I should have known my life would resemble tectonic plates not meant to hold still when my first sentence at the age of nine months was “eff routine”. I didn’t say it out loud, of course, or even know the words. But inside I felt their meaning. I couldn’t walk or talk yet, but I threw myself into the part. A restless method actor.
I knew, when at a year and a half, I reached over the top of my net playpen for the scissors my sister left too close to the edge of the dining room table, and cut an escape, only to find myself, in the next frame of the movie of my consciousness, at the bottom of the basement stairs, with new information about how many somersaults it takes to descend 13 stairs.
When, at age five, I played a game of dare with my five-year old neighbor that involved taking turns throwing kitchen knives at each other. Whoever flinched first lost.
When my idol, at nine, was Patty Hearst. That began every little girls’ fascination for trench coats and hot rollers, right? And fantasies of being forced by “bad guys” to rob banks while looking stylish and innocent? A victim, really. That was so cool. A no brainer that there’d be a guaranteed happy ending, based on her family’s wealth. Not like that Charles Manson scenario. That was ugly. Gruesome. Stephen King. Not my genre.
But the Patty Hearst story? I ran with the Patty Hearst story. Practiced, in my bedroom with the door closed, posing with a semi-automatic hairbrush/weapon after tightening the belt on my bathrobe/trenchcoat. I imagined I was being filmed by bank surveillance cameras, as I gingerly sidestepped in my bedroom, trying to appear both menacing and frightened, aware that it was all being played back in black and white on the TV in my parents’ living room. A Grimm’s fairy tale, narrated by Walter Cronkite.
My pretend parents gasp, lean forward in their stuffed Tudor chairs, (did Tudor’s even have stuffed chairs?) study the grainy image, to see if I am alright and how scary these bad guys look. Do they grab me and push me around? Do they make me shoot anyone? Should I send signals for help in the way I hold my shoulders or the way I look at the other gunmen?
My father pulls a fountain pen out of his breast pocket and begins writing a check with a lot of commas and zeroes because I’m worth it. My mother, while comforted that I’m still dressed well and my hair is nicely holding its curl, cannot stop making and remaking my bed, involuntarily pausing to admire her wallpaper choice, and staring at the porcelain doll collection on my shelf. She caresses their dusty, ceramic cheeks and remembers when I was a child. This was not how she imagined my life would turn out.
Buckling under the stress, my mother sits on my bed, and smoothes out the already smooth bedspread while staring at the photos of me in my English riding boots, jacket and helmet, clutching my blue ribbons in the same hand as my crop. How did this happen? She sobs into her hands. Why us?
When I was six or seven, playacting with some dolls in my room, using a different voice for each doll, a different accent even, my brother walked in on me and teased me, “You’re talking to yourself!!” The way he said it, indicated that talking to one’s self is a sin. It could make you blind! I was so humiliated I didn’t stick up for myself. But…but…but…I’m just playing! To prevent feeling the humiliation of being caught again, I stopped that altogether. He could tell other people in the house. They’d all know.
I have always benignly ignored my son, Vincent, when he is playacting about the house, a silent agreement between us that started when he was under two. He would whisper-talk both sides of dialogue while moving Lego men around forts he’d built, and I would go about my chores, dropping off piles of laundry, and acting as well. Acting as though I was too busy in my thoughts to notice that he was carrying on two sides of a conversation. He would stop if he thought I was eavesdropping. I played distracted, to give him the space to act freely.
I think Vincent also feels his life resembles tectonic plates not meant to hold still. He just joined a theatre class downtown. He didn’t want to go and protested vociferously the closer it came time to leave, even though he’d asked for the acting classes for a Christmas present. But when he walked into the large, one-hundred-year old brick houses that have been combined into one, took in the large, sliding metal doors that went from floor to ceiling, he said “I want to work in a place like this when I get older.”
He wants to do what I’ve only had the courage to do in my mind. He wants to get up on stage and act. In front of real people. Not imagined parents that aren’t even his, who have fountain pens for props, and an unusual compulsion to stroke bedcovers when under duress.
In front of real people. I can’t wait!
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When I was 8 I used to create Big Band Orchestras with ragtag little 50 cent toy creatures on hand(Gumby was the bandleader. A couple of San Diego Zoo cloth toys, an ostrich and a panda played in the sax section, etc. I made the instruments out of clay and wires with care. My upright jazz bass was awesome, and my drums were cut from dried up markers and foil.
I knew every “standard”, the term for songs from the great American songbooks before I ever played a note. I had dreams of playing in jazz orchestras years before I taught myself to write. The words from your son are pretty much what I thought when I attended my first Big Band concert at Knott’s Berry Farm, The Harry James Orchestra. Somehow, I made friends with the drummer’s son. And I knew who the drummer was, too. Cousin of Count Basie(for whom I later wrote arrangements for, which was a dream come true, so you never know where Vincent will end up).
So this kid took me backstage and introduced me to the group, which had just about everybody I had on records. It was surreal for a future band geek, and cemented my life to music. Fun note: I now sing in The Randy Van Horne Singers(The Flintstones, Huckleberry Hound, The Jetsons, Martin Denny) with the last leader of The Harry James Orchestra.
I thank my mom for being supportive in kind of the same way you are. In fact she wasn’t all that crazy about me becoming a musician, so that just worked on me even more.
The website link goes to a new video I made from a newly discovered home studio recording from 1979. I had only been playing for a little over a year, and pictures from the same time frame. Maybe it can be an inspiration to someone somewhere to not give up one’s dreams no amtter how much life beats you down. Thanks for the fine story, Amy. I treasure this friendship.
I usually stand in the shadows and watch when my son takes off into his own world.
He wants to write movies, and star in them.. He is starting off with GI Joes and Star Wars.. They all live together.
My gf told me a funny story about overhearing her son playing with little lego men and said, “Don’t give up, men! We’re not dead in the water yet!”
Wonderful story. I really can picture the little guy playing at your feet. My husband also talks to himself. It’s cute when he makes himself laugh:)
P. does the same and I just pretend most often that I am not even there. I think it’s so important for them to explore their world without us adults raining on their invisible parade or whereever the hell they are when they are talking
Good for him! And good for you to encourage him.
I wish I’d stayed true to my dream…
As you know I love your writing. This piece really hits home. As a child I would have pretends jacks tournaments with multiple players each a different accent and personna. Being an only child, I had no one to catch me and would play for hours till one of the characters, usually not me (to my dismay) won the contest and received their prize (some toy I was upset to give away.) I did go on to act and now both me and my kids do accents dances and make believe everything talks from the dog to an orange on the table. So, I say bravo momma.
Tag– You are one of my FAVORITE blogs and I am tagging YOU with the Happy101 Blog Award!!
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Nice story, I really enjoyed it.
Vivid imaginations are wonderful things. So it a good sense of humor. You had me laughing hysterically with this one.
Hope he has fun with his acting class. Maybe we’ll be seeing him on the big screen someday.
Immediately before reading this article I had watched a couple of videos on YouTube of Mary Lynn Rajskub doing comedy. As I read, in my head, I heard it being spoken in her voice and it cracked me up. It made a pretty hilarious segue, because I think it’s a pretty good match, at least on this article.
How cool is that?!! I love her!
Enjoyed this very much, but I have a warning. Don’t get too happy with his choice, at least not in front of him. Every time I showed approval and enthusiasm for a possible career direction or at least signs that they had found a passion, my kids promptly lost interest and changed direction.
Your experience may be different, but I’m just sayin’.
We have that with books. If I bring home a book from the library it’s the kiss of death. The suggestions have to come from the librarian. My job is to take a backseat and watch the dance between them. She tosses out all the reasons why the particular book in her hand is appealing and he, at first, acts interested, but after a while can’t fake it. She has lost him. She tries another book, the dance starts again. Eventually, eventually, eventually the right words come out and she finds a book by an author he already loves. He tunes out all her words and stares at the book. His eyes are saying yes, yes, that’s the one. But she doesn’t hand it over right away. She knows it’s the right one. I know it’s the right one. But we wait for him to advance and take it out of her hand. He starts reading it in the car on the way home. Had I picked that book out he never would have cracked it open.