got it good? I don’t get it, but I’m gonna leave that one alone.
“Hey, Mr. Ward,” I said. “What you planning to do with all them videotapes you’re making?”
“I’m going to keep them, maybe show them to my students next year to introduce them to the idea of open-mike readings. If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, that works for me,” I said. “Just make sure you show them mine.”
Steve Ericson
Sheila may have identity problems, but I don’t. I know exactly who I am, and no matter what anybody says, I know I was born in New York City for a reason. Where else does the sidewalk tremble under your feet from the rumble of subways underground, and trucks and city buses up top? Where else do cabbies and garbagemen, bankers and businessmen all walk with a beat? Where else can you find grade A, top of the line characters roaming the streets spouting Shakespeare in the middle of a blizzard? And where else can you find Broadway?
The first time my folks set me down in front of a Broadway stage to watch a musical, and I saw walls rising into the ceiling and staircases disappearing into the floor, I knew: I wanted to be a set designer, and I wanted to work on Broadway.
If you come to my house, there’s hardly anywhere to sit in my bedroom, or to step, for that matter, because the whole place is cluttered with hand-painted miniature cardboard sets I designed for imaginary plays. I’ll work on real ones as soon as I get to college, because I figure there’ll be plenty of opportunities to sharpen my skills working on college productions, especially down at NYU, where I plan to go. If I get in. When I get in. I have to get in. I have to get back to the city.
Two months ago, my father announced that we’re leaving. We’re moving out. The city is getting too rough, he said. Mom’s not sure she wants to go on teaching in public schools. She has decided to take a break, so this is a good time to move, he said. As for him, he’ll keep his job in publishing and just commute. From Yorktown Heights.
I tried to pretend like the move is no big deal, since Mom and Dad are so hot on it, especially Mom, who’s been wanting her own house forever. But man, I’m dying. I got friends here that I’ve grown up and gone to school with all my life, and I fit in here, and you can’t tell me there are guys with bleach-blond buzz cuts and earrings in Yorktown. And what about the theater? There’s no Broadway in Yorktown.
But maybe that’s the point. Mom’s not too keen on my plans to work in the theater, which is no surprise. She’s still trying to get over my wearing an earring, even though I bought the smallest one I could find. (She freaked anyway.) I don’t think Dad is too stoked about my plans either, although he doesn’t say it because he knows I remember him telling me how he used to want to be an entertainer. He played drums in a band when he was my age, and had big-time plans of hitting the road like Ringo Starr and the Beatles, and doing shows across the country. Then his family moved to Binghamton, away from all his band mates, and eventually, his dream faded away.
Is that why they’re moving? Is that what they’re hoping happens to me?
Just the thought of maybe never working in the theater makes me crazy, and one day, I tell this story about my father to Raul and I tell him I don’t understand how my father’s dream could just die like that, when what I really want to know is, can mine. And Raul says something that sticks with me. “Maybe your father’s dream wasn’t really in his heart. If a dream is in your heart, you never lose it.”
After we had that conversation, I kicked my doubts to the back of the closet. (Well, almost. I still go in there now and then.) Part of me continues to be afraid of following in my father’s footsteps. These days, though, I try to concentrate on keeping my grades up so I can get into NYU when the time comes, because one thing I know for sure is that my dream is in
“Hey, Mr. Ward,” I said. “What you planning to do with all them videotapes you’re making?”
“I’m going to keep them, maybe show them to my students next year to introduce them to the idea of open-mike readings. If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, that works for me,” I said. “Just make sure you show them mine.”
Steve Ericson
Sheila may have identity problems, but I don’t. I know exactly who I am, and no matter what anybody says, I know I was born in New York City for a reason. Where else does the sidewalk tremble under your feet from the rumble of subways underground, and trucks and city buses up top? Where else do cabbies and garbagemen, bankers and businessmen all walk with a beat? Where else can you find grade A, top of the line characters roaming the streets spouting Shakespeare in the middle of a blizzard? And where else can you find Broadway?
The first time my folks set me down in front of a Broadway stage to watch a musical, and I saw walls rising into the ceiling and staircases disappearing into the floor, I knew: I wanted to be a set designer, and I wanted to work on Broadway.
If you come to my house, there’s hardly anywhere to sit in my bedroom, or to step, for that matter, because the whole place is cluttered with hand-painted miniature cardboard sets I designed for imaginary plays. I’ll work on real ones as soon as I get to college, because I figure there’ll be plenty of opportunities to sharpen my skills working on college productions, especially down at NYU, where I plan to go. If I get in. When I get in. I have to get in. I have to get back to the city.
Two months ago, my father announced that we’re leaving. We’re moving out. The city is getting too rough, he said. Mom’s not sure she wants to go on teaching in public schools. She has decided to take a break, so this is a good time to move, he said. As for him, he’ll keep his job in publishing and just commute. From Yorktown Heights.
I tried to pretend like the move is no big deal, since Mom and Dad are so hot on it, especially Mom, who’s been wanting her own house forever. But man, I’m dying. I got friends here that I’ve grown up and gone to school with all my life, and I fit in here, and you can’t tell me there are guys with bleach-blond buzz cuts and earrings in Yorktown. And what about the theater? There’s no Broadway in Yorktown.
But maybe that’s the point. Mom’s not too keen on my plans to work in the theater, which is no surprise. She’s still trying to get over my wearing an earring, even though I bought the smallest one I could find. (She freaked anyway.) I don’t think Dad is too stoked about my plans either, although he doesn’t say it because he knows I remember him telling me how he used to want to be an entertainer. He played drums in a band when he was my age, and had big-time plans of hitting the road like Ringo Starr and the Beatles, and doing shows across the country. Then his family moved to Binghamton, away from all his band mates, and eventually, his dream faded away.
Is that why they’re moving? Is that what they’re hoping happens to me?
Just the thought of maybe never working in the theater makes me crazy, and one day, I tell this story about my father to Raul and I tell him I don’t understand how my father’s dream could just die like that, when what I really want to know is, can mine. And Raul says something that sticks with me. “Maybe your father’s dream wasn’t really in his heart. If a dream is in your heart, you never lose it.”
After we had that conversation, I kicked my doubts to the back of the closet. (Well, almost. I still go in there now and then.) Part of me continues to be afraid of following in my father’s footsteps. These days, though, I try to concentrate on keeping my grades up so I can get into NYU when the time comes, because one thing I know for sure is that my dream is in
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