It's 2:20am on the first day of Summer as I write this. The weather here in Northern California has, of late, been perfect: bright and sunny, not too hot, perfect weather for hiking and outdoorsy stuff like gardening, walking, barbecuing, enjoying. In the past four days, I have left this property precisely twice. Once was to go to the store with Veronica, I think, and the second time was to go to the Alameda County Fair this past afternoon in order to see Kix Brooks, formerly of Brooks & Dunn (this was my first exposure to the work of Mr. Brooks and I have to say, he kicked ass). Entertaining as this evening past was, however, it is not the reason I'm awake at two in the morning.
There are many, many reasons why I am awake at two in the morning, but they all seem to culminate in one very simple statement: I am at a crossroads. Simply put, I am not entirely certain that I am an actor anymore. There are many, many reasons why I feel this way at the moment, but chief among them are a couple of sad facts:
1) I have turned down every role I've been offered in the past six months.
2) I am not the right kind of Feminist.
The second of these facts is centered in an event that occurred on Facebook in the second or third week of the run of a production of The Three Musketeers which I directed for Solano College Theatre: I posted a link to Tony Wade's very positive review, but I lead with the phrase, "Boobs and Swords!" This was followed by an offer of free tix in exchange for an haiku about Swashbuckling. Apparently, my use of that incendiary phrase is upsetting and offensive to a majority of people in the Bay Area Theatre Folks group. Some were offended because they interpreted it to mean that I only value the actresses in that production for their breasts. Others were offended because, as powerful Adjunct Faculty (ha ha, I must laugh at that and, yes, bitterly), I must surely have been using my power negatively against my students and brazenly trumpeting it on Facebook. Others were offended because, clearly, I was supporting Rape Culture by using that phrase. All of this offence and upset was of course shrouded tightly in a cruelty-free, fair-trade hempen shawl of Liberal Concern.
What it felt like at the time was a blistering attack upon my person, my work and my character. Logical or not, that is what it felt like. No degree of humor was acceptable in my response -- my first tactic was to remind the ladies that men have boobs as well, and, as one of my actors (Matt King) has a rather impressive pair, we shouldn't be sexist. This was an unsuccessful tactic. I was angrily lectured on how men don't want to be valued solely for their breasts, either.
My next tactic was to apologize via my Facebook page. In this apology, I took the opportunity to point out that it was, after all, a production of The Three Musketeers: boobs and swords are part of that world. This, I have learned, was Not Okay. An angry person apparently posted a link to my page in a thread elsewhere, and in the no doubt civilized discussion that followed, I have been told that people were ripping me to shreds in a series of very, very personal attacks. I haven't read any of this, I have only been told. I have since asked what, precisely, was being said. I have received no answer. As my inquiry was made in the form of a direct text message to the individual who told me about the character assassination, I have to assume that some sort of telephonic interference has occurred, and I should re-inquire. I will do so, but something tells me that there will be a lot of telephonic interference.
One or two people offered counter-arguments within the comments which followed my various posts, but they were generally shouted down. This was referred to, near the end of the comments, as a bracing and informative discussion or somesuch. I also received two messages of support -- one from someone I know, and another from someone I've never met. They were deeply, deeply appreciated.
It was around this time that a friend who had been intervening on my behalf sent a message to someone whom I gather was one of the drivers of this attack, perhaps explaining that I am not such a bad guy and so forth. I don't know precisely what it said, I haven't seen the message. He then shared her response with me in a message he addressed to both of us. In her response she listed several things she wanted me to do in order to make amends. The first was offer an apology free of humor. The next three things involved showing a movie to my students and hosting a discussion afterwards, as well as something else which I do not recall as of this writing. She also offered to discuss this whole thing with me via e-mail or in person, an offer I have yet to take up for a variety of reasons to be detailed further on. I did, however, apologize immediately via both the Bay Area Theatre Folks group and my Facebook page. My apology was utterly devoid of humor and of course sparked another entire argument between the various factions, everyone making their points in polite or not-so-polite fashions. I recused myself from the discussion due to lack of impartiality -- I was still smarting from the smackdown.
I also received a message from one of the other attackers, in which she offered to explain to me what they all found so upsetting so that I would no longer be, "mystified." She also told me that "this sort of thing" would be happening a lot more from now on. I wondered if she meant character-assassinate-first-and-ask-questions-later, but I didn't dare ask for fear of igniting yet another firestorm. Because, after all, how dare I?
Here's why it was all so upsetting: I had been pushing a boulder up a mountain with this production since November of 2012, working entirely on The Three Musketeers straight through to opening night. Those few of you who regularly read my blog no doubt noticed the lengthy silence during that time. The few times I wrote anything for Notes From The Future, I felt I was cheating The Three Musketeers. The production had been beset with problems, not least of which were major budget cuts and staff reductions which left us with no production management, no publicity department and no everything else we'd always had in the past. The list feels vast at this time, the idea of detailing it is exhausting. Let it suffice that I've given you the image of me pushing a boulder up a mountain, and let's make that mountain the North Face of Half Dome. Then somehow, amazingly, the production worked. It was glorious. It was exceptionally well-received. Audiences were delighted, though very small in number. If the fucking air conditioning could have worked on a regular basis, it would have been a pleasant experience to watch the show.
So there I was, delighted with the production and wanting to offer free tickets to a bunch of my Theatre tribe so that we could paper the house and my actors could have an audience of more than five people for their upcoming performances. I admit, I wondered about trumpeting Boobs and Swords in a group that doesn't know me from Pol Pot, but my thought was that some fundamentalist Christian prudes would be the only ones to object. 'Surely, Theatre people are all fans of boobs and will glory in this production,' thought I.
Alas. No.
I have enough trouble sleeping to begin with. The Tech process for this show was made unnecessarily negative, and that had added to my lack of sleep. Then the sound designer never ever came in or called, and I ended up designing most of the sound myself, with help from the actor playing Porthos and the student in the tech class who was originally assigned to simply run the sound for the show. What this meant was that the soundscape for the show was not complete opening night. Frankly, it was never quite right: though he swore up and down that all of the cues were set in stone and he wasn't live-mixing, I was present for almost every performance. They were never precisely the same, and I mean duration and timing and volume. Sometimes cues didn't even happen.
So, with sleep evading me at every turn, I had a couple of choices: Valerian root and / or Melatonin or marijuana and / or alcohol. Or any unsafe combo of the above. I find that taking a lot of Valerian and Melatonin over a long period of time can make me gloomy, so I didn't want to rely solely upon those options. Alcohol hurts my tummy. Weed was the strongest and best and easiest option, and it worked every time. I guess I'm a criminal, now, as well as not the right kind of Feminist.
Now, ordinarily, once the show was over I would have been able to go back to just falling asleep at night. But here's the thing: I haven't been able to get this whole Boobs and Swords thing out of my head. I have written easily a hundred pages of my thoughts on the subject, waking from sleep night after night with a thought I had to write down. Even after writing for an hour or two, I couldn't get back to sleep. It was exhausting. I have been consistently smoking pot every night for over a month now, just to get to sleep. I made the mistake of not taking any weed with me to my parents' cabin while I was up there alone refinishing cabinets in late May / early June, and it was the same then: start to fall asleep, then jolt awake with a painful thought.
Not wanting to use marijuana as a crutch, I thought I would go without it tonight. I prefer clear lungs and a clear head. I prefer sobriety.
It's now 4:05 am. I'm exhausted. But I know that within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, I will zap back awake with the phrase "rape culture" or something similarly horrid emblazoned across my mindscape.
And here's the thing: nothing I can say, no argument I can offer or discussion I can have, will allay the anger of my angry tribe members. It doesn't matter that I did not intend one iota of their negative personal interpretations: the fact is, they were offended and I had to be taken to task. Because how dare I say something so offensive? How dare I advertise a college production with the phrase, "Boobs and Swords"? How dare I, how dare I, how dare I?
It doesn't matter that I can't stop thinking about it. Nor does it matter that I have absolutely no plans to audition for anything at all, for fear of whatever negative backlash awaits when people hear the memorable name of Edward Hightower (this is related to the reasons why I haven't taken anyone up on the offer to discuss what they feel is justified unkindness: the idea hurts; why would I sit down with my attackers, or people who stood idly by as my character was assassinated, so that they can justify their actions?). Nor does it matter that I can't seem to get anything done at all, anywhere.
Compounding all of this is a health problem of which I will spare you the details, but which has so obstructed my life as to make the idea of being onstage deeply alarming, and which forms the basis for statement number one at the beginning of this episode of embarrassing self pity.
Further embarrassment: I foolishly applied for the Full-Time Acting/Directing Theatre Faculty position at Solano College, in spite of frequent warnings from George Maguire that I would not get the job. I soooooo wish I had listened to him more than I did. By the time the interview came around, I was not entirely certain that I wanted to do the interview, because it was pretty clear from what George was saying that they were not looking for Edward Hightower to fill the position. I was torn between giving a good interview and intentionally throwing it so that I would not get the job. Because what the fuck is the point of even applying if they knew already that they didn't want me? Further assurances from George Maguire include the fact that the new full-time person will take all the classes from the adjuncts in order to get the hours required to fill her/his paycheck. So: I'm pretty much not teaching at Solano anymore. Even if I am offered the Theatre 001 class, which is beginning acting and which I taught last Fall, it's a long, long drive and ultimately more expensive than it's worth.
I am certain that all of the Correct Feminists would smile in grim satisfaction that I am no longer evilly wielding my Gigantic Professorial Power over my meek little powerless students, and so there you go, Correctinitas y Correctinitos: I'm thoroughly fucked, and you may have helped prevent me from getting that job. I'm sorry that I can't say that you definitely helped. The fact is, I do not know for certain. I apologize for this, as well.
All of which leads to these questions:
If I am not an actor, what am I?
If I am not a teacher, what am I?
And what the hell is the point of doing theatre in the SF Bay Area anyway? The vast majority of theatre here is absolutely terrible, poorly done and an embarrassment to watch. When artists do not survive solely by their art, they become complacent and it shows in their work -- with one or two rare exceptions. How many actors do you know who truly survive solely by working creatively -- without stretching the meaning of that word -- in their field?
There you have it: this is the crossroads at which I find myself, night after night. No matter which path I choose, it doubles back to this spot. A mental and emotional Moebius Strip.
All because I wanted my actors to have an audience.
In a final note: of all the correct persons so outraged by Boobs and Swords, and so concerned for my students' well being, not one came to see the show. That, I feel, bears repeating: none of them came to see the show. To be clear: none of them actually supported the students about whom they were so deeply concerned.
Interpret that as you see fit; following their example, it doesn't matter what their intention was -- only your interpretation of their intention matters.
Particularly if it is as negative as possible.
