Posts tagged drama

Once upon a time, there was a late-blooming fourteen year old ladyboy who lived in the Mojave Desert. Surprise! The ladyboy in this story is me. As a freshman, I was forced to take a sophomore drama class. I often used the word “force” to describe to friends the offer Ms. Smythe-Davies presented me. You see, “force” allowed me to appear helpless though I didn’t think twice about accepting her invitation. (In fact, that night I dreamt I was a shrew in need of a good taming).

Apparently, Ms. Smythe-Davies had seen some flare in my gait. “Mildred, love!” she called out to the school secretary. A single polished fingernail from under her silken kaftan pointed me out. “Who” with far too much emphasis on the wh sound “is that child?” As I continued down the hall, her eyes squinted and the gears beneath her Norma Desmond turban churned. Before the Principal could comprehend the flurry of robes and oversized necklaces that descended upon his office, he agreed to her special request that some queer freshman kid immediately study drama under her tutelage. “Fill out the appropriate forms, Ginny, and I’ll sign them,” he told her.

She was a 50s-something widower born and raised in South Africa; and, in a school closet, she grew mushrooms for brewing. She always kept a cup of mushroom and rooibos tea on hand. “One day, you’ll realize that mushrooms and kaftans are the only items that belong in one’s closet, my child,” as she offered me a sip from her draught.

“Young Master Gary,” she said on my first day of drama. “It is truly an honour to have you in my class. Class, this is young Master Gary. Please welcome him to the class. He comes to us from the freshman class and has been granted special dispensation by our Principal to study amongst us. Honour me by welcoming him.”

And that was Virginia. She always wanted me to call her by her first name. “Master Gary. No, please. Smythe was my husband and Davies is my father. Call me Virginia, child.” I was fourteen and remember absolutely nothing she taught me. I still don’t know which side stage-left is. More than anything I remember her like you might remember a feeling, as much as acceptance can be a feeling. She accepted me when others teased me. “Your secret’s safe with me,” she once whispered as she caught me staring far too long at the naked male statutes at the museum. In the Mojave, she was the fringe and so was I. We were both characters on a desert stage, except she wore the turban and I wore an invisible one. And the fringe never looked so good.

“Children. Actors. Loves. Tomorrow, bring props. You are to give a simple speech. 5-10 minutes. Explain to me something. Anything. And use props. Teach me to fish so I may never be hungry again. Now go!”

The next morning, I was frantic. What the fuck did she want? What am I supposed to teach her? Let’s just say it took a while to finally decide on pasta salad. Don’t ask how I got to that decision but nonetheless the die was cast. I pulled out a stockpot, an onion, some rotini pasta, a tomato and a bottle of Italian Wishbone dressing. I threw it all in a bag and headed off to campus. Drama was right before lunch and when she saw my wares, Virginia instantly decided I would be the first victim. I blamed her hunger. “Master Gary, you are to go first. Prepare your stage and inform the class when you are ready to begin.”

“Ready, Ms. Smythe-Davies.” She sneered at her last name. “Proceed, child.” I jumped right in. I told my audience about the basic ingredients in a pasta salad. I threw dry pasta into the pot, pretending it was cooked. I chopped the onion and tomato, teaching them some knife skills I learned from the Frugal Gourmet. Virginia clapped at what she called the “mastery of the blade.” Continuing, I reminded the class to always remove the foil cap from the salad dressing. In getting the foil off, I broke the lid clean through but luckily I placed it carefully back on the top of the bottle flawlessly. I couldn’t let Virginia see any mistakes.

I threw the onions and tomatoes into the pot, stirred it and announced it was ready to receive the Wishbone. “But, remember, you should always shake the dressing thoroughly before applying it to the pasta.” I picked up the bottle and shook. Once. Twice. Three times. I really wanted it mixed. It took three times before I recognized the look of horror on the faces of the audience. By the third shake, the kaftan was already fluttering down the aisle ready to envelope me. I looked down at the face of the cheerleader in front of me. Poor Marie Moreau. Gasping. Covered. Italian dressing in her French braid. Down her face. On several desks. “You dumb fucking fag!” (Pardon her French).

Somehow I even managed to get dressing on the chalkboard behind me, slowly dripping down the board. That limp wrist of mine provided some great trajectory. Horrified I concluded with “And always remember to make sure the lid is attached before shaking.” “Class dismissed!” Virginia yelled even though we were only 10 minutes into class. Eventually, my parents got a cleaning bill for the school carpet and also for the cheerleading uniform.  For the rest of that year, chalk would never stick to that portion of the chalkboard. Virginia tried to get “Medea” to stay put but sadly the murderous mother would just slide right down the board.

I tried desperately to get out of that class. I was mortified. I even met with the Principal claiming that a sophomore class stunted my social development with my peers. “It’s out of my hands. I wish I could do more but it’s too late to transfer classes, son.” And so I suffered. Shunned by every sophomore. Then word spread. The juniors loved hearing the Italian-Flinging Fag story. I was mortified by my misfortune. Why did I think pasta salad was a good idea? Why did I have to shake the bottle? They were supposed to just be props. Ugh!

By the end of the school year, there was some other poor schmuck to pick on and I was off -the-hook. The bell rang on the last day and we filed out. Virginia pulled me aside and opened my hand. She placed in it a small chunk of amber set in thin gold and silver. “A small Roman charm from my personal jewelry collection for you to wear. A dressing, if you will, of Italian. I gift it to you for composure under great adversity. Something I hope you never forget as you discover yourself.” I thanked her for her kindness.

No teacher had ever given me anything like that before. Most teachers, in fact, assume their students should provide them with trinkets and apples. I thanked her again for her generosity and kindness. At the time, I was only thinking about the charm she gave me. In my adult life, I would realized that even without the charm no teacher had ever given me anything like that before. As I headed out of class and into the summer sun, Virginia said, “Oh one thing.” I turned around to see her. She was erasing the chalkboard, her back to me, the kaftan swirling around her. Without even turning around she said, “That Moreau deserved every drop. You might be a ‘fag’ in her eyes but you’re a fucking fabulous one. Goodbye, Gary.”