Blogathon - Entry 46
Jul. 27th, 2008 08:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mllelaurelSponsor me, please!
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When I took a theatre class in my last semester at Bennington, the professor had us do character writeups, to better understand the people we'd be embodying. Our midterms were character interviews. Each of us would create a character, then bring this character into the room where the rest of the class would talk to him or her, ask questions and so on.
My name is Rose Ellison. I’m fifteen years old. I live in London… The date? It’s 1968, of course. Oh! You’re just doing that to check if my memory’s working find, right? Doctors do it when a patient hits her head – and gets amnesia, probably. I just saw that the other day, on the Corrie. What? Oh, that’s Coronation Street. Dad says it’s trash and I shouldn’t watch it, and mostly I’m at school when it’s on anyway, but sometimes my best mate Angie and I kip out of Maths and run to her place to watch it. Angie’s mum works during the day, so no one’s ever caught us.
How do we get out of class? Well, it’s not easy. Promise to keep a secret? Alright then. The trick to it is to wait till your teacher takes attendance, then ask to go use the loo. Once you’re out, she won’t remember to look for you again – especially not if she’s Mrs. Wilkins, who can barely remember where she is, let alone who’s in her class. After that, we climb over the fence, and if you’re not wearing shorts under your skirt when you do that, may God help you.
Nah. They don’t care too much if we do that. It’s just a private school.
Skirts? They’re ok. Or would be, if Mum would let me wear anything but school uniforms and stuff that looks like Gran would have worn it. Sometimes, I go into stores and try on miniskirts. They make my legs look like they belong to a model, but it’s not like I have the money, and Mum’d probably keel over if I brought ‘em home. Doesn’t matter. At least I got her to give in on jeans. Everyone with the least bit of cool in them is wearing jeans, and I need all the cool I can get. Between you and me, though? I hate wearing the things. They’re so stiff I can barely move my legs in them, and it always feels like they’re riding up my bum. ‘s worth it, though? Nobody popular would ever hang out with some loser, who wears grandma skirts. I’ve got enough going against me as it is.
Well, for starters, my family’s Jewish. Not, like, Jewish Jewish, with the coats and hats and sideburns, and the women in long dresses and shawls who’re never allowed to say anything. But Jewish enough. And that doesn’t exactly make you class president, these days. Like, there was this guy, Andrew, and I really liked him, so when he asked me out, I thought I’d die. I spent all weekend trying to look and think perfect, and then he took me to this carnival. Everything was going like a grand romantic movie. We got on the Ferris Wheel right as the sun was setting, and it rose into all that gold and purple, and I thought this is it, Rose; this is the most beautiful thing in your life. When we got to the top, Andrew leaned in and kissed me. I swear, my hands were shaking so hard, and it wasn’t even that good – just kind of wet and lippy – but it was still perfect. And then, his collar caught on my Star of David. Andrew just got this…look on his face. Not disgust – he’s not, like, a racist – but he didn’t kiss me anymore, and after we got off the Ferris Wheel, he took me up to the bumper cars and told me he was just going to grab a soda and be right back. He didn’t come back, of course, and there I was, in my bumper car like a total fool, lipstick smeared and waiting. I didn’t wait all night or anything – I’m not stupid – but I still felt pretty stupid, then.
Afterward, at school, he told me he’d remembered he had to go and look after his little brother. Considering his little brother is thirteen years old, that’s unlikely.
He must not have known. I mean, Ellison isn’t the most Jewish last name ever. It’s not not Jewish, but nothing about it says ‘Oi, I’m a big old Yid.’ You know what I mean? And it’s not like I advertised it. I mean, would you?
Yeah, great. What year are you from?
Dad says I shouldn’t talk like that; that I should be proud of who I am, out of respect for everyone who died. And oh, he’s a fine one to talk! His whole family was out in the countryside during the War – didn’t get so much as a nicked ankle. Not like Angie’s gran. She drove an ambulance all through the War. When the bombs’d start falling, everyone else would run to the shelters, but she’d run the other way, and there she was, right under the Blitz, collecting people like she didn’t have a fear in the world. I saw this picture of her at Angie’s house. There she was, looking right at me from out of the frame, and she looked so brave and beautiful. All I wanted right then was to be that woman, if not now than someday.
She died in 1941.
How do you think?
I’m glad my gran and granpa were all right, though. They’re the best ever. Spoil their only grandkid something fierce, they do. They live in Cardiff now, and every time we visit is like a grand holiday.
Mum doesn’t talk much about her family. She never has.
But on to more pleasant stuff. You didn’t bring me in here to hear me talk about my parents all day, right? I’ve stopped wondering why you did bring me here. You know, I’ve been having these dreams – for months now. I walk through a door, and suddenly, I’m in this big, empty room, with people I don’t know seated all around me, and I think, oh no, this isn’t a recital, is it? I don’t have my violin on me, and I haven’t played in years, and… I could dance, I suppose, but I don’t have my shoes.
And then, these people just start asking me questions. Like now.
I wonder if this is another one of those dreams, and now that I’ve thought that, shouldn’t I wake up?
Or not. So, what else would you like to know? My favorite color is green – like so. All kinds of green. This girl – Eileen – once told me I looked like a Christmas Tree in green. I don’t talk to her anymore. My favorite food… I don’t know. Fish and chips, I suppose, or more like I eat the chips and let Mum have the fish. Best arrangement ever!
…No, that’s crisps. Chips are like your fries.
As I mentioned already, I like watching the telly – especially dramas. I take dancing lessons. I used to play the violin, but that didn’t take, even though Mum wanted me to, really badly. I like hanging out with my mates. Bunch of us saw Bonnie and Clyde, recently. I loved it! Cried buckets at the end, which was kind of embarrassing, but worth it. I like shopping, listening to music – the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Velvet Underground. Angie’s mum’s also got me hooked on Cole Porter. He’s pretty clever for an old guy.
Which reminds me- thanks a bunch for stealing the Beatles, you lot! Ever consider returning them?
No, seriously, everything cool’s on in America right now. The Beatles, as I said, and just this… air of change, like everything’s turning upside-down in a good way. I kept hearing about the Summer of Love all last summer, but instead, I had to be stuck in foggy old London.
I really do want to go to America, someday. That’s what I want to do, once I’m done with school and get away from my parents. I’ll go to America, and I’ll dance, and I’ll wear miniskirts. I’ll make new friends, and maybe I’ll even change history! But I can’t do it from here.
I guess I haven’t really thought what I want to do with my life beyond that. I mean, I want to get married, if I find that perfect guy, but staying at home and taking care of runny-nosed kids all day sounds like hell and a half. I could say I’d continue with dancing, professionally, but really, I’m just not that good. Just the other day, I did this really complicated en-pointe move – and promptly fell on my arse, right after. I’m mostly better than that, but my teacher keeps giving me dirty looks and telling me to stop drinking milk. One time, she came up to me and pinched my side. I wanted to deck her so bad, but I don’t want to get kicked out of class, either. The day I decide to quit dancing, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll bring a carton of milk with me to class, in my bag. Then, I’ll do the best work anyone’s ever seen me do. And then, after class if over, I’ll go up to Mme. Corey, and I’ll take that milk carton out of my bag, pour it all over her stupid head and tell her I’m quitting. That ought to leave an impression. No one will ever say Rose Ellison left with a whimper and not a bang.
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When I took a theatre class in my last semester at Bennington, the professor had us do character writeups, to better understand the people we'd be embodying. Our midterms were character interviews. Each of us would create a character, then bring this character into the room where the rest of the class would talk to him or her, ask questions and so on.
My name is Rose Ellison. I’m fifteen years old. I live in London… The date? It’s 1968, of course. Oh! You’re just doing that to check if my memory’s working find, right? Doctors do it when a patient hits her head – and gets amnesia, probably. I just saw that the other day, on the Corrie. What? Oh, that’s Coronation Street. Dad says it’s trash and I shouldn’t watch it, and mostly I’m at school when it’s on anyway, but sometimes my best mate Angie and I kip out of Maths and run to her place to watch it. Angie’s mum works during the day, so no one’s ever caught us.
How do we get out of class? Well, it’s not easy. Promise to keep a secret? Alright then. The trick to it is to wait till your teacher takes attendance, then ask to go use the loo. Once you’re out, she won’t remember to look for you again – especially not if she’s Mrs. Wilkins, who can barely remember where she is, let alone who’s in her class. After that, we climb over the fence, and if you’re not wearing shorts under your skirt when you do that, may God help you.
Nah. They don’t care too much if we do that. It’s just a private school.
Skirts? They’re ok. Or would be, if Mum would let me wear anything but school uniforms and stuff that looks like Gran would have worn it. Sometimes, I go into stores and try on miniskirts. They make my legs look like they belong to a model, but it’s not like I have the money, and Mum’d probably keel over if I brought ‘em home. Doesn’t matter. At least I got her to give in on jeans. Everyone with the least bit of cool in them is wearing jeans, and I need all the cool I can get. Between you and me, though? I hate wearing the things. They’re so stiff I can barely move my legs in them, and it always feels like they’re riding up my bum. ‘s worth it, though? Nobody popular would ever hang out with some loser, who wears grandma skirts. I’ve got enough going against me as it is.
Well, for starters, my family’s Jewish. Not, like, Jewish Jewish, with the coats and hats and sideburns, and the women in long dresses and shawls who’re never allowed to say anything. But Jewish enough. And that doesn’t exactly make you class president, these days. Like, there was this guy, Andrew, and I really liked him, so when he asked me out, I thought I’d die. I spent all weekend trying to look and think perfect, and then he took me to this carnival. Everything was going like a grand romantic movie. We got on the Ferris Wheel right as the sun was setting, and it rose into all that gold and purple, and I thought this is it, Rose; this is the most beautiful thing in your life. When we got to the top, Andrew leaned in and kissed me. I swear, my hands were shaking so hard, and it wasn’t even that good – just kind of wet and lippy – but it was still perfect. And then, his collar caught on my Star of David. Andrew just got this…look on his face. Not disgust – he’s not, like, a racist – but he didn’t kiss me anymore, and after we got off the Ferris Wheel, he took me up to the bumper cars and told me he was just going to grab a soda and be right back. He didn’t come back, of course, and there I was, in my bumper car like a total fool, lipstick smeared and waiting. I didn’t wait all night or anything – I’m not stupid – but I still felt pretty stupid, then.
Afterward, at school, he told me he’d remembered he had to go and look after his little brother. Considering his little brother is thirteen years old, that’s unlikely.
He must not have known. I mean, Ellison isn’t the most Jewish last name ever. It’s not not Jewish, but nothing about it says ‘Oi, I’m a big old Yid.’ You know what I mean? And it’s not like I advertised it. I mean, would you?
Yeah, great. What year are you from?
Dad says I shouldn’t talk like that; that I should be proud of who I am, out of respect for everyone who died. And oh, he’s a fine one to talk! His whole family was out in the countryside during the War – didn’t get so much as a nicked ankle. Not like Angie’s gran. She drove an ambulance all through the War. When the bombs’d start falling, everyone else would run to the shelters, but she’d run the other way, and there she was, right under the Blitz, collecting people like she didn’t have a fear in the world. I saw this picture of her at Angie’s house. There she was, looking right at me from out of the frame, and she looked so brave and beautiful. All I wanted right then was to be that woman, if not now than someday.
She died in 1941.
How do you think?
I’m glad my gran and granpa were all right, though. They’re the best ever. Spoil their only grandkid something fierce, they do. They live in Cardiff now, and every time we visit is like a grand holiday.
Mum doesn’t talk much about her family. She never has.
But on to more pleasant stuff. You didn’t bring me in here to hear me talk about my parents all day, right? I’ve stopped wondering why you did bring me here. You know, I’ve been having these dreams – for months now. I walk through a door, and suddenly, I’m in this big, empty room, with people I don’t know seated all around me, and I think, oh no, this isn’t a recital, is it? I don’t have my violin on me, and I haven’t played in years, and… I could dance, I suppose, but I don’t have my shoes.
And then, these people just start asking me questions. Like now.
I wonder if this is another one of those dreams, and now that I’ve thought that, shouldn’t I wake up?
Or not. So, what else would you like to know? My favorite color is green – like so. All kinds of green. This girl – Eileen – once told me I looked like a Christmas Tree in green. I don’t talk to her anymore. My favorite food… I don’t know. Fish and chips, I suppose, or more like I eat the chips and let Mum have the fish. Best arrangement ever!
…No, that’s crisps. Chips are like your fries.
As I mentioned already, I like watching the telly – especially dramas. I take dancing lessons. I used to play the violin, but that didn’t take, even though Mum wanted me to, really badly. I like hanging out with my mates. Bunch of us saw Bonnie and Clyde, recently. I loved it! Cried buckets at the end, which was kind of embarrassing, but worth it. I like shopping, listening to music – the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Velvet Underground. Angie’s mum’s also got me hooked on Cole Porter. He’s pretty clever for an old guy.
Which reminds me- thanks a bunch for stealing the Beatles, you lot! Ever consider returning them?
No, seriously, everything cool’s on in America right now. The Beatles, as I said, and just this… air of change, like everything’s turning upside-down in a good way. I kept hearing about the Summer of Love all last summer, but instead, I had to be stuck in foggy old London.
I really do want to go to America, someday. That’s what I want to do, once I’m done with school and get away from my parents. I’ll go to America, and I’ll dance, and I’ll wear miniskirts. I’ll make new friends, and maybe I’ll even change history! But I can’t do it from here.
I guess I haven’t really thought what I want to do with my life beyond that. I mean, I want to get married, if I find that perfect guy, but staying at home and taking care of runny-nosed kids all day sounds like hell and a half. I could say I’d continue with dancing, professionally, but really, I’m just not that good. Just the other day, I did this really complicated en-pointe move – and promptly fell on my arse, right after. I’m mostly better than that, but my teacher keeps giving me dirty looks and telling me to stop drinking milk. One time, she came up to me and pinched my side. I wanted to deck her so bad, but I don’t want to get kicked out of class, either. The day I decide to quit dancing, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll bring a carton of milk with me to class, in my bag. Then, I’ll do the best work anyone’s ever seen me do. And then, after class if over, I’ll go up to Mme. Corey, and I’ll take that milk carton out of my bag, pour it all over her stupid head and tell her I’m quitting. That ought to leave an impression. No one will ever say Rose Ellison left with a whimper and not a bang.
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Date: 2008-08-02 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-02 01:55 am (UTC)