Everyday Tips for Becoming a Star
2022; Emerson College; Volume: 48; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/plo.2022.0096
ISSN2162-0903
Autores Tópico(s)Theater, Performance, and Music History
ResumoEveryday Tips for Becoming a Star Lauren Morrow (bio) I wriggle my tights up my legs, feel them squeeze at my thighs and bite at my waist. They’re a size too small but my sole pair without a run. My whole body feels sour, all tight and tucked into Capezio. I’d much rather be wearing the loose pants and draping tops of my New York days, and I’d much rather that city not be so decidedly of my past. But I’m not, and it is, and the Diamond Star Cruise Ship audition is in an hour. So I suck it in and suck it up. From the living room, my mother births a dry cough. It goes on and on and on. “You all right?” A foolish question, I know. She’s on the couch, her prosthetic leg propped on a TV tray table. “Get me a soda to wet my whistle, would ya?” Water would be best, but soda is better than Seagram’s or Busch Light or Sutter Home moscato. I grab a can of diet and place it on the tray beside her leg. I notice a book below her foot. Zong! by M. Nourbe-Se Philip. “You reading this?” I ask, giving it a tap. I bought the book in college when I thought I might major in poetry, before pragmatically shifting my goals toward dance. I’d been moved by this single, long poem, inspired by captured Africans thrown overboard a British ship in the 1700s. The letters float disparately on the page like bodies in the sea. I still read it occasionally, both to encourage an intellectual sensibility and to remind myself that my suffering is small. “It’s the perfect height. I can elevate my leg without pulling a hammy.” “Glad you appreciate it,” I say, swiping my hands through the cushions of the sofa, searching, before I leave her for the day. There are no nips, but I find a vape pen. “Mom, come on,” I say, waving the pen. “It’s better than cigarettes.” She presses her lips tight and quivers. Eventually, another cough spills out with a laugh. I shake my head. [End Page 134] I used to find her so glamorous, a Virginia Slim dangling between her fingers as we practiced time steps in this very room. Stomp, hop, step, fu-lap, ball change. She would stay there with me for hours, until my combinations were perfect. Until the ashtray overflowed. “I took down a pack of chicken for dinner,” I say. “It should be thawed by the time I get back.” “I’ll handle dinner. You’ll be tired as all get out when those slave drivers are done with you.” “They’re just choreographers, Mom.” “That’s what they want you to think.” “I’ll be fine.” “Merde,” she says, careful not to curse me with good luck. Everyday tips for becoming a star, according to my mother: ▯ Do 100 crunches a day ▯ Press down on your nostrils to make your nose smaller ▯ Talk like the girls on prime-time TV ▯ Never eat carbs after seven ▯ Straighten your hair by any means necessary ▯ Never stop smiling Everyone at the audition is attractive—not quite beautiful, but fit, clean, and neat, like they just left the groomer. A handful of women are wearing leotards with no tights, something I have never considered. The waxing costs alone. Some men are wearing deep-V unitards that cling to their bodies. I am dressed simply—the black tights, a red leotard, and soft, black, once-worn jazz shoes that hug my feet just so. My hair is pulled back into a low a bun, the waves of my natural texture shiny against my head, the curls barely contained by my hair band. My mother burned my scalp with Just for Me from the time I was ten and scoffed when, midway through college, I told her I’d given up on relaxers. It was fine, I’d assured her. People were more accepting now, things were changing. But in this room of sleek and smooth, I wonder if I’ve been mistaken. [End Page 135] I went...
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