After Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”

by Jessie Lane, BLS student

Jessie Lane.

The assignment, for Debby Seabrooke’s Contemporary Short Stories class, was to create a personal adaptation of “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid. “Girl” was first published in the June 26, 1978 edition of the New Yorker, and has since been widely anthologized. It is frequently studied in literature and writing classes.

Girl
(after Jamaica Kincaid)

Jamaica Kincaid, c. 1978.

Remember that we all are always alone. This is not bad news. This news will lead you to the truth quickly. You can rest assured that there is nothing else in this world to do other than honor your family and to work. Do not worry about forming connections beyond that, this will only waste your time and cause you to suffer. Being alone is honorable—not lonely and isolationist. It is a sign of strength. The only company you need is that of your children. You will understand when you become a mother. But, I’m not sure that I want to become a mother. All other relationships are luxuries, and luxuries make you lazy. The world will make you think that you need people; they will constantly be at battle with your wits on this one. They want you to believe that relationships are a testament to your worth. Beat ’em! Make sure that you prove your worth though production. You must make progress, always and continually. This will help you to continue living life. Money is the key to success. Not riches, mind you, but the constant flow of steady money. Find that and do not waste your time on other pursuits. Well—you can—you are a free person, but if you do you will know great sorrow and depression. Not only, but mostly. Oh, and don’t let your softness show, it is unbecoming. Girls are really only anything these days if they act like boys. Don’t look like a boy, please…God…look like a pretty, lean girl. But, act like you can kick everyone’s ass because you know how to make it on your own. Be tough, dirty, fierce, and blood hungry on the inside and look physically accommodating on the outside. Being one of the guys without them knowing is key to this fight. But I don’t know much about fighting. Learn everything you can learn about fighting. This is important. You have got to fight in the war to win. Makeup is your war paint; wear it often, and wear it right. But I can’t seem to get used to the feeling of makeup on my face. To be a proper girl, a proper daughter, you must also take care of us parents. There is a special reason that you are the only girl. Let the boys be single-minded. You can do it all. You must, really, if you want to live a life of meaning. You will understand when you have your children. But, don’t have children because you don’t want to be alone or because you think that you have an unnerving urge to give life and love. These are biological tricks that nature plays on all of us, and it’s important to remember that you can always control nature. Have your children because you will need someone to provide for you in old age. You don’t even need a man. But, I’m not even sure what I want. You will see, child. You will see.

———

Jessie Lane is a 28 year old senior in the BLS Humanities concentration and lives in the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina. She started her college education at age 15 after dropping out of high school in Phoenix, Arizona,  running away to Asheville, and enrolling in classes at Asheville-Buncombe Technical Community College. She has lived all over the United States and traveled worldwide, including Mexico, South Africa, France, Netherlands, and Spain. She is a passionate percussionist, and plays with groups in various genres all around the Asheville area. She loves dancing and writing.

What’s In a Visit?

by Deborah Seabrooke

Thanksgiving is around the corner and Christmas isn’t far behind. Some of us don’t relish going home.

I never wanted to go home when I was in college. Things are different now. The trend is for your parents to best your best friends. I’ll bet most of my students can’t wait to get home.

Deborah Seabrooke and her daughter in D.C.

My parents were not my friends. That’s a foreign concept to me. I have a married daughter in her 30s who says I am her best friend. I’m glad she likes me so much, but I feel squirmy. I should be elated, but something’s out of whack.

My father is 92. He is not my friend, he’s my father. My mother died three years ago at 89. She wasn’t my friend either. They moved to Greensboro when my children were in preschool to be near them, at least they said so at first. But the night before they arrived, my mother phoned me and very seriously told me to make no mistake—she and my father were not moving to Greensboro so that they would be available as babysitters whenever I needed them. They had lives of their own to lead.

I admit that I was taken aback that she called just to make that clear. But it took me only seconds to recover and answer, “Sure, Mom. I understand.”

My mother was right. She was drawing her boundaries, even though there was no reason that they were moving to Greensboro other than to be near me and the kids. They weren’t coming for the weather. They had already pre-retired to Florida. But fences make good neighbors when we’re talking about family. At least my family. Maybe not yours. Maybe you are reading this in horror.

I found myself remembering the boundaries my mother drew when my daughter recently asked me if I would take care of her child while she was at work. This was purely theoretical because I also work –in Greensboro—and she lives six hours away and there is no grandchild in sight yet. So I said, “Uhhh…”

“What do you mean, Uhhh?”

“Well…”

We eventually talked reasonably about it. I told her I would of course baby sit now and then. For sure if she ever felt like she was going to kill the kid.

I did not say that her question made me feel in the grip of a python. Actually, I probably felt just like my own mother felt the night before she and my father moved to Greensboro.

I am in late middle age, like my mother was when she and my father moved to here. I want to hold onto who I am for a while longer. Who I am is the person I see in the mirror, smile back at, put mascara on, and take a walk with. Early in the morning when I walk, I like the long-legged singular shadow I make on the bike trail.

I want to hold onto myself just as hard as my 92 year old father grips his own life. We go slowly as I walk beside him. He creaks along the halls of his retirement home holding onto his walker. When the elevator comes, he touches my back guiding me to enter first as if this were the 1940s.

We ride the elevator in golden silence. It’s OK not to talk if one doesn’t have anything important to say. Check back with me when I am 92, but what sounds bad is constant chatter, music coming from hidden speakers, the chimes of a cell phone going off in my pocketbook.

When I was home alone with small children it was, to put it nicely, a mixed blessing. I was truly under siege. Ears ringing when they screamed as I wiped up blood. Going for walks with little hands in mine, such talky walks. Helping with (doing) their school projects.

And now that my kids are grown up and have homes of their own, I am alone most of the day. My husband is at work while I type this. I think I will make a cup of tea. This is heaven.

Which brings me now to the real conclusion. It may seem wildly contrary to what I have just said. Cherish your visit home to your parents and your family. Love them and all their flaws and sit close to the crumbling bodies of the old ones. Talk with everyone.

Because you know what? You can walk out their door in a few days. You can be by yourself thinking about what people said, how they looked. You can feel all the things family makes you feel: a sense of belonging, joy, and yes, despair. If you can be alone in the car on the ride back to your apartment, you’ve lucked out. But if you can’t be by yourself until hours later when you finally shut the door of your own room, just breathe. You’ll get there. It’s important to find the place where you can love your family, but hold onto yourself.

—–

Deborah Seabrooke teaches BLS 326 “Telling Stories: The Art of the Memoir” and BLS 323 “Contemporary Short Stories.” She has taught with the BLS program and the Master of Arts in Liberal Studies program since 2005, and at UNCG since 1978. She earned her MFA in creative writing from UNCG in 1975.

Act 2: Jabberbox Puppet Theater!

By Deborah Seabrooke

I started teaching at UNCG in my late twenties.  I’ve been here a long time. I’ve always been a part-time teacher and that has given me a lot of freedom to pursue other things.  I love teaching, but on the side have kept a studio in my house for all my art projects—painting, quilting, book-making, fiction writing.  Until two years ago, that was the extent of it, but then I began thinking that I needed to try something new.  A friend of mine who runs Greensboro’s only independent bookstore, Glenwood Coffee and Books, was hearing me out one day as I blathered on about getting older, but feeling like there was still a lot left to do.  I’d loved acting way back in high school, but had had no experience on stage since then.  My friend, Alan Brilliant, told me about an adult puppet theater that he’d attended in the Village in New York back in the 50s, done in a living room with a hand- made stage and puppets.  The puppeteers were two aspiring actors who needed an outlet, and started to invite their friends to their salon-style shows.  The puppets acted out Noel Coward comedies, the concept took off, and soon people had to jump on the tickets as soon as they could or they would be out of luck.  Adult puppet theater?   I began to mull this over.

Gingher and Seabrooke (right) take bows at Mack and Mack in downtown Greensboro.

Long story short, a new puppet theater for adults, the Jabberbox Puppet Theater, is already launched in Greensboro, with myself and my dear old friend Marianne Gingher.  We met back in the early 70s in the MFA program in creative Writing right here at UNCG.  Marianne is now a tenured professor in the Creative Writing program at UNC, and is plenty busy, but when I mentioned doing an adult puppet theater, she hesitated about two seconds before wanting to come on board.  We write the plays ourselves and make all the puppets.   Every year, we give 20% of our proceeds to a village school in Lumpampa, Zambia where we had traveled together and where the seed sprouted for the plot of our first play, “African Queens.” A neighbor of mine made our portable stage.  Did I say that we give you wine and home-made dessert with the ticket price?

We’ll enter our third season in May, 2012.  In 2010, “African Queens” ran for 15 performances in May and June, and all of them sold out.  Our second play, “Little Town, Big Stars,” ran for 17 performances in 2011 and they sold out, too. While our specialty is doing the shows in our living rooms, we are now expanding. In October 2011, during 17 Days, the United Arts Council’s downtown arts festival, we performed at Mack and Mack on Elm St to bigger audiences.  We have a new gig this coming June 2012 at The Garage in Winston-Salem.  In addition, we’ll travel, as we’ve done from the beginning, to living rooms and garages of friends in Chapel Hill and Wilmington.  We now even have an old van with a bumper sticker: “Puppets in Trunk.”

Jabberbox puppeteers in action during a performance in Seabrooke's livingroom.

I’m also happy to say that our grown children have helped us. Marianne’s son guided us around Zambia while he was in the Peace Corps there, introducing us to some memorable characters. Our other kids helped us by making a beautiful website, providing original music, being savvy critics, and traveling from afar to attend our shows and cheer us on.  Charlie Headington, my husband and a UNCG teacher, emcees our shows sporting a green polka-dot tie.

Before I end, I’m going to put in a plug for home-grown art—there is so much to do and see right here in Greensboro, on campus, or just a little bit off-campus. You need to support your friends, fellow teachers, and fellow students as we make our entrepreneurial and spirited way in this world of sour economic news.  Take a walk on the wild side.  Buy local. Put a few bucks down on something different.  When the show’s over, stroll the sidewalk home, contemplate the stars and think about what you’d like to do next.