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Essay by

A Child is Born and Lives

The Role of Mother, Father and… Another.

Essay by

This is a post for the School Days series, which solicits submissions from undergraduate theatermakers from around the country and beyond. This series is curated by Thea Rodgers.

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Author's Note: The following piece is what I would think of as a ‘metaphysical monologue’: a working-through of ideas in monologue form, equating making theater with  ‘creating life.’ The piece draws a parallel between significant figures in children’s life who go unrecognised and a dramaturg as an equally affecting and influential force in the creation of theater. 

They talked to me a little bit about deciding to have you. “Do you think it’s a good idea?” asks your Mum, though I can see she has already decided. I help pick things out for you and in doing so, I help craft your life a little. When you were born I was not involved. Not like them: your mum and dad. Your mum writes your name down on the register, your dad directs the doctors about your care.

When I see you for the first time, I see you as you are: beautifully flawed. I swallow, because they would not like me to say so. They see differently, your Mum and Dad: the perfection in you. They are blinded by love.

They get angry with you sometimes when you won’t obey, or if you can’t understand them. Your dad cries with frustration, your mum with exhaustion, and sometimes I am sent for. I live for those moments when they need my help.

When I look into your eyes, wide as they will always be, I see you as you are, so very different to how they have talked about you.

I feel a pang, sometimes, that you are not mine. I long for my own child, to be responsible for a life, to begin the writing of a new story with another human being, helping to direct the course of a little piece of history.

I feel a pang, sometimes, that you are not mine. I long for my own child, to be responsible for a life, to begin the writing of a new story with another human being, helping to direct the course of a little piece of history.

They do not want to let you out of their sight. Why would they? The world is a scary place, and they love you too much. It is I who encourage them to take you out and about—little walks when you can see people, and they can see you.

They do not lie awake at night and worry about you so much, for they are often tired after days spent with you at your happiest. I lie awake. I need your life, to give mine a bit of meaning. I live with the insufferable asymmetry of depending on someone who does not depend on me.

You get older and more independent, and you get in more fights with them. I have always taken you as you are, spoken your language, faced your face, but they see too much of themselves in you (or too much of each other).

I listen to you like they never can, for they are blinded by intimacy. I have always been detached from you, though I have cared deeply, and I know so much about your life. You listen to me because I have no agenda.

They want the best for you, but on their terms. They want you to be successful! But I want you to flourish like no one but you can: in your own way.

Sometimes they think I am too involved in your life. “Not yours!” they shout at me, “Ours!”. It hurts me. And maybe I will not see you for a while then. Just go back to my admin job; just go back to theory without practice.

Few will know the pain of having a cap placed on love. It is the daily life of every stepparent, godparent, teacher or significant other: we care for you like parents, but we are not. Your parents are threatened by me; your parents are possessive of you. They act out of love.  “Interception!” they cry, and I can only speak calmly, quietly, and lovingly. I know my limits because I live them, but your parents are allowed to have none.

When you are old enough, we meet without them. We have Jasmine tea somewhere—a strange preference, it must be your Mom’s doing. You tell me about things that you don’t tell them, because they do not notice the signs. You are becoming your own person, deciding which bits of each of them you want to keep. Sometimes I can help with that because I have got to know you in the real world. I see how you want to be. I help you craft your own future. I watch you leaving and being and becoming—processes they are too busy planning your life to notice.

When you have left home and gone into the world, their job of making you is almost completely over. There are those who believe that biology is the only important thing – that you were crafted as soon as you were born, and so they judge you on the merits of your Mum and Dad. To those people, I do not exist in your life.

But you and me both know that your success is in the living, the learning and the failing, and for all your life I have always been here.

***

A Performance is Born and Lives: The Role of Writer, Director and… Dramaturg.

 

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