LJ Idol WOC Home Game - Toi Toi Toi
Jul. 29th, 2025 08:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kizzy*fragment*
In my real life movie I'm wearing a light blue frock which swirls as I twirl endlessly in a lush green meadow the way Julie Andrews does in the prologue of The Sound Of Music. I'm not singing. Instead in my mind's eye my twirling body is squared off in an upper corner of a movie screen. The rest of the screen is black, the title, stars, producers, and finally, director, in white loopy script. The corner widens, and here I am, filling the screen, giddy with glee as I sprint across grass, tumble, and grin as I gaze into a cloudless sky.
*reality*
They're not my real parents, they're actors playing my parents.
That's not my best friend, that's a child actor like myself playing my best friend.
My first grade teacher is an ingenue. This is her very first major role. I'm sure she never thought her character would be constantly corralling 15 children between lessons and recess. She loses her voice with the boys. During busy work I creep up to her desk to ask her a question. Her tone is small and raspy. She tells me to sit down. I return to my seat and pretend I'm doing a closeup with the slightest trembling lower lip.
*fragment*
There are so many people. Classmates. Teachers. My godmother and her family next door. The crusty lady at the five and dime who shrieks if she sees you touching something. They're the cast. They have real names. The names I know them by are their character's names, just like my name.
*reality*
I don't like my character's name. It's too plain. I sit with a pencil and paper at the dining room table trying to think of glamorous, star-worthy first names to counter the commonness of my last name. I go through all the names I know but nothing fits.
I'm named after my maternal aunt who died two weeks before my mother was born.
*fragment*
If I'm the star, should I act like one? Of course not, I'm an actor. I have an invisible script that tells me how to act, react, how I'm supposed to jump rope or Red Rover so I don't hurt myself, the way I argue over a board game, the slight sobs and teary glances when I'm sad or upset.
This invisible script gets me into trouble, though, especially at school. A minor character in my class accidentally does something which causes me to careen across the hallway and smack my forehead against brick. I get up. The script tells me to pause, breathe hard, stare at nothing as I turn around and put right to this character, who, at this moment, is staring at me, mouth agape.
This character is slightly shorter than me but I have bigger muscles, so I slowly approach them. I see a teacher in my periphery so I scream while grabbing the character's shoulders and watch myself fling said character onto the cold tile floor. I watch my foot start to kick the character's side when I feel adult hands pull me away.
I don't know how to defend myself in the principal's office except to cry and apologize because I can't tell anyone about the script. My tears and remorse at home? Worthy of an Oscar.
*reality*
I grow out of all this, of course, but much stays with me. It's briefly reignited when reality TV became a hit when I dare myself to apply to this show, that competition, but I ultimately chicken out because I have responsibilities, a full time job, people depending on me.
I've made peace with my name.
My will to follow the invisible script dimmed years ago, although I still believe it's there somewhere and there arecast members people following it, if only for societal protocol.
I cannot remember the name of the girl who played me other than we shared the same surname. I remember writing out this cast of characters at the dining room table, then painstakingly typing a TV-Guide like synopsis of this reality show I'm currently starring in. I remember using an old manual Smith-Corona, hunting and pecking with my right index finger.
I remember dropping the script after the hallway incident when I witnessed a neighborhood fight at the park between two of my very minor male characters. Adults were summoned and pulled them apart, bloody and achy.
The script reappears years later when I'm battling a series of misunderstandings in high school. Nothing lands me in the headmaster's office but I end up losing friends. To this day I have no idea what I did.
Decades later at work I'm transferred to a "more visible" position because "it's clear that you're very animated and people are drawn to you."
I am?!? You have no idea. I'm very quiet at home. I read a lot, write a lot, watch a lot of National Theatre online. Yes, it's true I initially majored in theater at uni, but I switched it upon realizing that my anxiety would crumble with every audition because I'm not the one calling the shots.
"OK, I'll do it."
New audience, new script. Curtain up.
In my real life movie I'm wearing a light blue frock which swirls as I twirl endlessly in a lush green meadow the way Julie Andrews does in the prologue of The Sound Of Music. I'm not singing. Instead in my mind's eye my twirling body is squared off in an upper corner of a movie screen. The rest of the screen is black, the title, stars, producers, and finally, director, in white loopy script. The corner widens, and here I am, filling the screen, giddy with glee as I sprint across grass, tumble, and grin as I gaze into a cloudless sky.
*reality*
They're not my real parents, they're actors playing my parents.
That's not my best friend, that's a child actor like myself playing my best friend.
My first grade teacher is an ingenue. This is her very first major role. I'm sure she never thought her character would be constantly corralling 15 children between lessons and recess. She loses her voice with the boys. During busy work I creep up to her desk to ask her a question. Her tone is small and raspy. She tells me to sit down. I return to my seat and pretend I'm doing a closeup with the slightest trembling lower lip.
*fragment*
There are so many people. Classmates. Teachers. My godmother and her family next door. The crusty lady at the five and dime who shrieks if she sees you touching something. They're the cast. They have real names. The names I know them by are their character's names, just like my name.
*reality*
I don't like my character's name. It's too plain. I sit with a pencil and paper at the dining room table trying to think of glamorous, star-worthy first names to counter the commonness of my last name. I go through all the names I know but nothing fits.
I'm named after my maternal aunt who died two weeks before my mother was born.
*fragment*
If I'm the star, should I act like one? Of course not, I'm an actor. I have an invisible script that tells me how to act, react, how I'm supposed to jump rope or Red Rover so I don't hurt myself, the way I argue over a board game, the slight sobs and teary glances when I'm sad or upset.
This invisible script gets me into trouble, though, especially at school. A minor character in my class accidentally does something which causes me to careen across the hallway and smack my forehead against brick. I get up. The script tells me to pause, breathe hard, stare at nothing as I turn around and put right to this character, who, at this moment, is staring at me, mouth agape.
This character is slightly shorter than me but I have bigger muscles, so I slowly approach them. I see a teacher in my periphery so I scream while grabbing the character's shoulders and watch myself fling said character onto the cold tile floor. I watch my foot start to kick the character's side when I feel adult hands pull me away.
I don't know how to defend myself in the principal's office except to cry and apologize because I can't tell anyone about the script. My tears and remorse at home? Worthy of an Oscar.
*reality*
I grow out of all this, of course, but much stays with me. It's briefly reignited when reality TV became a hit when I dare myself to apply to this show, that competition, but I ultimately chicken out because I have responsibilities, a full time job, people depending on me.
I've made peace with my name.
My will to follow the invisible script dimmed years ago, although I still believe it's there somewhere and there are
I cannot remember the name of the girl who played me other than we shared the same surname. I remember writing out this cast of characters at the dining room table, then painstakingly typing a TV-Guide like synopsis of this reality show I'm currently starring in. I remember using an old manual Smith-Corona, hunting and pecking with my right index finger.
I remember dropping the script after the hallway incident when I witnessed a neighborhood fight at the park between two of my very minor male characters. Adults were summoned and pulled them apart, bloody and achy.
The script reappears years later when I'm battling a series of misunderstandings in high school. Nothing lands me in the headmaster's office but I end up losing friends. To this day I have no idea what I did.
Decades later at work I'm transferred to a "more visible" position because "it's clear that you're very animated and people are drawn to you."
I am?!? You have no idea. I'm very quiet at home. I read a lot, write a lot, watch a lot of National Theatre online. Yes, it's true I initially majored in theater at uni, but I switched it upon realizing that my anxiety would crumble with every audition because I'm not the one calling the shots.
"OK, I'll do it."
New audience, new script. Curtain up.
