by Ruth Kaufman
What a great time this would be to have a boyfriend. Someone with whom to share a moment like this. Someone who’d care.
I shall find someone who cares. I call Andrea, but get voicemail. Naturally the message has her kids giggling and shrieking something unintelligible. Linda goes to voicemail. My friend Kim, with whom I’ve taken a couple of acting classes...voicemail.
Six calls later, and no luck. I can show my friends at work tomorrow where I know I’ll get the positive reception I seek, but I don’t want to wait that long. Or I could post it on my site and Facebook and see how many comments and likes I get, but I’d have to ask for permission first.
That leaves Mom and Dad. How ironic that the only people I’m sure to find available are the ones who’ve been least supportive.
Maybe my starring role in a commercial will earn some praise. Maybe they’ll finally think I’m good enough to be their child.
Why do I still care? I hear Dr. Smythe: “Why is your parents’ approval so important to you?”
“Because it makes me feel like a loser when they support and encourage Linda and Larry but not me.”
Some houses have plaques or signs saying, “Home is Where the Heart is.” My parents should hang a sign saying, “Home is Where We Only Like Linda & Larry.”
“That isn’t kind of your parents, to treat you differently from your siblings,” Dr. Smythe said. “Have you ever talked with them? Have you told them how this makes you feel?”
“My family isn’t like that. We never talk about anything real. We don’t know how. Surface issues only, please.”
“I see.” Dr. Smythe wrote some notes. “Do you think your parents would consider family counseling?”
“Definitely not. They love telling me how to change or what to do but would never see that they could use some improving, too.”
Dr. Smythe wasn’t going to let me off that easily. “You need to focus on doing what makes you happy, not what might please your parents. External praise is nice, but not essential. Self-esteem and happiness come from within. It’s about the journey, not the outcome.”
Like I didn’t know that. Easier said than done.
“Can the support you receive from others be enough?” he asked. His voice was so mellow, almost hypnotic. I wonder if he induces change by mesmerizing his patients. “How about the support you give yourself?”
Well, it’ll have to be enough, because I need lots of approval. I drink in compliments the way plants soak up water.
This sweeps me back to junior high, when Mrs. Alberts asked me and another girl, Sally, to leave the room. When she brought us back in a few minutes later, Mrs. A assigned us each half of the blackboard and told us to draw our dream houses. Sally and I began to create.
“Wow, Marla. I’d have a curving driveway just like that,” one of the girls said.
“Sally, that double door is lame,” volunteered a guy.
“Marla, cool guest house.”
The praise and criticism continued as our homes took shape.
Mine was Tudor style with a pointy roof. The class loved everything I drew and cheered on all my ideas, which prompted me to come up with more. Bigger, wilder plans. By the end, I’d included a gym, tennis courts, even a stable. I’d designed a huge mansion covering my entire half of the blackboard. My dream house was worthy of a movie star. I felt a euphoria such as I’d rarely known.
Sally’s house was a ramshackle shack encased in a fog of eraser marks.
Why? Because the teacher had told the class to encourage and support whatever I drew... no matter how silly or stupid the concept really was. She told the class to disparage and dislike anything Sally drew...even when she tried to copy things I’d added to my house.
Thus, I learned the awesome power of positive reinforcement and encouragement. How a kind word could send my heart soaring. How the slightest criticism from those who matter can send you into despair. I learned of the importance of receiving support even in the face of failure. Even when, to others, your dreams may not seem realistic.
Like wanting to be a working actress.
Thank goodness Mrs. A told the class to like my house, not Sally’s. Otherwise, I might’ve been scarred for life.
I am going to call my parents. I will show them my commercial. I won’t let what they think of it hurt me.
“Hello-ooo.” Mom has this scoopy way of answering the phone, starting low and ending high.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me. I just got my TV commercial. I’d like you guys to see it.”
I hear water running. My mom always does dishes by hand, though they have a Miehle dishwasher. I think she doesn’t know what else to do with her time.
“Who’s on the phone?” Dad yells.
“Marla.”
“What’s she want?”
“To show us her TV commercial.”
“Her what?”
“Her TV commercial,” Mom shouts. “For that store from God knows where. Why she drove all the way to Indianapolis for that I don’t understand.”
“Why are you running the water so long?”
“Mom....” I venture.
No response. Clearly, I’ve been forgotten.
“She wants to come all the way over here for 30 seconds? Now? In the middle of my golf tournament?” Dad’s voice is closer now. He must’ve actually gotten off his cushy leather sectional, complete with drink holders, and walked to the kitchen. As to his golf tournament, he means whichever one happens to be on at the moment.
“Here’s your fat free yogurt with low carb granola. That’s what she says.”
“Did you put in cinnamon? I don’t see any cinnamon.”
“Put in your own cinnamon. Here.” Something slams. Presumably the cinnamon.
They just don’t get it.
“Come on over then.” Mom sighs as if my visit will be a major imposition on their day. “Oh, on the way, stop at Jewel. I need tomatoes. Make sure you don’t get the ones loose in the bin but those good red ones on the vine. Get a pound. Wait a minute.” I hear a newspapery rustle, obviously this week’s specials. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Zucchini is on sale. Get three. No, four. Not fat ones, but nice, thin ones. No scratch marks.”
There’s a pause. I know she’s not done because my mother rarely ends a phone conversation without saying, “Later, alligator.” I don’t know why.
I’m biting my tongue. Every time I go to my parents’ house, one or the other asks me to run some errand on the way. And no please, no ‘thanks,’ no nothing. This is a most annoying family ritual I don’t know how to stop.
“And mushrooms. They’re buy one, get one free,” Mom drones on. “Later, alligator.”
“Sure. See you soon.”
This should be fun.
Half an hour later, armed with my laptop, a pound of good red ones on the vine, four not fat, but nice, thin zucchini with no scratch marks and two cartons of mushrooms, I arrive.
Their house looks like something out of Better Homes & Gardens. That’s because several years ago it was in BH&G. Mom and Dad live in a huge colonial decorated in shades of pale yellow and blue. To my eye the living room is a messy mish mash of conservative patterns, from stripes to florals. Various types of tumbled stone and high-end appliances with glazed maple panels to match the cabinets of different heights grace the kitchen, which Mom redoes every four years.
Mom accepts the produce without criticism, a pleasant start to my visit. I connect my laptop to their new media center.
There I am! The sixty-inch plasma reveals Jennifer, Anne and me on our bench, eating our salads. You can see parts of the extras walking by, but most of their heads are cut off.
“We love having lunch from Smithson’s. Smithson’s salad bar is fresher than fresh. And what a wide selection of lettuces, vegetables and toppings...all at Smithson’s everyday low prices,” I say.
Yes, I do look good, even in the closeups, even while chewing. Confident and convincing. I’d eat at Smithson’s salad bar after watchi
ng me.
The screen goes black for after the commercial ends. My parents haven’t said a word.
“Well?” I can’t resist asking.
They exchange a glance.
“Your hair’s on the frizzy side.” Mom. “Didn’t they have a hairdresser?”
“Your voice sounded high.” Dad. “Couldn’t they make it deeper?”
“They used a very nice park.” Mom and Dad in unison.
I knew I shouldn’t have raced over here.
My parents look at me with the same funny smiles on their faces. Their heads are tilted at the same angle. They’re the embodiment of Claire Wellington’s vision for the future in the remake of The Stepford Wives. They’re Stepford Parents.
I’ll never be good enough for them. That’s just the way it is.
A thought strikes me so hard I lean against the cushions. What if it’s my parents who aren’t good enough for me?
Why have I been trying so hard to make them appreciate me when maybe it should be the other way around? Do I owe them love...did they earn my everlasting devotion simply because they had me, raised me and paid for my education? There is a commandment to that effect, but I didn’t ask to be born.
In my mind, I see Dr. Smythe smile. I must be doing better, because I’m starting to think differently. To not only think, but know and believe everything isn’t my fault.
It hurts, but I can understand and accept that those I’m supposed to or do care about may disappoint me. They may not give me the support I need. They may not love me the way I want to be loved.
I can still love them.
I don’t need their approval. I approve of me, and that’s all that matters. What I have to do now is learn to make that be enough.
Chapter 12
My mental state is akin to the accountants in The Producers who sing about how unhappy they are.
Why? Another form letter talent agent rejection. More acting rejection in the form of two on camera auditions I didn’t book. And another first self-submit voiceover audition, which took much too long because I’m still challenged by the recording and editing program. I don’t like submitting from home because there’s no feedback. If the commercial spec says “not announcery,” it’s difficult for me to hear if I’ve achieved something that’s up to the client to decide.
And I had more career rejection. Despite having decided to remain in my current job until I earn some income from acting (I have to believe I’ll succeed, or why bother? Because it’s about the journey, not the outcome. Argh.), something compels me to keep searches running on a couple of job sites. On and off I’ve dreamed of being an author, and responded to an ad for an editor at a local publisher. I had a phone interview, which I thought went well. They said they’d get back to me. Which they did, with a form rejection e-mail.
I also applied for a newly created position at WZRJ: marketing director, which sounds like an interesting change. I have every skill listed in the post and know the hiring manager personally. But I didn’t get an interview, not a phone call, nothing. I got a form e-mail, with the subject header “Rejection Letter,” not even from the hiring manager but from some HR person mired in Barnaby Broadcasting’s corporate headquarters.
And who did they hire? A woman from outside the company with no radio or broadcasting experience but who supposedly is a whiz at marketing specialty soaps. If that wasn’t bad enough, her introductory e-mail had three typos. Nice.
Then boss Brenda asks me to teach Miss Newbie how to use the Arbi—Nielsen radio ratings.
Miss N wears a chic red suit and stilettos. Her lips and nails are red, too. We meet in her tiny office with pastel bars of soap in a bowl on the corner of her desk.
“As I’ve said, a rating is the percentage of listeners in a given population or demographic tuned in to a station at a certain time or daypart, such as morning drive, which is 6:00AM to 10:00AM. Advertisers often focus on AQH, or average quarter hour. The share is the percentage of those listening to radio who listen to a station.”
“Let me make sure I’m hearing you.” Her voice has a slight Southern twang I’d bet men find sexy. “A rating is the number of different people who tune in.”
I bite my tongue. I’ve explained the concepts a dozen times with examples from the ratings reports and led her to websites defining these and other radio industry terms. This is harder than teaching English as a second language. “That’s called cume persons. And the cume rating is cume persons divided by the population.”
I’m not proud of the urge to show my superiority and confuse her even more.
Please note that Jeff hasn’t called. Nor have I gotten any new online dating messages.
What a fun week. Thank you for listening, it really helps. I don’t mean to be full of complaints, but life is challenging despite my efforts to remain calmer. Despite my efforts not to let rejections get to me.
Time to do the only thing that’ll ease my suffering. Not drinking, not drugs, not even chocolate consumption. I’ll listen to music. Nothing improves my mood more than putting a musical on full blast, singing along and dancing.
I still use CDs because I find e-music libraries confusing. I slip Pippin into my player and turn up the volume all the way. Ben Vereen, the Players and I sing “Magic to Do” at the top of our lungs. I smile and start the next song.
Here’s hoping next week will be better. It has to be.
I’m going to take music appreciation to the next level and join a choir. I’ll get to do something I love and meet new people. Online searching leads me, of course, to the acclaimed Chicago Symphony Orchestra Chorus and Apollo Chorus. I’m not sure I’m good enough for either, nor are they auditioning right now. Here’s a community choir’s notice for a simple audition. ‘Bring sheet music or sing ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’”
Auditions and rehearsals are held in the basement of a church a few miles from my condo. Seated on the bench at a battered upright piano is a wiry man wearing a navy crewneck and wrinkled khakis, I assume the chorus director. Around twenty people of various ages and sizes wait in folding chairs, holding black folders or flipping through sheet music. Memories rush back. I love singing in choirs and the way individuals work together and blend to create a wondrous whole from chords and lyrics on the page.
“Are you here for the audition? I’m Marty Woods.” His voice is reedy and thin.
“Yes, I’m Marla.” I didn’t realize I’d have to sing in front of everyone, but I’m up for it.
I sing “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” Next I sing back a series of notes he plays and run through a few scales. For someone who’s spent years singing oratorios and complex choral works, this isn’t too challenging.
Marty hands me a black folder. “Welcome to Central City Chorale.”
Everyone bursts into applause.
I feel better already. And welcome.
A week later, after only one rehearsal and some at-home review, we have a performance at a large nursing home in the far suburbs. I carpool with Jackson, a thirty-something tenor who lives in my neighborhood. He spends the entire drive complaining about his boyfriend. Another relationship going awry.
Here’s a sample: “Davis won’t help renovate our house in Wicker Park that has outstanding early 1900’s original woodwork. I think the wood should stay, natch, with some buffing, but he wants to go contemporary. Whenever I buy new furniture or art, like the marvelous sculpture I found at the Gold Coast art fair, he makes me return it. We need to be on HGTV.”
The faster the car goes, the faster he talks. His mind must be as busy as mine. I’m happy when traffic slows to bumper to bumper and he stops blabbing.
The nursing home lobby is vaulted with a skylight. Perhaps so the residents who can’t go outside can see the light of day. The floors are super shiny, the smell reminiscent of bleach and forced cheer.
We begin in the cafeteria on the first floor. As the twenty-four of us—garbed in concert attire of black pants, red shirts, with red, white and blu
e striped ties for the men and matching scarves for the women—line up before our audience. A few have canes and walkers, but most ambulated on their own. Their expressions of heightened expectancy reveal this is the highlight of their day.
Our first song is a favorite of mine, a contemporary spiritual my high school choir sang called “Elijah Rock.” Once you start, you can’t get it out of your head. I still know my part by heart.
The residents seem to particularly enjoy the numbers they can sing along to, like “Daisy, Daisy” and “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue.” When we finish, age-spotted hands clap enthusiastically. Withered faces are wreathed in smiles.
“Encore, encore!” a woman calls.
“Thank you, you’ve been a wonderful audience. We’d love to stay and sing more for you, but we have to visit the other floors,” Marty says. He’s beaming.
Inside, I’m beaming too. What a wonderful way to combine something I love, something missing from my life, with bringing joy to others. I feel some stress molecules dissolve.
The group tromps to the second floor, and after performing there continues the trek up. By the third floor, I realize that the higher we go, the sicker the residents. By the time we reach the fifth floor, audience members slump in their wheelchairs and barely acknowledge our presence. No spark lights their rheumy eyes. They do not smile. They drool. Their skin is mottled and saggy.
Can anything penetrate their haze? Are they alive inside their shriveled bodies...and happier to be here than already dead? If Heaven is supposed to be paradise, a better place, wouldn’t they rather leave their motionless mortal bodies sooner rather than later?
These thoughts make me sad, and very, very afraid to grow old and infirm. That could be me some day.
Marty raises his arms, our cue to pay attention. Automatically, we sing pianissimo, ignoring the dynamics we’ve rehearsed, as if out of respect.
It’s hard for me to sing past the lump in my throat.
When we finish, there is no applause.