the wrath of my mother

I relayed a memory today.  Of my First Holy Communion.  My mother leaning over me saying: "If you get wrinkled you're dead.  Make sure when you get in the pew to run your hands over the outside of your dress to flatten it out before you sit down."   And then just before heading into the church, Sr. Perpetua with her long face, glaring at all of us little girls saying: "Listen to me and listen to me good.  Today you make your Holy Communion.  It's a sacrament, not a day to look pretty.  Don't let me catch any one of you playing with your veils or fixing your dresses during this mass because God will punish you."   

And poor 7 year old me, getting in the pew, forgetting to flatten my dress out before I sat down, wondering with all my wits and might what a worse fate is - the wrath of God or the wrath of my mother. 

I still don't know the answer.    

My mother's wrath is silent and deadly.  It's not loud.  It's not violent.  But in one cold stare your entire inside dies and you crumble to the ground, ready to admit all of your stupidity and offer it up as a sacrifice for redemption.  Never really to be forgiven, just not dealt with.  

At least with God you can serve penance. 

The Wrong Room

If you've done a lot of work on yourself and have generally conquered a fair amount of demons, and on a daily basis you find yourself feeling proud of your accomplishments and able to carry on charming conversations freely and successfully.....    and yet, when you are in this one particular room, you feel lousy, really insecure, unable to speak your mind clearly, doubtful of your worth and bewildered by the people around you...   then you're probably just in the wrong room. 

Stop questioning whether you're right or wrong, and just get out. 

If you must return for whatever the reason, go in donning a suit of armor.   And retreat as quickly as possible.   

racism is really all about onions

For me, anyway, racism is all about onions.  

The first time I ever tasted a raw onion, I cried my eyes out because I hated it so much.  The burning taste was so vile I threw up.  Since then, I have never wanted raw onions anywhere near me.  I don't keep them in my house. I make sure they are not near my food when I order in restaurants.  This is how I protect myself from danger against the havoc that onion wreaked on my taste buds.  

I have categorized that onion into the "dangerous" box in my mind.  Along with power tools and spiders.  

Power tools, raw onions and spiders don't change.  They can vary, but basically in their molecular or genetic make up, they are elements which do not change.  

Humans posses a very clear defense mechanism called categorization. The world is far too large to encompass without it.   Remember when you learned to sort in kindergarten... circles go with the circles, squares go with the squares?   Categorization is a way for humans to deal with the vast world in front of us.  

Sometime, someone came across a member of a certain race or religion and made a decision about the way that person affected their life.  Defense mechanisms arose and they placed that person in a "dangerous" or "safe" category in their mind, just in the same way that I did with the onion.  

Humans whose brains have evolved past kindergarten however, can understand that onions are objects and people are people.   Where raw onions have no ability to change or evolve, humans posses many different variations in personality, upbringing, traits, intelligence etc.   

So basically either you're smart enough to realize that you can put all onions in one box but you can't do that with people....

Or you're still in kindergarten putting squares with squares, circles with circles, onions with onions and power tools with power tools.  

 

Why I Quit Acting

A person close to me sat me down and told me I wasn't pretty enough to be a leading lady.  

After watching my very first dailies, I could see I didn't "pop" the way an actress should "pop" on screen.  I was depressed.  I knew I didn't have "it", I could see that.  And this person could see that, clearly.  I suppose to spare me years of heart ache, this person felt it important to let me know straight out- I wasn't pretty enough to really make it and if I wanted to be an actress badly enough, I should try to fashion my career after someone like Frances McDormand who is not beautiful, but a strong talent. 

All I heard was that this person did not think I was beautiful.   

So, I tried to get beautiful by starving myself and dying my hair and exercising.  But it never worked because every time I looked in the mirror all I could see was Frances McDormand in Fargo (which had just come out the year that comment was made) and I gave up -- on myself.       

And, for a long time I thought I quit acting because I wasn't pretty enough.  

Today, I am a writer and if you spit on this blog and call it garbage and tell me it's ugly and not worth the cyberspace it's saved on... I will take that feedback and write about how it makes me feel. I will always write.  Nothing can stop me.  I have to write this blog/poem/song/story/screenplay/stage play/teleplay/thought down or I will die.  I need it that much.  

I realize now, I gave up acting because I didn't love it enough to withstand the hardships.  

It was terrible advice, what that person said to me years ago... Anyone can be what Hollywood considers beautiful.  Anyone can "pop".  Just ask Jennifer Aniston or Ashley Simpson.  A little boob job, hair extensions, juice fast, personal trainer, plastic surgery can go a long way for a plain looking actress...  the question was back then, and still is today: how bad do you want it?  

If I had loved acting as much as I do writing, I would have laughed in that person's face and said:  "Hey Dad, go fuck yourself."  

But I didn't love acting enough to withstand the hardships.