acted upon so that we can create, and receiving those actions and constructing them into the medium of our choosing. As artists, things happen to us so that we can make things happen.

Knowing that, I'm ready to write again, real soon.

Til next.

#thatAWKWARDmomentwhen...

You have a seemingly completely random memory of what was a seemingly inconsequential moment in your life that upon further review puts your current mess in perspective.


Let's take a jaunt down memory lane.

It's 7th grade and yours truly is sitting in the middle back of language arts, hot-combed hair parted down the middle and rocking glasses that were thicker than Nicki Minaj post-injections, and creating an impressive C-curve in my back from all the under the desk stories I was writing and from the fact that I thought hunching over would make me feel less like a giantess. We had started to learn about iambic pentameter, the bah-BOOM bah-BOOM bah-BOOM bah-BOOM bah-BOOM rhythm that Shakespearean verse is rooted in. The teacher had given us the creative assignment to think of a lyric from a song that had used iambic pentameter, and I thought I had discovered the Lost City of Atlantis when I realized that Marshall Mathers himself had employed it in his song "Shrooms" (test it out, the line  "I never meant to give you mushrooms, girl," is a perfect line of verse. The Bard would have been proud.)

I raised my hand and delivered this information to my teacher, my crush at the time, the extremely cool -honey complexioned-neat Lil' Bow Wow-esque braids having-'why is his voice so deep at 12?'-throwback jersey and creaseless white Air Force Ones- man of my dreams,and subject of my CosmoGirl quizzes turns to me and tells me that it's cool that I knew that.

Internally I did about 12 cartwheels, and began picking out our future kids names.

Later that day, still on the newfound high of kinda being called cool by the coolest and cutest guy in the gifted program, I caught him the locker by his friends and thought I'd take my chance again. In perfectly measured iambs, in a crowd of boys whom I towered over (ah. puberty.), I told him the second line "I never meant to bring you to my world", all done in an attempt to relive the magic we had shared only three class periods ago. He looked at me like I was nuts, which in retrospect may have been fair, given the fact that I was standing at his locker Shakespeare-talking Eminem lyrics.


I just wanted him to think I was cool.

I eased back to my locker and scooped up some of my dignity on the way out the building, skin a little thicker, walls a little higher.

Random glimpses into my past serve to remind me that at all times, the things that make me who i am, the people I've met, the profoundly awkward things I say, the place I've been, are constantly floating around in me, informing my next steps. Peeping back into those moments remind me of my foundations, the building blocks that have made me me, the trials and errors and remarkable flaws.

Recently, in an almost daily manner, I'm reminded of the fact that in a few short months, I'm not going to be near the people I have held the most important for the past four years of my training. The people who I've watched grow exponentially, shared philosophies, heartaches, triumphs and breakdowns with over boxes of Franzia, the people who know tears and joy and who even accept me in my gross movement attire. The people I love. My colleagues in the struggle, my troops in the trenches, fellow artists in the field, and moreover, my friends.

Experience and memory are beautiful things, things that are invaluable to me in my acting, and, more importantly, to me as a person. I know I won't have the opportunity, just as with my recalling out of the blue the Shakespeare-Eminem snafu, to filter out the recurring thoughts of my classmates/castmates/playmates nor would I ever have the desire to do so. I'm carrying them, constantly influenced by them, as they whirl through my being, amd holding onto them dearly, next to my thoughts of sun-soaked block club party mornings of my youth and the Kool-aid stains of my high school hair dye extravaganzas. I know that our times together, regardless what parts of the world we venture off to will be right there with me, in my art, in my life, in me.

In our theatre-speak, we throw around the notion of personalizing, the idea of starting from who you are as a fully actualized, flawed, living, loving, breathing, feeling human being, in an effort to give life to the character. This is my cheers to the people who teach me more and more about who that is.

Now let's get some Franzia.

Sloppy Firsts

"I don't know anything."
-November 5, 2010

I wrote this, first semester of my junior year. This was the time when acting became "serious". Unitards, crying jags, Checkovian  pause serious. I was in class, steeped in the sorrow that only can come from foolishly expecting that I was supposed to be a finished product so early on. I was convinced that if I was to ever be anybody in this industry that I needed all the answers, right then and there, that I had been in training for this long I should have solidified my brand and known exactly what the "right" choices that a black actress of my type should make. With the undue stress that this put on me, I started to crack, question the validity of all my choices, if I even had a place in the theatre, if I was really an artist at all or just the weird girl who had a lotta feelings.

When I penned those words, I saw it as the rueful admission that I was somehow lacking the stuff to make me an actress. Now, nearing the icy precipice of Get A Real Job Land, I'm thinking of that phrase as a bit of liberation. 

Somedays I wake up and think, honestly, what the fuck are you doing? May is coming faster than a fat kid down a water slide, and the collegiate cocoon is about to break wide open. And while I know I have more questions than answers about the world I'm trying to break into, I'm welcoming the mess and the confusion on a day by day basis.  I'm a work in process, my work is messy, sloppy, incomplete, sometimes God-awful, but I got something that's been growing  as a result of classical training and faith. Its growth is inconsistent, but I get glimpses of it just when I need it. It's the belief that I'm on the path that I need to be on, that somewhere in the margins of scripts near the smudged pencil marks and torn corners is where I belong.

I don't have a clue as to what's ahead, but I'm blessed to be where I am. I got no interest in making my art something neat and polished, but I'm devoted to making my art honest and beholden to who I am. 

Til next.