Raw Draft Part 2

III. Chalk

            I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since I got the call that I was going on. Your first ever performance going on as a cover is a big thing, even though everyone sees you as a last resort and nothing more.

            My mom got the call that I was going on while I was at Hebrew School and she came to pick me up early. Everyone watched me enviously as I left class before they had to go back to writing alef-bet-vet in perfect script.

            Now that I’ve stopped home to get my stuff together, Dad and I head out. It’s an uneventful trip, unlike the one to my first ever performance a couple years ago. That night it took years for the train to come and I knew that if it didn’t my whole world would come tumbling down.

            We get to The Met and I tell my friends that I’m going on and they all hug me. Tonight I’m one of them.

            I only got to go on in one rehearsal and that was when one of the girls was out sick so I got to play hopscotch with my friends and they gave me the prettiest of the dolls that reminded me of Mimì from Boheme. But us covers all took turns going on for sick kids in rehearsals so it didn’t make me special. This makes me special.

            I shrink a little from the glares of the four other covers, none of whom have gone on yet and there’s only a couple shows left. They want to suck the life out of me with those stares. I know that I only got picked to go on because I’m the right height, but as far as they’re concerned, I’m royalty.

            We get upstairs and warm up and there’s only fifteen of us so Tony is extra aware of me. I try to avoid eye contact which is easy enough considering I can’t see anything very well without my glasses. I’m not used to singing the boys’ part and I’m worried I’ll mess up and he’ll throw me out so I sing quietly, going off of the boys on either side of me.

            When the warm-up is over the other covers have to leave but I get to stay. It’s time to get in costume now so I go to the girl’s dressing room which smells like leaves and wood. The other girls get easily into their light dresses, except for Tati who squeezes herself into a boy’s costume. She’s in the cast but she’s also the cover for the solo because of her Russian, and she prays every night that Nathan won’t get sick so she won’t have to do it.

            One of the costumers hands me a boy’s costume like Tati’s with Richard’s name taped onto it and I stare at it for a moment uncomprehendingly. When I don’t take it from her she says “This will be your costume tonight. It’s Richard’s.”

            I stop myself from snapping that I know it’s Richard’s – I’m not a dummy. But instead I say “But… I have to be a boy?”

            This makes the other girls laugh a little. “You were singing the boys’ part during the warm-up,” one remarks.

            I still don’t reach for the costume. Now my costumer is getting impatient. “What, did you expect us to make a new costume for you? Take this and get changed fast. I don’t want Tony to blame it on me if you’re late.”

            I resist telling her that no one here wants Tony to blame anything on them. Ever. I take the costume and get changed into the pants that look baggy on me but I’m sure looked just fine on Richard. I put on his shirt that smells like boy and the socks and the shoes. The jacket comes next and after the dresser says “Now you need to get the hat and the wig on. Go out to the hairdresser and he’ll sort you out.”

            I want to ask her what she means by wig but I’ve already made enough trouble so I get up and leave. The hairdresser sticks a couple million pins in my hair before putting a curly brown wig (which confuses me considering my hair is already both curly and brown) onto my head and then the hat. As he’s sticking in some more pins to secure it, Tony pops his head out, saying “We’re starting the warm-up.” He doesn’t sound very happy. Then again, he never sounds very happy.

            The hairdresser curtly tells him that he’ll let me go in as soon as he’s finished his job. Tony’s face turns red but he goes back inside and shuts the door.

            When I’m done I go in for the warm-up and for a moment I think Tony doesn’t recognize me. I don’t think any of the kids do either. I fit into the boy costume easily, considering my chest is about as flat as some of the notes the kids in front of me belt out. They’ve just never thought of me as a boy before. Tony loves his boys, and his girls that he considers boys, but I’ve always been a girl to him, to all of them – a weakness on my part.

            When we’re done warming up the buzzer calls us downstairs but before I can get in line Benji stops me. “You haven’t learned the choreography yet. Let me teach you.”

            “Choreography?” I ask.

            He nods. “We march onstage and it’s very important you know where to march and when.” He seems a little miffed when I’m still dumbstruck. “Didn’t you watch the rehearsals?”

            I nod, yes I watched the rehearsals. I remember sitting in the second row with the other covers and two of the wranglers. I was watching and I made a comment that one of the kids Yves was doing a great job pretending to be a boy. One of the wranglers looked at me strangely, saying that Yves is a boy and hadn’t I noticed? And I shook my head because Yves looked like a girl and sang like a girl and I thought that meant he was a girl so I shrank into my seat, trying not to look more stupid than I already did.

            When he realizes that I picked up none of the choreography because I was always watching the girls in rehearsals and not the boys because I never thought I’d have to do the boys’ part, Benji sighs and quickly walks me through it, ignoring Tony’s calls to hurry up.

            He does a step and then I copy and it occurs to me that we’re almost dancing which would be sweet and maybe the best thing. But then I remember that we’re marching not dancing, and when he touches my back I understand that it’s because I’m one of the boys tonight.

            We finally head downstairs and I’m a little out of breath so I walk slow. Benji starts talking about his composition classes and he probably thinks that I’m not listening but I am. I always listen, to everything.

            When we get to the stage I’m scared and I remember that I need to steal something tonight so I tell my friends to keep an eye out. I get in the boys’ line behind Benji and in front of Tati and then suddenly we’re marching onstage and I take extra care to not step on his heels.

            Onstage everything goes fine. I don’t mess up, not that I notice. I fake my way through the choreography but not the singing. I try to be honest towards the singing which is hard.

            We get offstage and all the boys are slapping me on the back until I feel it bruising. We meet up with the girls who hug me and one of them grins, handing me the chalk that was her prop onstage and that she “forgot” to leave onstage. She’s batting her eyelashes at me which is something that girls never did to me when I was girl because that would be weird. Now it makes me uncomfortable but I take the chalk. I roll it between my fingers and they turn white. “I’m going to need a bag for this,” I say.

            We get out of costume and I’m almost expecting Tony to say something to me but the best I get is a stiff nod that I think was aimed in my direction. But trust me, you take what you can get.

            When I get home I take a bath to get the boy smell off of me and my dad tells me how he watched me on the monitor and how great I was. “Couldn’t tell you apart from the others,” he says proudly. “You fit right in with all those boys.”

IV. Rose

            I’ve been trying not to think about it since I found out I was leaving, by avoiding calendars and reassuring myself that I always had x number of hour left, but it never works. Your last performance is a big thing, one that many people dread and a few look forward to.

            I wake up like it’s any other day and go to physical therapy for my wacky knee where my favorite therapist Brian tells me he’s moving to Alabama and starts talking about how “Change is good” and all that and I almost break down right there.

            I sit in the lobby with a box of cookies from Fairway in my lap that we’re going to eat after today’s show is done. When class gets out all the munchkins emerge and look greedily at the cookies that aren’t for them. Everyone has heard about my leaving thanks to Tony’s big-ass announcement so I get some pitying glances from some kids and their mommies.

            We head upstairs and I try to not let my fingers linger too long on the lockers because this is just any other day. Upstairs everyone is hugging me and my friends talk excitedly about the plans we’ve made for after the show and who’s coming but I can’t think that far ahead. Tony hugs me, something I’ve almost gotten used to over the past week and Alice my favorite wrangler gives me a bouquet of lollipops with sweet labels on them because she’s always been looking out for me.

            We warm up and then get into costume. After fifteen performances this costume has become my skin and I dread peeling it off when the curtain goes down. I get makeup and hair and I’m ready.

            We all sit together and warm up again and I’m sitting with my friends today because not even Tony can stop us from sitting where we want. We get called and go downstairs and we’re backstage. We hug each other and dance together during the overture. Before it’s time to go on I hear someone tell me to make it count.

            Onstage I march and sing my heart out and try to make my angry faces go up to standing room where I know Tati is braving her fear of heights for me. We run and jump and I try to steal beer from one of the guys at the bar and then we’re offstage and my eyes water a little then but not much because I’m still busy catching my breath.

            We all go upstairs and Tony praises our good work and we sit together and debrief on who did what bizarre thing to which person. When that’s done it’s time for the break which I spend taking a gazillion pictures with my Polaroid of people and I. Suddenly kids I’ve barely talked to want a Polaroid with me as a keepsake. We watch some funny videos and reminisce about old times and I think how lucky I am. The break is over in a flash and we’re back in our seats to warm up for Act IV. I put my all in and then we’re heading downstairs and I cling to every locker and every brick of every wall.

            I savor every note of Act IV as petals rain down on us while we sang and laugh. When we exit I look out at the audience a few more times over my shoulder and then it’s done.

            Upstairs Tony tells me that I can make a speech but suddenly I’m crying and can only muster an “I love you guys” before I excuse myself to get the cookies. We eat and tears are shed and I go around and try to dry every single one with a big hug because I don’t want any of them to cry for me in a million years.

            I’m a bit surprised when the little boys I barely know start crying too so I give them extra cookies to make them stop. When we’ve finished the cookies we head downstairs to where my parents are waiting. Tati’s brought me flowers and I have another cookie. I say goodbye to a bunch of the kids and then to the wranglers and finally to Tony who tells me to stay in touch and it’s more cordial than affectionate but I know he’s trying.

            My friends went to wait outside for me and when I emerge from the stage door they start clapping for me and I try to take a snapshot of this moment to remember forever because this is why I love them. This and when we first got upstairs from Act IV and they showered stolen rose petals on me and I caught every one, every single one, because they are flowers that will outlast this springtime.

Raw Draft and Three Prompts

Box

            I feel old. Old enough that I shouldn’t hear their whispers and singing. But they’re in the posters on my wall and in the pictures on my desk.

            I don’t know why I feel the need to open it today of all days, but I get up from my desk chair and remove the box from atop my bureau. The silver is tarnished and it’s dusty so I dust it off. I set it down on the desk and after a moment I open it. And I find myself transported.

I. Hairpin

            I’ve been thinking about it all day. Your debut performance is a big thing, even if it’s just acting and only for about two minutes.

            My dad rides up with me on the subway and drops me off. I greet the other kids and we exchange opening night fears. There’s seven of us so we’re a small number and we’ve become close over the weeks of rehearsal. I could rely on them for anything.

They call us into the dressing room and I get into my dress, the color of mustard. Your first costume is a big thing too; you never truly forget how it felt to put it on, every little detail. And twirling backstage so that your skirt poofs up – you never forget that.

I put on my shoes and my lace gloves and the hairdresser does my hair, pinning up my brown curls to keep them out of my face. When we’re all ready the wranglers take us downstairs in the elevator.

We huddle together backstage, a team. We listen to the singers from the sidelines, waiting for our cue. Bhemol and I have to enter together – he’s sweet but so jittery it’s distracting. I’m not jittery. I was up late into the night last night rehearsing it all in my mind – when to enter, which direction to run. So when it’s time to go on I’m ready.

The two of us run onstage and the second you’re onstage your head is spinning because there are big, big-voiced people surrounding you. But you keep your wits about you. You run seamlessly in the specified direction, swiftly dodging the dangerously large petticoats of the dancing women. I meet up with Bhemol in the center of the ballroom and we’re both out of breath. The singers are waltzing now and sometimes Bhemol and I’d joked how funny it’d be if we started to waltz. Utterly absurd – us dancing. So instead we giggle for a minute and then split up and join some more.

When we get offstage we’re panting. Running in heels takes a lot out of you. We meet up with the others and exchange congratulatory hugs.

As we go upstairs I wonder if Elena will be there to congratulate us. I haven’t been in the chorus for a full year yet so I’m still not completely unafraid of her. But despite the strictness she has some beautiful toys that she’ll let us play with them if we do a good job. Some of us joke about stealing them but we’d never.

She’s not there though. Probably in a meeting. So we change back into our normal, everyday clothes after they’ve yanked the hairpins out of our hair. And when we get downstairs my dad is there to meet me. We walk down the red hallway and sit on the couch to watch the rest of the opera on the monitor. This is the part where you’ll get the feeling that you’ve just had the best night of your life.

When the opera is over we go outside to meet my mom and my second grade teacher Miss Reinkraut. She’s so sweet and beautiful and my favorite teacher by far. I hug her and all of us get a taxi. They are all so proud of me.

In the taxi Miss Reinkraut reaches over and hands me a gift bag. Gift bags mean presents so suddenly I’m very excited. I open it and inside there’s a box. I wonder if there will be another box inside of that box, but there isn’t. It’s just a box, but it’s a beautiful box, decorated with sterling silver flowers and a butterfly with mother-of-pearl wings. I want to ask what it’s for – it doesn’t look like a toy, but that might sound rude, and I wouldn’t want Miss Reinkraut to think I’d forgotten my manners so quickly.

So instead I balance the box in my lap and stare at it until we drop Miss Reinkraut off at her house and say our goodbyes. And then we’re back home and I have to wash up for bed because it’s very, very late and I have school tomorrow. When I’m changing into my pajamas my mom says “Wait” and extracts something from my hair.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Just a bobby pin,” she says. “The hairdresser must’ve missed it when he was unpinning your hair.”

“Oh,” I say. “What do I do with it?”

“Keep it,” Mom says. “As a memento of your first night onstage The Metropolitan Opera House.” She beams at me.

“But won’t they miss it?” I ask innocently.

This makes Mom laugh. “It’s one hairpin,” she says. “It’s The Met. They probably have millions.”

“But if I keep it isn’t that stealing?”

“No, not at all,” she replies. She sees that I’m still unconvinced so she sighs and says “If it really means that much to you then put it in a bag and we’ll return it at the next performance.”

I nod and she yells for Dad to come in and together they tuck me into bed. We sing our evening prayers together and I say my customary “Goodnight, sweet dreams, to both of you, and I love both of you, forever and ever, as big as the whole world and the entire universe, as big as Mother Nature, and that means always.” Then they’re gone and the lights are off and I can only just see the box on my bureau in the dim illumination of my nightlight. Mom put the hairpin right next to it and from under the covers I look from pin to box to pin to box. And the little pin looks so lonely and cold so finally I get up and gently place it in the box for keeps.

Unwittingly, I that very night had begun my career as a thief.

II. Snow

            I’ve been thinking about it all week. Your debut performance singing in an opera is a big thing, the biggest thing, even if it’s in a chorus of about twenty-nine other kids so it’s not like anyone is going to hear you. But when you’ve waited as long as I’ve waited, it means the world.

            This time around I am jittery. Petrified, in fact. But I have all my friends around to support me so I know I’ll be fine.

            We warm up. Warm-ups are scary. Especially when the warm-up is with Tony who seriously terrifies you more than Elena ever did. And everyone looks at you a little differently because they all know tonight is your first time when they’ve been doing it year after year after year.

            The warm-up goes well which I take as a good sign. I get into my green dress, black gloves, and the lace cap that I really dislike. You never forget your first costume in Boheme; since it comes back every year the next time it comes around you can turn to the little girl getting fitted for your old costume and when you tell her that it used to be your costume she’ll look at you with complete wonder that you used to be that small.

            When we’re all in costume we warm up again. He’s like a taskmaster with warm-ups. Lots of kids doze off or space out and get humiliated accordingly. Me, I get humiliated all the time for not projecting when I sing despite my “unusually loud speaking voice” but I have razor-sharp focus so I’ve never been reprimanded for that at least.

            When we get called downstairs we’re all buzzing with excitement. This production seems to truly be a fantasy to the kids new to it and a treasure to the old-timers.

            We ride the set onstage and I sit with my best friend Tati and we discuss magic. We both believe in magic passionately. Tati says that if anything is reassurance that magic is out there, it’s this production.

            When the set is locked onto the stage we stand up and go our separate ways. I meet up with my stage parents who pinch my cheeks and tell me how excited they are for me. I don’t tell them that I’m excited for me because that might sound sort of cheeky and I wouldn’t want that. At the conductor’s urging we sing the first line with the curtain down and suddenly, spontaneously, the curtain goes up.

            From there on out it’s all about keeping your wits about you. It’s so easy to get lost and caught up in the little set shops with real food or petting the donkey or yearning for Musetta’s beautiful rose dress. But you have to remember to snap your neck around to the audience and breathe and flash a smile when it’s time to sing. If you don’t, Tony will call you out on it later. Trust me.

            The breaks from singing are the best. You can forget for a second that your director is watching from the sidelines, inspecting your every move. You can run up the stairs and get a flower from the flower man or if you’re lucky, one of the sweetest boys will give one to you and you’ll think how romantic it would be if he kissed you right here, on the steps.

            So you blush and giggle and try to look as becoming as possible which is difficult because you’re ten and nothing seems to flatter you right now. When it’s time for Musetta’s aria it’s very important to find a good spot for The Freeze, like maybe sitting on the steps where you can rest your head on someone’s shoulder. It’s very hard not to sneeze or cough or yawn but Elena taught us how to avoid doing any and all of those so I’m well prepared.

            Then the band comes onstage which is fun. I wave my flag and sing but all the while I’m scouting for something to steal.

            I’ve built up quite a collection by now and I’m always on the lookout for more. The lollipops look appealing but I know that I won’t be able to resist eating them and the bagels aren’t quite as appetizing but they’ll get stale.

            The curtain goes down and then up again for the tableau where we all smile and wave. And then we’re done and we head back upstairs where most of the kids are dismissed but me and ten others stay for a costume change. It’s time for Act III.

            Act III is fun because it’s just acting and you get to frolic in the snow in a pretty cape. Tati uses her cape to pretend to be a vampire which I find both funny and scary.

            Act III goes well and afterwards Bobby, the costumer in charge of the capes, is helping me out of my cape and I point to the snow that has collected in the bottom of the costume rack. “Will you be needing all of that?” I ask.

            No one needs that much snow so next show he lets me bring a little red pouch that my grandmother gave me. He helps me scoop up the snow and sprinkle it into the bag. I fill the bag up as far as it’ll go and sincerely thank him because he’s one of the nicest people I’ve met there.

            When I get home and my parents have tucked me in for bed I get up and take the snow pouch out of my box. In the dim glow of my nightlight I scatter the snow like how they scattered the ashes of that little boy whose house I grew up in and who I loved like a brother. But this snow is better than ashes, because suddenly it’s winter in my bedroom.

*NOTE –  I have two more stories in mind for this piece which I’ll quickly summarize in a sec. I’m running tight on time so I’ll write the raw draft for the next two stories tomorrow after school – I would think I have enough material as is to start exploring and applying styles to.*

So, summaries…

III. Chalk – will basically be about Queen of Spades which was just a little after II. Snow. I was an understudy (only show I ever did that for) so I thought it’d be interesting to write about the show where I had to go on for a boy (could definitely play up more of the awkward pubescent angle + gender roles). Of course for this show there was also a stolen item involved. And like with the first two stories – this is something I’m thinking of developing more in future drafts and through applying styles – it will weave together onstage life with what was going on offstage.

IV. Rose – will be focused on the last performance of Carmen (this year) which also happened to be my final performance at The Met. (I think because I’m starting with first performance it’d be nice for it to go full circle.) That’s a big time leap from III. Chalk but I think I could make it work. It’d be interesting to explore those last day emotions. The thievery in this will be a little different, because it was actually a bunch of my friends giving me the rose petals they’d stolen from the stage.

Now for the prompts…

1: Tony… as an animal I’d describe him as a bald eagle. Very stern, alert, a little intimidating. Powerful – he commands the room, not with noise (I’ve rarely heard him yell) but with presence. Very sharp, sharp eyes that see into your soul.

2: Being at The Met for an entire year would be the most awesome thing on the planet in more ways than one. The idea of living there, of being able to watch every single show and explore every single room would be… magical. I think I would definitely learn a lot. But on the flip side, I really doubt I’d get along with every person on the staff for that long a period of time. And I’d get used to it after a while… I think what made it all so special was getting to ditch life once, twice, maybe three times a week to enter that other world and be a totally different person. It would lose it’s value if I lived there year-round. But it would still be cool, though I think they’d kick me out after a week.

3: One moment in the story… I guess being onstage (as in the second story) and realizing that Tony is watching me with special focus because it’s my first time and he’s waiting for me to mess up. It’s a terrifying moment. I look over in the wings (even though you’re not supposed to) and he’s there staring back at me. So I quickly look away because I don’t want him to think I’m not paying attention. And suddenly I’m a million times more self-conscious, making sure that I’m standing up straight, that I’m cheating out, but most importantly, that I don’t miss any cues. Because even though the audience won’t notice, he will.

Exploratory Writing

A: When I was younger I used to faint a lot. Not the once, twice, maybe three times a year deal that I get now, but often, once a month maybe, not that it ever followed a schedule. The first time I clearly remembering fainting was when I was walking into my parents’ room in the morning and I banged my elbow on the bedpost and then I fainted and fell backwards, getting a concussion. My dad had to carry me to the hospital. I don’t remember much of that visit but I know they gave me some pretty pictures to color and hooked me up to an IV. I was five – those were the days when they let you color the cat purple before stabbing your arm with a needle.

There was another time in my early childhood that I fainted where my mom was talking about bee stings and it made me so dizzy I fell backwards off the bench at my little yellow table. There were so many in elementary school. The first time at my second elementary school (I don’t remember ever doing it when I was at P.S.29, God knows why) they all thought I was dead. I did get pretty pale, like a ghost. Which is ironic considering that I’ve always been pale as a vampire anyway.

There was a time in 5^th grade in science and my teacher thought I was faking it to get attention. We were watching this creepy snake documentary where this poor girl with glasses got paralyzed by snake venom and per the usual, I felt that wave of dizziness. I’ve always tried to ignore it, my first wave. No, I’m not going to faint. That was a one-off. Just drink your Gatorade and… That’s one of the biggest lies I’ve had to tell myself. It never works.

So then I’m calling to my friends for help and I’m stuck in this greenish haze and my teacher just tells me to shut up, this isn’t a game. And you would think that my paper-white skin and my eyes rolling back would tell him that yes, this isn’t a game. But he doesn’t help me. He, of all people – a science teacher.

Science teachers have always had a peculiar problem with my fainting episodes. Last year in science the teacher was telling this story where this boy got almost every part of him chopped off in an array of horrendous accidents and she kept asking “Is Sammy alive?” (That happened exactly a week before Sammy’s death – an unsettling coincidence that one too many people have reminded me of).

I tried to fight it, that first wave. My palms were sweating. I tried to write in my notebook, to doodle, to focus on the notebook. I don’t know whether it was because the boy got hit by a car and I thought of Zander or because surgery is yucky but then I was desperately begging my friends to save me and I was on the floor with only a foggy recollection of how I got there and the teacher was patting my head with a wet towel. As if that’s going to help. As I’ve tried to tell many a clueless adult, when it’s over, it’s over.

But that wasn’t the worst in the moment because I did get pushed down the hallway in a wheelchair. The guilt that would surface the week after would make that wheelchair moment seem utterly disrespectful.

Getting a cool towel on the forehead really isn’t bad compared to the number of school nurses that have tried to subject me to the ancient remedy that is smelling salts. What’s funny is that they only make me more dizzy. I’ve never passed out again after doing it once, so really, once I’ve surfaced, they have nothing to worry about. But they just don’t get it. Out come the smelling salts! Put your head between your knees even though it makes your head want to explode! Clearly we know what’s best for you!

My pediatrician was a fervent supporter of the head-between-the-knees trick which never did me any good. She could bless me with the term “vasovagal syncope,” knowing that that changed absolutely nothing. It’s not like there’s a cure. Gatorade is not some miracle elixir, although she always seemed to think it was. Little did she know how many people I’ve had to explain it to when they preach to me that Gatorade is unhealthy. Yes, it’s crap for the teeth, but it has electrolytes that keep me from fainting. And then they ask me what electrolytes are and that’s another ten minutes of my day wasted.

People always think that because I faint a lot it means I’m afraid of blood or I’ve got a weak stomach. Not true, not at all. When my mom broke her pinky in the middle of the street (I barely saved her from getting mowed over by a car) I didn’t flinch when her finger was oozing a steady stream of blood. And I can go on the scariest roller coasters without closing my eyes.

B:

Dear Junot Diaz,

            One part of Drown that has been on my mind since I read it is in the Lucero section on “Aurora” where it says “I’m telling you something. Something about me. What you should be doing is listening.” I felt, and still do feel, a very strong connection with that quote. I just feel like there’s so many times where I’ve tried to tell someone something deeply personal about myself without directly telling them. I don’t know if that means I’m an attention seeker? But it’s a nice thought that someone will catch your drift and care enough to ask more questions and at least now you’ll have someone to talk about it with.

            Also, I felt a connection to Yunior’s vomiting in “Fiesta, 1980.” I think this is because his vomiting reminded me of my fainting. I’ve had people yell at me to not faint (not my parents though), as if I have some control over the matter. Yunior and I both have triggers, and when they appear, there’s little we can do to stop it.

            Next, the narrator (I’m presuming it’s Yunior) in “Drown” and how he thinks of swimming underwater, of almost drowning, as an escape from reality is something I can relate to. I’ve never been a very good swimmer. But I’ve always loved swimming underwater, looking up at the people above, especially when it’s my family and I’ve left them behind. The first time I could sit crisscross on the bottom of the pool at the YMCA felt like a tremendous accomplishment. Again, I need to point out the irony: I have a fainting condition, yet I can hold my breath for very long periods of time.

Thanks for listening,

Mollie

C: Something interesting/inspiring that we didn’t actually get to go over in class was when we were discussing “Aurora” and for homework we had to decide whether their relationship could be considered “okay.” And in my response I said yes because Diaz is portraying as “bad people” (in that he’s a dealer, she’s a prostitute) but with “good sides.” They have darkness but they still possess light. I don’t know if this is relevant at all but I just thought the way he does this is sort of beautiful. He accentuates the “badness” of these people to the degree that their “goodness” can only shine through more.

D: Main theme/thread… definitely fainting and how it’s affected my life. Other little things pop up but I’m not sure if I want to write about them. I think in a way I could use fainting as a sort of objective correlative, if I wrote it the right way. Not that I’d necessarily have to… whatever the case, there’s a lot I could do with it. It’s been a big part of my life thus far and has had a clear impact on every other aspect of my life. Another thing that popped up was needing attention. Not really sure where that would take me but I should bear it in mind.

Weekend Task

As far as general topics/themes that I see Diaz and Hong Kingston writing about, one is familial relationships - the families of the narrators in both stories (especially in the Yunior stories for Diaz) are of extreme importance to the narrator as a character and to how the story unfolds. Another theme is race/ethnicity - how it impacts the lives of the characters for better/for worse. Also, the theme of gender roles is definitely present, especially the complex roles of women. Lastly, poverty - how people deal with it, what they do in order to get more money. So although White Tigers and Drown are superficially very different, they do cover some of the same themes.

Angles/approaches... for Diaz, he slips in some of the most important themes in very sneaky places, but for some of them, very frequently. Take poverty, for example. Yunior tells us repeatedly how poor he and his family are, and yet it is rarely the focus of the moment. And since we hear about it so often, we become a little desensitized to how awful it truly is. This goes for some of the other themes too, like how frequently Yunior mentions his dad's violent behavior. Diaz makes us grow accustomed to these things. Maybe because the characters in the book have lived with them for so long, they've gotten used to them too?

Hong Kingston's angles and approaches are a little different. She talks about many of the main themes with a sort of... passive quality, which contrasts drastically with her harsh words in the Afterword. Unlike the characters in Drown, Hong Kingston's narrator expresses little distaste at her role as a woman or the way her family treats her. We don't get much of her feelings/ideas regarding those main themes really at all. It's like the narrator is sweeping them under the rug - maybe Hong Kingston is trying to show that this is what people like her have to do.

Prompts:
1. Write about the nastiest thing anyone has ever said to you and how you responded.
2. Write about the kindest thing anyone has ever said to you and how you responded.
3. Write about something that someone in your life has always expected you to do that you either intensely like or intensely dislike doing.
4. Write about your most prized material possession and why it matters to you so much.
5. Write about the physical feature that people most often identify you by.

FFW
I have particular interest in the topic of familial relationships. I have a pretty interesting family that I think might be interesting to explore in writing. I'd want to work on thinking about not only how my family affects me, but also how I affect them. I think I've always thought about the former more, so in turn it'd be nice to think some about the latter. Also: how have they propelled me forward in my life? How have experiences with certain family members differed from those with others? How has my family affected/altered my outlook on life?
I also think poverty - or more widely social classes - might be interesting too. I've never been poor like the characters in Drown, but being middle class, for as long as I can remember, I've always taken special interest in visiting the homes of my rich (or superficially so) friends. And I've grown up with a group of pretty wealthy opera folk. This could be intriguing to unravel. Particularly, how has being around people like that affected my opinion of my own life? How has it made me feel? How has it made my parents feel?