This is fresh off my viewing of “Miss Representation”, a wonderful documentary about women in the media, both onscreen and off. It’s horribly heartbreaking to be reminded how women are affected by the media from such a young age and how there are so few women in the media controlling the content viewed by women.

So here I am, throwing my hat into the ring to talk about what I feel about it. First things first:

Fuck you.

Fuck you to every man who wants to put me in my place by criticising what I look like or the fact that I will have PMS. (Fun fact: Thanks to seasonal birth control, I only get this once every three months. Thanks to the media, I have depression.)

Fuck you if you’re choosing a man over me because they’re more relatable to you. Clearly, you’ve never taken the time to know me. I’m a goddamn social chameleon. I can connect with any single person I want to. KEY WORDS: want to. If you dick me around, I am not giving you the light of day. It’s as simple as that. I’ve been pushed aside too many times for being a woman.

Fuck you if you’re passing me over because I’m not stupid and won’t play stupid. Here’s an example: in my freshman year of college, I was too chicken shit to audition for the improv team at Iowa. Instead, I joined the club that was open to anyone who wanted to do improv. I had about a year and a half of classes under my belt and felt that I was pretty good. Myself and a friend, I’ll call him Gary, went to the club. We were thrilled. Both being freshmen with a love of improv, we were pumped. We both did well in the club, performing great scenes with the current members. However, after class, Gary was asked to join their improv group: a group comprised of 6 boys and 1 girl. (Another fun fact: Every improv group has that ‘token girl’, even Monty Python.) I was furious. As hard as I tried to show that I was just as funny and talented as they were, I was ignored. It wasn’t just me, either. There were several other girls in the club who were ignored because they weren’t pretty or a boy.

And before you think it, I know it was because I was a girl. I know that I am great at improv. I am just as good as the boys. They didn’t give me the fucking time of day because I wasn’t wearing low-cut shirts and making my characters ditzy and subservient to their male egos. In improv, you’re told to play to the height of your intelligence for a character. I will play to the height of my personal intelligence and tell you to fuck off if you try to make me less than you.

There’s this thinking out there that women aren’t funny. It’s a goddamn lie. Tina Fey. Amy Poehler. Melissa McCarthy. Jane Lynch. Lucille Ball. Ellen DeGeneres. Portia de Rossi. Martha Plimpton. Kristin Wiig. Edie Falco. Honestly, I could just make this whole post into a list of fucking hilarious women and still not be done. There are so many talented women in the media and the arts who are so much better than most men in the media.

According to the documentary, the amount of female directors, writers, producers, and executives in the media is 16%. Critics and movie-goers complain that films and TV shows are all using the same premises and plots. Moral of the story: we need more women in the media industry. We need new ideas in the media. I’m sick and tired of watching shows with the same fucking premise: strong male lead, sexy and provocative female lead.

I’ll let you in on a project I’ve been working on. I’m currently writing a pilot about a female butcher who kills and sells human meat in her shop. She’s married to a wonderful woman and they have a 15 year old daughter. Her mother killed her husband and started the cannibalistic business. There will be no lesbian sex scenes. There will be no scantily clad women. These woman will not be objectified in the series.

This show will never get picked up, because according to “schmrofessionals”, it’s not what “sells”.

I don’t give a shit of “what sells”. You know what sells? Stories that are different. They always talk about the shows that are legacies in television and let me tell you: they’re not all about sex. They’re legacies because they changed the face of television.

I want to change the face of television.

Near the end of the documentary, they showed a group of women who were participating in something similar to speed dating, but it was “speed mentoring”. Young women professionals met with older women professionals to talk about how to succeed in business. One mentor said to follow what makes your heart go pitter-patter and don’t be afraid to go after it.

When she said that, I thought of what makes my heart go pitter-patter: being a head writer and executive producer on a hit show that I’ve created. I want that. I want to be a powerful player in the media. I want to affect what viewers see. Rupert Murdoch: I’m a woman and I want your job.

I’m not going to sit idly by. I want to change what viewers see and make television and film accessible to all. I want to stop this fucking awful patriarchy going on in the media. I want to inspire young girls and let them know that they too can say fuck you to the patriarchy surrounding the media. We don’t need this shit.

If you want to know more about “Miss Representation” and support the women’s media movement, visit missrepresentation.org.

There are recent studies that have come out citing that the brain, upon first hearing music, is instantly addicted to it. I understand why: the beats, the rhythm, and the melodies. As humans, we’ve been making music for thousands of years and we won’t stop.

I’m a music addict, or musicophile. I can’t go a day without listening to or making music. My tastes range from pop to hip hop to rap to rock to jazz to Klezmer. My personal favourite genre right now is electroswing, a combination of swing music and hip-hop/dubstep. It’s super addicting and wonderful to rock out to. When I listen to “Booty Swing” by Parov Steler, it reminds me of the Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas commercial with the people in the elevator. It’s the first time I heard that song and it’s what I associate with the song, making it slightly eerie. (Here’s the commercial if you’ve never seen it.)

So I started thinking about all the artists and songs I listen to and with whom I associate them. Some associations are sad, but some make me laugh so hard, even if the song is serious. So, here are some songs I have heard and who I always associate them with.

“Boots & Boys” – Ke$ha: This will always remind me of making Thanksgiving in Ireland with Lynda. Ke$ha in general will always remind me of Steve and Tassi at The Groundlings, urging me to listen to her. Now I’m addicted.

 

“Tighten Up” – The Black Keys: He kept recommending them everywhere when they came to Iowa City, so The Black Keys will always remind me of Eric Sundermann

 

“You! Me! Dancing!” – Los Campesinos!: Though I used this song for “Little Lion Man”, I first heard this song when Coco shared it with the GLBTAU crowd as their song they associate with us. Now, I associate it with them.

 

“Bust Your Windows” as covered by Amber Riley: It was the first song I bonded with Tiana over. Now, she’s one of my best friends.

 

Those are just a few. There are some songs that remind me of bad things. Such bad things that I can’t listen to them anymore. But I realize that when I can finally listen to that song again, I’ve grown up and forgiven the bad event that happened with that song.

As a writer, I’ve got certain music that I listen to when I write. It gets me motivated and gets my blood pumping. I’ve talked to several of my friends about what they listen to when they study or write and most say Classical. Personally, I can’t listen to classical for study music. I just can’t. It’s too calming and too much like white noise if I put it on just for background music. Thanks to my cousin Stu, I listen to hip-hop while I write – and lots of it. Sometimes it’s Gorillaz, sometimes The Roots, sometimes Aesop Rock, sometimes The Pharcide. Music with more of a bounce to it moves me. The rhythms and beats in hip-hop  occasionally inform my writing because I listen to how they’re speaking in the music.

And Classical can’t do that.

When you’re working, there’s no better feeling than picking up that paycheck. The bigger, the better. Of course, that paycheck doesn’t just show up. You have to, you know, work for it. One of the churches near my house has a phrase on its sign that says, “No one has died from sweat.” True, but people have died from exhaustion. And let me tell you, making money is exhausting.

I’m no princess. I work hard. I love hands-on, labour-intensive work. One of my favourite jobs was as a lighting electrician in the University of Iowa theatres. It was theatre, physical labour, and with some of my favourite people. I couldn’t think of anything better. It was awesome to be lifting and hanging and sweating as opposed to sitting on a hard desk trying to listen to why Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was a good book.

Now, I have two jobs: one in retail, one in food service. I thought it would be awesome to be physically up and moving a ton during the week. I’m running here, running there, serving drinks, carrying frames. I get to interact with people, customers and coworkers alike. I feel good while I’m working. There’s a sense of pride happening when I feel I’ve done a good job.

On the flip side, I’m exhausted. I’m a night owl. My whole family is a bunch of night owls. So, when I work an opening shift at IKEA, I can’t find my groove until after noon. It’s so bad that yesterday I nearly fell asleep in a box of fake plants. When I’m done with a night of serving drinks, all I want to do is rip my shoes off and dip them in a tub of hot water. (I also don’t like the bar my coworkers frequent after work. It still looks too much like the Spaghetti Warehouse.) I used to hate taking naps, but I get so excited to take one when I get home.

While I’m okay with this now, how long can this last? How long will I be stuck in these jobs? Will I be poor forever?

Everyone’s always talking about how bad the economy is. I’ll be completely honest: I really don’t understand most of the jargon. But I’m feeling it. I’m making, on average, $600 every two weeks from both jobs combined. My food service job relies on tips, by which I rely on patrons to leave adequate tips. Here’s how I feel the horrible economy: people, in general, suck monkey balls at giving tips. Excuse you, but if you spend $58 on drinks, there’s a good chance you have the money to leave the proper tip, not just round up to $60 and call it a day. Don’t blame it on the economy. Some of us are trying to support ourselves on your awful tips.

(Ok, I technically don’t quite support myself. I do live at home and eat my parents’ food. But my coworkers do.)

I’m saving up for a big move to Los Angeles. I’m hoping to put away at least $3,000 before I consider moving. At this rate, I’ll never be moving to LA. Most of my money goes to outrageous gas prices, paying for car insurance, and saving for when my student loans kick in. My pessimism makes me believe that I will be poor forever. I’m scared I’ll never be good enough to have a job that pays above minimum wage because of a vicious cycle I’m stuck in.

What is this vicious cycle, you ask? Well. Let me explain:

  • If I want a job in my desired field, I need experience when most of the jobs in that field are internships or non-paying.
  • If I want to get that experience, I can’t work a lot at my paying jobs.
  • If I don’t work at lot at those paying jobs, I won’t get enough money to move to a place where I can get experience.

I know I’ll have money problems the rest of my life. Mostly for just being poor forever. Most of my friends I talk to have the same fear. And I’m not just talking about the friends in the arts or English. I’m okay with that. I’m okay with living with less. However, I’m nervous about deferring on my loans, an inability to pay rent, or missing a car insurance payment. I’m scared. I’m so incredibly scared.

I’m scared I’m going to have to work myself to death to survive.

dreams: deferred.

Posted: 03/15/2012 in Uncategorized

Langston Hughes may not have originated this title phrase, but I’m giving him the credit. Gotta call dibs on that stuff.

It comes from his poem, “A Dream Deferred”:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

When I was eight years old, my friend Emma introduced me to this little show, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, “Whose Line Is It Anyway?”. It features four improvisational players, usually Colin Mocherie, Ryan Stiles, & Friends, performing improv games under the hosting of Drew Carey. I have seen every episode to date of the American version. At 16, I signed up for two improv classes in which I was the baby in one and the elderly in the other. It was just the beginning of my realization that I was actually good at something.

You know the feeling of being good at something. (If you don’t, I’d say at this point you’re probably pretty good at breathing.) It comes somewhat naturally and you have this urge to get better at it, whether it’s an interior or an exterior urge (let’s use your mother). For example, I’m pretty good at piano, but it was my mother’s exterior urge for me to get better at it. With improv, I want to get better at it. I want to do everything I can to be the best. Writing is another passion I’m relatively good at. I want to be the best and do what I love for the rest of my life.

Combined with improv, I adore television. I’ve got a 1950s television tattooed on my leg for proof. I want to work in television in some capacity: writing, producing, directing, performing, anything. It’s my dream. It’s been my dream for too many years. Now that I’ve graduated from school, I’m finally able to pursue that dream for all its worth. I need to be Los Angeles-bound.

Converted porch

This is the whole room and nothing but the room.

WHAT HAPPENS TO A DREAM DEFERRED?

I planned to move to Los Angeles in January 2012. I asked around, hoping a friend would let me stay on their couch for a short period of time while I apartment/job searched as well as waited for my roommate to move out there. I received little response, and the response I did was a resounding “no”. At first I thought they didn’t like me, or worse, didn’t remember me. But that sounded ridiculous. I had only been gone for a couple months. Unless the smog in Los Angeles was infused with a memory-altering chemical gas that made them forget all about me, my friends still knew who I was. Not for a dislike of me, but a lack of space. Someone had warned me about that, considering the size of the average Los Angeles apartment.

I knew that. I really did. After spending two months in a converted porch on Crenshaw Boulevard, I should have remembered the lack of space and just how good these LA folk were at cramming people into a space. There were 13 people in that house, including the landlord. Along with the bugs in my bed and atrocious rental car, I definitely left with some of the best stories.

But I would not be stopped! So, in the meantime, I searched for jobs here in Chicago. I planned to quit the jobs after a couple months and move in May.

DOES IT DRY UP LIKE A RAISIN IN THE SUN?

That would have been easy if I didn’t actually like my jobs. Currently, I’m at IKEA and The Comedy Shrine. I’m making decent money and I don’t have to pay rent (though what I don’t pay in rent I pay in patience with my parents). It’s not a bad gig. Yet, with each day, I feel the move to Los Angeles slipping away. I fear I’m never going to be able to move since I’m tied to Chicago now. As someone told me (different someone from above), most places in LA won’t hire you unless you’re already in the Los Angeles area for a physical interview. And since I have zero to no experience in film or television, it’s even more difficult. I’m not in high demand. For every one of me, there are at least a hundred others who are already out there, vying for those positions.

TV Tattoo

The infamous TV tattoo.

Here, I’m not really doing anything with theatre, film, or television. Sure, I work at a theatre and I’m taking improv classes. Growing up, we were told in school that once we graduated from college with degrees, that we’d get a job in our field. It makes sense to tell students that. It gives them hope. The generation telling us this had that same thing happen to them.

Lies. It was all lies.

OR FESTER LIKE A SORE– AND THEN RUN?

Ok, maybe it wasn’t a lie. My friend Danny got a job right out of college in his field. I’ve got some other friends doing that as well. I’m proud of them. And underneath that layer of pride is jealousy. And underneath that is a three-bean dip. I want the jobs they have. I don’t know how to get those jobs. I feel lost, confused, annoyed, and I’m kicking myself. The regret of not auditioning for Paperback Rhino, choosing a pointless second degree, not doing more in theatre. The regrets eat at me and make me feel less and less, like I jeopardized my dream because I didn’t take Path A and chose Path Q. Path Q hurts. Path Q is riddled with disappointment and sadness.

A couple weeks ago, I ran into a teacher who knew my creative work in high school. Naturally, I was wearing my IKEA shirt, proudly displaying my workplace. I hadn’t seen them in a couple years, but they knew I was majoring in theatre. Of course, when they asked me where I was working and I pointed to my IKEA shirt, I heard disappointment. Failure. I reassured them that I also worked at a theatre, but didn’t mention what I actually did. I didn’t want to hear more disappointment. Pouring salt on the wound I’ve already created due to my own disappointment in myself. I don’t need help with that.

DOES IT STINK LIKE ROTTON MEAT?

My mom: Do you know when you’re moving to LA?

Me: No.

monies

You can make it in LA with $75, right?

My mom: No idea?

Me: No.

My mom: Like, September?

Me: No.

My mom: Or more like January?

Me: I don’t know.

My mom: So you don’t know at all.

Me: When I have a lot more than $75 saved up, I will let you know.

OR CRUST AND SUGAR OVER– LIKE A SYRUPY SWEET?

It’s nice to dream.

Everyone tells me I’m 21 and that I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. Excuse me, but I know I’m 21 and I’ve got a lot of time too. But in this world of instant access, this isn’t fast enough for me. I don’t want to wait. It’s my career and I need it now!

On top of it all, I’m a planner. At Iowa, I would show up for my advisor session and give Bryon my schedule for the next semester. He didn’t have any questions, knowing I knew what I needed and how to plan my schedule accordingly. I want to know where I’m going, what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it with. This lack of a future is terrifying for a planning personality. I like spontaneity, sure, who doesn’t, but not when it comes to my future. There needs to be planning involved. I can’t just go with the flow! I can’t just “accept what comes”! You have to be kidding.

…You’re not kidding?

Shit.

I want to believe you, that my life won’t end at 22, but I’m a firm believer in “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

MAYBE IT SAGS LIKE A HEAVY LOAD.

Image

People believe in this?

“You’re going to go far. I believe you will.”

My parents say it.

My friends say it.

My family friends say it.

My relatives say it.

There’s a lot of belief going on and not a lot of doing on my part. Where does this blind faith in me come from? I feel like I need to prove these people right. I need to succeed and go far because they know something I don’t. They feel it. I don’t want to let these people down. I want to push forward with these dreams and make them come true, at all costs. They’re willing to support me, wanting to make sure I succeed. I want to succeed for these people, but I’m paralyzed with the fear I will let these people down.

Perhaps my dreams are too big. Too much to come true.

OR DOES IT EXPLODE?

I’m going to to all I can for my dreams to come true.

I’m going to push, shove, kick, bite my way through the crowd.

I’m going to stop regretting and believe everything happens for a reason.

I won’t become the next Tina Fey, or Jane Lynch, or Amy Poehler, but I will definitely be the best Kelly Magz. The funniest. The brightest. The one who fights her whole life to ensure her dreams come true.