If it were a drinking game, we’d all be wasted.
The how-can-you-be-that-tall, male (not that I noticed, because I am super politically correct), and incredibly handsome (again, refer to prior parentheses) flight attendant, who had already handled several seating emergencies with both gentle and authoritative diplomacy…
I’d like to host a “Let’s explore HOW to approach words and songs.” Word choice, hyperbole, tone, jackassedness… Let’s respect the artist enough to 1) trust that the use of each word is intentional, and 2) Listen to what is actually being said. We’re quick to judge, but slow to engage. We’ve lost the ability to be penetrated. (Stop. No that’s-what-she-saids today. It’s just…it’s too soon.)
I’m not Asian. I’m not transgender. I’m not cool. (I’m a little cool.) But I’m not marginalized. And, although I’m good on stage (because y’all crack me up, and I like you), I still don’t have the booking thing down. I’m just a plain white Jennifer.
Looking back, it was like I took stage bearing a deformity, or like when you’re first pregnant and the life changing fact of the little person growing inside is all occupying (not to compare deformity to pregnancy).
The same way that a drowning man might keep from expressing his predicament, in isolation and panic and fear that the water will come rushing down his throat, I kept quiet, distracted, and busy flailing my creative limbs.