October 4, 2001 When I was sixteen, my high school boyfriend, Warren, put his hand up my shirt while we were making out in the "Biography/Autobiography" section of the town library where I was working as a page. Since that fateful day when great historical figures ranging from Queen Elizabeth I to Woodrow Wilson witnessed ambitious, young Warren sliding into second base, having a man touch my boobs hasn't been quite as big a deal. And really, that's just as it should be, isn't it? Fourteen years ago, I was young and inexperienced. Warren was my first boyfriend; the first person, other than myself and my doctor, to touch my breasts. Since then, they've been touched a fair amount of times, by a few different men. And since those later men also ended up doing a bit more than just sliding their hands underneath my sweater, that one little act hasn't been so earthshattering. Until this past May, when the issue of my boobs and who's touching them suddenly became a hot topic at University B. I suppose everything started because we were teaching Macbeth. (Ultimately, isn't everything always Shakespeare's fault?) As part of University B's "English for Engineers" curriculum, we devote a few weeks of the spring semester to theater. The kids read a play, discuss it in class, and see an actual theatrical production of the work they just read. Then they write a paper. This coming Spring, they're scheduled to see a musical production of The Dead. This scares me. A musical version of a James Joyce story? You know, when I think production number, Joyce doesn't immediately come to mind. Now, Hemingway, maybe; but Joyce? Really. I sincerely hope, in the name of all that is holy, that by "musical" they mean the play includes traditional Irish music and dancing as part of the Misses Morkan's annual party. Because I do not think I could bear it if Gabriel burst into song: Everything is quite dreary, Now that I've learned Gretta loved Michael Fuery With a passion she has never bestowed on my head. Oh, I am haunted by shades of the dead! Seriously, kids, if that curtain goes up on one of those bustling "got-to-get-ready" Broadway-type numbers and the chorus starts chanting "Shine the silver! Polish the brass! It's time for the annual dance!" I may commit ritual suicide. And this is not even mentioning the fact that we are supposed to be teaching these kids about theater and yet they aren't even going to be reading a play, but rather a short story. Now, stage adaptations of great stories are all well and good but we're reading a mess of short stories this term, and a novel in the winter. They should read an ACTUAL script. That's half the point of the damn unit: To read the playwright's words and stage directions and then watch how a director interprets them. Last time I checked, James Joyce wasn't a playwright and The Dead, while a great story, is not a play. (Well, it is a play now. A MUSICAL play. God help us all.) Still, that's this coming spring and it really has nothing to do with last spring and my boobs. So let's return to the actual story I was telling in ths entry: Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Macbeth and how it's all Shakespeare's fault. See last spring, we taught Macbeth. Only problem was, we couldn't find a production of Macbeth in the Philadelphia area that was running when we were scheduled to teach theater. Meanwhile, last spring season, there was something like FIVE productions of Macbeth running in the Philadelphia area. But they all closed before we taught our theater unit. Except for one which was out in East Black Hole of Calcutta and involved playground equipment. No, University B's English for Enginneering faculty is not known for our scheduling skills. We were stuck. Things were looking bleak. We were staring down the possiblity of teaching the theater unit with no play for the students to view. Or performing the play ourselves (which, now that I think about it, would have been priceless.) Or hauling the kids out to East Black Hole and watching the scary playground-equipment-using Macbeth, which was never really an option because 1) they were using playground equipment and 2) the kids would have freaked if we told them they had to pay for a bus ride into the suburbs in addition to a ticket. Thankfully, Scott came up with the brilliant plan of hiring Rose Theatre to come to University B and present selected scenes from Macbeth. At least it seemed like a good idea at the time. Of course, things might have worked out better if either Scott or I had bothered to inform Estelle of Rose Theatre's mission: To put the sex and violence back into Shakespeare. But we didn't and so the university hired Sabrina and Sammy to put together an hour and a half presentation. They couldn't do the entire play on such short notice, but they decided to do all of the Macbeth/Lady Macbeth scenes, presenting two different interpretations of each scene. They also decided to throw in the witches' scenes from Act I and Act IV. Which is where my breasts and I came in. Sabrina already had a Macbeth and a Lady Macbeth -- two New York actors who have worked with us for eons. But she still needed actors to play the witches, so she asked me, Kendra, and our friend Drew to step in. Things were fine, at first. (Things always are fine at first, aren't they?) I checked with Estelle to make sure my performing in the production wouldn't be a conflict of interest and she seemed enthused about the idea. I'm sure she thought that my appearing in the show would at least make MY students behave. She gave the go-ahead and we were scheduled to run for two nights in the glamorous University B. Engineering Lecture Hall. I played the second witch. We rehearsed at Scott's house. Sabrina explained her vision. She wanted a very modern Macbeth with a heavy reliance on modern technology -- cell phones, laptops, video surveillence. (If she ever mounts a full production -- go see it -- it will be incredible.) Her idea for the witches was that she wanted to play with the idea that we represented money and the corporate powers behind the politics. She wanted the audience to question whether we were really supernatural or just the movers and shakers behind things. I'm not explaining this well, but trust me, it was a cool idea. Sammy decided we should wear dark business suits and sunglasses. Kendra and I had to sweep our hair up into severe, fashion-model buns. He told Drew to dig up a pinkie ring. Sabrina gave us some character background: Drew was a Hollywood agent; Kendra had an unfathomably rich family; I was a computer mogul. We were going to do Act I, Scene i on our cell phones, each of us in a different part of the auditorium, holding a conference call. Then Macbeth and Lady M. would do one set of their scenes. We'd introduce the next set of the Macbeth/Lady Macbeth scenes with the witches' scene from Act IV, Scene i -- the famous "Double, double toil and trouble" scene. For this one, the concept was that the three of us were meeting surreptitiously on a park bench to discuss a spell. (I guess all of the conference rooms in our respective offices were booked.) I would have a laptop with me and Drew would be on his cell phone talking to Hecate. Drew and Kendra would dictate their parts of the spell to me as I entered all of the information into the laptop. At this point, I'm sure you're out there, reading this and thinking: Why, Kate, that interpretation of Macbeth is certainly dynamic and quite intriguing, but we really don't see what your rack has to do with this. Patience, my pets, patience. Sabrina's vision did not only include a certain corporate style and a reliance on technology. She wanted us to bring an "amoralness" to the witches. "Darlings," she said, "You are not nice people." The amoralness started off small. We decided that Kendra would be smoking a cigarette when she entered, playing on that time honored maxim that cigarettes = slightly amoral. Actually, couple the cigarette with the Prada and Platinum shopping bags and it equals decadence, which is, I suppose, a stop on the way to amorality. Then Sabrina raised the stakes. "Alright, my dears, the beginning of Act Four, Scene One. Kendra, I want you to enter first from stage left. Yes, yes, be smoking your cigarette and carrying your shopping bags. Sit on the end of the bench. Katie, dearest, you'll come in from the other side. No, don't acknowledge Kendra yet. Just sit on the opposite end. Open your laptop. Fiddle around with it or whatever nonsense needs to be done to power it up. Good. Now, Drew, once Katie is seated, you enter. Have your cell phone out. You're waiting for a call. Sammy, we need to find out if Neil can make Drew's phone ring on cue. Okay, dears, you're all in place. Kate and Kendra glance ever so slightly at one another. Kendra, maybe you nod, acknowledge her; remember, you're the leader. Alright, now we need to kick this scene off with a bang. And I want you to remember, darlings, you are not nice people. You are totally amoral. Sex, drugs, and computer chips. That's you. Drew, how would you feel about taking a big snort of coke right before you three start your spell meeting?" Drew felt fine about taking a big snort of cocaine right before we started the spell meeting. I, on the other hand, had a moment where I thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea for me, as a faculty member of University B, to be appearing in a scene involving nonchalant drug use. Then I stopped channeling Pollyanna. I mean, we were playing characters. And not very nice characters at that. The witches in Macbeth are never a nice lot; we were just taking it one step further. We would be doing a disservice to the students if we toned down the vision of the production simply because we thought they couldn't handle it. Plus, it's not like we were endorsing drug use and, when it came right down to it, I wasn't the one actually taking the drugs. No, Sabrina had something else in mind for me. "Okay, Kendra, you've said your little piece of the spell. And Katie, you've done your bit. Now Drew, it's your turn. Remember, you've just snorted a whole lot of coke; you're hopped up, you can't stand still. That's right, pace back and forth. Try and get the words to come out as fast as you can without losing the meaning. Yes. Yes. You're on the phone, listening to what Hecate is telling you. Oh, yes, do that bit with the 'What? What? You're cutting out.' That's great. Okay, continue. Good. Keep that snapping thing. You are quite impatient. Alright, Drew, my treasure, I think that the cocaine has made you a bit horny; you're standing behind Katie; she's typing; you notice her suit is rather low cut; and I want you to just very casually slip your hand inside her jacket; Keep talking; Katie, darling, don't even react. Keep typing like it's nothing. This is commonplace for the three of you; you all have lots of kinky group sex all the time. Drew exchange a look with Kendra, something that says, "Yes. Later." Alright, and as quickly as you put your hand in Katie's jacket, take it out again and resume pacing and dictating what Hecate is telling you. Excellent." Well, if that don't say amoral, I don't know what does. Of course, as soon as Sabrina blocked that part of the scene, she realized exactly WHO Drew was going to be feeling up in front all those University B freshmen. "Katie, my treasure, I just realized...if you're uncomfortable with this, we can have Drew do it to Kendra and you and he can exchange the look. Or we can cut it altogether. It's up to you." I told her I was totally cool with it, if she was. Now, I don't always make the best decisions. Particularly when I have the chance to do something most normal people would consider...oh, I don't know...what's the word I'm looking for here? Insane? Reckless? Professional suicide? I can't help it. There's this part of me that seems to be continually looking for ways to act out, to say to my parents and my employers and the world at large, "Ha ha. You think I'm so nice and sweet. You think I'm the girl next door. Well, guess what. You can't control me." It's a curse. It's a compulsion. I get too big a rush out of doing things that are going to tick other people off. Holden says I'm a troublemaker. I prefer "risk taker." Yup, that's me. Living on the edge. Just give me a minute to pay my bills, turn in that paper I've got due, and run a couple loads of laundry and I'll be out there once again, living on the edge. Ah, but for all my self-deprecation, there is a part of me that feels compelled to take risks, to do things that aren't safe. And, well, having Drew grab my boob on stage in front of my students definitely qualified as not safe. To be fair, I also had a few solid, RATIONAL reasons (in addition to the totally irrational adolescent need to rebel against something, anything) for agreeing to that part of the scene. First of all, within the context of the characters and the interpretation of the play, the boob grab worked. It was an organic, natural part of the piece. It added to the general sense of total amorality we were working to portray, plus it heightened the sexual undertones of the piece that we had been toying with throughout. And, really, the bottom line is I believe in Sabrina's vision of Shakespearean theater. These plays were written to be sexy, violent, garish spectacles. Sure, the text is beautiful and great care should be taken with the spoken lines but Shakespeare is not meant to be merely recited. There is something wrong if you see a production of Romeo and Juliet and you don't experience a palpable, physical passion. A Midsummer Night's Dream should never be conservative -- it should always be titillating and flirty and fun. There's no reason that the death scenes in any of the tragedies should not be bloody and gory. That's the way they were meant to be performed and that is the way they were performed originally. And now the time had come to put my money where my mouth is. If I truly believed in this vision, then shouldn't I have been willing to actively participate in making it a reality? Of course, one could argue that I shouldn't be willing to participate in making it a reality at the cost of my job. And you know, if I really only was doing it because of the fact that I believe in what Sabrina is doing with Shakespeare, I would have probably told her to have Drew grab Kendra's boob, been done with it, and waited to do something outrageous in another production. However, there were the students to consider. As a humanities professor, I, along with every other administrator and instructor at University B, spend an entire year drilling it into my students' heads that they are not children anymore; they are adults. We tell them, "I'm not going to force you to do the supplemental reading. That's your perogative. You're responsible for your own learning now." We say, "I'm not going to wake you up if you choose to sleep in class. Just remember, your grade will reflect your choices. You're responsible." We admonish, "Look, I'm not going to be some high school English teacher and remind you when your assignments are due. You're an adult now and you have to keep track yourself." We hand them novels and short stories that deal with rape, murder, and injustice and we expect them to, after a fashion, make sense of the texts for themselves so we can discuss their ideas in class and they can write about them in essays. We expect them to put together professional-quality design projects, to figure out how to work with peers as a team with very little help from any of us. In essence, we expect them to be adults. So why shouldn't I treat them as adults? I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong. But in that moment, it seemed terribly hypocritical of me to not go through with the scene the way we blocked it because I was afraid the students could not handle it. Sure, I was an instructor in the program, but in that production, I was also an actor and as an actor, my first responsibility was to the integrety of the interpretation. The best I could do was put myself out there, let the students make of it what they would and trust they would act like the adults I kept telling them they were. Or maybe I'm just a chronic exhibitionist. I haven't quite made up my mind. Kate: Crusader for truth in art or total maverick flake who cannot be trusted to mold the minds of America's youth? You decide. Plus, Scott said I should do it. He said he thought it would be cool. And, when has Scott ever steered me wrong? (Don't answer that.) But, all rationalization aside, the bottom line is I decided to go through with the boob grab. The night of the first show we had 450 students in the audience and not many of them were happy to be there. What had seemed a relatively painless decision (and a brave choice) in the security of Scott's living room now started to seem like total insanity. We started the show. Kendra, Drew and I took our places in the auditorium and on stage. We flipped open our cell phones, held them to our ears. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightening, or in rain? The mostly male crowd took one look at Kendra in her Aly McBeal-short skirt and the catcalls started. Not a good omen. When the hurly-burlys done. When the battle's lost and won. I stayed cool and delivered my lines with a sneer. My students cheered. "Woo! Kate!" I wondered how they would react later. That will be ere the set of sun At the end of the scene, we flipped our cell phones closed and stalked off, calm, cool and collected. (Or at least projecting the impression of calm, cool, and collectedness.) As we left, another cheer of "Woo! Kate!" broke out but this time; more students, students I didn't have but who recognized me from lecture, joined in. I avoided looking at Estelle who was sitting in the front row. I barely remember the first set of Macbeth/Lady Macbeth scenes. Drew played Seyton in addition to Witch #3 and he established a quick rapport with the audience because he was so bitchy and fun. Kendra and I were also double-cast as the gentlewoman (Kendra) and the doctor (me) in the sleepwalking scene (Sabrina thought this would add to the sense that the witches were actually the forces behind the events of the play). But that scene wouldn't come until AFTER the fated Act IV, Scene i. Put 450 college freshman in an enclosed space and see how long they pay close attention to anything. For a while, the entire hall was hushed and attentive, but eventually they began to get restless. When Kendra walked onstage to begin the second witches' scene, scattered conversations and laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone wolf-whistled. Everyone laughed. Still, most were only paying about 80% attention. (Which, I might add, is still an amazing percentage.) Kendra sat down, arranging her shopping bags at her feet, carefully maneuvering with a smoldering cigarette in one hand. Then it was my turn. I took a breath and crossed the polished stage on hard, clicking heels. I settled myself on the other end of the bench and realized that the laptop was upside down in my lap. The students laughed when I had to right it. Drew slid onstage and took his place behind us. I couldn't see him, but I could sense him bent over his ring as if it contained the cocaine. He snorted, followed the snort with an exaggerated shudder. The lecture hall went wild, laughing and yelling and catcalling. For an instant, I wondered if this was just about the stupidest thing I had ever done in my life. (Although, on some level, I was well aware that the stupidest thing I had ever done in my life was to throw out all those Ivy League applications because I didn't want to write too many essays.) But, after the momentary explosion, the hall quieted down. Now, they were all paying close attention. Great, just what I needed. Actual attention. Kendra glanced at me from under heavy eyelids. I shot the same look back at her. Thrice the brindled cat hath mewed I tapped keys on the laptop. Thrice and once the hedgepig whined. Drew's cell phone rang. Harpier calls -- 'Tis time! 'Tis time! Kendra smoked. Drew paced. I typed. Round about the cauldron go; In the poisoned entrails throw. Kendra used the cigarette to make her points. Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble Kendra's section was done. Now it was my turn. Then it would be Drew's. Dear Lord. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; I pretended to be thinking as I typed, reciting the recipe to myself. Double, double toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble. Drew was up. This was it. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf of the ravened salt-sea shark, He dictated. I typed. Root of hemlock digged i' th' dark, I looked out over the laptop at the audience. Liver of blasphemeing Jew, Gall of-- What? What? I can't hear you. You're breaking up. -- Oh. Gall of goat, and slips of yew Slivered in the moon's eclipse, They were still paying close attention. The cocaine had gotten them interested again. The cell phone interference kept them there. Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe The moment was upon us. Drew moved behind me. I kept my gaze focused straight ahead and continued typing. Ditch-delivered by a drab The action took mere seconds but they expanded like taffy. Drew slid his hand across my neck and down into my jacket. I kept typing. The auditorium exploded. I kept typing. The students were cheering. I didn't look at Estelle. Drew looked at Kendra. They exchanged their glance. The cheering continued. Make the gruel thick and slab. As quickly as he had slid his hand into my jacket, Drew slid it out again and resumed his pacing. The cheering died down. Every student was leaning forward, completely engaged. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. Kendra extinguished her cigarette with a hiss by depositing it in the can of Diet Coke she was carrying. I turned off the laptop and closed it. We stalked off the stage. The audience went wild once again, this time cheering, "Kate! Kate! Kate!" Amazingly, or maybe not so amazingly, they paid rapt attention to the rest of the production. They were also perfectly calm when I appeared later as the doctor. I had half-expected catcalls or more cheering but instead they were silent, listening intently. There was a question and answer period afterwards. No one asked a single question about the boob grab. Maybe they were too stunned. Or maybe I was right -- treat them like adults and they will act like adults, or at least reasonable facsimiles of adults. The aftereffects, at least in terms of the student body, were not half bad. There had been rumors that many of the students scheduled to attend the second night performance were planning on getting the lowdown from their friends who had attended the first night and skipping the actual show. Instead, the auditorium was packed and they were attentive from beginning to end, afraid to miss anything. They still cheered when Drew slipped his hand in my jacket, but that was it. Later, I had one very sweet student who wrote his theater essay on how directors should not "force" actors to do things they think are morally wrong just for the sake of a production. I didn't correct him. If was easier for him to believe that Sabrina made me do it, that was okay. A little naive, but okay. And I had one wiseass in a recitation who asked me why I thought it okay to "get felt up" on stage. For once in my life, I actually handled a sensitive situation effectively -- I turned it back on the class. I asked them why they thought I did it. And they came up with the right answer: "You're an actress. You were playing a part. The part isn't you. And you figured we were adults so we could handle it." Whether or not they were simply bullshitting me, I'm not sure, but their answers wiped the stupid grin off the questioner's face so that was enough for me. Best of all, I had no problem keeping their attention for the rest of the year. Miles informed me that I had become somewhat of a cult hero around campus. He said his students thought I was brave. Ah, sweet youth that mistakes recklessness for bravery. So, in terms of student response, everything was A-O-K. I was the coolest teacher on campus, everyone listened to me, and I got to bask in the glow of cult status for a few months. Too bad Estelle apparently doesn't think getting your boob grabbed onstage is cool. After the show, Sabrina and Sammy went over to talk to her. She was standing by the edge of the stage with this stiff little smile plastered on her face. She just kept saying, "That was certainly interesting" over and over to the students who passed by on their way out of the auditorium. Sabrina called me over to join them. I wasn't too keen on the idea, but I figured I had better bite the bullet sooner rather than later. Sabrina hugged me tight and said to Estelle, "Isn't Katie wonderful?" Estelle smiled and said, "Oh, she's something alright." You know my mother used to say that every time I did something like dress up as the Greek god Mercury for Latin class or pretend I was schizophrenic for my biology report. She didn't say anything more to me on the subject that night or for the rest of the term. I suspect that I would have been in serious trouble but Scott somehow stepped in and defused the situation. Still, things have been strained. I didn't lose my job, but now I've managed to brand myself as a wild card, a rebel, a maverick. Estelle does not take kindly to wild cards, rebels, or mavericks. Now, every time we have a staff meeting, she makes a point of singling me out and asking me how my classes are going, what I'm doing with them, what I plan on doing with them, how I plan on doing it, etc. She never asks anyone else. There are days when I am tempted to say, "Well, gee, yesterday we all got blind drunk and next week I'm planning on doing a strip tease." But I need my job, so I don't. Although, I do wonder how long I've got the job for. We always lose sections between fall and winter term and it usually means that somebody gets let go. It's usually the low man on the totem pole -- the last one in is the first one to go. This year, we hired a new instructor. Technically, she should be the one to go. But Estelle keeps saying things to me like "Oh, Kate, I'm so afraid we're going to lose sections this winter but I swear that I'm going to do my best to keep at least one of your sections open." Translation: You're unpredictable. I don't like unpredictable. If someone is getting canned, it's you. Okay, so I might be paranoid. I doubt it, but I might. Because it's more than just what she says or that she questions me like I'm the village idiot that they hired by mistake to teach a class. It's in the way she tells me about winter term and in her tone of voice when she leans across the desk and says, "How is your class going?" Still, after all is said and done, after all the imaginary cocaine is snorted and all of the boobs are grabbed, I know I wouldn't have done anything differently. This could possibly be a result of my uncontrollable need to sabotage myself. Or it could be due to the fact that I actually believe in my creative work and refuse to censor myself. Or it could be that I stood up and took a chance on my students and they rose to the ocassion. Personally, my money is on the self-sabotage option and I just got luckier than I can ever hope to imagine that everything turned okay in the end. But I did have fun. Besides, how many other people can tell a story like this? Then again, how many would want to?

7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions Thrill: I was walking to the liquor store to buy red wine for a recipe and guess who was coming out of the store as I was walking in! Teller! As in Penn and TELLER! Woo hoo! I think his parents still live here, but I never expected to see him walking up Chestnut Street. I was thrilled (obviously) but I figured that he's probably tired of being accosted by gaga fans so I just smiled at him and he smiled back and we went on our ways. Of course if Penn had been with him, it might have been a different story. Pride: Quite proud that I didn't turn into super stalker when I saw Teller. Envy: I'd like to be in a position where people are proud that they didn't turn into super stalkers when they saw me. Wrath: Jerry Seinfeld is a horse's ass. Enough said. Sloth: The Sims have claimed another victim. Avarice: I want fame. And yes, I know: Fame costs. Although, I'm not quite certain if right here is where I start paying. Gluttony: We're going out for dinner tonight. Talk to me about gluttony later. Lust: Ah, seeing Teller has fanned the flames of my passion for his partner, Penn. Yes, I am well aware that I have quirky taste. Book: Just finished Underworld by Don DeLillo for Gayle's class. Go read this book. It's DeLillo's look at America during the last half of the Twentieth Century and the Cold War. It's amazing and heartbreaking and comforting and fucking wonderful. Read. it. now. (Scratch envying Teller; today, I'm envying Don DeLillo.) Tune: "Cailin" by Unwritten Law: I'll be alright. But I, I need you close. Please stay tonight. As long as you're here. Just stay near. We'll be alright. Yeah, alright Hey little girl, look what you do. Oh, I love you. Hey little girl, look what you do. (And you do.) When all my love starts running thin, I've got you my own Cailin. Hey, little girl who I love... Yeah, little girl who I love... Hey little girl, I love you. Yes, it's cheesy. Yes, it's grammatically incorrect. And yet, this song rocks. Obsession: Phillies baseball. The Fightin's are making a bid for the National League playoffs. Go Phillies! Go Johnny Estrada! Go Larry Bowa! Task at Hand: Maybe I ought to sit down and write some fiction.