Drama

I'm not really one to pull out my soap box and preach from it--my students may beg to differ--but sometimes I find myself in the mood to battle.

I have a bone to pick with Hollywood.  Well, a couple actually.  The first contention, of course, is their representation of "normal."  Normal to Hollywood means to be Stunning.  How do we average humans (hey, even those who are above average) watch these giant visions of perfection on the screen and not judge ourselves against them?

In the movies, the hero and heroine are, inevitably, beautiful.  I spent minutes wracking my brain to think of an ugly protagonist and all I came up with was Gerard Depardieu...and that was in the 90s!  I couldn't even come up with a not-so-attractive woman who played a protagonist role (if you can think of one, please post a comment).  No, according to Hollywood, ugly equals evil and beauty equals good.

As I am working towards vulnerability (watch this TED talk--it's part of what inspired me to start this blog), I am coming to understand that these "perfect" beings are not my ultimate goal.  After all, in real life, many of these people are suffering.

This unfair, unreachable expectation of beauty is not actually my biggest gripe.  My biggest beef, if you will.  What offends me most about Hollywood is that people keep winning awards for playing physically and mentally disabled people, but no disabled person actually plays himself. They, the actors, are getting all of the credit without any of the struggle.

Oh, sure, they will tell you that they spent five days walking through life blindfolded so that they could see what it was like to be blind, or that they rolled around in a wheelchair for a few weeks so that they could feel what it really feels like to be paralyzed.  I have news for you, Hollywood, you got to take that blindfold off and stand up from that chair.  Not so for those of us who really do live with a struggle every, single day.

And you are winning awards for playing us.

Awards!

Sometimes, the cynic in me pays attention to ethnicity in commercials.  I'm always impressed when a company is "brave" enough to feature an interracial couple.  Those edge-walking daredevils like JC Penny.  I think it's their way of looking cool so that we who have written them off as old-people clothiers, might pause and say to ourselves, Hey, JC Penny, land of the grandmothers, has become progressive.

Although many companies have gone interracial, few have gone disabled.  It's as if having their clothes featured on a person cruising in a wheelchair or walking with crutches or limping along somehow makes the clothes contagious.  As if the people who bought those clothes would somehow catch the ailment.  Some modern-day small pox virus.

Some of you are thinking--but what about Glee, Heather?  They have a kid in a wheelchair in their show.  In real life, Kevin McHale walks.  And can we talk about how he's type-casted in the show?  A geek.  A semi-misfit who sometimes gets the babe.

I act every single day of my life.  My captive audience is a group of forty-two seniors.  They are mine for 90 minutes a day.  On most days, I put on a show.  I gear up for the over-enthusiasm needed these days and dog-and-pony my way through my time with them, just to eke out a morsel of their motivation.  Sometimes I am good.  Damn good.

Because of this, I've thought about taking acting classes.  I think I have some raw talent.  But what stops me are these: the stairs to get on stage--how would I climb those without being overly conspicuous? It wouldn't look like the actors do when they fly up them, two at a time; the chairs--what if the ones on stage were too low and I'd have to hoist myself out of them? The camera and the audience won't like that awkward pause of a moment; the movements--what if my character had to jump or run or throw herself at someone?  My body won't do that.

I do not blame myself for these insecurities.  I blame Hollywood.  After all, I've never seen anyone like me on the screen.  Never.  How am I supposed to believe that it could be me and that I, too, am normal?  In all my disabled perfection.

Huh.  There is a spell to be broken here.  Some new normal to be set. I think it's time to enroll myself in Acting 101.  Anyone care to join?