Not the Mama

I should’ve known better than to confide any part of my life in him. Dad is usually more understanding than mama, but he can be as punitive with his remarks when he disagrees with one of my choices.

Since mid-August I’ve been "jobless" in the sense that I'm not making money: I quit the cubicle, and I’ve been looking for part-time and freelance work that will also give me time to do theatre projects. If you’re an artist, you know what I mean; if you’re not, here’s a quick lesson: theatre does not pay...well. Usually you do theatre for free, and if you’re lucky (not if you’re talented, not if you work hard—LUCKY) you get to make a small living at it, which is usually subsidized by other kinds of work such as teaching or journalism or working as a server, a busboy, a masseur, whatever. VERY FEW among the LUCKY will be EXTRA lucky enough to be able to do theatre all the time and make enough money from it to pay for housing and food. So...you tend to try to figure out ways to make money while giving yourself enough time to do the thing you love that brings in NO money. I KNOW it’s sounds so un-American to pursue something that doesn’t lead to financial security, but hey, somebody in this first world nation needs to think/communicate about existence, politics, human suffering, and if you spend your time chasing money you won’t.

Dad, in spite of having been raised a peasant in the hills of Cuba (or maybe because of it), every so often is possessed by the same money-hungry demon that mama usually is. When I told him I was going to be interviewing Kate Bornstein for BigQueer.com, he asked, “Does that make you money?” No, that’s for free. When I told him I was teaching theatre to “at-risk” New York youth from now through mid-October he asked, “And does that make good money?” No, dad, it makes NO money. It’s a volunteer job—a very selective one, but there’s no pay. What can I say, helping young people is a quick trollop through poverty. Help a billionaire expand his portfolio, however, and you’re bathing in gold.

Needless to say, dad went OFF. I mean, complete bile bordering on the vituperative. That I was crazy, that jobs were hard to come by, that how can keep working for free, that I was being taken advantage of...

It was all judgment and fear. And incomprehension. Afraid that he would add “you’re wasting your life” to his itemized rant, I hung up on him. We haven’t spoken since.

I've met very few artists who've had supportive parentals. If you've got em, boy are you LUCKY.