I do this thing sometimes when confronted with a person or situation that hurts me and makes me uncomfortable, where I put on a completely different face than what I feel inside which allows me to say and do the socially correct things. I started when I was a young girl to help me deal with people in my parents ministry that I had a bad feeling about. You know, those people who are big and loud and claim some wild connection with God therefore they have rights to every thought and private memory you have? I would switch off my emotions and pretend that I was a famous, benevolent person and they were simply hoards of desperate, abrasive paparazzi. Smile and wave.
I did it to maintain a polite demeanor around the families we socialized with, simply because they home-schooled or home-churched or had a garden like we did. There was this one woman who took it upon herself to physically discipline one of my brothers, and the rage that filled me was a volcanic force I had never felt before. But anything a ten year old could do to express such anger would have been disrespectful and impolite. So I ran across the field and pretended that I was an orphan, singing on a corner for pennies. The injustices of the world battered me and sought to eliminate me, but I was resilient and strong! This little orphan girl could beat anything with her song.
When I began acting I realized that I had been stepping into character all these years. At first I wondered how a little tiny girl knows how to do that, but as I looked into it a little deeper I understood that it had been a reflexive action. We're raised to have manners, to be polite. Don't put your elbows on the table, don't talk back, don't scream in public, don't put your skirt over your head. Somewhere along the way though it becomes less about simple manners and more about maintaining a socially correct image. We're trained to ignore our instincts about people, because disliking or not trusting them for no apparent reason is impolite. Being excessively happy about something disrupts the general calm that we strive for, so for heaven's sake don't express so much excitement!
As I got older it became evident to me that my flashes of emotion had less to do with simply being a child, and more to do with the passionate nature of my character. This presented a problem. How was I supposed to fit in to the mild, un-opinionated, ladylike mold I seemed to see around me? How could I disguise my anger at the hypocrisy I saw in adults and leaders around me? Or the fact that some things were so beautiful, they physically hurt me? Or that music could transport me to such a euphoric place, I couldn't interact with people around me? I stepped into the character of the young woman that society would be pleased with. I carried it on for years, ignoring the nights that I would wake up in a cold panic wondering who the hell I was, and why I felt this jagged tearing inside me.
My first step in dropping the character came when I broke off my first relationship. It came as an epiphany: The girl underneath this sweet, submissive guise was far too passionate, colorful, and opinionated to flourish, let alone survive, in that family. I was being slowly, determinedly suffocated and if I didn't get out then, I would never really be alive.
In the last several months I've been opening the door for my family and I to really feel things. When people hurt us (not just 'us' personally but you, anyone), the socially correct response is to justify them - to make excuses for their behavior. We gamely try to withhold blame, acutely aware of how impolite it would be to acknowledge that they were at fault. The problem is that pain is hard enough to work through. It's already such a big burden, and taking on all the responsibility for being hurt is nearly deadly.
I hold an extremely biased viewpoint on several circumstances in my past. But it's time to be biased. It's all a part of breaking character now.
2.05.2011
1.29.2011
Promise me? Wish for me?
When I was a little girl I used to Promise everything. It was the closest I could get to Swearing a Solemn Oath - Swearing being strictly forbidden, and therefore incredibly alluring. I'm still not sure where a 5 year old got the concept of Swearing a Solemn Oath, unless it came from Robin Hood, who was basically my hero for the majority of my adolescent life. Promises seemed much more binding, more romantic, more tragic than simply saying 'Yes, I can do that'. Promises were the perfect method for creating a Profound Moment, and even as a child I craved that.
I remember when I was about 6 years old, my dad started a business handcrafting bent willow furniture. This was a glorious endeavor in my eyes, and oh how I wanted to be a part of it! I tried to help, but my long hair got caught in the drill and scared the bejeezus out of me. The shame of having interrupted his noble work overwhelmed me, and I crept away to ponder how I could make it up to him. Suddenly a thought seized me - I would carry on his work when he no longer could! As I grew up, I would watch and learn, and ensure that his legacy would never be forgotten! Back to the work bench I ran, pulling a little ribbon out of my hair. I cut it into three parts and braided it, attaching it to the work bench with a tack nail.
"Daddy" I said solemnly, pointing out the braid. "That is a sign of my Promise to always make bent willow furniture when you're old and can't do it anymore. I will do it forever."
I don't remember his response, but the moment had a huge impact on me. This was something that would be written down! My descendants would read it and marvel at my staunch courage and maturity at such a young age!
Wishes are another thing entirely. The world runs on Promises; businesses exist on promises from employees, friendships grow around promises, marriages work and exist on promises. But Wishes...ah wishes, what are they? Merely a futile expression of desire to see improvement, whether it be as vast as world peace, or as small as a tooth under your pillow?
December 23, 2005. I'm standing on the deck of a ferry boat with a bunch of people around my age. Two families are headed to the ski slopes to celebrate Christmas together - a ridiculous, very, very stupid plan that I was not in the least happy about. Several of us happened to have pennies in our pockets, enough to share with those who didn't, and we all decided to throw them in the water and make a wish. I closed my eyes really tight and wished for an amazing Christmas. Not the best Christmas ever, but just a really happy one.
That night my sister was killed.
I've become rather jaded regarding wishes. To this day I refuse to throw pennies in wishing wells, or any other kind of water for that matter. Maybe it's this lingering doubt that my personal wish-genie has a twisted sense of humor and will grant me exactly the opposite of what I wish for. A sneaking suspicion that God hates when you ask anything else but Him for something. A weird feeling that maybe in a past life I must have been an axe murderer and Karma really is vindictive.
In my sane mind, I know that's all ridiculous. But it wasn't until last week that I was able to make a little, teensy, tentative wish when I saw a shooting star.
I remember when I was about 6 years old, my dad started a business handcrafting bent willow furniture. This was a glorious endeavor in my eyes, and oh how I wanted to be a part of it! I tried to help, but my long hair got caught in the drill and scared the bejeezus out of me. The shame of having interrupted his noble work overwhelmed me, and I crept away to ponder how I could make it up to him. Suddenly a thought seized me - I would carry on his work when he no longer could! As I grew up, I would watch and learn, and ensure that his legacy would never be forgotten! Back to the work bench I ran, pulling a little ribbon out of my hair. I cut it into three parts and braided it, attaching it to the work bench with a tack nail.
"Daddy" I said solemnly, pointing out the braid. "That is a sign of my Promise to always make bent willow furniture when you're old and can't do it anymore. I will do it forever."
I don't remember his response, but the moment had a huge impact on me. This was something that would be written down! My descendants would read it and marvel at my staunch courage and maturity at such a young age!
Wishes are another thing entirely. The world runs on Promises; businesses exist on promises from employees, friendships grow around promises, marriages work and exist on promises. But Wishes...ah wishes, what are they? Merely a futile expression of desire to see improvement, whether it be as vast as world peace, or as small as a tooth under your pillow?
December 23, 2005. I'm standing on the deck of a ferry boat with a bunch of people around my age. Two families are headed to the ski slopes to celebrate Christmas together - a ridiculous, very, very stupid plan that I was not in the least happy about. Several of us happened to have pennies in our pockets, enough to share with those who didn't, and we all decided to throw them in the water and make a wish. I closed my eyes really tight and wished for an amazing Christmas. Not the best Christmas ever, but just a really happy one.
That night my sister was killed.
I've become rather jaded regarding wishes. To this day I refuse to throw pennies in wishing wells, or any other kind of water for that matter. Maybe it's this lingering doubt that my personal wish-genie has a twisted sense of humor and will grant me exactly the opposite of what I wish for. A sneaking suspicion that God hates when you ask anything else but Him for something. A weird feeling that maybe in a past life I must have been an axe murderer and Karma really is vindictive.
In my sane mind, I know that's all ridiculous. But it wasn't until last week that I was able to make a little, teensy, tentative wish when I saw a shooting star.
1.27.2011
The Twenties
I'm going to turning twenty-five in two months. It's kind of strange to be approaching my mid-twenties when I often feel like a teenager still.
When I turned 20, it was a horribly emotional event. It was our first birthday without you - without a shared party, without a ridiculous number of happy birthday cards to each other. It was a bitter realization that we would never be in our twenties together and I felt horribly alone.
21 didn't mean anything. I didn't do anything. I didn't feel anything. I hadn't come back to life yet, and I was largely in denial that I had survived another year without you.
Turning twenty-two was terrifying. I couldn't possibly be your age. Had I really caught up to you? I'd spent my entire life wanting to be where you were...grown up, sophisticated, wise, beautiful. And here I was, standing on what felt like a steep, deadly precipice, about to fall into a world beyond you. You must have been laughing a little, because deep down I wondered if maybe we were cursed and all sentenced to die at 22. I held my breath all year, expecting the next car to slam into me and send me flying to meet you.
And then I made it to twenty-three. A vast black space where you'd never been. Until now I could still pretend to follow you. I grew up like you did, met a boy like you did, fell madly in love like you did. But from here on out I would be the ground breaker. It brought on a whole new world of grief because I felt like you'd truly gone. It was just me with no one to follow.
I feel cheated because I don't know what our relationship would be like now. People tell me to be thankful that we had time together - of course I am; that goes without saying. But losing something so incredible just makes you long for it even more. I know that I wouldn't be the woman I am now if you'd stayed, but sometimes I think that the price of finding myself was far too great.
When I turned 20, it was a horribly emotional event. It was our first birthday without you - without a shared party, without a ridiculous number of happy birthday cards to each other. It was a bitter realization that we would never be in our twenties together and I felt horribly alone.
21 didn't mean anything. I didn't do anything. I didn't feel anything. I hadn't come back to life yet, and I was largely in denial that I had survived another year without you.
Turning twenty-two was terrifying. I couldn't possibly be your age. Had I really caught up to you? I'd spent my entire life wanting to be where you were...grown up, sophisticated, wise, beautiful. And here I was, standing on what felt like a steep, deadly precipice, about to fall into a world beyond you. You must have been laughing a little, because deep down I wondered if maybe we were cursed and all sentenced to die at 22. I held my breath all year, expecting the next car to slam into me and send me flying to meet you.
And then I made it to twenty-three. A vast black space where you'd never been. Until now I could still pretend to follow you. I grew up like you did, met a boy like you did, fell madly in love like you did. But from here on out I would be the ground breaker. It brought on a whole new world of grief because I felt like you'd truly gone. It was just me with no one to follow.
I feel cheated because I don't know what our relationship would be like now. People tell me to be thankful that we had time together - of course I am; that goes without saying. But losing something so incredible just makes you long for it even more. I know that I wouldn't be the woman I am now if you'd stayed, but sometimes I think that the price of finding myself was far too great.
11.07.2009
For the love of theatre!
Sitting through an audition provides an opportunity for some fascinating people watching.
There are those people who try out because being onstage would stroke their ego into gargantuate proportions. It's not because they are interested in acting, or cast chemistry, or evolution of character. They come for the audience greetings at the end of the show; the compliments, the praise, the gushing and hugging and handshaking. These are the people who refuse ensemble parts because if they don't have the leading role, they wont be involved at all.
And there are those people who can't stay away because they simply love everything about the theatre. Yes, they come hoping for a certain role. But in the end they'd rather be involved on any level in the show, because being around actors and scripts and costumes and lighting is so intoxicating, they can't live without it.
O, the plastics and geeks of theatre.
There are those people who try out because being onstage would stroke their ego into gargantuate proportions. It's not because they are interested in acting, or cast chemistry, or evolution of character. They come for the audience greetings at the end of the show; the compliments, the praise, the gushing and hugging and handshaking. These are the people who refuse ensemble parts because if they don't have the leading role, they wont be involved at all.
And there are those people who can't stay away because they simply love everything about the theatre. Yes, they come hoping for a certain role. But in the end they'd rather be involved on any level in the show, because being around actors and scripts and costumes and lighting is so intoxicating, they can't live without it.
O, the plastics and geeks of theatre.
11.04.2009
To play or not to play
I have an audition on Friday.
I'm scared out of my mind. It's the first audition since my confidence was shattered a few months ago in what can only be called the most ridiculous, fraudulent series of events that ever surrounded the casting of a play. Suddenly I am second guessing all of my instincts. I feel like I made some sort of mistake in that whole process, but it's hard to learn from a mistake when you don't even know what it was.
The show is called Damn Yankees. It's a musical from the 50's about baseball and a man who sells his soul to the devil in order to make his team win the World Series. The whole thing is rather campy and corny, but it has a certain charm as well. It's wrapped in the honesty and innocence of a bygone era - the seduction scene is extremely tame compared to today's lewd standards - and you can't help falling in love with it.
The risk of failure grows according to the amount of passion you have invested. The thought of 'striking out' on Friday terrifies me because I want it more than anything. Being onstage makes me feel like I'm living in TechniColor - all my senses are heightened, defined, expanded. The lights come on and instead of stage fright and an urge to flee, I feel utter confidence and a sense of "This is why I was born".
This passion is the reason I'm so afraid; but it's also the reason that I must keep trying. I must continue to take chances, because even a mere chance to be onstage is better than being in the audience forever.
I'm scared out of my mind. It's the first audition since my confidence was shattered a few months ago in what can only be called the most ridiculous, fraudulent series of events that ever surrounded the casting of a play. Suddenly I am second guessing all of my instincts. I feel like I made some sort of mistake in that whole process, but it's hard to learn from a mistake when you don't even know what it was.
The show is called Damn Yankees. It's a musical from the 50's about baseball and a man who sells his soul to the devil in order to make his team win the World Series. The whole thing is rather campy and corny, but it has a certain charm as well. It's wrapped in the honesty and innocence of a bygone era - the seduction scene is extremely tame compared to today's lewd standards - and you can't help falling in love with it.
The risk of failure grows according to the amount of passion you have invested. The thought of 'striking out' on Friday terrifies me because I want it more than anything. Being onstage makes me feel like I'm living in TechniColor - all my senses are heightened, defined, expanded. The lights come on and instead of stage fright and an urge to flee, I feel utter confidence and a sense of "This is why I was born".
This passion is the reason I'm so afraid; but it's also the reason that I must keep trying. I must continue to take chances, because even a mere chance to be onstage is better than being in the audience forever.
10.23.2009
One Mind
This morning I was sitting and humming to myself, and thought how nice it would be to spend a weekend in Seattle sometime as a little getaway from normal life with My Dear Hubby.
As I opened my mouth to suggest this - literally the very moment my lips parted, My Dear Hubby said "We should go to Seattle."
My mouth stayed open. Gaping. Amazed.
"Yes, I think we're definitely supposed to go!" I said at last, laughing a little and feeling very weirded out.
I know married couples begin to look and think alike after a lifetime of being together, but after a year?
As I opened my mouth to suggest this - literally the very moment my lips parted, My Dear Hubby said "We should go to Seattle."
My mouth stayed open. Gaping. Amazed.
"Yes, I think we're definitely supposed to go!" I said at last, laughing a little and feeling very weirded out.
I know married couples begin to look and think alike after a lifetime of being together, but after a year?
Celebrity Look-alike
I am always getting celebrity comparisons. For years it seemed that every other person I met would exclaim, "You look just like Scarlett Johansson!" And I would smile ruefully and shake my head.
"Really? You think so?"
"Yes! It's amazing you look exactly like her!" They would assure me, sometimes mentioning my fluffy hair and full red lips. I would keep smiling and thank them, but inside my head I was stamping my little foot and declaring 'No no no!' See the thing is; I've never particularly cared for her. Not to be uncharitable, but I don't find her attractive, and I don't like her acting style whatsoever. If I was in the mood to ruffle some feathers I would voice my opinion, and chuckle inside during the ensuing defense of her beauty and talent. So usually I just smiled and took it as a compliment.
Sometimes Rachel McAdams would be mentioned, or that girl from the iceskating movie. I even got a Taylor Swift - tho I'm a mere 5'3" to her astonishing 6' height; but it was nearly always Scarlett. This went on until I pixied my hair, and the comparisons abruptly ended.
Over the last year my hair has grown into a bob with a mind of it's own, and I took the plunge and colored it a rich dark brown with a subtle hint of red. I felt gloriously like my own unique, individual self.
My sister and I were walking downtown, and in an effort to explore shops we'd never been in before entered a scrapbooking store next to my work.
"Oh my god! You're Alice!" someone shrieked. I spun around, wildly startled, to see a woman practically leaping at me from behind a table. My first instinct was to grap my sister and throw her at the oncoming commotion and RUN for my life. Instead I covered my terror with a calm smile and said "Excuse me?"
"You're Alice! From Twilight! You just need to flip out your hair and change your outfit but you look just like Alice!" she babbled ecstatically. "We're having a Twilight Festival and need an Alice look alike to do psychic readings. You could just make stuff up you know, like, OOH! 'I see a handsome man in your future' or 'you will have ten kids and five dogs' and oh it would be so much fun you're perfect!" She paused for breath but as soon as I started shaking my head she plunged headlong into persuasion. "Oh I just can't believe this! You know you want to. It would be so much fun! Doesn't she look exactly like Alice?" she demanded in my sisters direction. Halleleyah was practically in stitches trying to conceal her laughter and could only say "oh hm um I" before she was run over.
"You don't have anything going on next weekend right? You'd love it - we really need someone - oh my goodness you look exactly like Alice!"
I finally recovered enough to find my voice, and tried to politely refuse. It was not very effective, and we made our escape as quickly as possible.
The dear woman pops in every day that I work. She cannot remember my real name, but calls me Alice, and is forever trying to convince me to participate in the numerous Twilight events in Forks and Port Angeles. (I hold firmly to my charming refusal, but I'm afraid that one day I may crack!)
I'm sure the comparisons are well meant, but with acting being my passion I can't help balking at the thought of being exactly like another actress out there. I don't want to be the next Scarlett Johansson, or Alice Cullen (I don't actually know her real name). If I burst onto the scene, I want people to know it's me, Charisa Silliman, without a hint of anyone else.
"Really? You think so?"
"Yes! It's amazing you look exactly like her!" They would assure me, sometimes mentioning my fluffy hair and full red lips. I would keep smiling and thank them, but inside my head I was stamping my little foot and declaring 'No no no!' See the thing is; I've never particularly cared for her. Not to be uncharitable, but I don't find her attractive, and I don't like her acting style whatsoever. If I was in the mood to ruffle some feathers I would voice my opinion, and chuckle inside during the ensuing defense of her beauty and talent. So usually I just smiled and took it as a compliment.
Sometimes Rachel McAdams would be mentioned, or that girl from the iceskating movie. I even got a Taylor Swift - tho I'm a mere 5'3" to her astonishing 6' height; but it was nearly always Scarlett. This went on until I pixied my hair, and the comparisons abruptly ended.
Over the last year my hair has grown into a bob with a mind of it's own, and I took the plunge and colored it a rich dark brown with a subtle hint of red. I felt gloriously like my own unique, individual self.
My sister and I were walking downtown, and in an effort to explore shops we'd never been in before entered a scrapbooking store next to my work.
"Oh my god! You're Alice!" someone shrieked. I spun around, wildly startled, to see a woman practically leaping at me from behind a table. My first instinct was to grap my sister and throw her at the oncoming commotion and RUN for my life. Instead I covered my terror with a calm smile and said "Excuse me?"
"You're Alice! From Twilight! You just need to flip out your hair and change your outfit but you look just like Alice!" she babbled ecstatically. "We're having a Twilight Festival and need an Alice look alike to do psychic readings. You could just make stuff up you know, like, OOH! 'I see a handsome man in your future' or 'you will have ten kids and five dogs' and oh it would be so much fun you're perfect!" She paused for breath but as soon as I started shaking my head she plunged headlong into persuasion. "Oh I just can't believe this! You know you want to. It would be so much fun! Doesn't she look exactly like Alice?" she demanded in my sisters direction. Halleleyah was practically in stitches trying to conceal her laughter and could only say "oh hm um I" before she was run over.
"You don't have anything going on next weekend right? You'd love it - we really need someone - oh my goodness you look exactly like Alice!"
I finally recovered enough to find my voice, and tried to politely refuse. It was not very effective, and we made our escape as quickly as possible.
The dear woman pops in every day that I work. She cannot remember my real name, but calls me Alice, and is forever trying to convince me to participate in the numerous Twilight events in Forks and Port Angeles. (I hold firmly to my charming refusal, but I'm afraid that one day I may crack!)
I'm sure the comparisons are well meant, but with acting being my passion I can't help balking at the thought of being exactly like another actress out there. I don't want to be the next Scarlett Johansson, or Alice Cullen (I don't actually know her real name). If I burst onto the scene, I want people to know it's me, Charisa Silliman, without a hint of anyone else.
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