Story of a Veteran

Because it's Veteran's Day, and I love to talk about my father, a story.

"My dad was in Vietnam." And for most of my life, those five words summed up pretty much everything I knew about it.

It surprised me a little. Dad was a great storyteller. I mean, the man really knew how to work a room. If I ever needed to find him in a crowd, it was only a matter of following the people laughing the loudest. I always knew he'd be at the center of it, telling some Big Fish tale of how he killed a river snake with a rock from the shore hundreds of feet away, or how he'd been dragged down the hallway by the ear by countless Catholic school nuns, or how he hit his brother in the back with a dart playing William Tell and how, "He would've been fine if he just hadn't moved!"

The stories were great. (And to the chagrin of his brothers and countless Catholic school nuns, all true.) But on the subject of Vietnam, he was surprisingly quiet. He had stories of joining the army, and stories of the army's plans for him - which were pretty lofty, from what I understand. But he said almost nothing to me about his time in the war, and in the naiveté of childhood, I found that very strange. Vietnam seemed like a fascinating place, and enough time had passed by the time I came along that I assumed he'd be wide open to talking about his "adventures" in the war.

As I grew up, my father did begin to open up a little more. In my late teens/early twenties I think he began to see me less as his child and more as a friend, and it was only then that I managed to ask him the right questions about Vietnam. He recounted a few tales - but even then, only things I always considered to be on the fringe of the whole story. About people he met and things that happened - one particularly poignant story of how his platoon killed an elephant, which even though he shared the story in an entertaining manner, I could tell it was something that never sat right with him. My father, reluctant admirer of creatures big and small.

It was finally my mother who opened my eyes to how deeply the war had affected him. On a visit to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in DC, she told me, he had cried openly at what he found there. I could count the number of times I'd seen my father cry on one hand - one FINGER, if I'm being honest. And yet, this thing, decades after the fact, could still bring that man to his knees. It was no real wonder he never talked about it... An entire other lifetime couldn't erase what had happened there.

My father was so young when he entered the war. It's so easy to forget that. I'm more than 10 years older now than he was when he joined the army. And though he's not with us any more, I personally credit his death in small part to that nightmare of a war. Exposure to Agent Orange left him with a wealth of health problems that followed him his entire life. As though the mental scarring weren't enough.

I am proud of my father still for his time served. He joined the army of his own volition, did well, and got out. He went on to create a family and another life for himself outside of the military, but he could have easily stayed on and been a success. He taught me respect and appreciation for those who continue to serve, and it's nothing but respect and appreciation that I have. "Happy" Veteran's Day seems like a flippant thing to say when I consider those who fought alongside my father, whose names he found on that wall. So, instead, a "Respectful" Veteran's Day, and a heartfelt thank you for those serving where many of us could not.

When Books Hurt Your Feelings

When you're already on the fence about a piece of literature you're engaged in, it can come as quite a shock when that book somehow manages to damage a piece of your psyche so hard that you're STILL thinking about it the next day.

Truth be told, I cried myself to sleep last night. Tim was already long asleep by the time this embarrassing scene went down, and thankfully, too. Much like the time he walked in on me sobbing to the end of "Marley and Me" (a movie I had previously sworn never to subject myself to), and cried, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YOURSELF?!" while (unsuccessfully) trying not to laugh at the masochistic heap of crying wife he'd cheerfully left only a few hours before, I couldn't even begin to explain this sudden and horrid onset of emotion.

But what I can tell you is the one thing those two moments had in common - they were both about a dog.

I've never felt more betrayed by a book. Betrayed by a protagonist who, up until then, had been likeable enough. Betrayed by a protagonist who, upon falling in love with a man she'd only just met, abandoned her only "family" - Weeds, the dog - to fend for himself. It was sweetly written - she would visit him every day. She would continue to care for him in secret, because (for some reason I have yet to read) this man doesn't allow dogs in his life. But, it doesn't change the fact that she LEFT this dog. And there is no way to make a dog understand why he'd been neglected. It's the teddy bear at the end of A.I. It's Harry and the Hendersons. It's that terrifying episode of MacGyver where the petri dish of culture gets spilled and kills the lady scientist's adorable little collie. (And the lady, too, but WHO CARES?! SHE WAS CONSUMED BY HER DESIRE FOR SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY!!!)

You brought this upon yourself, Dr. Sandra Millhouse!

I dropped that book like it was fire in my hands. And I've been terrified to pick it up since. Because I know there's going to be more about this dog. And it's going to hurt my feelings. This overreaching, self-indulgent novel full of psycho-babble and meandering modernism that I can't even decide if I like IS ACTIVELY HURTING MY FEELINGS. AND I DON'T CARE FOR IT.

It might be time to "Little Women" this thing.

*Books are neat, aren't they? :)
**The book is Iodine - a novel by Haven Kimmel. Though truly one of my favorite authors, this particular book is a bizarre departure, and one I probably couldn't recommend to anyone not already heartily basking in her literary grandeur. (Or to anyone who pointedly overreacts to fictional dog abandonment.)

"I'm never more myself than when I'm being someone else."

I said this to a cast mate last night after another hysterically fun, sold-out performance of Avenue Q at the Little Theater of Norfolk (running for two more weeks, and yes, that was my sales pitch). He grinned in agreement and said, "You need to make that your Facebook status."

I laughed, because it's definitely one of those well-phrased, quippy plugs I tend to make on Facebook - actor friends would appreciate it, people who know my sense of humor would get it. It's easy and brief and just relateable enough to make people click "Like," before moving on with their lives.

But here's the thing. The raw truth in that statement has eaten at me since the moment I said it. And not just because it skews a little on the "emotionally unhealthy" side - I mean, those aren't cards I've ever held that closely to the chest, anyway. It's more about perception. About the image I put out into the world. About the way people are perceiving other people - and how they're almost always wrong.

Someone recently referred to me as "popular." As "the popular girl." It was an off-putting assessment - not an insulting one, by any means - just surprising. But, it's not untrue, I guess. I surround myself with people I love, and I try to be kind and as funny as is humanly possible so they continue to want to be around me... But, it can feel like a calculated maneuver. I've referred to myself as a "personality chameleon." If the person I'm being doesn't seem to meld with the person that you're being, then I can make adjustments. I can make you like me. Or I can certainly put a lot of time and energy into TRYING to make you like me. I try not to do hateful things, like talk about other people behind their backs, even when it's popular opinion. (Which is not to say I don't do  it - I just don't like myself when I do it.) I try to stick up for the little guy. I even (often unsuccessfully) try to wipe the knee-jerk snotty look off my face when people are saying things I find completely inane. I generally don't talk about my bad days. I know what makes people unlikeable, and those are the things I avoid.

But what people tend to forget, or simply not realize, is that I spent the better part of my life being painfully shy. Literally running away from any scenario that made me uncomfortable. And if you think that doesn't still happen, you'd be so very wrong. Only now, there's the added benefit of getting to berate yourself afterwards for being a "31-year-old woman who just ran away from a group of enthusiastic high school students who were trying to get your autograph," because you couldn't wrap your head around the fact they might actually want to talk to you, and not just your six other, better cast mates.

But the "perks of being a wallflower," so to speak (thank you Stephen Chbosky), are actually this: I see it. I recognize the hesitancy. The running away. The thought that you might like to say what's on your mind, but you're so choked up in your own thoughts that nothing ever comes out of your mouth. And that's the reason perception is a terrifying thing. The amount of energy people spend wishing they were more like someone else, when they're probably not even grasping the reality of who that person is in the first place. You like me because I get you. I get you because I WAS you. I still am you. And that's why I put my energy into drawing you out in the first place.

Actors are insecure. I'm insecure. It's not groundbreaking news. But perception is the devil.
You become a chameleon because you hope to avoid drawing attention to yourself - and sometimes that disguise is bright and colorful (or kind and funny), but it suits the surroundings and you blend in. "I'm never more myself than when I'm being someone else," is always going to be true for me. Onstage, offstage... Even popular girls don't always know who they are.

And now for something completely different...

I stumbled onto this video again while researching another band we have coming to the Discovery Music Series - it's the Mountain Stage interview with The Weepies.

It's been a few years since The Weepies played the stage at the Attucks Theatre, but I remember that concert like it just happened. The Weepies were my favorite band before they came to the Attucks, and they continue to be long after. It's not something I even have to think about. "Michelle," you might say, "You listen to a freakin' crapload of music. Who's your favorite?" "The Weepies," I'll reply. Instantly. I won't even launch into a long, hipster diatribe about it, because A.) it's easy truth and B.) you've already stopped listening. But, it was frosting on the cake to meet them in person and learn that they are as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you want your favorite band to be. They were magical on stage AND off.

Tonight, the Wheeler Brothers are playing our stage. And no one in Norfolk has any idea who they are. I know this because in spite of the marketing dollars that were thrown far and wide at this series, we've sold less than 100 tickets to this show. And I didn't know who they were either. But, here's what I can tell you about them: their YouTube videos are great. They post really funny animated gifs to their Twitter feed. Oh! And they were also just voted Austin's Best New Band of 2012. Wait... That last part seems important. They're TALENTED.

No one is guiltier than I am about not buying tickets when I've never heard of the band. I mean, why would you? Money's hard to come by, and what a crapshoot that could turn out to be. But, the thing I love about the Discovery Series (and why I mention The Weepies) is that it doesn't often matter WHO the band is. The venue is an experience all it's own. The sound quality is brilliant, new and amazing bands are playing new and amazing music, and CREATIVELY, too (can we talk about how the Alternate Routes incorporated a tool box into their percussion arsenal last show?)... You get to know the band. The venue is intimate. The bands are little known. Some of them are still manning their own merch stands. They WANT to meet you. They tell stories on stage. You connect to them. You love their music. You buy their CD's. You find out that the band you loved on stage is just as down-to-earth and friendly and engaging as you wanted them to be. You become a fan for life. You go to their sold-out arena concerts and say, "I liked them so much better at the Attucks." (Remember the Avett Brothers? Yeah. We're STILL saying that about them.)

The Attucks is in a dismal neighborhood. You've never heard of the group. The show is on a Thursday night. It's raining. There are about a million reasons NOT to go. But forget all that stuff for a minute. Open yourself up to this theater. It's one of my favorite spaces in Norfolk, and it's not because of the building. (Which is beautiful, by the way.) There's a warmth that comes from intimately engaging with musicians that's a completely different animal from the hype of a standing, sold-out concert in a sweaty, smoky venue. Which is probably where the Wheeler Brothers are headed on their next tour stop. I don't devalue those places - I like a loud, sweaty concert as much as the next girl - but, this. THIS. This is something different. Something really, really, really good.

And you should go there.