Scene 1: Functional (Late 1953)

Welcome to Body Memoir Politic: Looking
A play in Ten Scenes.

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(Music: Opening of Verdi’s “Dies Irae” from Requiem. As the music fades out, lights come up, gradually revealing the split stage. On stage right, ROSALYN, in shadow, sits at a desk, writing a letter. A beer bottle, pack of cigarettes, matches, and ashtray are scattered on the desk. At her feet sits SAMANTHA, who wears pink foot-in pajamas, is engrossed in coloring and eating a snack from a bag, perhaps some potato chips. Girls’ toys that were popular in the 1950's are strewn about.


On stage left, AUNTIE sits in a straight chair, holding a martini garnished with an olive. She takes delicate sips from it. Next to her is an end table, with a framed picture of an old man, a pack of cigarettes and lighter. Situated far on stage left and slightly behind AUNTIE, is an overstuffed easy chair, with a pipe on the seat. AUNTIE appears to be crying. On her left arm, she wears a black arm band. Otherwise, she is dressed very flamboyantly, with a bright red satin dress with a low neckline, matching high heels and purse, diamond necklace and matching bracelets, and diamond-studded Harlequin glasses. She has steel gray hair, styled in the fashion of the time. ROSALYN stands up and pats SAMANTHA on the head. SAMANTHA continues to play.)


ROSALYN

(Reading out loud as she writes):

Long Beach, California

December 15, 1953

Dear Auntie,

(ROSALYN puts down her pen and takes a swig from the beer bottle. She takes a cigarette from the pack, strikes a match, and lights up. She takes a long drag, sets it in the astray, and stands. She moves toward the audience and addresses them directly.)

I hope by the time this reaches you things will have quieted down.

That Unkie is gone seems very remote to me‒It just hasn’t soaked in‒I can’t seem to realize it. Maybe if I were home I would, but when we left he was fine, and I have him pictured that way in my mind.

(As ROSALYN continues to speak, AUNTIE sets down her drink and stands up. She picks up the framed picture, stares at it, and hugs it close to her. Throughout the scene, AUNTIE reacts to ROSALYN in various ways.)

When I got Mom’s wire, I thought it was a mistake. I must have read it 15 times before I realized what it said. It still doesn’t seem final to me, no matter how many times I tell myself. When I talk about it, it seems like I’m talking about someone else...

Believe me, it would be easier if I could accept it, but, Auntie, I can’t seem to see Unkie any place else but sitting in that overstuffed chair in the living room, smoking that Sherlock Holmes pipe of his...

(AUNTIE walks over to the chair, picks up the pipe, examines it, and pats the seat. She brushes the head of the chair, where an indentation of someone’s head is apparent.)

I thought he was getting better and the whole thing has hit like a ton of bricks. I had addressed a Christmas card to him and had written in it, planning to mail it in the morning. Do you want me to send it on to you? Anyway, get a good rest and come see us. We love you very much and want to see you...

(ROSALYN takes another drag from the cigarette and snuffs it out in the ashtray.)

If Ricky is accepted for a second tour, he’ll leave February 1st. He has already submitted his application and is among the first 20 to apply, so there’s a good chance he’ll go. We’re getting along pretty well now.

I’m hoping we can make a go of our marriage, put all that awful time behind us.

(ROSALYN takes another swig from the beer bottle.)

After all, he IS Samantha’s father. Still, I’m a little nervous that I’ll be a whole year alone with Samantha out here. I think it would be pretty wonderful if you could come during that time (Pauses). Last letter I said French Morocco, but I made a mistake; it’s the Marshall Islands in the South Pacific. Again.

Vesta and Dame stopped in. I had been trying to call them but couldn’t get them and was surprised when they stopped in.

(Glares at SAMANTHA, who continues picking at the potato chips.)

Why can’t they just visit, without bringing junk and snacks all the time?

(Pauses.)

I called Hilda also.

(Sighs and pauses.)

She’s on another diet, nothing but steak and lettuce...

(Pauses.)

Is there anyone else you want me to call?

(ROSALYN goes over to SAMANTHA and pats her on the head.)

You’ve got to see Samantha. She absolutely turns heads when we go out. Must be all that curly hair and cute smile. Dean Platts, Ricky’s Negro army buddy from Texas, says she could be in the movies when she grows up–

(Pauses.)

–Though she’s getting a bit roly-poly.

(ROSALYN snatches the potato chip bag from SAMANTHA. To SAMANTHA:)

That’s enough, honey.

(AUNTIE nods her assent. SAMANTHA tries grabbing the snack bag back, but when it’s clear that the bag is out of reach, SAMANTHA begins throwing a tantrum, kicking and stomping her feet and crying. ROSALYN stashes the bag out of sight, perhaps in the desk drawer. ROSALYN to the audience:)

Baby fat, I guess.

(SAMANTHA continues her tantrum throughout the rest of the scene, but her cries become progressively fainter, as if she is losing her voice. Now more of a low-level whine.)

I haven’t heard from you in months. Don’t you think it’s time to put all that bitterness behind us?

(AUNTIE shrugs and sighs.)

What’s done is done.

I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t. I’m ashamed at what I did.

I swear, I’ll never steal from you again.

(AUNTIE places her hand on her hips, as if she’s about to give ROSALYN a major piece of her mind, but then simply shakes her finger at the audience.)

I’d do anything to change things back to the way they were. All I can do is look ahead. Besides, Samantha needs you, needs to know you’ll always love her, no matter about me.

I’m trying my best to turn over a new leaf and stay sober.

(ROSALYN drains the rest of the beer bottle; SAMANTHA intensifies her tantrum–feet kicking and stomping–but without sound, for SAMANTHA now has no voice.)

Well, I have to go now; Samantha is awfully naughty today and cried the better part of the night. Don’t know what I’m going to do with her. She’s teething right now.

Please write us soon, Auntie.

Love, Rosalyn, Ricky, and Samantha

(Lights fade out, "Dies Irae," from Requiem strikes up. Darkness and silence.)

NEXT PART

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From Body Memoir Politic: Looking, Copyright 2008, Jennifer Semple Siegel. May not be used without permission.

XL Portal: Body Memoir (October 13, 1950, midnight)

.

(Music: David Rose’s “The Stripper” plays as lights come up to reveal only stage right–stage left is blacked out–where ROSALYN, in shadow, is centered on stage right, curled up in a ball. A small round table, with a full beer bottle, a book of matches, an ashtray, and a pack of cigarettes, has been placed down stage center, between the two stage halves. As ROSALYN, remaining in shadow, rises to her feet, she appears to be naked and it is obvious that she is very pregnant, about to give birth at any time. In fact, she is in labor throughout the scene, each contraction getting stronger as the scene progresses. She remains in shadow throughout the scene. She rubs her belly and begins doing the moves of a stripper, and continues this routine awkwardly for about 30 seconds. The music stops abruptly.)



ROSALYN:

(Goes stage center and stands next to the table with the beer bottle and other items. As she strokes her belly, she addresses the audience.)

My cue.

I know you’re a girl; I sense your femininity oozing through me. So I’ll call you Samantha...I give you this one gift, a Hebrew name, meaning “name of God,” or, in Aramaic, “listener.” Yes, I like that meaning the best.

Listener.

I don’t have much else to offer you, only advice. Once you’re born, I don’t know how I’ll care for you or what will become of you.

And I don’t know exactly where your Daddy is right now.

The Marshall Islands, the last I heard.

(Pause. Then she bends over in obvious pain, both physical and emotional. She recovers her composure and continues:)

Ha! (Ironically.) Join the Army. Just another way of running away.

I’m just not ready to be a mother, but I suppose it’s too late to dwell on that now.

Our time together grows short.

(Another contraction. Then she continues:)

Very short.

Men. They never pull out in time, and, for God’s sake, it’s 1950, you’d think medical science would invent a reliable pill...

Never mind that now.

(Pause.)

I want to warn you about our family secret:

Fat.

(She picks up the full beer bottle and drains it completely. With authority, sets the bottle back on the table. )

Ahhh!

Don’t be fooled by all your skinny relatives. Fat is the family curse, and we all fight it.

So, here’s my warning:

(Picks up the cigarette pack and matches, pulls out a cigarette, and lights up. Smokes as she talks.)

You’ll first became aware of your fat when you’re about two. Yes, I think that awareness will come first, that moment when a blob of fat jiggles into memory, unblocking Jungian canals of prehistory.

It’s only after fat-consciousness that you’ll became aware of yourself as an individual entity. In an instant, you’ll go from nothingness to a wiggling amoeba to a suddenly complete human being, sitting on a horse on a merry-go-round.

(A pause, perhaps a slight change in ROSALYN’s position, movement, and lighting to indicate a minute change in focus.)

Your breath catches you by surprise, almost as if someone jumps from behind and frightens you into existence.

(The switch from future to present tense is intentional, and continues throughout the rest of the scene.)

Now, what?

Colors, sounds, smells, touch, and taste flooding your body. Feelings–wild and random and terrifying, like a sea of voices screaming in tongues, pushing you under.

(Stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. Clutches her throat.)

Oh, God, I can’t breathe! Ahhhhhhhhhh..... AIR! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh...!

(Takes a deep breath and relaxes. She continues:)

Something–someone?–moving through the canals of your brain–organizing, filing, and deleting.

You don’t feel dizzy as the merry-go-round spins around and your horse pumps up and down, like a wave ebbing and flowing and ebbing and flowing....Carrousel music! David Rose’s “The Stripper.”

(A few bars of “The Stripper” play and then fade.)

Yes, I’m quite sure of the Da-Da-Dah, DAH, Dah, Da, da! The memory knows what it knows.

(Carrousel music for a few seconds, and then it fades out.)

Around and around and around you go, and something comfortable, a huge pink amoeba, with fiery red hair and three chins that jiggle, laughs, leaps onto the carrousel, latches onto a pole, and hops side-saddle onto a horned horse.

(Another contraction. She recovers and continues:)

The platform sags and groan, but, still, you keep whirling around and around–

(She mimics the whirling motion.)

–This new presence singing from the depth of its guts, its words grooving into your memory,

“You can’t love me, I’m big and fat,” to the carrousel music.

(She stops the whirling motion.)

The amoeba climbs off the horse, and leaps from the platform, disappearing beyond.

(Looks all around.)

Where’s the fat lady?

(Shrugs.)

Oh, well. She’s around, hiding.

It’s almost as if the merry-go-round is stationary and the rest of the world spins out of control; all you see on the outside is a spin-art menage of people, tents, balloons, vivid colors curving around and around, enfolding you.

More color! Yet that blur is confusing, your world is HERE, and you’re not yet ready for the beyond.

Perhaps, someday, you’ll find IT.

Your fat lady.

You barely own language, but you need only one word:

WHY?

You remember the awe of touching your cheek and feeling something elastic there, something soft and warm, something giving way gently to your fingers, something that, in turn, mirrors your touch.

WHAT IS IT?

Then you notice your legs. Again, a warm, elastic surface, but when you touch your leg, you can see, for an instant, a white circle as the pink gives way to your finger. You see a fold in your leg, just below the thigh. Just a curiosity, a place where you can poke your finger, a place where the skin holds the tip of your finger captive.

You like this place, it feels real, somewhere you can hold onto without pinching and hurting, for the flat places of your new self pinches when you try holding onto them.

This fold, then, becomes your comfort spot.

And then you notice a surface unlike the pink one: your sunsuit. The suit, yellow with brown and purple dots, balloons at the belly. You pat this surface, but it’s different; indifferent might be a better word, for it feels rough, flimsy, cool, and it doesn’t mirror your touch–no you on you. Yet, it’s obviously a part of you, and it too has folds like the ones in your leg.

Very puzzling.

(Another contraction, this one very hard. She recovers and continues:)

Then you notice the horse beneath you.

“Is this me?”

What are you, anyway?

When you touch the creases in the horse’s head, you recoil: it is inelastic, cool, uncomfortable. Not you.

Otherness.

You begin to get an inkling that when you touch some things, they do not feel back, that some surfaces exist independently of you, and you are afraid. Then you notice something familiar sitting in a sidecar next to your horse, its hands in its lap.

Me.

(Clutches her stomach. The contractions are getting progressively harder. Groans, and continues with great pain.)

Your mother.

I wear black. My hair blows stiffly in the wind.

You keep your eyes on me.

One other in an ocean of otherness.

(Another contraction. She screams:)

OWWW!

(Pauses before continuing.)

I am now your other, an other who might stand up and walk away from you. You start to cry. I coo something back to you, you feel a little better, but not entirely. You still have a vague fear–not totally unfounded–I will leave you on the horse, for–since you can’t remember getting on–you have no idea how to get off the merry-go-round.

(Another contraction.)

SAMANTHA!

(Recovers from the contraction. Pats her belly, and makes some soothing sounds toward it.)

When you’re sure your other isn’t going to leave you, you want to know more about this other otherness, to know why you are.

For an eternity, you spin around and around and around and around, fat-consciousness coursing through prehistorical tributaries, your other now a certainty.

(With great emphasis and a shake of her fist, she continues:)

The last fucking certainty you’ll ever know.

(Pause. Grabs her stomach and moans loudly. This time, she curls over and sits on the floor, assuming a ball-like position. She rocks back and forth.)

VOICE OVER (Male voice):

PUSH!



(ROSALYN screams. her screams eventually fade out; lights gradually fade out until total darkness. A sudden flash of strobe, accompanied by newborn’s cry, lights up the entire stage; the crying stops abruptly, and the stage goes dark.)

NEXT PART

_____________________________

From Body Memoir Politic: Looking, Copyright 2008, Jennifer Semple Siegel