Too Short for a Blog Post, Too Long for a Tweet 391

 

Here are a few excerpts from a book I recently read, "Making a Scene," by Constance Wu.

 

Growing up, I was taught to never make scenes. It’s unbecoming. Unladylike. As a kid, I held back so much. And whenever I reached a breaking point—the accumulated feelings avalanching out of me in tears or tantrums—I found that to be ineffective too. No one heard my words; they only heard the tone and responded by saying things like “Whoa, you’re intense” or “Calm down” or “Why can’t you just be grateful?” Patronizing, reductive phrases that made me feel even worse. It’s probably why I love theater so much: it’s the only place where it felt acceptable—nay, commendable—to have big feelings.

The stories in this book are memories of the people and events that have shaped my humanity and determined the direction of my life. Just because Boys’ Life only gives Girl one scene in the play doesn’t mean we have to. Her story doesn’t end when the scene ends. She has a future. She has a history. That’s what I’m trying to do with this book. To tell the story of my own inner Girl, ya know? Give her a few more scenes.

 

People often ask me, “Why do you love bunnies so much?” and I always want to ask back, why do we love anything? Listing reasons almost cheapens the love, in my opinion. I don’t have an explanation for love. It’s also kind of an insulting question. Like, no one ever says, “Why do you love your dog?” Why is it that love for certain kinds of animals is understood, but others require explanation? As if they’re saying: It’s unusual! Hardly anybody loves bunnies, so please explain to me, how could a bunny possibly be as lovable as the love you give her? 

But everything and everyone is lovable to someone, even if it doesn’t make sense from the outside. Love is not something earned through merit. It’s something that happens with time. Even with the humans I’ve loved, that’s what it often boils down to: time. All that stuff at the beginning of the relationship, the thrills and passion and attraction and drama… sure, that’s wonderful, and I’ve called that love before. But real things don’t have shortcuts. Those sublime whirlwind weeks often feel like love, but real love doesn’t truly happen until the wind dies down and everything becomes a little plain. That takes time. So time, and everything that happens in it, is probably where you find real love. Forgiveness is somewhere in there too.

The divorce took years. Dad complained that Mom was trying to take all his money. He claimed that she was a negligent parent and that he did the bulk of the housework. One of my older sisters showed up in court to refute that and take my mom’s side. My dad asked me to write a letter he could use in court defending him. As a teen, I’d always favored my dad, and I wrote an impassioned letter naming all the ways he’d been a superior parent and the times my mom had forgotten to pick me up from rehearsal. 

In the end, Dad lost the financial battle. I didn’t realize this until years later when Dad offhandedly mentioned something about not being able to retire yet because half his savings were gone. “Gone?” I asked. “But what about the letter I wrote for you in court?” 

He sighed. “I didn’t end up using it,” he said, “because I didn’t want your mom to hate you.”