Showing posts with label nanowrimo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nanowrimo. Show all posts
Monday, December 13, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment VII for 2010
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Sunday, December 12, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment VI for 2010
Mary had offered a small note of hope. “If someone brings the paper in before the end of school today, maybe Mr. Russo won’t take of the points.”
“Yeah right, Russo relishes being a jerk. He’s jealous that no one here takes his precious history as seriously as he does. He can’t stand the fact that we’d all rather be doing piles, playing cello, or painting than memorizing who killed who when and why.” AP corrected. “Besides which you don’t know my parents. Their favorite phrase is ‘a lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on ours’ . No way they’d interrupt their precious, well planned days to bring homework to their irresponsible youngest daughter. The only one who gets away with acting like that is Moonbeam and that’s only because my parents are afraid that a public Moonbeam meltdown would damage their precious social standing.”
“Aretha!” Mary admonished. Startling AP was startled by the sound of her real name in the school hallway. Nobody called her Aretha, unless they were really mad at her. She glanced up at her fellow 12-year-old ballerina and knew that was still the case. The short, slightly pudgy dancer was a red as the lipstick MJ wore when he did drag. “That’s not okay. You shouldn’t envy your sister’s difficulties, even if it does get her stuff.”
“I know that was mean. I’m just having a bad day and felt the need to take it out on someone. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay, just think it can’t get much worse.”
“Don’t say that,” Mary warned. “My grandma says whenever you say that the universe makes it worse just to punish you for being so arrogant as to try and tempt it.”
“I’m not superstitious,” AP said.
After lunch, however, when AP went to get changed for her double period ballet technique class, she found out that while she had packed her pointe shoes, Her ballet slippers were missing. AP had packed her own dance bag since she was seven. She’d never forgotten one thing. She emerged from the locker room pale-faced and grabbed Mary and pulled her into the locker-room. “I forgot my slippers somehow! Jen’s going to kill me!” Jen was the head of the ballet concentration at PVPA. AP was one of her favorite new additions to the school’s dance department, but after today AP didn’t think that would be the case anymore. Jen’s favorite mantra was “an unprepared dancer will always be an unsuccessful one.”
“Relax! We take the same size shoe. You can borrow my spare pair.” Mary handed AP her dance bag and AP dug into it. “I might as well get changed to. Class starts in 10 minutes.” Seven minutes later, AP and Mary both emerged in black leotards, pink tights, and pink technique shoes. AP had wrestled her naturally wavy locks into a very controlled and spayed little ball. She envied Mary’s long, blond, obedient hair and wished for the thousandth time that her mother would relax her no daughter of mine is going to relax her hair while she lives my roof.” rule just for the days when she took ballet. But quickly realized that if her mother did that the rule would only have any affect on Sundays.
There was no way her Afrocentric, embrace you inner Nubian queen mother would ever go for that. There was also no way that AP could convince her mother that her desire to relax her hair was merely because like the way it looked not out of some desire to “sellout” or “act white”. AP caught a ride with Missy Taylor, one of the older girls to Advanced II class at Pioneer Valley ballet. She changed in the locker room. And really pushed herself in class. In fact, by the time she was done, the last thing she wanted to do was go back to South Hadley. But she had promised Moonbeam she’d be there to help start off the first ever BHMA Nanowrimo writing session. And no matter how tired she was (and even if she had somehow forgotten her laptop, which she discovered she had, what a day) AP never missed a chance to help other artist grow and experience the joy of finding a new art form. That simply wasn’t part of her being.
After AP checked in at main office, he set off to find the computer lab. It was supposed to close at 8pm, but somehow Moonbeam had managed to convince Kay, the school’s director to let it stay open these nights to accommodate her tiny group of writers. Moonbeam may have had difficulties no sane person would care to struggle with, but she was an organizer at heart, truly. Being their parents’ child AP wasn’t sure how much choice her sister had in that decision. Just like she wasn’t sure much of her desire to change the world through dance was really following the desires of her soul and what part of it was social programming.
AP peaked inside to see her sister typing away, along with three other writers and a staff chaperone. She was impressed Moonbeam looked so at home here. No bouncing off the walls hyperactivity. Just a person who’s whole focus was immersed in something she was trying to pull off. AP barely recognized her sister in this mode. She almost felt bad for breaking her concentration. But she politely cleared her throat anyway.
Moonbeam looked up and grinned. She clapped her hands and everyone stopped their work and looked at her. “This is my baby sister, Aretha.” AP blushed.
““I’m not a baby and you know no one calls me Aretha. Please call me AP.” she told the rest of the group.
“But your proper name is Aretha,” her sister argued, “I know, I helped make it.”
“I’m sorry I’m not as much of a hippie as you. You go around telling everyone your name is Moonbeam Essence like its normal or something.”
“When you’re someone like me, normality isn’t that big of a deal. I can’t have it anyway.” AP blushed again, this time at having such a personal conversation in public. She changed the subject.
“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”
“This is Betsy, and Donovan, this is Anna, and this is William. This is Tom, our staff.” AP looked them each in turn, taking an especially long time to take in William. So this too skinny, white boy the latest in Moonbeam’s long line of love ‘em and leave ‘em romantic entanglements. Within the confines of the National Williams Syndrome Association Moonbeam Washington-Williams was known as the “Heartbreak Queen.” A label she seemed to relish. It seemed to AP that her sister got a new boy toy every week. AP didn’t even get meet most of them. That was how fast her sister went through guys. The fact William was still around and peeking her sister’s interest 5 weeks after she’d met him met he must be pretty special. She’d heard all about him on the phone a month ago. Moonbeam said he was cute but she just didn’t see it. “To each there own,” she thought. To have her sister involved in something as normal as liking the same guy for longer than a carton of milk lasted in the fridge pleased her.
At 9:30, AP e-mailed herself that 1,100 words she’d managed to write, said good-bye to everyone, and walked outside to meet her father. Her total nonowrimo word count numbered at paltry 1, 457 . That was very bad. On the day three she was still try to meet what was the She was surprised when Moonbeam didn’t walk her out to the car and take the opportunity to say hello to there father. The same thing happened that next week. When it happened the 3rd time in a row, she asked to talk to her sister outside. Moonbeam bulked at leaving, but gave in once she saw the “obey me” look on her younger sister’s face.
The pair walked into the hallway. “What gives, Moon? Why don’t you ever come to see me off after writing group and why don’t you ever come say hi to daddy. Moonbeam Essence, you’re more a daddy’s girl than I am. And he comes to your school and you don’t even say hi. What’s up?”
Moonbeam blushed. “It’s kind of… William.”
“William?”
“Yes, he’s the first boy I’ve really liked. Liked enough to care what daddy thinks, what mom thinks, what MJ and even you think,” Moonbeam said simply. “I am just trying to figure out the best way to introduce everyone to him.” Moonbeam confessed, smiling shyly.
“Wow, I never heard you talk this way about anyone.”
“He’s special,” her sister’s smile broadened. “I should get back to everyone. Say hi to daddy.” With that, her sister turned on her heel and walked back into the room to rejoin her friends. AP went outside where she suspected her father would be waiting. And he was.
By the time she reached home it was 9:34 Bedtime was 11 o’clock on weeknights, although AP was allowed to leave the lights on and do homework as long as she had no trouble getting up for school the next morning. Her mother said that AP was big enough this year to determine when she needed sleep and as long as her grades didn’t suffer and she wasn’t grouchy in the mornings who was another person to attempt to regulate her personal biorhythms.
AP enjoyed the new MJom, as she peeled off her sneakers and put on her technique shoes. She was busy practicing the new steps for the piece of student choreography that was do premiere at the high school open mic this Friday. AP was honored to be the first 7th grader asked to perform at a high school open mic this year.
“Very nice!” came her mother voice from the doorway. “But it’s bedtime.”
“Can I have 15 more minutes?”
“You know the rules, young lady. You don’t have to go to sleep. But you need go to bed at 11, Sunday to Thursday”
“Yes, I know the rules. I’m just asking for an exception once. I did get an A on my math test.”
“I see your point. Just this once unless you bring me some more As. I’ll be back in 15 minutes. Have fun. The 15 minutes passed in what to AP seemed the intake of a breath. Pretty soon her mother was back in her doorway. AP thought of asking for another 15 minutes but knew there was no way that would work. At least she was pleased with the way she was making up the movement. She knew a lot of people at PVPA were wondering if Amy Lipsky, a friend of hers from Advanced II at Pioneer Valley Ballet had decided to put her in the contemporary piece that she’d spent all the previous summer creating.
“Yeah right, Russo relishes being a jerk. He’s jealous that no one here takes his precious history as seriously as he does. He can’t stand the fact that we’d all rather be doing piles, playing cello, or painting than memorizing who killed who when and why.” AP corrected. “Besides which you don’t know my parents. Their favorite phrase is ‘a lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on ours’ . No way they’d interrupt their precious, well planned days to bring homework to their irresponsible youngest daughter. The only one who gets away with acting like that is Moonbeam and that’s only because my parents are afraid that a public Moonbeam meltdown would damage their precious social standing.”
“Aretha!” Mary admonished. Startling AP was startled by the sound of her real name in the school hallway. Nobody called her Aretha, unless they were really mad at her. She glanced up at her fellow 12-year-old ballerina and knew that was still the case. The short, slightly pudgy dancer was a red as the lipstick MJ wore when he did drag. “That’s not okay. You shouldn’t envy your sister’s difficulties, even if it does get her stuff.”
“I know that was mean. I’m just having a bad day and felt the need to take it out on someone. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay, just think it can’t get much worse.”
“Don’t say that,” Mary warned. “My grandma says whenever you say that the universe makes it worse just to punish you for being so arrogant as to try and tempt it.”
“I’m not superstitious,” AP said.
After lunch, however, when AP went to get changed for her double period ballet technique class, she found out that while she had packed her pointe shoes, Her ballet slippers were missing. AP had packed her own dance bag since she was seven. She’d never forgotten one thing. She emerged from the locker room pale-faced and grabbed Mary and pulled her into the locker-room. “I forgot my slippers somehow! Jen’s going to kill me!” Jen was the head of the ballet concentration at PVPA. AP was one of her favorite new additions to the school’s dance department, but after today AP didn’t think that would be the case anymore. Jen’s favorite mantra was “an unprepared dancer will always be an unsuccessful one.”
“Relax! We take the same size shoe. You can borrow my spare pair.” Mary handed AP her dance bag and AP dug into it. “I might as well get changed to. Class starts in 10 minutes.” Seven minutes later, AP and Mary both emerged in black leotards, pink tights, and pink technique shoes. AP had wrestled her naturally wavy locks into a very controlled and spayed little ball. She envied Mary’s long, blond, obedient hair and wished for the thousandth time that her mother would relax her no daughter of mine is going to relax her hair while she lives my roof.” rule just for the days when she took ballet. But quickly realized that if her mother did that the rule would only have any affect on Sundays.
There was no way her Afrocentric, embrace you inner Nubian queen mother would ever go for that. There was also no way that AP could convince her mother that her desire to relax her hair was merely because like the way it looked not out of some desire to “sellout” or “act white”. AP caught a ride with Missy Taylor, one of the older girls to Advanced II class at Pioneer Valley ballet. She changed in the locker room. And really pushed herself in class. In fact, by the time she was done, the last thing she wanted to do was go back to South Hadley. But she had promised Moonbeam she’d be there to help start off the first ever BHMA Nanowrimo writing session. And no matter how tired she was (and even if she had somehow forgotten her laptop, which she discovered she had, what a day) AP never missed a chance to help other artist grow and experience the joy of finding a new art form. That simply wasn’t part of her being.
After AP checked in at main office, he set off to find the computer lab. It was supposed to close at 8pm, but somehow Moonbeam had managed to convince Kay, the school’s director to let it stay open these nights to accommodate her tiny group of writers. Moonbeam may have had difficulties no sane person would care to struggle with, but she was an organizer at heart, truly. Being their parents’ child AP wasn’t sure how much choice her sister had in that decision. Just like she wasn’t sure much of her desire to change the world through dance was really following the desires of her soul and what part of it was social programming.
AP peaked inside to see her sister typing away, along with three other writers and a staff chaperone. She was impressed Moonbeam looked so at home here. No bouncing off the walls hyperactivity. Just a person who’s whole focus was immersed in something she was trying to pull off. AP barely recognized her sister in this mode. She almost felt bad for breaking her concentration. But she politely cleared her throat anyway.
Moonbeam looked up and grinned. She clapped her hands and everyone stopped their work and looked at her. “This is my baby sister, Aretha.” AP blushed.
““I’m not a baby and you know no one calls me Aretha. Please call me AP.” she told the rest of the group.
“But your proper name is Aretha,” her sister argued, “I know, I helped make it.”
“I’m sorry I’m not as much of a hippie as you. You go around telling everyone your name is Moonbeam Essence like its normal or something.”
“When you’re someone like me, normality isn’t that big of a deal. I can’t have it anyway.” AP blushed again, this time at having such a personal conversation in public. She changed the subject.
“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”
“This is Betsy, and Donovan, this is Anna, and this is William. This is Tom, our staff.” AP looked them each in turn, taking an especially long time to take in William. So this too skinny, white boy the latest in Moonbeam’s long line of love ‘em and leave ‘em romantic entanglements. Within the confines of the National Williams Syndrome Association Moonbeam Washington-Williams was known as the “Heartbreak Queen.” A label she seemed to relish. It seemed to AP that her sister got a new boy toy every week. AP didn’t even get meet most of them. That was how fast her sister went through guys. The fact William was still around and peeking her sister’s interest 5 weeks after she’d met him met he must be pretty special. She’d heard all about him on the phone a month ago. Moonbeam said he was cute but she just didn’t see it. “To each there own,” she thought. To have her sister involved in something as normal as liking the same guy for longer than a carton of milk lasted in the fridge pleased her.
At 9:30, AP e-mailed herself that 1,100 words she’d managed to write, said good-bye to everyone, and walked outside to meet her father. Her total nonowrimo word count numbered at paltry 1, 457 . That was very bad. On the day three she was still try to meet what was the She was surprised when Moonbeam didn’t walk her out to the car and take the opportunity to say hello to there father. The same thing happened that next week. When it happened the 3rd time in a row, she asked to talk to her sister outside. Moonbeam bulked at leaving, but gave in once she saw the “obey me” look on her younger sister’s face.
The pair walked into the hallway. “What gives, Moon? Why don’t you ever come to see me off after writing group and why don’t you ever come say hi to daddy. Moonbeam Essence, you’re more a daddy’s girl than I am. And he comes to your school and you don’t even say hi. What’s up?”
Moonbeam blushed. “It’s kind of… William.”
“William?”
“Yes, he’s the first boy I’ve really liked. Liked enough to care what daddy thinks, what mom thinks, what MJ and even you think,” Moonbeam said simply. “I am just trying to figure out the best way to introduce everyone to him.” Moonbeam confessed, smiling shyly.
“Wow, I never heard you talk this way about anyone.”
“He’s special,” her sister’s smile broadened. “I should get back to everyone. Say hi to daddy.” With that, her sister turned on her heel and walked back into the room to rejoin her friends. AP went outside where she suspected her father would be waiting. And he was.
By the time she reached home it was 9:34 Bedtime was 11 o’clock on weeknights, although AP was allowed to leave the lights on and do homework as long as she had no trouble getting up for school the next morning. Her mother said that AP was big enough this year to determine when she needed sleep and as long as her grades didn’t suffer and she wasn’t grouchy in the mornings who was another person to attempt to regulate her personal biorhythms.
AP enjoyed the new MJom, as she peeled off her sneakers and put on her technique shoes. She was busy practicing the new steps for the piece of student choreography that was do premiere at the high school open mic this Friday. AP was honored to be the first 7th grader asked to perform at a high school open mic this year.
“Very nice!” came her mother voice from the doorway. “But it’s bedtime.”
“Can I have 15 more minutes?”
“You know the rules, young lady. You don’t have to go to sleep. But you need go to bed at 11, Sunday to Thursday”
“Yes, I know the rules. I’m just asking for an exception once. I did get an A on my math test.”
“I see your point. Just this once unless you bring me some more As. I’ll be back in 15 minutes. Have fun. The 15 minutes passed in what to AP seemed the intake of a breath. Pretty soon her mother was back in her doorway. AP thought of asking for another 15 minutes but knew there was no way that would work. At least she was pleased with the way she was making up the movement. She knew a lot of people at PVPA were wondering if Amy Lipsky, a friend of hers from Advanced II at Pioneer Valley Ballet had decided to put her in the contemporary piece that she’d spent all the previous summer creating.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment V for 2010
“Nice save,” he said. She smiled, glancing around the room. Four hands were in the air. “Yes, Mitch?” AP called on the 7th grade violinist.
“What’s wrong with your sister?’
AP bristled. “Nothing. She has disability called Williams Syndrome. According to google, that means that she has “a rare congenital disorder associated with deletion of genetic material in chromosome 7; characterized by mental deficiency and some growth deficiency and elfin faces but an overly social personality and a remarkable gift for vocabulary. In reality makes her high strung, hyper, and a bit emotionally volatile. She’s a little slow on the uptake, but she does learn. My mother spent months teaching her the bus routes. Now she can go anywhere she wants all by herself. She’s memorized every bus route. She could you what buses to take to get from South Deerfield to Springfield and back without ever having to consult a schedule.” AP smiled, as she noticed that a few of her classmates looked impressed.
“ She takes budgeting and learning to do laundry and make her own food,” AP continued. “ She can play music by ear. She plays the panio, flute, and violin. She sings really complicated material really beautifully. She goes to Berkshire Hills Music Academy. It’s a special postsecondary school for musical people with developmental delays. She with her roommate Julie, in a dorm on the second floor. The school only has one building I love her just the way she is. At least she’s not rude like some people I could mention.” she glared at Mitch who shriveled into his seat.
“Are there any other questions?” Mr. Russo moved quickly to disarm the tension. “Alison, how about you? Why don’t you ask Aretha about her very well presented report?” said Mr. Russo. Mr. Russo didn’t believe in nicknames, AP was listed as Aretha on his roster, so Aretha she would be called in his classroom. There was no room for democratic negotiation in his class, unlike other teachers classrooms at PVPA. He also didn’t let students call him by his first name. “I know it’s old fashioned, particularly in a place like this. But it feels disrespectful.”
“How did your mom come to take the position at Mount Holyoke? I mean she sounds like a seriously accomplished artist and why is she taking a non-paying fellowship.”
“That’s a good question,” said Mr. Russo, relieved at the change in topic.
AP considered. “Well, my dad is here for a year. And, I think although of course I can’t truly tell you what her motivations were because I’m not her, she wanted to make sure MJ and Moonbeam were settled in at school properly and taking this fellowship would although her plenty free time to intervene if she needed to. Paying visiting professorships wouldn’t allow that freedom. But, my mom being my mom, just couldn’t sit around for a whole year playing wifey and doing nothing to stimulate her mind. She loves making art and educating young people. When dad goes back to Yale, she’ll return to chairing the Art Department at Gateway Community College.”
The last two students with raised hands asked about the Freedon Rides. After 10 more minutes, AP was permitted to return to her seat.”Very nice, Aretha,”
After class, Mary one of the few people she was stating to think of as her bestfriend in the strange, new world of PVPA, said, “I’m sorry about Mitch. He just lost two rating points for being an insensitive jerk.” Mary kept an ongoing list of every boy in school, rating them from high to low in terms of future husband potential. She had several factors that determined a boy’s standing: They were, in no order particular order: interest in girls, personality, sense of humor, motivation, money (because she figured the more money they made the less she’d need to make from dancing), and physical appeal. Each factor was given a 1 to 10 rating Freddie Murray the sophomore dancer, who’s arabesque was the envy of the dance department, was atop the list right now. He ranked an astounding 47 out of 60. The only reason was nearer the perfect 60 was that his interest in girls was less than zero and his family was middle class on their best days and working class on their worst. Mitch ranked an already poor 22. This deduction would make a 20. And move him into the lowest 10 percent in Mary’s rating system.
AP didn’t much care for the system. Usually whenever Mary brought it up, she changed the subject. Being the daughter of an ardent feminist, she could hear her mother’s unspoken critique within the walls of her brain without even thinking to hard “Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams, we can’t object to men talking to our breasts instead of looking us in the eye or cat calling us in the street, if we’re going to do the same thing to them.”
Under normal circumstances, AP supported her mother’s position, but today because he dared ask “What’s wrong with your sister?” in the tone of voice that AP had learned was a bad disguise for unspoken bigotry by the time she was 6, she egged Mary on. “Doesn’t that move him into the bottom 10%?”
Mary removed a notebook from her backpack, flipped to the section labeled “PVPA hotties and the otherwise” and consulted it. The notebook made AP uncomfortable. “It was on thing,” she thought, “to rank boys. It was another thing to keep records of these rankings and treat them like they actually mattered. “Yes,” she said with a giggle, “It does.” AP laughed deeply, despite her reservations.
Two weeks later, it the official start of National Novel Writing Month or Nanowrimo. This would be AP, MJ, and Moonbeam’s fifth year in the worldwide endeavor. The young organizer and artist in AP was drawn into the idea that she and her siblings were involved in a process that 150,000 people worldwide (99.99% of whom they would never meet) was appealing to her. Even if she was incredibly busy which she was, there was no way she was going to miss the opportunity.
But November 2nd was not a very good for day for AP. Her mom always called her the Diva of Organization, but that day she proved that even divas had their off days. In A block, she discovered that her much sweated over and well researched paper was somehow missing. This was despite the fact that she remembered the feel of the folder in her fingers, the sound of the book bag unzipping and rezipping to accept the precious document, she had left somehow left her Malcom vs. Martin paper at home. Mr. Russo had not been amused and AP was sure he would deduct every bit of the bit of the threatened half grade for turning in the paper 24 hours late.
“What’s wrong with your sister?’
AP bristled. “Nothing. She has disability called Williams Syndrome. According to google, that means that she has “a rare congenital disorder associated with deletion of genetic material in chromosome 7; characterized by mental deficiency and some growth deficiency and elfin faces but an overly social personality and a remarkable gift for vocabulary. In reality makes her high strung, hyper, and a bit emotionally volatile. She’s a little slow on the uptake, but she does learn. My mother spent months teaching her the bus routes. Now she can go anywhere she wants all by herself. She’s memorized every bus route. She could you what buses to take to get from South Deerfield to Springfield and back without ever having to consult a schedule.” AP smiled, as she noticed that a few of her classmates looked impressed.
“ She takes budgeting and learning to do laundry and make her own food,” AP continued. “ She can play music by ear. She plays the panio, flute, and violin. She sings really complicated material really beautifully. She goes to Berkshire Hills Music Academy. It’s a special postsecondary school for musical people with developmental delays. She with her roommate Julie, in a dorm on the second floor. The school only has one building I love her just the way she is. At least she’s not rude like some people I could mention.” she glared at Mitch who shriveled into his seat.
“Are there any other questions?” Mr. Russo moved quickly to disarm the tension. “Alison, how about you? Why don’t you ask Aretha about her very well presented report?” said Mr. Russo. Mr. Russo didn’t believe in nicknames, AP was listed as Aretha on his roster, so Aretha she would be called in his classroom. There was no room for democratic negotiation in his class, unlike other teachers classrooms at PVPA. He also didn’t let students call him by his first name. “I know it’s old fashioned, particularly in a place like this. But it feels disrespectful.”
“How did your mom come to take the position at Mount Holyoke? I mean she sounds like a seriously accomplished artist and why is she taking a non-paying fellowship.”
“That’s a good question,” said Mr. Russo, relieved at the change in topic.
AP considered. “Well, my dad is here for a year. And, I think although of course I can’t truly tell you what her motivations were because I’m not her, she wanted to make sure MJ and Moonbeam were settled in at school properly and taking this fellowship would although her plenty free time to intervene if she needed to. Paying visiting professorships wouldn’t allow that freedom. But, my mom being my mom, just couldn’t sit around for a whole year playing wifey and doing nothing to stimulate her mind. She loves making art and educating young people. When dad goes back to Yale, she’ll return to chairing the Art Department at Gateway Community College.”
The last two students with raised hands asked about the Freedon Rides. After 10 more minutes, AP was permitted to return to her seat.”Very nice, Aretha,”
After class, Mary one of the few people she was stating to think of as her bestfriend in the strange, new world of PVPA, said, “I’m sorry about Mitch. He just lost two rating points for being an insensitive jerk.” Mary kept an ongoing list of every boy in school, rating them from high to low in terms of future husband potential. She had several factors that determined a boy’s standing: They were, in no order particular order: interest in girls, personality, sense of humor, motivation, money (because she figured the more money they made the less she’d need to make from dancing), and physical appeal. Each factor was given a 1 to 10 rating Freddie Murray the sophomore dancer, who’s arabesque was the envy of the dance department, was atop the list right now. He ranked an astounding 47 out of 60. The only reason was nearer the perfect 60 was that his interest in girls was less than zero and his family was middle class on their best days and working class on their worst. Mitch ranked an already poor 22. This deduction would make a 20. And move him into the lowest 10 percent in Mary’s rating system.
AP didn’t much care for the system. Usually whenever Mary brought it up, she changed the subject. Being the daughter of an ardent feminist, she could hear her mother’s unspoken critique within the walls of her brain without even thinking to hard “Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams, we can’t object to men talking to our breasts instead of looking us in the eye or cat calling us in the street, if we’re going to do the same thing to them.”
Under normal circumstances, AP supported her mother’s position, but today because he dared ask “What’s wrong with your sister?” in the tone of voice that AP had learned was a bad disguise for unspoken bigotry by the time she was 6, she egged Mary on. “Doesn’t that move him into the bottom 10%?”
Mary removed a notebook from her backpack, flipped to the section labeled “PVPA hotties and the otherwise” and consulted it. The notebook made AP uncomfortable. “It was on thing,” she thought, “to rank boys. It was another thing to keep records of these rankings and treat them like they actually mattered. “Yes,” she said with a giggle, “It does.” AP laughed deeply, despite her reservations.
Two weeks later, it the official start of National Novel Writing Month or Nanowrimo. This would be AP, MJ, and Moonbeam’s fifth year in the worldwide endeavor. The young organizer and artist in AP was drawn into the idea that she and her siblings were involved in a process that 150,000 people worldwide (99.99% of whom they would never meet) was appealing to her. Even if she was incredibly busy which she was, there was no way she was going to miss the opportunity.
But November 2nd was not a very good for day for AP. Her mom always called her the Diva of Organization, but that day she proved that even divas had their off days. In A block, she discovered that her much sweated over and well researched paper was somehow missing. This was despite the fact that she remembered the feel of the folder in her fingers, the sound of the book bag unzipping and rezipping to accept the precious document, she had left somehow left her Malcom vs. Martin paper at home. Mr. Russo had not been amused and AP was sure he would deduct every bit of the bit of the threatened half grade for turning in the paper 24 hours late.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment IV for 2010
They graduated both from UMass in 1969. He’d gone to Howard to get his doctorate in history and seeking to relish the experience of being surrounded by my black intellectuals in the nation’s capitol. He had, of course, invited his beloved Belle to join him.
She’d refused. Being a liberated woman, there was no way Isabella Washington was going to simply follow a man somewhere. Even if she did love him more than the moon as she told all of their friends. Upon graduation, she’d packed her own bags upon graduation and headed her own way. To NYU and a certificate in museum studies, to go along with her dual master’s degrees in sculpture and Africana Studies. It had taken her three years and my father was on the train from DC to New York so often that the regular train crew knew him by name. ‘Off to see that girl of yours?’ They’d joke as he pulled out the always rumpled ticket from his pocket. When Amtrak was founded in 1971, he’d gotten a 10-trip commuter pass which had cost him an entire week’s salary from his two menial jobs as a grocery bagger and a burger flipper at McDonalds. Odd jobs to have for you were an ethical vegetarian as he and Belle both were and still are. So are their three offspring! Anyway he told me that He’d always blush and fork over the ticket in spite of the teasing.
Now, she’s here as a fellow at Five College Woman Studies Center. They don’t pay her, but she’s influencing tons of young women and getting a free place to display her art as well as internet access, a bus pass, and a student assistant. It’s not like matters much, my father makes enough money to support them both, she said. Then realizing what sort of woman that made her mother sound like added quickly, “Not that she would. My mother contributes 50% of her earned income to house. Her money pays our allowances. I get $10 and my sister and brother get $25 each. After that, whatever’s left over gets divided between the holiday fund, the vacation club, and the emergency fund.”When they got married in the June of 1972 merely because neither set of parents would condone their living together and this a direct quote from my mother “the social appropriateness of matrimony.”
Her classmates laughed. I know I thought it funny, too,” AP admitted. “But I guess that’s how it was back it the day.”
AP couldn’t resist adding just one more ‘How cool is my mother’ fact my mother refused to take my father’s name unless he took hers to, so they both changed their names to became Washington-Williams. Diploma in hand, she moved to DC to be with him that July. I don’t think they’ve spent longer than 2 weeks apart ever since. But my father’s buddies at Howard teased him mercilessly about changing his name just to get a girl.
He replied that Belle which just some girl, she was the girl and that they were just jealous. After she came to live with him, he caught back to one job, because he didn’t need to by a train ticket every other week. She made enough money teaching and selling art that that he could quit working complete during his dissertation defense year and just write. This was something else his friends with rather horrible about. To my father’s credit, he always told him that they wished they were that lucky and had found such accomplished women for themselves.” He defended his dissertation in April of 1975 and became in associate professor of history at Hendrix College that fall. My mother got a job as an adjunct in the Hendrix art Department, which later turned into an associate professorship of her own. My father was awarded a full professorship and helped found the Africana Studies department there. They saw the population grow
from 15,000 when they arrived to over 25,000 when they left.
My mom applied to teach at Spellman in 1991 and my father used his sabbatical year, and a separate jobs opportunities teaching two classes each at Morehouse and Spellman follow her for a year. He thought they’d go back to Arkansas at the end of year, but it didn’t work out that way. My mother was always a city girl and even though she loved exposing her Hendrix students to new things, it didn’t take long for Atlanta and Spellman to steal her affections.
She told my father that she would stay in Atlanta and he could go back to Arkansas. It was only a nine hour trip by car, 3 hours by plane. They’d seen each other every Thursday through Sunday. More than most 2 income couples, she reasoned. Plus they would have more to talk about and actually be happy when they did see each other. This arrangement would enable them both to pursue their careers in places that suited them. This arrangement continued until my mother found herself pregnant in mid-October. At almost 40, she knew this was probably her last chance to have a biological child.
My father completed his contracted year at Hendrix, and applied for teaching job at Morehouse. He got it. It was just an associate professorship, but it was a job that let him live with his wife and take care of his family.
She moved down the poster board. “ On to my generation.” That’s my big brother, Morgan Abraham Washington-Williams, Jr. We call him MJ. She pointed at the picture of her brother from when he played Jesus in Jesus Christ, Superstar last year at the Shubert Theater. He goes to Hampshire College were he studies musical theater and video game design. He’s a freshman. I have a big sister. They’re fraternal twins. My parents named her Moonbeam because my mother always said, as I told you before that she loves my father more than the moon. They’ve been married 38 years now.
I was an unexpected silver anniversary present. They actually found out on the day of. In case you’re curious at 46, my mom was still was a full decade ahead of the oldest woman to have a kid the old fashioned way. Her classmates giggled. She blushed and wondered if, contrary to daddy’s opinion, there actually was such a thing as too much information.
“You see, my parents are very ecologically minded, they planned to only have two kids one to replace each of them. They thought about not having me, but my mom said one the saw the sonogram that idea went out the window. In order to make me truly the family’s baby instead of just theirs, they wanted my siblings to have a part in my naming. Moonbeam and MJ got to give me one name each. They flipped a coin to determine who got to give me my first name and you would give me my middle name. “ She paused “My brother won and as he worshiped Aretha Franklin at the age of 12. In fact, he still does. He was her for Halloween last year. My sister was really into Pocahontas the time. She can still sing every song on the soundtrack. That’s why she wanted to call me Pocahontas. My parents tried to talk her out of that, but to no avail. My birth certificate actually says Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams.” her classmates laughed again. “Is it any wonder I go by AP? Thank you for listening.” she did a curtsy and started to return to her to her seat.
Then she stopped, remembering to ask, “Are there any questions?” Mr. Russo had told the 7th graders that he would deduct 10 points from the grade of anyone who forgot to ask that.
She’d refused. Being a liberated woman, there was no way Isabella Washington was going to simply follow a man somewhere. Even if she did love him more than the moon as she told all of their friends. Upon graduation, she’d packed her own bags upon graduation and headed her own way. To NYU and a certificate in museum studies, to go along with her dual master’s degrees in sculpture and Africana Studies. It had taken her three years and my father was on the train from DC to New York so often that the regular train crew knew him by name. ‘Off to see that girl of yours?’ They’d joke as he pulled out the always rumpled ticket from his pocket. When Amtrak was founded in 1971, he’d gotten a 10-trip commuter pass which had cost him an entire week’s salary from his two menial jobs as a grocery bagger and a burger flipper at McDonalds. Odd jobs to have for you were an ethical vegetarian as he and Belle both were and still are. So are their three offspring! Anyway he told me that He’d always blush and fork over the ticket in spite of the teasing.
Now, she’s here as a fellow at Five College Woman Studies Center. They don’t pay her, but she’s influencing tons of young women and getting a free place to display her art as well as internet access, a bus pass, and a student assistant. It’s not like matters much, my father makes enough money to support them both, she said. Then realizing what sort of woman that made her mother sound like added quickly, “Not that she would. My mother contributes 50% of her earned income to house. Her money pays our allowances. I get $10 and my sister and brother get $25 each. After that, whatever’s left over gets divided between the holiday fund, the vacation club, and the emergency fund.”When they got married in the June of 1972 merely because neither set of parents would condone their living together and this a direct quote from my mother “the social appropriateness of matrimony.”
Her classmates laughed. I know I thought it funny, too,” AP admitted. “But I guess that’s how it was back it the day.”
AP couldn’t resist adding just one more ‘How cool is my mother’ fact my mother refused to take my father’s name unless he took hers to, so they both changed their names to became Washington-Williams. Diploma in hand, she moved to DC to be with him that July. I don’t think they’ve spent longer than 2 weeks apart ever since. But my father’s buddies at Howard teased him mercilessly about changing his name just to get a girl.
He replied that Belle which just some girl, she was the girl and that they were just jealous. After she came to live with him, he caught back to one job, because he didn’t need to by a train ticket every other week. She made enough money teaching and selling art that that he could quit working complete during his dissertation defense year and just write. This was something else his friends with rather horrible about. To my father’s credit, he always told him that they wished they were that lucky and had found such accomplished women for themselves.” He defended his dissertation in April of 1975 and became in associate professor of history at Hendrix College that fall. My mother got a job as an adjunct in the Hendrix art Department, which later turned into an associate professorship of her own. My father was awarded a full professorship and helped found the Africana Studies department there. They saw the population grow
from 15,000 when they arrived to over 25,000 when they left.
My mom applied to teach at Spellman in 1991 and my father used his sabbatical year, and a separate jobs opportunities teaching two classes each at Morehouse and Spellman follow her for a year. He thought they’d go back to Arkansas at the end of year, but it didn’t work out that way. My mother was always a city girl and even though she loved exposing her Hendrix students to new things, it didn’t take long for Atlanta and Spellman to steal her affections.
She told my father that she would stay in Atlanta and he could go back to Arkansas. It was only a nine hour trip by car, 3 hours by plane. They’d seen each other every Thursday through Sunday. More than most 2 income couples, she reasoned. Plus they would have more to talk about and actually be happy when they did see each other. This arrangement would enable them both to pursue their careers in places that suited them. This arrangement continued until my mother found herself pregnant in mid-October. At almost 40, she knew this was probably her last chance to have a biological child.
My father completed his contracted year at Hendrix, and applied for teaching job at Morehouse. He got it. It was just an associate professorship, but it was a job that let him live with his wife and take care of his family.
She moved down the poster board. “ On to my generation.” That’s my big brother, Morgan Abraham Washington-Williams, Jr. We call him MJ. She pointed at the picture of her brother from when he played Jesus in Jesus Christ, Superstar last year at the Shubert Theater. He goes to Hampshire College were he studies musical theater and video game design. He’s a freshman. I have a big sister. They’re fraternal twins. My parents named her Moonbeam because my mother always said, as I told you before that she loves my father more than the moon. They’ve been married 38 years now.
I was an unexpected silver anniversary present. They actually found out on the day of. In case you’re curious at 46, my mom was still was a full decade ahead of the oldest woman to have a kid the old fashioned way. Her classmates giggled. She blushed and wondered if, contrary to daddy’s opinion, there actually was such a thing as too much information.
“You see, my parents are very ecologically minded, they planned to only have two kids one to replace each of them. They thought about not having me, but my mom said one the saw the sonogram that idea went out the window. In order to make me truly the family’s baby instead of just theirs, they wanted my siblings to have a part in my naming. Moonbeam and MJ got to give me one name each. They flipped a coin to determine who got to give me my first name and you would give me my middle name. “ She paused “My brother won and as he worshiped Aretha Franklin at the age of 12. In fact, he still does. He was her for Halloween last year. My sister was really into Pocahontas the time. She can still sing every song on the soundtrack. That’s why she wanted to call me Pocahontas. My parents tried to talk her out of that, but to no avail. My birth certificate actually says Aretha Pocahontas Washington-Williams.” her classmates laughed again. “Is it any wonder I go by AP? Thank you for listening.” she did a curtsy and started to return to her to her seat.
Then she stopped, remembering to ask, “Are there any questions?” Mr. Russo had told the 7th graders that he would deduct 10 points from the grade of anyone who forgot to ask that.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment III for 2010
So far, she’d been holding her own. In the past week, she’d gotten an A on an English paper, a B+ on a report on the Shay’s Rebellion. A B on a science quiz, and a disappointing C on her latest middle school advanced math homework.
The biggest test thus far over whether she maintain before her grueling dance schedule and meet her father’s academic standards came on October 15th. AP bounded by her mother and father on the stairs. She full backpack and had a dance bag dangling from her left shoulder. She also managed to carry a large red, trifold, poster board all without falling over.
“Morning, daddy! Morning, mama! Remember you’re driving me to school today, right?”
“Yes, princess! I remember,” her father said, “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“ Don’t you run down these stairs, young lady, ” warned her mother. “If you fall down and crack your head, you won’t be giving any reports this morning or dancing Sugar Plum in December. You’ll have to spend the whole day getting patched up in the ER instead. And I don’t have to spend all day sitting there with you. I’ve got work to do that’s not going to put itself off because my youngest child, who’s old enough to know better, took a header down some stairs.”
“Gee, I love you, too.” AP shot back. Her father didn’t care for her tone and shot her one of his looks.
“Sorry, mama. I can’t be late,” AP knew she whining but didn’t care. “Mr. Russo loves to write detention slips.” AP walked down the few remaining stairs at a more reasonable rate.
“So you mentioned about 5 times yesterday,” her father said. “Don’t worry you know how important I think education is. You’re not going to be late on my account.” he kissed her mother on the cheek as she gave his tie a final smoothing. “I have to go before our youngest decides to hotwire the car and drive herself to school.”
Her mother smiled. “You drive safe now, Morgan, your carrying precious cargo. Call me when you get a minute. I’m going to be working in the studio all morning. Then I’m giving a lecture on African Art history at the Research Center. Maybe we can grab a bite after that, before we go have to go pick up on our resident ballerina and hear how stellar she was in rehearsal today.”
AP blushed. She could hear her parents clearly and her mother’s comments made her sound four. “Daddy, c’mon!” she called and was relieved to hear his footsteps a moment later. AP was a 7th grade dance major at the Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Charter School. Going to the school was the only positive
thing, as far as she was concerned about the move from New Haven. Maybe if she did well at PVPA, she’d have a prayer of convincing her father to let her enroll in the Walnut Hill School] for the Arts (where she’d major in ballet) or Innerlochen Arts Academy where she could study in the rigorous comparative arts department, combing her various love of writing and ballet.
Daddy said that because the New Haven Public School system had a very good dance program, that also allow to explore her other artistic interest and take rigorous academic courses. She’d be going to Cooperative Arts & Humanities Interdistrict Magnet right in New Haven which was free, supported by his tax dollars, and most importantly, met he “got to keep his youngest daughter at little girl for just a little longer.” As badly as AP wanted the prestige that came with a Walnut Hill or Innerlochen diploma, she had to admit that going to Coop, as it was called, wouldn’t be the worse thing that ever happened. After all, she’d grown up in the New Haven Public School System’s magnet program. She’d enrolled, fresh as a 7-year-old transplant from Atlanta, into second grade at Davis Street Arts and Academics where mutual love of the arts had made it easier for her to make friends. Then in the fifth grade she’d been accepted Betsy Ross Arts. Coop was the next logical stopover in her educational career.
Wherever she ended up attending high school, she knew she’d go on to study at NYU, Purchase College, the University of the Arts, or Cornish College studying either dance performance, choreography, or performance studies. Perhaps she’d even try for Julliard. If the universe was really on her side, she’d spend at least a few years dancing with the Dance Theater of Harlem. This was her big dream. First she had to survive 7th grade and big part of that was nailing this family history report. It was her first major academic assignment since she enrolled at PVPA. She’d spent over a month delving through photo albums, and e-mailing, facebooking, and phone all the relatives who she had any contact information for. She talked to her parents friends to get the real lowdown on them. She spent hours creating and recreating the perfect family tree. In the end, she still wasn’t happy with it, but she had run out of time to fix it anymore.
About two hours later, A.P.’s family tree was on display in the history room and she was mostly speaking without looking at the note cards she’d written in case she got stage freight, although that would be an odd thing to happen to someone who’d spent over half her life on stage trying to be the center of attention . “The first person here is in my maternal great-great-great grandmother Bulla Mae James and her husband Marcus. There are no records for my father’s family at that time as is typical of the era.”
The first mention of them is here. She used the pointer again to indicate a faded black and white photograph of a still handsome, well-muscled black man. This is Alexander Williams. He was the first member of my father’s family born free in America. He was born in 1870. He had two wives, Silvia Marie who died given birth to their first child. Silvia Marie died in child birth, although the baby survived. He then married Annabelle with whom he had six more.”
AP talked and talked detailing each relative. Glad, for once, that her father was a historian packrat who saved everything. She paused dramatically when she got to the part about how her grandfather Peter Williams had fled the South and its rampant racism, seeking a better life in the North. That was how she came to be standing in front of them. “Mogan Washington-Williams, my father, is a tenured professor in African-American studies, on sabbatical for Yale University who had decided to use his sabbatical year to teach at UMass/Amherst.
The proudest of Minuteman, he had jumped at the chance to return to his old stomping grounds and give a little back to the public university system that had helped make him. She told her classmates,” He and Isabella Washington, who everyone still calls Belle, met in the mid- sixties at UMass. After freshman year, They’d both been part of the last group of MJom riders in 1965, helping Southern blacks register to vote, over their more conservative parents objections. You see my mother was the product of a Yankee mill worker and a high school teacher, who’d given up her teaching career to have 5 children of which mama was the youngest and be a
housewife.
Daddy sprang from the loins of Southern Black folks who’d never, and this is a direct quote, “gotten over the damage inflicted by generations of slavery and sharecropping.” They were too households full of people who firmly believed in not rocking the boat, but my parents believed that if the boat needed rocking they were the people to rock it.
The biggest test thus far over whether she maintain before her grueling dance schedule and meet her father’s academic standards came on October 15th. AP bounded by her mother and father on the stairs. She full backpack and had a dance bag dangling from her left shoulder. She also managed to carry a large red, trifold, poster board all without falling over.
“Morning, daddy! Morning, mama! Remember you’re driving me to school today, right?”
“Yes, princess! I remember,” her father said, “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“ Don’t you run down these stairs, young lady, ” warned her mother. “If you fall down and crack your head, you won’t be giving any reports this morning or dancing Sugar Plum in December. You’ll have to spend the whole day getting patched up in the ER instead. And I don’t have to spend all day sitting there with you. I’ve got work to do that’s not going to put itself off because my youngest child, who’s old enough to know better, took a header down some stairs.”
“Gee, I love you, too.” AP shot back. Her father didn’t care for her tone and shot her one of his looks.
“Sorry, mama. I can’t be late,” AP knew she whining but didn’t care. “Mr. Russo loves to write detention slips.” AP walked down the few remaining stairs at a more reasonable rate.
“So you mentioned about 5 times yesterday,” her father said. “Don’t worry you know how important I think education is. You’re not going to be late on my account.” he kissed her mother on the cheek as she gave his tie a final smoothing. “I have to go before our youngest decides to hotwire the car and drive herself to school.”
Her mother smiled. “You drive safe now, Morgan, your carrying precious cargo. Call me when you get a minute. I’m going to be working in the studio all morning. Then I’m giving a lecture on African Art history at the Research Center. Maybe we can grab a bite after that, before we go have to go pick up on our resident ballerina and hear how stellar she was in rehearsal today.”
AP blushed. She could hear her parents clearly and her mother’s comments made her sound four. “Daddy, c’mon!” she called and was relieved to hear his footsteps a moment later. AP was a 7th grade dance major at the Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Charter School. Going to the school was the only positive
thing, as far as she was concerned about the move from New Haven. Maybe if she did well at PVPA, she’d have a prayer of convincing her father to let her enroll in the Walnut Hill School] for the Arts (where she’d major in ballet) or Innerlochen Arts Academy where she could study in the rigorous comparative arts department, combing her various love of writing and ballet.
Daddy said that because the New Haven Public School system had a very good dance program, that also allow to explore her other artistic interest and take rigorous academic courses. She’d be going to Cooperative Arts & Humanities Interdistrict Magnet right in New Haven which was free, supported by his tax dollars, and most importantly, met he “got to keep his youngest daughter at little girl for just a little longer.” As badly as AP wanted the prestige that came with a Walnut Hill or Innerlochen diploma, she had to admit that going to Coop, as it was called, wouldn’t be the worse thing that ever happened. After all, she’d grown up in the New Haven Public School System’s magnet program. She’d enrolled, fresh as a 7-year-old transplant from Atlanta, into second grade at Davis Street Arts and Academics where mutual love of the arts had made it easier for her to make friends. Then in the fifth grade she’d been accepted Betsy Ross Arts. Coop was the next logical stopover in her educational career.
Wherever she ended up attending high school, she knew she’d go on to study at NYU, Purchase College, the University of the Arts, or Cornish College studying either dance performance, choreography, or performance studies. Perhaps she’d even try for Julliard. If the universe was really on her side, she’d spend at least a few years dancing with the Dance Theater of Harlem. This was her big dream. First she had to survive 7th grade and big part of that was nailing this family history report. It was her first major academic assignment since she enrolled at PVPA. She’d spent over a month delving through photo albums, and e-mailing, facebooking, and phone all the relatives who she had any contact information for. She talked to her parents friends to get the real lowdown on them. She spent hours creating and recreating the perfect family tree. In the end, she still wasn’t happy with it, but she had run out of time to fix it anymore.
About two hours later, A.P.’s family tree was on display in the history room and she was mostly speaking without looking at the note cards she’d written in case she got stage freight, although that would be an odd thing to happen to someone who’d spent over half her life on stage trying to be the center of attention . “The first person here is in my maternal great-great-great grandmother Bulla Mae James and her husband Marcus. There are no records for my father’s family at that time as is typical of the era.”
The first mention of them is here. She used the pointer again to indicate a faded black and white photograph of a still handsome, well-muscled black man. This is Alexander Williams. He was the first member of my father’s family born free in America. He was born in 1870. He had two wives, Silvia Marie who died given birth to their first child. Silvia Marie died in child birth, although the baby survived. He then married Annabelle with whom he had six more.”
AP talked and talked detailing each relative. Glad, for once, that her father was a historian packrat who saved everything. She paused dramatically when she got to the part about how her grandfather Peter Williams had fled the South and its rampant racism, seeking a better life in the North. That was how she came to be standing in front of them. “Mogan Washington-Williams, my father, is a tenured professor in African-American studies, on sabbatical for Yale University who had decided to use his sabbatical year to teach at UMass/Amherst.
The proudest of Minuteman, he had jumped at the chance to return to his old stomping grounds and give a little back to the public university system that had helped make him. She told her classmates,” He and Isabella Washington, who everyone still calls Belle, met in the mid- sixties at UMass. After freshman year, They’d both been part of the last group of MJom riders in 1965, helping Southern blacks register to vote, over their more conservative parents objections. You see my mother was the product of a Yankee mill worker and a high school teacher, who’d given up her teaching career to have 5 children of which mama was the youngest and be a
housewife.
Daddy sprang from the loins of Southern Black folks who’d never, and this is a direct quote, “gotten over the damage inflicted by generations of slavery and sharecropping.” They were too households full of people who firmly believed in not rocking the boat, but my parents believed that if the boat needed rocking they were the people to rock it.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment II for 2010
In the end, the ever practical AP, had decided to ask for the shoes as a Christmas present, as well as a pair each of silver and gold ones she’d bookmarked on her list of favorite websites. Starting in November she’d simply start dropping hints to all the people that typically brought her presents. If she somehow received all three pairs of shoes she wanted (a happening she would indeed be surprised by) it would only cost $58.25. As hard as she working, she felt totally worth it.
Mama said it wasn’t practical to spend hard-earned money on shoes that wouldn’t meet the dress code at most dance schools. However, she had smiled when AP reminded her that she danced in technique shoes for at least one class per day during a typical 5 day PVPA week and typically she went through a pair of canvas technique shoes every month or two she was almost certain to wear out her special non-dress code shoes before she finished her time at PVPA in the middle of June. “That way,” she tired to reason with her mom, “I’ll go through fewer standard shoes, if I wear my special ones to PVPA everyday, and only wear my pinks to class at Pioneer Valley Ballet or for other special classes.”
“You’ve got it all figured don’t you?” Belle Washington-Williams had laughed. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Like mother, like daughter.”
“Absolutely.”
She mailed the letter as she left school at 4:15 after her advanced ballet class. She was proud of herself for being in this class, which was one of the few that mixed middle schoolers and high schoolers. She was one of only three 7th graders in the class. Her friend Beth and Katie were the others. But AP was the only 7th grader who was part of second line.
Every serious ballet class AP had ever taken was divided into lines. Third line was for the least accomplished dancers. They ones who were slightly too good to be in the intermediate level, which was occurring simultaneously. Second line was for the next best dancers. First line was for the best dancers in class and incidentally in the school, at least in terms of ballet.
Now she sat on the curb and waited for Missy Taylor. Missy was advanced ballet, too. She was a pretty 11th grader who always went to first line and the head of it at that. She gave AP rides to PVB, where they were in Advanced II, the school’s highest level, together. “Hey, kiddo! You ready to dance some more?”
“Always and absolutely,” This exchange had been going on verbatim since they pair had met after AP had put up a sign asking for a ride to PVB. “Are your excited for Nutcracker auditions this weekend?” AP asked.
“Kind of,” Missy admitted, although she could hold her own in a ballet studio, was much more of a modern dancer. “I really want be Mother Ginger. That part is so fun.” Mother Ginger was this obese woman that was usually played by a very petite ballerina on stilts covered in layers and layers of fabric. “Of course, the part of auditions I’m most looking forward to,” the older girl admitted is seeing you wipe the floor with Ashley. We’re all counting on you, young lady.” said Missy with fake sterness.
AP giggled, “I’ll give it my all ma’am.” AP had quickly gotten on the good side of the other girls in Advanced II, despite being so much younger. There had been none of the typical prima donna jealousies that were so common in the ballet world. Secretly AP thought that was why the other girls were so nice to her. They were happy that someone could knock Ashley off her pedestal even if they couldn’t do it. . Before AP had arrived, Ashley had been the school’s resident diva. She took the lead role in every dance recital for four years running. She’d danced all six roles of Sugar, 24 performances. She didn’t even need to share the role! She’d been Cinderella. She’d been Coppelia and Princess Aurora.
“That’s my girl,” Missy said, as pulled into the parking lot. As soon as the car was parked, AP got out and headed to the locker room. She too out her PVB dance apparel, and slid into the familiar outfit. She kept into the tiny practice room and begin to use the 45 minutes before class, after setting her alarm to 5:55 to ensure that she didn’t get lost in her own dance world and miss class. was to work on various combinations.
Saturday, September 11th was a very weird day for AP, as it felt weird to audition for The Nutcracker on a national day of morning. She had Advanced II in the morning. Then had to hurry out of the dance studio so the smallest kids could audition for Nutcracker. After that, she went to Moovin’ and Groovin’ dance at Fit Together gym. This was a very relaxed dance class for people various disabilities and mental health concerns that met from 1-2 every Saturday. She’d been taking it with her sister after since she got break from her third consecutive year at the prestigious Boston Ballet Summer Dance Program. She didn’t find it challenging, but did find it freeing. At three that afternoon, she headed back to PVB for her own audition, during which she tried to maintain a grip on what her Moovin’ and Groovin’ instructor called “that good dancing energy” she’d gained at Fit Together and to just dance because she loved it; rather than being anal about which part she’d receive.
You would have thought that after dancing a minimum of 20 to 28 hours a week, the last thing she’d want to do was to spend another hour of her life dancing with people who lacked the ability to attain her level. Such a people were not only bigoted they were wrong. AP thought it was awesome to be in a space where so many different bodies were encouraged to dance. Her ballet school, and even PVPA to a lesser degree, was very much about dancers having the right body type. At Fit Together, they believed every body had a dancer inside them. After Fit Together, AP knew she needed to back at PVB by three, for the first round of older student auditions. Then she had to wait until Saturday night and see whether her e-mail said she’ d made the call back list or not.
Then, if necessary, she would dance on Sunday (she was pretty sure it would be). After all, she’d danced with the Dance Theater of Harlem. She’d danced with the New Haven Ballet, and even been a Junior Camper at Buck’s Rock Creative and Performing Arts Academy for two years when she was 9 and 10. Most importantly, she’d danced with Boston Ballet Summer Program for three years running. Her father paid the $5,250 without so much as a blink. “Bribery in exchange for report card’s full of A’s,” he’d joked. Before adding, ”Let the scholarships go to those who have as much talent as you but less successful parents.” That comment bothered AP. While in Boston she set herself to proving that it wasn’t her father’s ability to pay full tuition at SDP, as the more catty dancers suggested, that made her belong there. It was nothing more than talent and dedication. This past year, her father decided over his wife’s objections, that she was old enough to take the Metro North from New Haven to New York three a week to take classes at Dance Theater of Harlem. She hadn’t really thought about his reason at the time. She was too busy jumping for joy. She’d somehow managed to continue with classes at the New Haven Ballet in the fall, because she aimed to become the Sugar Plum Fairy in that year’s Nutcracker, she knew she would be the youngest person in the school’s history to dance that part if she got it, which she had. It was a huge honor even though she shared it with her best friend Shelley, who was a year ahead of her in school. She hadn’t failed to make a call-back ever.
This year was no exception. And come Monday’s class she’d found herself in the role of Summer Plum Fairy, cast A, and Leading the Waltz of flowers, cast B. It was more then she could’ve hoped for. She wrote down her rehearsal schedule. They all fell on Saturday after the normal ballet closed and Sundays. Suddenly, AP realized that she would have a lot less time to do homework over the coming months and wished she’d signed up for homework support rather than modern dance for middle schoolers in F block, but it was to late to alter her schedule now. She was stuck. And she was also stuck with daddy’s “You can take many dance classes as you want, as long as you bring me a B+ or better average.”
Mama said it wasn’t practical to spend hard-earned money on shoes that wouldn’t meet the dress code at most dance schools. However, she had smiled when AP reminded her that she danced in technique shoes for at least one class per day during a typical 5 day PVPA week and typically she went through a pair of canvas technique shoes every month or two she was almost certain to wear out her special non-dress code shoes before she finished her time at PVPA in the middle of June. “That way,” she tired to reason with her mom, “I’ll go through fewer standard shoes, if I wear my special ones to PVPA everyday, and only wear my pinks to class at Pioneer Valley Ballet or for other special classes.”
“You’ve got it all figured don’t you?” Belle Washington-Williams had laughed. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Like mother, like daughter.”
“Absolutely.”
She mailed the letter as she left school at 4:15 after her advanced ballet class. She was proud of herself for being in this class, which was one of the few that mixed middle schoolers and high schoolers. She was one of only three 7th graders in the class. Her friend Beth and Katie were the others. But AP was the only 7th grader who was part of second line.
Every serious ballet class AP had ever taken was divided into lines. Third line was for the least accomplished dancers. They ones who were slightly too good to be in the intermediate level, which was occurring simultaneously. Second line was for the next best dancers. First line was for the best dancers in class and incidentally in the school, at least in terms of ballet.
Now she sat on the curb and waited for Missy Taylor. Missy was advanced ballet, too. She was a pretty 11th grader who always went to first line and the head of it at that. She gave AP rides to PVB, where they were in Advanced II, the school’s highest level, together. “Hey, kiddo! You ready to dance some more?”
“Always and absolutely,” This exchange had been going on verbatim since they pair had met after AP had put up a sign asking for a ride to PVB. “Are your excited for Nutcracker auditions this weekend?” AP asked.
“Kind of,” Missy admitted, although she could hold her own in a ballet studio, was much more of a modern dancer. “I really want be Mother Ginger. That part is so fun.” Mother Ginger was this obese woman that was usually played by a very petite ballerina on stilts covered in layers and layers of fabric. “Of course, the part of auditions I’m most looking forward to,” the older girl admitted is seeing you wipe the floor with Ashley. We’re all counting on you, young lady.” said Missy with fake sterness.
AP giggled, “I’ll give it my all ma’am.” AP had quickly gotten on the good side of the other girls in Advanced II, despite being so much younger. There had been none of the typical prima donna jealousies that were so common in the ballet world. Secretly AP thought that was why the other girls were so nice to her. They were happy that someone could knock Ashley off her pedestal even if they couldn’t do it. . Before AP had arrived, Ashley had been the school’s resident diva. She took the lead role in every dance recital for four years running. She’d danced all six roles of Sugar, 24 performances. She didn’t even need to share the role! She’d been Cinderella. She’d been Coppelia and Princess Aurora.
“That’s my girl,” Missy said, as pulled into the parking lot. As soon as the car was parked, AP got out and headed to the locker room. She too out her PVB dance apparel, and slid into the familiar outfit. She kept into the tiny practice room and begin to use the 45 minutes before class, after setting her alarm to 5:55 to ensure that she didn’t get lost in her own dance world and miss class. was to work on various combinations.
Saturday, September 11th was a very weird day for AP, as it felt weird to audition for The Nutcracker on a national day of morning. She had Advanced II in the morning. Then had to hurry out of the dance studio so the smallest kids could audition for Nutcracker. After that, she went to Moovin’ and Groovin’ dance at Fit Together gym. This was a very relaxed dance class for people various disabilities and mental health concerns that met from 1-2 every Saturday. She’d been taking it with her sister after since she got break from her third consecutive year at the prestigious Boston Ballet Summer Dance Program. She didn’t find it challenging, but did find it freeing. At three that afternoon, she headed back to PVB for her own audition, during which she tried to maintain a grip on what her Moovin’ and Groovin’ instructor called “that good dancing energy” she’d gained at Fit Together and to just dance because she loved it; rather than being anal about which part she’d receive.
You would have thought that after dancing a minimum of 20 to 28 hours a week, the last thing she’d want to do was to spend another hour of her life dancing with people who lacked the ability to attain her level. Such a people were not only bigoted they were wrong. AP thought it was awesome to be in a space where so many different bodies were encouraged to dance. Her ballet school, and even PVPA to a lesser degree, was very much about dancers having the right body type. At Fit Together, they believed every body had a dancer inside them. After Fit Together, AP knew she needed to back at PVB by three, for the first round of older student auditions. Then she had to wait until Saturday night and see whether her e-mail said she’ d made the call back list or not.
Then, if necessary, she would dance on Sunday (she was pretty sure it would be). After all, she’d danced with the Dance Theater of Harlem. She’d danced with the New Haven Ballet, and even been a Junior Camper at Buck’s Rock Creative and Performing Arts Academy for two years when she was 9 and 10. Most importantly, she’d danced with Boston Ballet Summer Program for three years running. Her father paid the $5,250 without so much as a blink. “Bribery in exchange for report card’s full of A’s,” he’d joked. Before adding, ”Let the scholarships go to those who have as much talent as you but less successful parents.” That comment bothered AP. While in Boston she set herself to proving that it wasn’t her father’s ability to pay full tuition at SDP, as the more catty dancers suggested, that made her belong there. It was nothing more than talent and dedication. This past year, her father decided over his wife’s objections, that she was old enough to take the Metro North from New Haven to New York three a week to take classes at Dance Theater of Harlem. She hadn’t really thought about his reason at the time. She was too busy jumping for joy. She’d somehow managed to continue with classes at the New Haven Ballet in the fall, because she aimed to become the Sugar Plum Fairy in that year’s Nutcracker, she knew she would be the youngest person in the school’s history to dance that part if she got it, which she had. It was a huge honor even though she shared it with her best friend Shelley, who was a year ahead of her in school. She hadn’t failed to make a call-back ever.
This year was no exception. And come Monday’s class she’d found herself in the role of Summer Plum Fairy, cast A, and Leading the Waltz of flowers, cast B. It was more then she could’ve hoped for. She wrote down her rehearsal schedule. They all fell on Saturday after the normal ballet closed and Sundays. Suddenly, AP realized that she would have a lot less time to do homework over the coming months and wished she’d signed up for homework support rather than modern dance for middle schoolers in F block, but it was to late to alter her schedule now. She was stuck. And she was also stuck with daddy’s “You can take many dance classes as you want, as long as you bring me a B+ or better average.”
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Nanowrimo Story installment I for 2010
As usual, this particular Monday twelve-year-old A.P Washington-Williams woke up before her alarmed dinged to signal 5:30 AM and the start of what was becoming her typical school week. She charged into the bathroom eager to beat her older sister who would soon wake up and want her own shower before she begin her own early morning practice ritual on either the violin or the piano. For herself, AP always showered after she finished practice. She loved to dance but had no desire to smell of dedication in Mr. Russo’s humanities class at Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Charter School, where she was a 7th grader and the new darling of the dance department.
It wasn’t until after she had donned her dance apparel, including pointe shoes, and was halfway down the basement stairs, before she remembered that she wouldn’t be fighting her big sister for the bathroom anymore until December 19th unless Moonbeam came home on the weekends. Her older sister had just enrolled in Berkshire Hills Music Academy. Her parents had just dropped her off on Thursday. It had been a big deal.
AP had really wanted to go. But her father had told both MJ, Moonbeam’s twin, and herself to go to normally scheduled classes. “It wouldn’t do,” her father reasoned. “for two of my children to skip school to see my third child off to her first day in a dorm know would it?” Morgan Washington-Williams was very educationally minded.
So AP had simply hugged her sister extra long that morning and bounced out the door. Soon she was immersed in a lecture about local history, but her sister was never far from her mind. Instead of wolfing down her usual lunch of cut up apples, tuna in Tupperware, and string cheese and the hitting the locker room to change and entering the dance studio 10 minutes before dance foundations and choreography on DF&C, as PVPA dancers referred to it. She lingered in the Radioactive Café, the student run cafeteria, where they served the way more popular connivance food that went over smashingly well with everyone but the dancers, sipping caffeinated tea and munching a broccoli and cheese Hot Pocket while she typed a quick note to moonbeam on the computer that set off in a
corner of the lunch space.
Dear Moon,
I’m at lunch, but I don’t feel much like eating. I miss you already and hope that you are settling in well. Say “hi” to Julie for me and don’t fall in love 5 times in your first week. I know you can’t help doing that, but just try, okay? I will see you Saturday for Moovin’ and Groovin’ at Fit Together or, if you’re too busy with BHMA orientation stuff I will see you Sunday when everyone comes to visit.
Your loving little sister.
She printed out the letter, shoved it into her pack back, and went to change for class. There was no dress code, even for dance classes, here. At first AP had
found that odd after years of solid color leotards, pink tights, and pink technique slippers and/or toe shoes being the only acceptable class attire. But that Thursday as she slipped into a red leotard and blue tights, she decided she was beginning enjoy the freedom. She was even toying with the idea of raiding her savings account to have pair of technique shoes professionally dyed lavender, her favorite color. Mama said that if AP wanted to that she wasn’t going to stop her, but she would make her youngest child pay for both a new pair of shoes and the dye job on her own.
It wasn’t until after she had donned her dance apparel, including pointe shoes, and was halfway down the basement stairs, before she remembered that she wouldn’t be fighting her big sister for the bathroom anymore until December 19th unless Moonbeam came home on the weekends. Her older sister had just enrolled in Berkshire Hills Music Academy. Her parents had just dropped her off on Thursday. It had been a big deal.
AP had really wanted to go. But her father had told both MJ, Moonbeam’s twin, and herself to go to normally scheduled classes. “It wouldn’t do,” her father reasoned. “for two of my children to skip school to see my third child off to her first day in a dorm know would it?” Morgan Washington-Williams was very educationally minded.
So AP had simply hugged her sister extra long that morning and bounced out the door. Soon she was immersed in a lecture about local history, but her sister was never far from her mind. Instead of wolfing down her usual lunch of cut up apples, tuna in Tupperware, and string cheese and the hitting the locker room to change and entering the dance studio 10 minutes before dance foundations and choreography on DF&C, as PVPA dancers referred to it. She lingered in the Radioactive Café, the student run cafeteria, where they served the way more popular connivance food that went over smashingly well with everyone but the dancers, sipping caffeinated tea and munching a broccoli and cheese Hot Pocket while she typed a quick note to moonbeam on the computer that set off in a
corner of the lunch space.
Dear Moon,
I’m at lunch, but I don’t feel much like eating. I miss you already and hope that you are settling in well. Say “hi” to Julie for me and don’t fall in love 5 times in your first week. I know you can’t help doing that, but just try, okay? I will see you Saturday for Moovin’ and Groovin’ at Fit Together or, if you’re too busy with BHMA orientation stuff I will see you Sunday when everyone comes to visit.
Your loving little sister.
She printed out the letter, shoved it into her pack back, and went to change for class. There was no dress code, even for dance classes, here. At first AP had
found that odd after years of solid color leotards, pink tights, and pink technique slippers and/or toe shoes being the only acceptable class attire. But that Thursday as she slipped into a red leotard and blue tights, she decided she was beginning enjoy the freedom. She was even toying with the idea of raiding her savings account to have pair of technique shoes professionally dyed lavender, her favorite color. Mama said that if AP wanted to that she wasn’t going to stop her, but she would make her youngest child pay for both a new pair of shoes and the dye job on her own.
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