So, as you may have guessed from my previous two blogs, I am a theater major. Being a theater major means a lot of things. It mean that I can't get my nose pierced or cut my hair off or dye it blue, in case I'm cast in a classical Shakespeare play. It means I can't get sick, ever. It means I have no free time . . . ever. And it means that I face a lot of rejection.
I don't mean romantic rejection, like at a bar or a party--
ME: Hey, do you want to dance/make out/get coffee sometime?
GUY: I'm not sure; what's your major?
ME: Theater. Directing and acting.
GUY: Haha, NOPE! Also you're not that hot*.
No, I mean a different kind of rejection, one that is infinitely more hurtful. I'm speaking, of course, of the academic, professional, and infinitely more personal rejection that comes when you audition for a play. You get your hopes up. Maybe you get called back. You start to connect, really connect, with your character. You believe, in your heart of hearts, that this is the role you were meant to play. And eventually, the director posts the cast list--and your name is not on it.
I experienced this phenomenon the first week of my freshman year, when I auditioned for Measure for Measure with an ill-chosen monologue from one of the Henry plays. Paul Moser, shrewd and intimidating then-chair of the theater department, asked my what my action was.
"My what?"
"Your action. What are you trying to do?"
"Um . . . I'm acting?"
Needless to say, I did not win the leading role of Isabella and stun the entire school with my legendary talent as I had initially hoped. But I did take an acting class, and then another, and eventually I learned what an action was, and how to play one, and not to indicate my emotional state. I came to enjoy directing, and decided that it was better for me than acting. But I kept auditioning for plays on the mainstage, even though I was never cast.
When I found out last spring that this fall's mainstage would be Chekhov's masterpiece The Seagull, I was thrilled for a split second. Then I remembered. I'm not good at acting. I don't even like acting*. And the whole department, Chekhov geeks every one, was sure to come out and audition.
"I don't care,*" I told my roommate.
"I don't care,*" I told my mom. "I mean, yes, it is one of my favorite plays ever. And it would be really gratifying to be in a mainstage show, AND one directing by Paul Moser. And of course I'm going to audition. But I really don't care about The Seagull. I really don't care at all*."
*lies
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Summer days, driftin' away
"Something like one third of all canvassers are Oberlin students," my boss Greg told me. "They get out of school for the summer, they go home, and they canvass. It's just what they do."
I knew that Greg was prone to exaggeration, and just a couple days previous he had convinced my friend Josh that Fielding, our office manger, had a glass eye. I figured his numbers were probably inaccurate. But then, how did I explain the fact that at one point, we had three Oberlin students working in an eight-to-fifteen person office?
Canvassing is a pretty ideal job if you go to Oberlin. It allows you to exert minimal effort, make decent money, and walk around with an undeserved self-assurance that you're making a difference in the world. And because there's a PIRG in almost every state and they recruit college students aggressively, it's pretty easy to get started.
First, you see a flyer. Or maybe an ad in the City Paper, or on Craigslist, or you just visit JobsThatMatter.org on your own because you're that kind of person. They give you a number to call and tell you to ask for Sandy.
Don't be fooled. There is no Sandy. Sandy is a lie, invented by the organization (along with other gender-neutral names like Robin and Terry) to determine where you saw the ad. "Sandy's not here right now," someone will tell you (lies! lies!), "but I can help you out. My name's Fielding and I'm one of the directors here . . ."
Once you've proven that you have the ability to communicate coherently with other humans, you will be asked in for an interview. At the interview, if you exhibit a knack for forming sentences and a general aptitude towards thinking, they will probably offer you a position as a Field Manager. All Oberlin students will automatically be offered positions as Field Managers. This cushy job, which involves a ten-hour work day and spending far too much time on Google Maps, can be yours if you memorize the rap overnight and survive a virtually unpaid Observation Day tomorrow.
For my observation day, I had a hundred-degree fever and a swollen, stinging sore throat. Later, a competent and reputable doctor at Patient First would tell me that I resembled "the poster child for mono" and proceed to run several subsequent tests, treating each negative as a portent of my eventual mononucleastic doom. But that day, the hottest day in Baltimore that summer, as I followed Fielding down a suburban street aptly named Rich Hill Road, all I knew was that I felt like shit and that packing one water bottle had not been enough. As we walked past the community pool, my sweat-soaked jeans rubbing my legs raw, I fantasized about what it would be like to strip off all my clothes, scale the chain-link fence, dodge the pool cleaners prepping the deck for Memorial Day Weekend, and dive into the clear blue water. I had to remind myself that no, this was not Oberlin, I was not at the Arb, and yes, there are ordinances against public nudity in Baltimore City. Also that I was trying to get a job.
Thanks to my ridiculous perseverance, I did in fact get said job, and proceeded to raise $285 on my first day (for those of you who have never canvassed for PIRG, the daily quota is $110). On my second, I was given an observer--someone to follow me around and benefit from my forty-eight hours of canvassing wisdom. My third day, I was given the responsibilities of a Field Manager for the first time. I had to come in early and pour over last year's maps, cut turf for everyone in my crew, do drop-offs and check-ins, and cash everyone out at the end of the night. Two weeks later, I received the training necessary to do all these things.
I woke up each weekday morning and drive my dad's Toyota Corolla to Charles Village, a hipster enclave in north Baltimore home to the Museum of Art and a Johns Hopkins University campus. (Fun fact: my first home, through the ripe old age of one, had been an apartment right around the corner.) I spent twenty minutes attempting to parallel park, then walked four blocks north to the office, located on the second floor of a combination bagel/sushi restaurant and a Bank of America. Most of the time I stopped at the University Market for a Vanilla Coke and a box of Junior Mints, telling myself I would need the sugar rush. I then spent an hour and a half assembling and marking turf maps with perpetually dry highlighters, took an unnecessary half-hour lunch break, drove with my crew to that day's town, and canvassed until 9 pm.
Every day I set out into the hot sun telling myself that it was my last. Every night I got home at 11 pm and promptly passed out, too exhausted to search for a summer job that didn't involve knocking on strangers' doors and asking them for money. Plus, I was getting so good at it--by my second week, I was consistently placing as the office's highest grossing canvasser. And eventually, I was trapped--not only by my own laziness, but by the growing affection (and even loyalty) I was beginning to feel towards my coworkers and our little organization.
For example, Wednesday night was Pizza Night. It was sponsored by the nationwide organization as a mostly futile effort to keep canvassers loyal and happy. For us, it was an excellent occasion to visit The Charles, a dive bar close to the office, for a stack of pizzas and dollar Natty Boh night. Eventually, after one memorable Wednesday involving a round of tequila shots, Pizza Night was moved to a carryout place in the suburbs as an effort to curtail the underage drinking.
Another benefit of canvassing was the free geography lessons. Not only did I get to memorize all the streets and neighborhoods of the wealthy, liberal sections of Baltimore and the D.C. beltway region, but I got to see them come to life right before my eyes! For example, I know never to canvass in Mt. Washington on a Friday night (or as a girl wearing shorts), I know to avoid interacting with anyone from Bethesda, and I know that most of Roland Park is too fucking rich for their own good. I also know a lot of possibly useless things about the Chesapeake Bay, toxic pollution, and the Matthew Shepherd Act.
Speaking of which, canvassing gave me great training for my Theater major. Thanks to the three different raps and countless responses I had to learn, I'm now capable of speedy memorization, which I expect to utilize any day now for my show that opens in a week and a half. I also had a lot of practice living in the moment, as I tried not to zone out and go into recitation mode at each door. And I learned to smile at people, and thank them, and wish them a nice evening, when every instinct in my body is telling me to punch them in the face.
I knew that Greg was prone to exaggeration, and just a couple days previous he had convinced my friend Josh that Fielding, our office manger, had a glass eye. I figured his numbers were probably inaccurate. But then, how did I explain the fact that at one point, we had three Oberlin students working in an eight-to-fifteen person office?
Canvassing is a pretty ideal job if you go to Oberlin. It allows you to exert minimal effort, make decent money, and walk around with an undeserved self-assurance that you're making a difference in the world. And because there's a PIRG in almost every state and they recruit college students aggressively, it's pretty easy to get started.
First, you see a flyer. Or maybe an ad in the City Paper, or on Craigslist, or you just visit JobsThatMatter.org on your own because you're that kind of person. They give you a number to call and tell you to ask for Sandy.
Don't be fooled. There is no Sandy. Sandy is a lie, invented by the organization (along with other gender-neutral names like Robin and Terry) to determine where you saw the ad. "Sandy's not here right now," someone will tell you (lies! lies!), "but I can help you out. My name's Fielding and I'm one of the directors here . . ."
Once you've proven that you have the ability to communicate coherently with other humans, you will be asked in for an interview. At the interview, if you exhibit a knack for forming sentences and a general aptitude towards thinking, they will probably offer you a position as a Field Manager. All Oberlin students will automatically be offered positions as Field Managers. This cushy job, which involves a ten-hour work day and spending far too much time on Google Maps, can be yours if you memorize the rap overnight and survive a virtually unpaid Observation Day tomorrow.
For my observation day, I had a hundred-degree fever and a swollen, stinging sore throat. Later, a competent and reputable doctor at Patient First would tell me that I resembled "the poster child for mono" and proceed to run several subsequent tests, treating each negative as a portent of my eventual mononucleastic doom. But that day, the hottest day in Baltimore that summer, as I followed Fielding down a suburban street aptly named Rich Hill Road, all I knew was that I felt like shit and that packing one water bottle had not been enough. As we walked past the community pool, my sweat-soaked jeans rubbing my legs raw, I fantasized about what it would be like to strip off all my clothes, scale the chain-link fence, dodge the pool cleaners prepping the deck for Memorial Day Weekend, and dive into the clear blue water. I had to remind myself that no, this was not Oberlin, I was not at the Arb, and yes, there are ordinances against public nudity in Baltimore City. Also that I was trying to get a job.
Thanks to my ridiculous perseverance, I did in fact get said job, and proceeded to raise $285 on my first day (for those of you who have never canvassed for PIRG, the daily quota is $110). On my second, I was given an observer--someone to follow me around and benefit from my forty-eight hours of canvassing wisdom. My third day, I was given the responsibilities of a Field Manager for the first time. I had to come in early and pour over last year's maps, cut turf for everyone in my crew, do drop-offs and check-ins, and cash everyone out at the end of the night. Two weeks later, I received the training necessary to do all these things.
I woke up each weekday morning and drive my dad's Toyota Corolla to Charles Village, a hipster enclave in north Baltimore home to the Museum of Art and a Johns Hopkins University campus. (Fun fact: my first home, through the ripe old age of one, had been an apartment right around the corner.) I spent twenty minutes attempting to parallel park, then walked four blocks north to the office, located on the second floor of a combination bagel/sushi restaurant and a Bank of America. Most of the time I stopped at the University Market for a Vanilla Coke and a box of Junior Mints, telling myself I would need the sugar rush. I then spent an hour and a half assembling and marking turf maps with perpetually dry highlighters, took an unnecessary half-hour lunch break, drove with my crew to that day's town, and canvassed until 9 pm.
Every day I set out into the hot sun telling myself that it was my last. Every night I got home at 11 pm and promptly passed out, too exhausted to search for a summer job that didn't involve knocking on strangers' doors and asking them for money. Plus, I was getting so good at it--by my second week, I was consistently placing as the office's highest grossing canvasser. And eventually, I was trapped--not only by my own laziness, but by the growing affection (and even loyalty) I was beginning to feel towards my coworkers and our little organization.
For example, Wednesday night was Pizza Night. It was sponsored by the nationwide organization as a mostly futile effort to keep canvassers loyal and happy. For us, it was an excellent occasion to visit The Charles, a dive bar close to the office, for a stack of pizzas and dollar Natty Boh night. Eventually, after one memorable Wednesday involving a round of tequila shots, Pizza Night was moved to a carryout place in the suburbs as an effort to curtail the underage drinking.
Another benefit of canvassing was the free geography lessons. Not only did I get to memorize all the streets and neighborhoods of the wealthy, liberal sections of Baltimore and the D.C. beltway region, but I got to see them come to life right before my eyes! For example, I know never to canvass in Mt. Washington on a Friday night (or as a girl wearing shorts), I know to avoid interacting with anyone from Bethesda, and I know that most of Roland Park is too fucking rich for their own good. I also know a lot of possibly useless things about the Chesapeake Bay, toxic pollution, and the Matthew Shepherd Act.
Speaking of which, canvassing gave me great training for my Theater major. Thanks to the three different raps and countless responses I had to learn, I'm now capable of speedy memorization, which I expect to utilize any day now for my show that opens in a week and a half. I also had a lot of practice living in the moment, as I tried not to zone out and go into recitation mode at each door. And I learned to smile at people, and thank them, and wish them a nice evening, when every instinct in my body is telling me to punch them in the face.
All aboard the blog
I sat and stared at my computer screen for about five minutes, trying to think of a non-awkward way to begin my first blog post. Perhaps I could open with a joke? No, I decided, there's nothing non-awkward about a joke, especially if it's one I made up (I recently wrote a rap song full of jokes about theater and quotes from Shakespeare--it was probably one of the most awkward things anyone has put on film and sent to the British American Drama Academy as an audition). Then I had to decided whether or not my blog was self-aware. Should I acknowledge my readers? What if there are no readers? If a tree falls in the forest, will it make a sound?
I eventually settled on the highly awkward segue you see above you, in part because I figured it was best not to misrepresent myself.
My name is Jenny Gaeng. I'm 20 years old, a junior at Oberlin College, and if you had heard my rap song you would probably guess my major on the first try (hint: it's not composition). I live in Baltimore, Maryland, a city I never appreciated until I first laid eyes upon the sign for "Downtown Oberlin" and promptly burst into tears. Baltimore is mainly known for its world-famous blue crabs (which I can't eat because I'm a vegetarian) and the hit HBO series The Wire (which depicts people's lives that are the exact opposite of mine). You will next hear about Baltimore, in more precise geographical detail than you could ever want to know, in an upcoming blog about my summer canvassing job.
I will end this cursory introduction blog with a snapshot, for all my lovely readers, of me as I exist right at this very moment, 8:40 pm on a Sunday: sitting on the lawn in front of Harkness Coop, laptop situated awkwardly between my knees, a shiny gold pair of pants wrapped around my shoulders to discourage the mosquitoes from feasting on my pale flesh. My friends Josh and Glen are playing the tabla and clarinet respectively, and a stranger named Matt has joined them on the guitar. My erstwhile roommate Allie is sitting next to me, also on her laptop, also writing a blog for the admissions office.
It's about to get very intense. I can feel it already.
I eventually settled on the highly awkward segue you see above you, in part because I figured it was best not to misrepresent myself.
My name is Jenny Gaeng. I'm 20 years old, a junior at Oberlin College, and if you had heard my rap song you would probably guess my major on the first try (hint: it's not composition). I live in Baltimore, Maryland, a city I never appreciated until I first laid eyes upon the sign for "Downtown Oberlin" and promptly burst into tears. Baltimore is mainly known for its world-famous blue crabs (which I can't eat because I'm a vegetarian) and the hit HBO series The Wire (which depicts people's lives that are the exact opposite of mine). You will next hear about Baltimore, in more precise geographical detail than you could ever want to know, in an upcoming blog about my summer canvassing job.
I will end this cursory introduction blog with a snapshot, for all my lovely readers, of me as I exist right at this very moment, 8:40 pm on a Sunday: sitting on the lawn in front of Harkness Coop, laptop situated awkwardly between my knees, a shiny gold pair of pants wrapped around my shoulders to discourage the mosquitoes from feasting on my pale flesh. My friends Josh and Glen are playing the tabla and clarinet respectively, and a stranger named Matt has joined them on the guitar. My erstwhile roommate Allie is sitting next to me, also on her laptop, also writing a blog for the admissions office.
It's about to get very intense. I can feel it already.
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