When it comes down to it, my mother and I are very much alike. Physically, we have the same facial features, blue eyes and a rounded face. We proudly wear well polished noses that fit our delicate faces and broad cheekbones. Though we have completely different hair colors and our body figures aren’t much the same, mine being that of a taller athlete and her a beautiful stay-at-home mom several inches shorter than me, she has given me her genes and I am a carbon copy of what her and my father have provided for me. In reality, we have the same political views, the same tastes in music, and if she were my age, she would probably be my other half. If anything, my mother is my best friend, and that phrase sounds a little cliché, but there’s no other way to say it.
In many ways we have the same interests and dreams. We both see the world in the same way; we take things into our own hands by going after what we want. I chase my dreams and I’m what she’s always wanted, the college student living the college life wanting to study abroad and become a doctor. She’s a woman whose dream was to become a mother and be in a loving marriage. This is where we differ, though, because my desire is not to be a mother right away, and marriage will happen much later in my life. She is a well brought up middle-class woman who has had a pretty fulfilled life. She’s happily married and very much in love with five children who adore her. In this way, my mother lived out her life’s dream, where as I am only beginning my journey. I’ve learned my morals and beliefs from my mom. She set the standard and I followed suit. She taught me to think highly of myself and where I should be placed in modern society, working hard for my place. She’s showed me how to have an open heart. I’ve never known prejudice; I’ve always accepted people for who they are and given second chances.
Both of my parents have given me the freedom to believe what I like, even though they didn’t teach me to believe in organized religion, together they have taught me to hold my head high and own up to my opinions. I was raised in knowing I could believe anything I wanted, but in reality, both of my parents are atheists, so it was a little hard to find my own faith. Through a long journey of searching with the help of my mom and my aunt, I figured out that it was not required of me to see things any certain way, and that I wasn’t being forced to have an organized religion. My relationship in what I believe is personal and I don’t have to have other people telling me what I should or should not believe.
A specific thing that I’ve always noticed about my mom is her voice. She has this voice that just sounds like a mother’s voice, when I hear her I know everything is going to be okay. I specifically remember one time when I was bawling because I was so upset. I had gotten a bad grade and everyone was telling me that it wasn’t the end of the world, that one bad grade wasn’t going to wreck everything. But in my eyes, it was. I came home and confessed to my mom about how it was going to ruin everything I had been working toward. She looked me in the eyes and told me, “We’ll deal with it.” That’s all it took, those four simple words to make me feel like everything was going to work out just fine. She gives me the sort of comfort I can’t get anywhere else. Her vibe, her presence, is all I need to reassure myself that it isn’t the end of the world, no matter how horrible things seem.
Over time, my mother has helped me discover many things, but I’ve always been able to speak my thoughts around her. She gives me the insight of forty-something years of experience when the sixteen years of my youth are not enough. She’s sacrificed everything in order for me to have a good life. When I was younger, I didn’t really realize just how much she had given up for these sacrifices to be worth while. She pushed me when I hated her for it, and now I look back and see how much it was all worth it. I’m something like the “good child,” I guess, because I’m that sort of child every parent wishes they had. Now, I’m not trying to be conceited, I’m just telling it the way I see it. I’ve never done anything bad in my life, and for the few small things I ever did that was serious enough to have consequences, I never once took them for granted. I get the good grades and join all the right clubs so that I will have the chance to get accepted into one of the premier Universities of the world. I’ve worked hard for this privilege, this opportunity to be something great, and this desire is entirely my mother’s doing.
My mother is an amazing person, she is like no one I’ve ever met before and she supports me in everything I do. If I want to dance, she opens the doors in order for me to be able to do so. If I want to audition for a play, she encourages me that she can’t wait to see me on stage. If I want to join a sport or pick up an instrument she says to me, “Let’s do it.” And every single time I’ve quit, or become sick of my newfound passion, she tells me that next time, whatever I decide to do, will be perfect for me. She assures me that I don’t have to find my passion right this second, because I have years ahead of me full of opportunity. Over time, we’ve become closer and out of anyone in the world, my mom would be the first person I would call if anything major happened in my life. She’s become the “we” in my life. When I talk about going to college, or moving to a different country, or starting something new, it’s always “we,” like I couldn’t do anything if it weren’t for her. This is mostly true. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what I have today if it weren’t for her support.
When I was younger, we would take road trips to Iowa where my grandma lived. I remember one year when she was driving at four in the morning, and everyone else was asleep, and with a car full of four kids and only one adult, it was a miracle. I woke up and we pulled over by the side of the road in Colorado, I think somewhere outside of Denver. The sun was just coming up and all of a sudden, all this fog was surrounding the trees and coming up over the hills. We tried to take pictures, but none of them did the experience any justice. So we stepped out of the stuffy car, and sat on the hood of the minivan, taking in the incredible smells and mist all around us. We didn’t say much; we’re like that sometimes. We don’t need words to ruin a beautiful experience. We both knew that this was the sort of thing only she and I would share, because everyone else was asleep. It was probably one of the moments that moved us closer, because it was just for us, and we were the only ones there. We got back in the car and continued to drive, not saying much and remembering the moment with these goofy broad smiles across our faces. That’s who we are; we enjoy beauty.
My mother has a heart of gold. She takes whatever I throw at her in great stride, and she doesn’t get sick of me. I have this perception of myself that is always completely terrified everyone is always going to get sick of me at one time or another, and for some reason I don’t have that void with my mom. I mean granted, she’s my mom, but she’s the person who’s closest to me; and she doesn’t feel like a parental unit, because she’s my friend, not my mother. Well, she is my mother, but not in the sense you think when you use the word “mother.” When I was younger, I thought being best friends with your mom was dorky; that I would never be that close to my mom. Now, I don’t think of it like that. I introduce her to new music that I enjoy, most of it being the music most teenagers are “into” in this modern age, but she loves it. We share television shows that we squeal over when we watch them, and I give her books I swear she just HAS to read. Everything we do relates to each other, and I never pass up a moment to call her and tell her about my day. She’s the definition of “best friend.”
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Our Summer
Carolyn Hancock
6/16/10
My image is such a vivid one. My memory brings me back to a time when I felt an innocence that I hadn’t felt in an extremely long time. My best friend, something of a savior, was who made me, me. Heather, the best friend I speak about, and when I say best friend I mean the person I could spend weeks at a time with and never get sick of her, were together after school like we were every Friday. We were sitting in my room the day of my sister’s graduation when it started pouring rain outside, just all of a sudden. Something so beautiful, something we’d been waiting for. Listen, to the sound of it, the pounding that sounded on the roof, the light sounds it made while hitting the trees and the earth beneath the plants. The smell it gave, cooling everything down from a hot summer day. Heather looked me in the eyes, and we both grinned from ear to ear. Though lightning had started and the thunder was monstrous, we walked down the stairs hand in hand, and into the light pouring rain.
It was the first monsoon of the season. And I suppose you couldn’t even really call it a monsoon, because it was only the end of May, but it was our first rain on a summer day after a long hard winter. Heather and I were always able to somehow read each other’s minds; I always knew what she was thinking. We automatically walked onto the dirt path leading to the enormous swing set I owned and we sat. We sat, and then we started to swing. It seemed as if nothing in the world existed except us, the rain, and those swings. We swung until we felt like we couldn’t see the ground, laughing and throwing our heads back to feel the cool and wetness the rain brought upon our faces.
We were like this until our clothes clung to our skin and our hair was soaked through. We let the water seep into our skin and felt as though it would wet us to the bones. We didn’t talk about how life was or what we were worried about, because we didn’t have to. From all the swinging and dancing in the rain, twirling like there was no tomorrow, we found a sense of innocence. We found how we wanted to be always, and how we were going to make our summer feel like. Summer had always been our season where we would spend weeks at a time together, doing anything we felt like doing. But it was that moment, that small, insignificant moment that made us realize how much these tiny little memories were things we needed to hold on to forever. They were what connected us and allowed us to be so close for so long.
6/16/10
My image is such a vivid one. My memory brings me back to a time when I felt an innocence that I hadn’t felt in an extremely long time. My best friend, something of a savior, was who made me, me. Heather, the best friend I speak about, and when I say best friend I mean the person I could spend weeks at a time with and never get sick of her, were together after school like we were every Friday. We were sitting in my room the day of my sister’s graduation when it started pouring rain outside, just all of a sudden. Something so beautiful, something we’d been waiting for. Listen, to the sound of it, the pounding that sounded on the roof, the light sounds it made while hitting the trees and the earth beneath the plants. The smell it gave, cooling everything down from a hot summer day. Heather looked me in the eyes, and we both grinned from ear to ear. Though lightning had started and the thunder was monstrous, we walked down the stairs hand in hand, and into the light pouring rain.
It was the first monsoon of the season. And I suppose you couldn’t even really call it a monsoon, because it was only the end of May, but it was our first rain on a summer day after a long hard winter. Heather and I were always able to somehow read each other’s minds; I always knew what she was thinking. We automatically walked onto the dirt path leading to the enormous swing set I owned and we sat. We sat, and then we started to swing. It seemed as if nothing in the world existed except us, the rain, and those swings. We swung until we felt like we couldn’t see the ground, laughing and throwing our heads back to feel the cool and wetness the rain brought upon our faces.
We were like this until our clothes clung to our skin and our hair was soaked through. We let the water seep into our skin and felt as though it would wet us to the bones. We didn’t talk about how life was or what we were worried about, because we didn’t have to. From all the swinging and dancing in the rain, twirling like there was no tomorrow, we found a sense of innocence. We found how we wanted to be always, and how we were going to make our summer feel like. Summer had always been our season where we would spend weeks at a time together, doing anything we felt like doing. But it was that moment, that small, insignificant moment that made us realize how much these tiny little memories were things we needed to hold on to forever. They were what connected us and allowed us to be so close for so long.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
My Mother, TAKE TWO
When it comes down to it, my mother and I are very much alike. Physically, we have the same facial features, blue eyes and a rounded face. We proudly wear well polished noses that fit out delicate faces and broad cheekbones. Though we have completely different hair colors and our body figures aren’t much the same, mine being that of a taller athlete and her a shorter, thinner version of a housewife, she has given me her genes and I am a carbon copy of what her and my father have provided for me. In reality, we have the same political views, the same tastes in music, and if she were my age, she would probably be my other half. If anything, my mother is my best friend, and that phrase sounds a little cliché, but there’s no other way to say it.
In many ways we have the same interests and dreams. I’m what she’s always wanted, the college student living the college life wanting to study abroad and become a doctor. She’s a woman whose dream was to become a mother and be in a loving marriage. This is where we differ, though, because my desire is not to be a mother, and marriage will happen much later in my life. She is a well brought up middle class woman who has had a pretty fulfilled life. She’s happily married and very much in love with five children who adore her. In this way, my mother lived out her life’s dream, where as I am only beginning my journey. I’ve learned my morals and beliefs from my mom. She set the standard and I followed suit. She taught me to think highly of myself and where I should be placed in modern society, working hard for my place. Both of my parents have given me the freedom to believe what I like, even though they didn’t teach me to believe in organized religion, together they have taught me to hold my head high and own up to my opinions.
A specific thing that I’ve always noticed about my mom is her voice. She has this voice that just sounds like a mother’s voice, when I hear her I know everything is going to be okay. I specifically remember one time when I was bawling because I was so upset. I had gotten a bad grade and everyone was telling me that it wasn’t the end of the world, that one bad grade wasn’t going to wreck everything. But in my eyes, it was. I came home and confessed to my mom about how it was going to ruin everything I had been working toward. She looked me in the eyes and told me, “We’ll deal with it.” That’s all it took, those four simple words to make me feel like everything was going to work out just fine. She gives me the sort of comfort I can’t get anywhere else. Her vibe, her presence, is all I need to reassure myself that it isn’t the end of the world, no matter how horrible things seem.
Over time, my mother has helped me discover many things, but I’ve always been able to speak my thoughts around her. She gives me the insight of forty-something years of experience when the sixteen years of my youth are not enough. She’s sacrificed everything in order for me to have a good life. When I was younger, I didn’t really realize just how much she had given up for these sacrifices to be worth while. She pushed me when I hated her for it, and now I look back and see how much it was all worth it. I’m something like the “good child,” I guess, because I’m that sort of child every parent wishes they had. Now, I’m not trying to be conceited, I’m just telling it the way I see it. I’ve never done anything bad in my life, and for the few small things I ever did that was serious enough to have consequences, I never once took them for granted. I get the good grades and join all the right clubs so that I will have the chance to get accepted into one of the premier Universities of the world. I’ve worked hard for this privilege, this opportunity to be something great, and this desire is entirely my mother’s doing.
My mother is an amazing person, she is like no one I’ve ever met before and she supports me in everything I do. If I want to dance, she opens the doors in order for me to be able to do so. If I want to audition for a play, she encourages me that she can’t wait to see me on stage. If I want to join a sport or pick up an instrument she says to me, “Let’s do it.” And every single time I’ve quit, or become sick of my newfound passion, she tells me that next time, whatever I decide to do, will be perfect for me. She assures me that I don’t have to find my passion right this second, because I have years ahead of me full of opportunity. Over time, we’ve become closer and out of anyone in the world, my mom would be the first person I would call if anything major happened in my life. She’s become the “we” in my life. When I talk about going to college, or moving to a different country, or starting something new, it’s always “we,” like I couldn’t do anything if it weren’t for her. This is mostly true. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what I have today if it weren’t for her support.
My mother has a heart of gold. She takes whatever I throw at her in great stride, and she doesn’t get sick of me. I have this perception of myself that is always completely terrified everyone is always going to get sick of me at one time or another, and for some reason I don’t have that void with my mom. I mean granted, she’s my mom, but she’s the person who’s closest to me; and she doesn’t feel like a parental unit, because she’s my friend, not my mother. Well, she is my mother, but not in the sense you think when you use the word “mother.” When I was younger, I thought being best friends with your mom was dorky, and that I would never be that close to my mom. I look back on my attitude about it now and I just laugh because I couldn’t ever think of our relationship being any better. She’s truly the definition of “best friend.”
In many ways we have the same interests and dreams. I’m what she’s always wanted, the college student living the college life wanting to study abroad and become a doctor. She’s a woman whose dream was to become a mother and be in a loving marriage. This is where we differ, though, because my desire is not to be a mother, and marriage will happen much later in my life. She is a well brought up middle class woman who has had a pretty fulfilled life. She’s happily married and very much in love with five children who adore her. In this way, my mother lived out her life’s dream, where as I am only beginning my journey. I’ve learned my morals and beliefs from my mom. She set the standard and I followed suit. She taught me to think highly of myself and where I should be placed in modern society, working hard for my place. Both of my parents have given me the freedom to believe what I like, even though they didn’t teach me to believe in organized religion, together they have taught me to hold my head high and own up to my opinions.
A specific thing that I’ve always noticed about my mom is her voice. She has this voice that just sounds like a mother’s voice, when I hear her I know everything is going to be okay. I specifically remember one time when I was bawling because I was so upset. I had gotten a bad grade and everyone was telling me that it wasn’t the end of the world, that one bad grade wasn’t going to wreck everything. But in my eyes, it was. I came home and confessed to my mom about how it was going to ruin everything I had been working toward. She looked me in the eyes and told me, “We’ll deal with it.” That’s all it took, those four simple words to make me feel like everything was going to work out just fine. She gives me the sort of comfort I can’t get anywhere else. Her vibe, her presence, is all I need to reassure myself that it isn’t the end of the world, no matter how horrible things seem.
Over time, my mother has helped me discover many things, but I’ve always been able to speak my thoughts around her. She gives me the insight of forty-something years of experience when the sixteen years of my youth are not enough. She’s sacrificed everything in order for me to have a good life. When I was younger, I didn’t really realize just how much she had given up for these sacrifices to be worth while. She pushed me when I hated her for it, and now I look back and see how much it was all worth it. I’m something like the “good child,” I guess, because I’m that sort of child every parent wishes they had. Now, I’m not trying to be conceited, I’m just telling it the way I see it. I’ve never done anything bad in my life, and for the few small things I ever did that was serious enough to have consequences, I never once took them for granted. I get the good grades and join all the right clubs so that I will have the chance to get accepted into one of the premier Universities of the world. I’ve worked hard for this privilege, this opportunity to be something great, and this desire is entirely my mother’s doing.
My mother is an amazing person, she is like no one I’ve ever met before and she supports me in everything I do. If I want to dance, she opens the doors in order for me to be able to do so. If I want to audition for a play, she encourages me that she can’t wait to see me on stage. If I want to join a sport or pick up an instrument she says to me, “Let’s do it.” And every single time I’ve quit, or become sick of my newfound passion, she tells me that next time, whatever I decide to do, will be perfect for me. She assures me that I don’t have to find my passion right this second, because I have years ahead of me full of opportunity. Over time, we’ve become closer and out of anyone in the world, my mom would be the first person I would call if anything major happened in my life. She’s become the “we” in my life. When I talk about going to college, or moving to a different country, or starting something new, it’s always “we,” like I couldn’t do anything if it weren’t for her. This is mostly true. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish what I have today if it weren’t for her support.
My mother has a heart of gold. She takes whatever I throw at her in great stride, and she doesn’t get sick of me. I have this perception of myself that is always completely terrified everyone is always going to get sick of me at one time or another, and for some reason I don’t have that void with my mom. I mean granted, she’s my mom, but she’s the person who’s closest to me; and she doesn’t feel like a parental unit, because she’s my friend, not my mother. Well, she is my mother, but not in the sense you think when you use the word “mother.” When I was younger, I thought being best friends with your mom was dorky, and that I would never be that close to my mom. I look back on my attitude about it now and I just laugh because I couldn’t ever think of our relationship being any better. She’s truly the definition of “best friend.”
Early Beginnings
IN GOOD HANDS
Safety is achieved when I am with my grandparents. There is no way to explain the feeling I get when I wake up on a Saturday morning in the room I have claimed as my own when I stay at their home. That’s what it is, a home, not a house. The level of comfort and security I have when I am there is overwhelming. Not once do I think of the things going on at home, or of some terrifying experience happening when I am there. In no way do I feel as though I am in the line of harm. They are my safety nets, my grandparents. They are the anchors of my sailboat. I move along at alarming speeds and just when I am about to spin out of control, they pull me back and assure that no harm has been done to me.
WORST CHILDHOOD NIGHTMARE
When I think about it, my worst fear when I was small was losing my mom. I remember one time I was waiting after school for my mom to come pick me up after orchestra class, and she never showed up. I was terrified that she had forgotten about me, and I didn’t know what to do. So as fast as my little legs could carry me, I made my way up to my fifth grade teacher’s classroom and frantically asked her to call my mom. From there, everything turned out to be okay. She talked to my mother and when she hung up, she told me something about our car breaking down and that she was on her way to come get me. I knew everything was fine, but in those fifteen minutes when I was terrified my mother would never come get me, I thought I was going to be lost forever. I never would have thought that a single, insignificant occurrence could impact how I would watch out for myself always.
Safety is achieved when I am with my grandparents. There is no way to explain the feeling I get when I wake up on a Saturday morning in the room I have claimed as my own when I stay at their home. That’s what it is, a home, not a house. The level of comfort and security I have when I am there is overwhelming. Not once do I think of the things going on at home, or of some terrifying experience happening when I am there. In no way do I feel as though I am in the line of harm. They are my safety nets, my grandparents. They are the anchors of my sailboat. I move along at alarming speeds and just when I am about to spin out of control, they pull me back and assure that no harm has been done to me.
WORST CHILDHOOD NIGHTMARE
When I think about it, my worst fear when I was small was losing my mom. I remember one time I was waiting after school for my mom to come pick me up after orchestra class, and she never showed up. I was terrified that she had forgotten about me, and I didn’t know what to do. So as fast as my little legs could carry me, I made my way up to my fifth grade teacher’s classroom and frantically asked her to call my mom. From there, everything turned out to be okay. She talked to my mother and when she hung up, she told me something about our car breaking down and that she was on her way to come get me. I knew everything was fine, but in those fifteen minutes when I was terrified my mother would never come get me, I thought I was going to be lost forever. I never would have thought that a single, insignificant occurrence could impact how I would watch out for myself always.
Cool Like That (our one act, or rather five minute play)
Cool Like That
ACT ONE:
Harold Rogers- the old man
Hillary Rogers- Harold’s wife
Timothy Peters- “hip” kid
[Opens with clear stage, Harold standing in middle of stage looking towards the audience]
HAROLD: The other day I got a phone call from my son who lives in Louisiana. He had just received a letter in the mail that I had sent him. The week before, I had bought a lap computer, and I was so proud of myself for finally figuring out how to send an electronic correspondence to my son Chester. After typing up my message to him, printing it out, putting it in an envelope, and mailing it, Chester informs me that the letter I had sent him was not in fact, an email (which is apparently the name for an electronic correspondence). I wasted all this money on my lap computer, a printer, an envelope and a stamp. This was the day I realized I needed to make a major change into becoming “hip,” as they say on that music television channel.
[LIGHTS OUT]
[Lights come up and Timothy is sitting on his bed, the stage is now his bedroom.]
TIMOTHY: [Timothy is looking in the mirror checking himself out when the phone rings, he answers phone] Hey Sam, what’s up bro? Yeah me too. Not much, just got back from football practice, it was super intense because of the big game this Friday. Oh man, hang on a sec, I just got a text. [Checks phone] Oh, it was just some chick. So I’ll see you at 6, but I might be a little late because I have to go mow the lawn for Mr. Rogers- [laughs] old man Rogers. Alright, peace.
[LIGHTS OUT]
[Lights come up and Timothy is mowing the lawn, gets a text message- checks phone. Harold shuffles out and goes to the edge of the stage, winks to the audience, sits in a lawn chair.]
TIMOTHY: [Goes to Mr. Rogers to get his pay for lawn mowing.] How ya doin’ Mr. Rogers?
HAROLD: Oh hello young man. I’m doing alright. I got a lap computer a few days ago and I’m still trying to figure it out. [searches pockets, hands Timothy the money]
TIMOTHY: Thanks for the dough Mr. Rogers.
HAROLD: Dough?
TIMOTHY: Oh, I meant money.
HAROLD: [takes out pad of paper, writes on it. Timothy gives him a strange look. Waves] Goodbye Timothy!
[Timothy waves and walks away]
HAROLD: This is when I realized Timothy could be my connection to the “hip” new world. It was then that I decided I would watch Timothy and pay close attention to how the youngsters live.
Lights down.
Lights up on Harold and Hilary eating dinner at their dinning table. Hilary is drunk. Harold is not really paying attention, and his mind is wandering.
HILARY: Harold, is something wrong?
HAROLD: Do you think we’re old?
HILARY: [holding a wine glass, slurring her words.] Of course we’re not old—I’m drinking in the afternoon! After all, it may be 3 o’clock here, but it’s 5 o’clock somewhere!
HAROLD: Seriously, I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I wish I were young and cool again.
HILARY: You’re cool to me, deary!
HAROLD: I’ve been watching Timothy,
HILARY: The attractive boy who mows the lawn?
HAROLD: and I think I can take a cue from him. He really seems to know his stuff!
HILARY: Well, do whatever you want dear. [takes another swig of wine]
HAROLD: [thinks hard for a moment, then gets up and rushes to the other side of the stage to his computer. Hilary blankly watches him. He types for a few seconds, then practices reading aloud what he has on the screen. Stands, and awkwardly recites what he sees.] “Yo, dawg….I LOL at what…you be saying…” Hey, this isn’t too hard! [lights slowly fade down] “I can…dig it, yeah…I can dig it, word!”
Lights down.
Lights up on Timothy mowing the lawn again, with Harold sitting in his usual lawn chair. Harold “tries out” gang signs while watching his hands. He looks really awkward and is unclear what he is doing. Timothy notices, and stops mowing the lawn, looking up.
TIMOTHY: What are you doing, Mr. Rogers?
HAROLD: [caught off guard] Oh, nothing… [Timothy goes back to mowing. Harold pauses then looks back up.] Hey, dawg, what up…dude?
TIMOTHY: [surprised, stops mowing and looks back up.] Excuse me?
HAROLD: I mean, can you dig it, word?
TIMOTHY: Uhh…yeah, Mr. Rogers. You really know your stuff.
[Harold smiles to himself. Lights fade down on Harold smiling.]
Lights up on Harold, center stage.
HAROLD: After displaying my cool new language that’s hip to the youngsters of today, I decided to email [said with pride in knowing how to say it correctly] my son Chester again. And this time, I typed it up and pressed “send” instead of printing it out. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m pretty hip now. Word.
ACT ONE:
Harold Rogers- the old man
Hillary Rogers- Harold’s wife
Timothy Peters- “hip” kid
[Opens with clear stage, Harold standing in middle of stage looking towards the audience]
HAROLD: The other day I got a phone call from my son who lives in Louisiana. He had just received a letter in the mail that I had sent him. The week before, I had bought a lap computer, and I was so proud of myself for finally figuring out how to send an electronic correspondence to my son Chester. After typing up my message to him, printing it out, putting it in an envelope, and mailing it, Chester informs me that the letter I had sent him was not in fact, an email (which is apparently the name for an electronic correspondence). I wasted all this money on my lap computer, a printer, an envelope and a stamp. This was the day I realized I needed to make a major change into becoming “hip,” as they say on that music television channel.
[LIGHTS OUT]
[Lights come up and Timothy is sitting on his bed, the stage is now his bedroom.]
TIMOTHY: [Timothy is looking in the mirror checking himself out when the phone rings, he answers phone] Hey Sam, what’s up bro? Yeah me too. Not much, just got back from football practice, it was super intense because of the big game this Friday. Oh man, hang on a sec, I just got a text. [Checks phone] Oh, it was just some chick. So I’ll see you at 6, but I might be a little late because I have to go mow the lawn for Mr. Rogers- [laughs] old man Rogers. Alright, peace.
[LIGHTS OUT]
[Lights come up and Timothy is mowing the lawn, gets a text message- checks phone. Harold shuffles out and goes to the edge of the stage, winks to the audience, sits in a lawn chair.]
TIMOTHY: [Goes to Mr. Rogers to get his pay for lawn mowing.] How ya doin’ Mr. Rogers?
HAROLD: Oh hello young man. I’m doing alright. I got a lap computer a few days ago and I’m still trying to figure it out. [searches pockets, hands Timothy the money]
TIMOTHY: Thanks for the dough Mr. Rogers.
HAROLD: Dough?
TIMOTHY: Oh, I meant money.
HAROLD: [takes out pad of paper, writes on it. Timothy gives him a strange look. Waves] Goodbye Timothy!
[Timothy waves and walks away]
HAROLD: This is when I realized Timothy could be my connection to the “hip” new world. It was then that I decided I would watch Timothy and pay close attention to how the youngsters live.
Lights down.
Lights up on Harold and Hilary eating dinner at their dinning table. Hilary is drunk. Harold is not really paying attention, and his mind is wandering.
HILARY: Harold, is something wrong?
HAROLD: Do you think we’re old?
HILARY: [holding a wine glass, slurring her words.] Of course we’re not old—I’m drinking in the afternoon! After all, it may be 3 o’clock here, but it’s 5 o’clock somewhere!
HAROLD: Seriously, I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I wish I were young and cool again.
HILARY: You’re cool to me, deary!
HAROLD: I’ve been watching Timothy,
HILARY: The attractive boy who mows the lawn?
HAROLD: and I think I can take a cue from him. He really seems to know his stuff!
HILARY: Well, do whatever you want dear. [takes another swig of wine]
HAROLD: [thinks hard for a moment, then gets up and rushes to the other side of the stage to his computer. Hilary blankly watches him. He types for a few seconds, then practices reading aloud what he has on the screen. Stands, and awkwardly recites what he sees.] “Yo, dawg….I LOL at what…you be saying…” Hey, this isn’t too hard! [lights slowly fade down] “I can…dig it, yeah…I can dig it, word!”
Lights down.
Lights up on Timothy mowing the lawn again, with Harold sitting in his usual lawn chair. Harold “tries out” gang signs while watching his hands. He looks really awkward and is unclear what he is doing. Timothy notices, and stops mowing the lawn, looking up.
TIMOTHY: What are you doing, Mr. Rogers?
HAROLD: [caught off guard] Oh, nothing… [Timothy goes back to mowing. Harold pauses then looks back up.] Hey, dawg, what up…dude?
TIMOTHY: [surprised, stops mowing and looks back up.] Excuse me?
HAROLD: I mean, can you dig it, word?
TIMOTHY: Uhh…yeah, Mr. Rogers. You really know your stuff.
[Harold smiles to himself. Lights fade down on Harold smiling.]
Lights up on Harold, center stage.
HAROLD: After displaying my cool new language that’s hip to the youngsters of today, I decided to email [said with pride in knowing how to say it correctly] my son Chester again. And this time, I typed it up and pressed “send” instead of printing it out. Yeah, I guess you could say I’m pretty hip now. Word.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
My Mother
When it comes down to it, my mother and I are very much alike. Physically, we have the same facial features, blue eyes and a rounded face. We proudly wear well polished noses that fit out delicate faces and broad cheekbones. Though we have completely different hair colors and our body figures aren’t much the same, mine being that of a taller athlete and her a shorter, thinner version of a housewife, she has given me her genes and I am a carbon copy of what her and my father have provided for me. In reality, we have the same political views, the same tastes in music, and if she were my age, she would probably be my other half. She has this voice that just sounds like a mother’s voice, when I hear her I know everything is going to be okay. She gives me the sort of comfort I can’t get anywhere else. If anything, my mother is my best friend, and that phrase sounds a little cliché, but there’s no other way to say it.
In many ways we have the same interests and dreams. I’m what she’s always wanted, the college student living the college life wanting to study abroad and become a doctor. She’s a woman whose dream was to become a mother and be in a loving marriage. This is where we differ, though, because my desire is not to be a mother, and marriage will happen much later in my life. She is a well brought up middle class woman who has had a pretty fulfilled life. She’s happily married and very much in love with five children who adore her. In this way, my mother lived out her life’s dream, where as I am only beginning my journey. I’ve learned my morals and beliefs from my mom. She set the standard and I followed suit. She taught me to think highly of myself and where I should be placed in modern society, working hard for my place. Both of my parents have given me the freedom to believe what I like, even though they didn’t teach me to believe in organized religion, together they have taught me to hold my head high and own up to my opinions.
Over time, my mother has helped me discover many things, but I’ve always been able to speak my thoughts around her. She gives me the insight of forty-something years of experience when the sixteen years of my youth are not enough. She’s sacrificed everything in order for me to have a good life. When I was younger, I didn’t really realize just how much she had given up for these sacrifices to be worth while. She pushed me when I hated her for it, and now I look back and see how much it was all worth it. Compared to my sister, I’m something like the “good child.” I get the good grades and join all the right clubs so that I will have the chance to get accepted into one of the premier Universities of the world, and this desire is all thanks to my mom.
My mother is an amazing person, she is like no one I’ve ever met before and she supports me in everything I do. Over time, we’ve become closer and out of anyone in the world, my mom would be the first person I would call if anything major happened in my life. When I was younger, I thought being best friends with your mom was dorky, and that I would never be that close to my mom. As I look back on my attitude about it now, I just laugh because I couldn’t ever think of our relationship being any better.
In many ways we have the same interests and dreams. I’m what she’s always wanted, the college student living the college life wanting to study abroad and become a doctor. She’s a woman whose dream was to become a mother and be in a loving marriage. This is where we differ, though, because my desire is not to be a mother, and marriage will happen much later in my life. She is a well brought up middle class woman who has had a pretty fulfilled life. She’s happily married and very much in love with five children who adore her. In this way, my mother lived out her life’s dream, where as I am only beginning my journey. I’ve learned my morals and beliefs from my mom. She set the standard and I followed suit. She taught me to think highly of myself and where I should be placed in modern society, working hard for my place. Both of my parents have given me the freedom to believe what I like, even though they didn’t teach me to believe in organized religion, together they have taught me to hold my head high and own up to my opinions.
Over time, my mother has helped me discover many things, but I’ve always been able to speak my thoughts around her. She gives me the insight of forty-something years of experience when the sixteen years of my youth are not enough. She’s sacrificed everything in order for me to have a good life. When I was younger, I didn’t really realize just how much she had given up for these sacrifices to be worth while. She pushed me when I hated her for it, and now I look back and see how much it was all worth it. Compared to my sister, I’m something like the “good child.” I get the good grades and join all the right clubs so that I will have the chance to get accepted into one of the premier Universities of the world, and this desire is all thanks to my mom.
My mother is an amazing person, she is like no one I’ve ever met before and she supports me in everything I do. Over time, we’ve become closer and out of anyone in the world, my mom would be the first person I would call if anything major happened in my life. When I was younger, I thought being best friends with your mom was dorky, and that I would never be that close to my mom. As I look back on my attitude about it now, I just laugh because I couldn’t ever think of our relationship being any better.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Prisoner.
My name is James Bryan. Today is the day a judge and a jury will decide if I get out of prison. I’m twenty-six at present time and let’s just say it was one of those, wrong place at the wrong time, type of moments. I got convicted for a serious felony called involuntary manslaughter when I was twenty-three and sentenced three years in a prison cell. Not that it was my fault or anything. Picture this, two guys sitting in what is a well decorated and expensive gun show room. This room was my father’s. With cherry wood crown molding around the walls, gorgeous scarlet paint that almost looked like molten rock because it had such intensity and white accents around the room to just catch your attention with expensive designer furniture. It was beautiful. My best friend and I were sitting in this magnificent room looking at the well made and ancient guns my father owned. I picked one up and felt the kind of power it had. I had grown up around guns my entire life because it was part of my dad’s mission to make sure I was a well brought up hunter. In all reality, I hated hunting, but it was the one thing I had in common with my dad.
Sean and I were in my father’s gun room, and I was showing him my favorite gun. It wasn’t a very big one, a .25 air caliber at best. What I did not realize at the time was that this gun was still loaded. I don’t understand this, because as an experienced hunter, both my father and myself, you’d think I would have known to check the ammo, but I didn’t. This was my problem, and if I could go back in time I would change this fact, because it’s what changed my life. I held it up and somehow accidently knocked the trigger, which set it off. At first, I didn’t realize what had happened. For the first twenty seconds of a disaster, no one ever does anything. We stand there and watch the terrible things unravel. By the time I got control of myself, it was too late. The bullet had gone through Sean, slicing some major artery, or something like that, which is what the doctors told me. I’m not a med student, so I don’t know the specifics. All I know is that I somehow unintentionally killed him. I killed my best friend.
The next few weeks are kind of a blur. There was a huge trial, and although it was all unintentional, I was sent to prison for three years. Three years is a long time for a kid who’s enrolled in his junior year at a major university. So that’s what happened, and today is the day they’re letting me out. I guess I don’t really know what to think. I mean, my life just kind of stopped at twenty-three. I don’t know that I’ll be able to go back to school and finish out my years to go to grad school and become a lawyer. That’s my dream, to become a lawyer, and with everything that’s happened I don’t know if I’ll be given another chance. When you go in for an interview and people look at your criminal record, if they even get that far, all they see is: Felony. Three years in prison. Your fault. They don’t want to know the specifics, and they don’t care that it was an accident. When you’ve been in prison, everyone looks down on you and you don’t have any control over that. So I’m pretty terrified to say the least.
In two hours, I’ll have a completely new life, again. When it comes down to it, I guess I’m just excited to be free again. Prison is a scary place, with people that have actually meant to do the bad things they’ve done, unlike me. Some of them will never get out of here, and there’s no way I’ll ever want to see the inside of this place ever again. It’s not like I made any friends, because in prison, you don’t make friends, you only make enemies. This is real life to them, and now it’s my turn to start over.
Sean and I were in my father’s gun room, and I was showing him my favorite gun. It wasn’t a very big one, a .25 air caliber at best. What I did not realize at the time was that this gun was still loaded. I don’t understand this, because as an experienced hunter, both my father and myself, you’d think I would have known to check the ammo, but I didn’t. This was my problem, and if I could go back in time I would change this fact, because it’s what changed my life. I held it up and somehow accidently knocked the trigger, which set it off. At first, I didn’t realize what had happened. For the first twenty seconds of a disaster, no one ever does anything. We stand there and watch the terrible things unravel. By the time I got control of myself, it was too late. The bullet had gone through Sean, slicing some major artery, or something like that, which is what the doctors told me. I’m not a med student, so I don’t know the specifics. All I know is that I somehow unintentionally killed him. I killed my best friend.
The next few weeks are kind of a blur. There was a huge trial, and although it was all unintentional, I was sent to prison for three years. Three years is a long time for a kid who’s enrolled in his junior year at a major university. So that’s what happened, and today is the day they’re letting me out. I guess I don’t really know what to think. I mean, my life just kind of stopped at twenty-three. I don’t know that I’ll be able to go back to school and finish out my years to go to grad school and become a lawyer. That’s my dream, to become a lawyer, and with everything that’s happened I don’t know if I’ll be given another chance. When you go in for an interview and people look at your criminal record, if they even get that far, all they see is: Felony. Three years in prison. Your fault. They don’t want to know the specifics, and they don’t care that it was an accident. When you’ve been in prison, everyone looks down on you and you don’t have any control over that. So I’m pretty terrified to say the least.
In two hours, I’ll have a completely new life, again. When it comes down to it, I guess I’m just excited to be free again. Prison is a scary place, with people that have actually meant to do the bad things they’ve done, unlike me. Some of them will never get out of here, and there’s no way I’ll ever want to see the inside of this place ever again. It’s not like I made any friends, because in prison, you don’t make friends, you only make enemies. This is real life to them, and now it’s my turn to start over.
My Throne.
I am a throne. My nature is simple, with no padding or expensive cherry or mahogany wood made for my legs. I do not use extravagant measures to get the attention of others. My metal is worn with my paint rubbed off from being used, dark grooves of grease from arms that have rested on my arm stands. I assume the position of a regular folding chair which gives me personality. Other thrones go to large measures to get others to notice them, where as I am just hardworking. I am essential to the needs of the public, the whole of my pillar in which I am attached to holds an important part of the theatre that many come to enjoy great pieces of art. I am not art, I am a resource in which to sit. I help others in their time of need, when they need rest I am here to comfort. I am not always noticed, but that doesn’t bother me. The fact that I am essential to the everyday life suits me just fine.
I am this chair because though I am very hardworking, I do not need to be noticed. It is not my dream to be the center of attention day in and day out. This kind of life I would not be able to handle by myself. I want to achieve grandeur, and although I may not be prominent in one’s mind constantly, I make a great first impression. This is who I am. It will be my life’s work to change someone’s life. By being here and allowing people to confide in my comforts gives me the motivation to manifest greatness. My love for people was born when I was made, and it is a part of who I will always be.
Although I am plain and seemingly insignificant, my existence is great. My nature of love for the human race will continue when many of known faces have gone. I am here, and I am a stepping stone in the life of others. I will be used to my greatest extent, and when I am old, and a hundred years old, someone, somewhere, will remember me because of the beauty I once had. This is why I am here. I am here through bad times and good, to make a difference.
I am this chair because though I am very hardworking, I do not need to be noticed. It is not my dream to be the center of attention day in and day out. This kind of life I would not be able to handle by myself. I want to achieve grandeur, and although I may not be prominent in one’s mind constantly, I make a great first impression. This is who I am. It will be my life’s work to change someone’s life. By being here and allowing people to confide in my comforts gives me the motivation to manifest greatness. My love for people was born when I was made, and it is a part of who I will always be.
Although I am plain and seemingly insignificant, my existence is great. My nature of love for the human race will continue when many of known faces have gone. I am here, and I am a stepping stone in the life of others. I will be used to my greatest extent, and when I am old, and a hundred years old, someone, somewhere, will remember me because of the beauty I once had. This is why I am here. I am here through bad times and good, to make a difference.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
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