If You See My Reflection in the Snow-Covered Hills....

I remember a little anecdote that Francis told us from one of our first two performances: an elderly lady in a wheelchair got sick of all the screaming, obscenities, and sexual innuendo (which she, as a paraplegic, could no longer enjoy), and requested to be wheeled out. And who else but Francis, the very man who wrote which that she refused to enjoy, ended up wheeling her out, amidst her complaints about how terrible the show was? I remember dear Mr. Tanglao-Aguas telling us all in the cast about his response to her geriatric ramblings (if you haven't noticed already, I have a very strong distaste for the World War II generation), in which he stated, "Sorry, I wrote it for the younger generation!" That quote has since stayed in my head as I've contemplated some of the themes of the play, such as rebellion, changing how the family works from inside, corrupt authority, internal angst, colonialism, and anxiety for the future. Heck, with the conversation on the Tiyanak as a possible prenatal suicide at the beginning of the play, one might throw in 'finding self-purpose' and good ol' 'Selbstmord' to the mix of ideas!

I don't think there's ever a teenager who does not think now and again, 'man, what were my parents thinking bringing me into a world like this? I never asked to be born!' I've certainly thought that way, as well. My family's background has not been perfect. My father was repeatedly beat up, harassed, and threatened by his older brother. On one occasion, my asshole of an uncle picked up my father's dachshund, Fritz, and simply threw him (it was a miracle that he got up after hitting the ground). Throughout all of these terrible childhood experiences, my grandparents pretended not to notice and dismissed my uncle as 'not meaning to do such a thing.' My mother wanted a relationship from her father (who had Autism but was never diagnosed or treated) and was willing to, in my opinion, sacrifice parts of her true personality to win conditional love. After many years of therapy and constant changing, she still feels that the realization of just how much her parents did was wrong and hurtful, and trying to change that to prevent it being passed on to me and my younger brother is of the same pain as being forced to cut off her own arm.

That is not to say that my mother wishes she hadn't had me or my brother, since she decided to leave the workforce in order to have kids, but that life can be very painful, even when not living under the brutal government of a military dictatorship but instead under the hypocritical eyes of one's elders in a very southern, Arkansas-based family that claimed to be patriotic and freedom-loving by blowing up Germans and Japanese in the Second World War when they would not listen to the complaints and problems of their own children: my parents and my aunt (my mother's sister).

I definitely felt inspired (or at least some semblance of ideas began swirling in my head) as we worked on this play together and I found the significance of each line that was questioning of the generation that came before. I am not promising to write my own 'Purple,' by all means, but I can definitely see how I could find some material in my own family history for a hip-hopera (or, in my own sense of taste, a 'metallical comedy') of my own device. But, with the way I 'efficiently' accomplish things right now, it's going to take a longer time than just during the mid to late-nineties (as it was for Francis) for me to churn out something for the public.

I guess until that happens, I might as well take Momma's advice and write something down, so that I can no longer be afraid of it, as I am that I may carry on the poison that I saw in my grandparents and the remnants of it left in my parents to my potential children...sigh....the cycle repeats itself...

Okay, I might as well shut up and stop groveling about how I'm not consistent in writing these things when they're part of a class grade. After all, the other students in Asian-American Theatre were lucky to have even written two entries by the time 'When the Purple Settles' was finished, as well....

Now that the play's five shows have finished their run in William and Mary's oh-so-illustrious Phi Beta Kappa Theatre, it is much harder to write about things that have happened during the rehearsals. Mea culpa. I guess I'll write anything I can think of, since I need six more entries to fulfill the quota of one blog entry a week...

First thing that stands out in my mind was the problem in the middle of the rehearsals with lateness. It's an uncomfortable subject, since I make a habit out of being ten minutes late to wherever I need to be, and as the show's practice days progressed, the tolerance for the other individuals and myself who chronically arrived post 7 p.m. to practice lines diminished severely. After getting warnings from Francis about potential dismissal from the rest of the performance, I noticed we all arrived on time. As much as I hate the use of warnings like that and feel constant dread of making any sort of mistake around a person who makes such an ultimatum, I have to note that it worked in making practice more efficient. I did not like the warning, because I am a nervous person by nature (although I hide it the best I can) and do not want any further 'threats' against me. In fact, when Francis said that he was to fire two people when we showed up to one of the rehearsals on a particular February evening, I was terrified that I would be one of them.

I have a hunch that I botch up much more stuff than usual when I become conscious of my desire to not cause any sort of disruption... Kind of the antithesis of what "Purple" was all about, eh? I mean, I lost one of the military helmets and never found it again....I still feel really bad about that...