Finding My Voice

Exactly what it says. The girl who has proclaimed "I can't write!" on a weekly basis is ... well ... writing.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Mardi Gras Memory #1

In honor of the first post-Katrina Mardi Gras, I thought I'd dig up some of my most vivid Mardi Gras memories.

To be fair, the good ones are few and far between, as I was never a huge fan. Maybe as a kid. But eventually I grew tired of the large crowds of drunk people ... the willingness to trample over a small child to get one worthless dubloon ... the obnoxious frat boy behavior ... I could go on.

But I won't, because darn if this whole Katrina thing doesn't actually make me a bit nostalgic for maybe just one parade.

So. OK. Mardi Gras, high school. I'm maybe 15 or so. My friend Laurie's mom decides we're going to one of the big parades (don't remember which one - but it was a big one. Endymion? Bacchus? Something like that.) She takes a bunch of us kids downtown, and our first stop is this bar. I don't remember anything specific about it - like, I don't know, why we were there, why she felt the need to stop there - maybe a bathroom? All I remember was the fact that we were teenagers, we were in a bar, taken there by a responsible adult, and no one in the bar seemed to care. That, my friends, was cool.

We then head down to the parade route. For those of you not familar with such things, trying to get to one of the big parades downtown is often an exercise in futility. It's crowded, it can be dangerous, and most importantly, the crowds surrounding the parade can be 10 deep so that you, the 5'2" girl, won't see any of the marching bands and maybe only the top fourth of the floats. Wheeeeee. That's excitement.

After standing around in this crowd for a bit, Miss Laurie (yes, Laurie's mom was also Laurie) decides that this isn't working. I should mention that Miss Laurie is a little Spanish spitfire, and has this way of doing what she wants when she wants and will often just keep talking until she gets what she wants. She spies a barracaded-in area with a very small number of people inside ... with plenty of room to move about in safety and see the entire parade unobscured. She moves a barracade and has us all move inside.

This area, you see, is for friends and family of the NOPD. Naturally, within minutes, a cop approaches and asks who let us in. "Oh," she says, "We're friends of Vic Manale." "Huh," he says, "I don't believe Vic's working tonight." We, the kids, are sort of fascinated by an adult's outright lie like this - because you see, not only did Vic not authorize this particular action, Miss Laurie had recently had a major falling out with him and they hadn't spoken - at least, not civilly - since.**

And yet - the Spanish spitfire did her thing, and somehow sweetalked them into letting us stay. It was the best view of a Mardi Gras parade ever ... I could see the whole thing, front row, up close and personal. Of course, if I look on this as a morality tale, then I certainly didn't learn any of the right things. But man, it was a good time.

** You may notice I refer to "Vic" and "Miss Laurie". Vic was my friend Scott's stepdad, who I hardly knew. Scott was one of my best friends, but I spent precious little time with his parents. Plus, as his stepdad, Scott himself always just referred to him as "Vic". That's how he remains in all of my memories. OTOH, Miss Laurie was a huge part of my life. Thus the distinction.

Friday, January 27, 2006

Southern Rule #1

Let me be clear. This is not "the most important number one Southern rule." It's "the first Southern rule I'm going to share with you during the course of this blog.

As children, we are raised to refer to the parents of our friends as "Miss or Mr. Firstname". And for women, it's always "Miss". Nevermind that they're married with five kids, it's "Miss". Honestly? It's just easier to say.

"Mrs. or Mr. Lastname" is just too formal. We're not big on that kind of formality.

I know as an adult I cringe at being called "Mrs. Rosenblatt." That makes me feel old. But if a kid took to calling me "Miss Tracy," I'd be cool with that.

We also find it acceptable to refer to people we're not related to as "Aunt" or "Uncle". Growing up, there was a childless couple, older, who loved having us around. They weren't related to anyone on the street, but they were known far and wide as "Aunt Joyce and Uncle Charlie".*

Likewise, I'm known as "Auntie Tracy" to several children in New Orleans. Er, formerly of New Orleans. To several children currently residing in Bossier City. Sigh.

Anyway, thus endeth the lesson.

* All the neighborhood kids would hang out at their place. Weekends we'd occasionally do sleepovers. It all just makes me wonder - in today's world, would parents find that acceptable or creepy enough to make them call the authorities?

Thursday, January 26, 2006

More thoughts on the south

I'm really excited about the project I'm working on right now.

This isn't intended to be a plug, but since we're on the subject I'll tell you that it's HAZARD COUNTY by Allison Moore, for Ark, and we open March 8. And Dick is directing. :)

OK, got that out of the way.

I first heard about this play from a cyber-pal on a group called The Actors List. She was doing either a reading or a production (I can't remember) in Alabama, where she's from and still lives. I admit, it was the DUKES OF HAZZARD reference that really caught my eye, but she mentioned that it was full of powerful themes that, as a native Southerner, really spoke to her.

I've been wanting to work on a piece that really spoke to me for some time now. Not that I haven't enjoyed the work I've done, but I really wanted something with some depth. Substance over style.

This play is all about the South ... how the rest of the country views it, how it views itself. Racism and the confederate flag. The fine line between journalism and reality television. And it's all framed by monologues about THE DUKES OF HAZZARD.

It's not a perfect play - few are - but I like to think this will be one that really stays with people as they exit the theatre.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Missing New Orleans

The description of my fair city over these last post-Katrina months have left me with a mixture of sadness and hope.

It will never be the same, but maybe (just maybe!) it could be better. But my fear is that even if that turns out to be the case ... it'll be a long time coming. It may take years of really ugly growing pains to get there.

The New Orleans Times Picayune recently showed a map of proposed redevelopment. I opened up the file, eagerly, to see what exciting plans there were.

And I started to cry.

I don't really know how to explain this. The neighborhood I grew up in evolved into a frightening, dangerous neighborhood. I was afraid to walk (even in daylight). I feared for my parents' safety (was it two or three times their home was broken into?).

But as Marianne said, "It may have been a slum, but it was OUR slum."

To see, on a map, the neighborhood I grew up in, spent my childhood exploring, where I could walk to a movie theatre and knew the local pharmacist at the K&B and learned to sew at Cloth World and played at Kenilworth Park and "borrowed" the tennis courts at Georgetown ... to see on a map that the bulk of this neighborhood was being converted to green space ...

It broke my heart. Nevermind that the movie theatre turned into some kind of house of worship, that the A&P was long gone and the K&B bought out by Rite Aid, the park kind of scary, and Georgetown's gates locked. At least the *buildings* are there. Were. Are. I don't even know any more.

It finally hit me what redevelopment actually means. And it breaks my heart.

But none of this was the reason for my posting here today. As many of you reading this may not know, the mayor of NO gave a speech that people can't stop talking about. And not in a good way. So for those who need to see the real speech, go here.

But that wasn't the reason either. This is.

Chris Rose, who has provided some of the most heartfelt (yet funny) descriptions of the city throughout these dark months, countered with this. And this.

And if you like those columns, I recommend a read of his post-Katrina archive. It will make you laugh AND break your heart, all at the same time. Not to mention painting you a picture CNN will never let you see.

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

The Universe, Pt 2

Reposted from MySpace 1/16.

I started writing this up yesterday, but it rambled and I ended up deleting the whole thing. I realized that defeated my entire purpose of blogging and decided to repost.

Oh, and there will be a fancier blog on blogspot ... soon. It's not quite ready for prime time. But I digress.

The Universe. It does provide clues. Not only does it respond when you ask for things, but sometimes it's out there guiding us towards what we really need. Only we're too stupid to listen.

For example, I was dead set on moving to New York. Nothing could deter me from this plan. Even when one of my only two friends in NY moved to LA. Even when I discovered a really cool group of people in LA. Even when I started dating someone in LA. (Seriously.) Even when I realized I actually really rather liked LA. And that most of my college friends were in LA. And oh yeah, if I'd only move to LA instead of NY, I'd have a roommate.

OK, so I admit I let the whole "hmmmm, maybe I should move to LA?" thought permeate my consciousness ... but I just kept swatting it away like a fly. Ignoring all of the things I just listed in the paragraph above. Granted, I love NYC, but at this point I think I was still headed there simply because I couldn't bear the thought of altering my plan.

And then I opened up the newspaper, and my horoscope said something really specific about how one should listen to the universe when it provides clues ... and I just said "enough already!" and called everyone I needed to call about changing gears.

Considering that I was planning to live a poverty-stricken, somewhat nomadic actor's life, and instead I'm married and own property and have a cool job and a crazy dog ... I'm really really really glad I listened.

The Universe, Pt 1

Reposted from MySpace 1/9.

The Universe is Listening

Lesson I was taught long ago:
Ask the Universe, and it will provide.

The fine print:
Be Specific.

The best example of this was told to me by a dear friend. A friend of hers in New York, an actress, was watching the Tony Awards, and declared, "I want to win an award!" That week, at her temp job, she won "secretary of the month".

Be Specific.

I asked the universe for a little prosperity this year. Within days, Dick gets offered a gig that would pay a buttload of money ... but it would be out of town for a month, and just not worth it to us. Right. Gotta be specific.

I'll work on that.

Monday, January 16, 2006

Happy New Year?

Reposted from MySpace 1/4/06.

On January 1, I made black-eyed peas for dinner.
I've never made them before; in fact, even as a native southerner, I've only once ever had black-eyed peas on New Year's Day.
But I figured, after the year that was 2005 ... we could stand a little extra luck. And prosperity.

It rained the first few days, and then I got a touch of the flu.

I'm skeptical about this luck thing.

End of 2005.

Repost from MySpace, 1/4/06.

So. I'm looking at the end of 2005.
It must be important. It got me to blog for the first time.

I am so desperately ready for 2006. Which is sad, really, as 2005 has been amazing. When I say how much the year has sucked, people always look at me kind of cock-eyed, as if to say "you DO remember you got married this year, right?"

Yes, I remember. And it was wonderful. The wedding, the honeymoon to London. Being so radiantly happy. With the husband, with the marriage, I promise you - I still very much am.

But there's been so much else.

Hurricane Katrina affected my life so profoundly that I can barely explain it. Because, of course, it didn't happen to me. And my father is safe and sound with ultimately nothing more than annoyance. And again, when I state that it's turned my life upside down to the point of interfering with my life ... I get that cock-eyed look of skepticism.

Part of it is a sadness I can't shake.

Part of it is the constant *trying* to make things better for those I love who were so deeply affected. And the frustration, because I can't. I can send money and gifts and love ... but I can't fix it.

And part of it is, since I can't fix that, trying to fix something else. Anything else. Throwing myself headfirst into work, into Ark, into dieting, into clogging ... anything that will make me feel, somehow, useful.

In 2006, I have to learn to let go of this ... guilt and sadness ... and start living again.

Happy New Year, y'all.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Why I'm blogging.

A little bit about why I'm starting this thing in the first place.

If you ask me, I'll tell you: I can't write. You want me to write a script or sketch? Hah! I can't write. Write a business letter? Please. I can't write. Etc. Etc. Etc.

I wanted to maybe write a piece for myself ... even a monologue. Nada. No focus. And I've been feeling - especially post-Katrina - that I have a lot to say. But I have no idea how.

Meanwhile, I've been itching to try my hand at this blog thing. I read my friends' blogs (and a few strangers) and I've really been fascinated by the process. But I kept thinking that if I started one, I wanted there to be a point. Like Amy or Tony or Susan. (Not that I don't love the really well-written and fun blogs, like Bon or Hal. To name but a few.)

So I tentatively tested the waters over on MySpace. And ... people started reacting. And commenting. And really getting what I was writing. Me, who lives in abject terror at the thought of anyone reading my writing. Which just made me want to write more.

Me. Want to write.

And that's where it all came together. This could be about the exercise of writing. Regularly. For public consumption. Not to have anyone say "this writing is good or bad or sucks", but just for people to react to the writing. Good, bad, indifferent. To laugh or to feel something. Just maybe.

So that's the title. Finding my voice.





Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeere's ... Tracy!

Oh dearie dearie me.

I've gone and done it now.

Sigh.

Here's my blog, folks. I promise nothing.