Teacakes and Shakespeare (Spring 2010)

This is an older piece I wrote and try to look at every now and again. I haven't gone back to it recently, so it should be interesting to compare the progress of my writing.

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I stood there, watching them eat their fried chicken and gulp down glass after glass of Kool-Aid, and I just couldn’t understand. Why are there no tissue boxes? Shouldn’t someone be crying? Shouldn’t we all be weeping? Where are the eyes sagging from exhaustion and sorrow? Where are the heads, bowed solemnly and reverently in respect? Why are there no hushed tones, no shuffling feet to break the sound of quiet mourning? There was talking, laughter, cheer and smiling, and I couldn’t stand it.

I didn’t know these people, though, one after another they came up and told me how long it had been since they had last seen me or how they were related to me. With hands held at knee or hip height they exclaimed, “oh baby, I haven’t seen you since you were this big!” Every last one of them had claimed to know my great grandmother, though not one seemed too broken up about the fact that we had buried her only an hour earlier. Such is the way of those “a little more than kin, and less than kind” or so I had labeled them all. It made me sick. It didn’t make me sick enough to turn down the chicken, cornbread and Kool-Aid when it was offered to me, but I was careful not to enjoy the feast too much. I sipped slower, trying to remember the taste as if it could somehow assure that I would never forget the day. Though the chicken was the best I had had in a while, I limited my pleasure to a polite “thank you” and a few comments about how good it tasted. All I had to do was remind myself of my Great Grandmother’s classic teacakes, and the delicacies before me would turn to soggy ash on my tongue. I left my brothers alone, not in the mood to fight and play as we usually did. I was nice, sweet, well behaved and all the other things the great granddaughter of such an amazing woman was supposed to be. All the while, the laughter and joy continued. It had taken Hamlet’s mother longer to marry after her first husband’s death than it had taken for them to forget their mourning.

An hour ago, maybe two, we had been standing on grass, all dressed in black and in sad little rows, though I could not seem to recall anything more specific. The final comments as they lowered her, reduced to static humming in my memory. I could not remember if the grass was wet, if it was raining, who was there or what people said to me as we left. All I remember is the feeling. The feeling that it should be raining, that there should have been lightning and thunder, that all the world should be crying its grief at the loss of such a one. Even as I write this, I can do little more than clutch at fragmented memories. I was unhappy I had to wear a skirt and sit in the front row. I was confused because they were singing songs I did not know. I was miserable because the sorrow seemed so thick I could hardly breathe, and as much as I tried to fight it, my eyes wanted to cry with them. I remember my aunt spoke. I remember my mother sitting next to me, reminding me to cross my legs. I remember red carpet and a white podium, but not much else. I suppose I figured that I could save her memory if I focused on what I was feeling, and not what I was seeing. If I could trap the feelings born from listening to my aunt struggle to speak as the words curled up in her throat and choked her to tears. If I could recall the shaky warmth of my mother’s hand as she squeezed my own, or the steady rhythm in which she rubbed my back, though I believed it more a comfort to her than to myself.  If I could remember the weight of the air on my lungs, the gravity of the moment on my shoulders, then I could also preserve the memories of my great grandmother.

I tried to talk less, thinking instead about everything I could remember about her: the velvety green chair, a white knit blanket draped over the top, placed directly across from her doorway so that she could see every part of her home. The glass candy jar, a grandmotherly staple, filled with orange slices and Werther’s Original Caramel Candies. Her teacakes, a Dee Dee special that no one else would ever be able to match, were ever present on a special plate on the table, waiting to be shoveled into little mouths by eager hands. They were the best cookies in the world- thick like cake, buttery and sweet, filled with sunshine and hugs.

 Anyone can mix baking powder, flour, baking soda and sugar in a bowl. Anybody can add eggs, buttermilk, sugar and melted butter, but no one can bake teacakes like DeeDee. My great grandmother never used fancy recipes or exact measurements. She always used “enough.”A dash of this, a few cups of that, lots of sugar and enough of that. That was how she worked, and every batch was heavenly perfection. She always claimed to “just know” how much she needed to add. DeeDee had a way of just knowing a lot of things. She knew that the best way to kill a snake in a vegetable garden, is to pick it up and snap its neck. She knows that the best way to send us home with a smile is to pack up a container full of cookies for the ride home. She definitely knew that three children were not always willing to sit still and listen to elderly wisdom after several hours of vehicular travel in a cramped car, but she loved on us, taught us, and fed us anyway.

Reading Shakespeare in eighth grade English, I found the story of my great grandmother’s death strewn across every page. Bittersweet memories filled my moments of silent contemplation, but the rest of the world did not feel inclined to join me in my solemnity, instead it carried on as it had every day before. Few bothered to ask why I was quiet, and if I told them I scarcely received a worthwhile response. All this made me even angrier. Hamlet’s rage rang in my ears like thunder and all I could see was the atrocity of an ignorant existence when one so great had passed away. No one paused, no one stopped, and no one cared, as if death carried no more weight than a hiccup, an inconvenience that lasted only a second.

Hamlet, again and again came to mind, though my great-grandmother had not been murdered, I could not help but feel they scorned and mocked her memory with their apathy. He stood as my reflection, a brother by suffering, though our backdrops differed. We stood together, watching the remnants of merrymaking and celebration soil the places that housed the sacred memories left from a loved one’s death. Our heartbreak was mutual, our anger justified, our silence shared. With Shakespeare as the bridge between us, I found a way to step back and see myself. My thoughts stained the pages of the play in the form of honest lines and soliloquies, and in it, I found my heart and my feelings.

“ I have of late- but wherefore I know not- lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the 
air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire- why, it appeareth no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me”

Nothing made sense to me and day after day I went home as dramatic and emotional an adolescent as ever. I could not find comfort in people, so I sought solace in my books.  I lost myself in them. He gave my jumbled and indecisive feelings an eloquent voice, and put my darker thoughts into action. Hamlet, so consumed by the pain, anger and betrayal he felt, was able to see nothing beyond his revenge. I didn’t want to go that route. I didn’t want to see myself become what Shakespeare predicted to be the fate of those obsessed with retribution. Just as Hamlet had, I watched people I once thought to be my friends turn traitor. I lost interest in the things that might steal my thoughts from my grandmother’s memory.  That which once brought me happiness became little more than a perfunctory task. In the midst of my descent into apathy, I found myself burrowing deeper into the worlds Shakespeare created. I stumbled on one that I had not yet read, Twelfth Night, one that would soon become my favorite. Between the characters marching across those pages, I found not only a commonality, but an epiphany.

“Feste: Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Olivia: Good fool, for my brother's death.

Feste: I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

Olivia: I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Feste: The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's
soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.”

These words, simple enough and humorously delivered, were what I needed to realize my won truth. What sense does it make to mourn over the ascension of a loved one to a better place? The wheels of my mind, once clumsily slipping past one another in fruitless toil, finally interlocked to settle upon this thought. To spend weeks mourning her passing is an affront to both her memory, and what I claimed to believe. What I saw at the reception after her burial was not a gross display of disrespect, but a collection of people remembering one they loved. Laughter filled the room because my great grandmother’s joy had once done the same. DeeDee had never been one for endless weeping or shuffling feet, but she loved dancing and singing, jokes and stories. I did not change overnight, but with time I came to really internalize my little epiphany. My family still makes teacakes to remember my great grandmother, but every bite is a joy and not a burden.  We spend the time enjoying each other, not wallowing in the past. We make memories that thick with butter and sugar, but I have to admit, they’ll never be as good as DeeDee’s teacakes.

Okay, for real this time.

So, I haven't been here in forever. It was a good idea, but those are worthless if they never come to fruition. Anyways, I think the place to begin is to collect some of my better pieces in this space. Starting with this one. It was written for my Creative Nonfiction class about my first Anime Convention.

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There are many reasons why one might lose themselves in uncontrolled bodily spasms in the middle of a parking lot. Heart attacks, strokes, being tickled, being tazed, and more. My reason was a cosplay[1] sighting, the first signs of the Anime[2] Weekend Atlanta[3]. One figure, wrapped in a black Akatsuki cloak, adorned with red clouds outlined in white, strolled lazily away from the pedestrian bridge over Cobb Parkway and towards the mall, completely unaware that he was the harbinger of my momentary euphoria. Nearly an hour and a half of travel, not accounting for the time I'd spent being lost after I overshot both my train and bus stop, had finally brought me to the promised land. I drew nearer and began to see bits of paradise grow into clusters. Paper signs blossomed into colorful posters guiding me towards my destination. Plain hallways morphed into a single lane of convention promotions, food tents and anime fans. There were only a few people there at the moment, but the wandering characters were enough to make me skip with joy.

A few moments and four turns later, I found myself facing one of the longest, most exuberantly colorful lines I had ever seen, and I had arrived half an hour before registration even opened! Red, blue, yellow and green hair punctuated the string of bodies that wound back and forth through predetermined aisles. So lost was I in admiring the menagerie of weapons, costumes, talking and laughter, that I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around the fact that I had actually arrived. Then it became frightening. I’m in the big leagues now, I thought. My limited knowledge of a few obscure manga and anime, and my even more infinitesimal grasp on mainstream anime, was suddenly so apparent I felt it was a wonder they did not all shun me simply because I looked like I didn't belong. My clothes were frightfully average, simple and plain as jeans and a t-shirt could be. I clutched a folder with a schedule, directions, personal notes and the agenda I had printed out the night before. My shoulders hunched slightly, waiting for the eviction I felt my ignorance would bring upon me, and I couldn't seem to make my jaw move from its state of suspended awe.

I don’t remember my first exposure to anime. Some do and are able to list name, year and significance as easily as they might say their own name. It seemed like it had just gradually bled into my life until it became a defined interest. Somehow, I had managed to grow from someone who would casually tolerate my brothers watching Pokémon and Dragon Ball Z incessantly, to one who would seek out my own favorites on the internet, swap jokes with other fans and even seek to find new material in every potential store. Hours, days, entire weekends had been devoted to anime and manga binges. I’d sit in my dorm room, hunkered over a container of take-out while eagerly staring at the images that flashed before my eyes on the glowing computer screen. My breath caught, my heart raced, and the stability of the universe depended on whether or not I could find the next episode or chapter online. One-Shots[4] and obscure manga made by less well known artists were my specialty. Even with all my zeal, conventions seemed to be far beyond my reach. A dream, not a possibility. Who would I go with? All my friends were normal. What would I do when I was there? As dedicated as I was, I was certainly no guru.

I probably would have stood there several more moments had my musings not been interrupted by a tall gentleman with dirty blonde hair so regular I almost couldn’t process his words. Mute, I scuffled out of his way and to the end of the line. The people, even in their outlandish garb, seem normal. Well, as normal as one can be given the situation, but they are not aliens. There seemed to be a distinct lack of pimple popping nerds with those thick-rimmed glasses only hipsters[5] could find attractive. A healthy mixture of ethnicity makes up this particular crowd and, much to my relief, I was not the only one content to wear regular clothes. The girl in front of me in line turned suddenly and murmured a request for a registration sheet on the table behind me. Struck by the bold display of her stomach, an expanse of pale white skin framed by a breast band that seemed to be made of strips of cloth and black pants, I was slow to react and forced her to repeat her question. I could feel my brain digging through the little I knew, trying to place her. White hair that tickled her shoulders and a black and white cape. A few moments of deliberation led me to the grand conclusion that I had no idea who that character was.

I feared moments such as this one would plague my venture into this new world. What could be worse than setting out for adventure, only to find yourself grossly inadequate as a direct result of your own ignorance? A kindly Pikachu[6] dressed in bright yellow footie pajamas turned costume, his sister and the aforementioned white haired warrior girl filled me in on some basic rules of the con (always con, never convention).

1)      Always, always, always operate with respect for your fellow con attendees

2)      Pictures, hugs and mock fights are perfectly acceptable as long as you ask permission first.

3)      Expect a plethora of inside jokes and memes[7].

4)      Cross dressing is not only permissible, but common.

5)      Be wary of furries[8].

6)      If you are going to creep on someone, do it well.

7)      Bathing, though optional, is preferred.

While it was an odd collection of guidelines, to say the least, I was surprised by the amount of stress put upon the general regard for others. “When people think of anime conventions, they think of creepers in fur suits,” said the girl in the white wig. It’s true, the idea of an anime convention is as silly and strange as many could ever imagine. A bunch of dorks meeting to sit around and talk about cartoons. Crazy sex offenders searching for some young and naïve prey. A collection of every socially inept individual with a penchant for watching children’s shows. The phrase, “anime convention” is enough to inspire screwed faces and immediate conversational dismissal, but there is a level of complexity to the culture that so many never see. An anime con is many things, but it is not a joke. It is made of more than awkward tweenies searching for friendship and an Asian girlfriend. There is a community here.

I quickly adjusted to shouts of “Pasta!” (an exclamation common for Hetalia[9] fans), “over 9000!!!!” (Yes, the extra exclamation marks are necessary), and the elated cries of “Nyan cat!” at the sight of a pop tart encased cat farting a rainbow (there really isn’t a better way to describe it). By the time my new companions and I had made it through the line, the blend of colors and weaponry was no longer so jarring and I felt almost confident enough to wander the hallways of the convention center alone. But, not quite.  The Pikachu, yellow and brown ears flopping happily against the hood of his costume, and his sister, on their way to play a few rounds of Guitar Hero, guided me through the maze of the convention center and dropped me off at my first stop. From there, I was on my own.

I never knew what to expect from this con, but from the beginning it was a blur of fact, figures and trivia. To start, I figured I should to get some background information on Japanese anime, from the first confirmed record of Japanese animation in 1917 to the cornucopia of modern day cartoons, the Anime 101 panel covered anime’s long and intriguing history. The past of anime weaved in and out of social movements, propaganda, world wars, education and all forms of entertainment. This overture into the culture and history of anime had done much to illuminate for me the influence this collection of “kids’ shows” had over American and Japanese lifestyle.

After the first hour, I was certain my head would be so full of facts that I’d be reduced to a mindless fountain of anime trivia. Deliverance came in the form of another panel and I was free, only to be reintroduced to the magnitude of the con. There were explosions of everything, everywhere. Colors stacked upon colors, people dressed to fit manga[10], anime, video games and more. A rush of giddy excitement propelled my body into a flurry of jumping and gesturing every time I recognized someone, something. Boba Fett[11] strolls with a nameless swordsman, Lieutenant Yarr[12] searches the food court for a familiar face, a gaggle of teens, adorned in the steampunk [13]style, cluster around a schedule and decide where to go next. Starfire pulls Prince Zuko down the hall, a zombie sits with an assassin friend and, strangest of all, a nerd shares a meal with his girlfriend.

The con was characterized, not only by the wealth of diverse representations of snapshots from the anime universe and the world at large, but also by the ingenuity employed to create each and every costume. There is a little bit of everything here. Metal suits of armor, stealth goggles and headbands marking the shinobi[14] and the village they represent are sprinkled into the crowd. A lone piece of bacon can hardly make his way down the promenade because he is stopped for pictures every few steps. Spiderman mingles with a sorceress while Sailor Moon gently skirts around a yipping furry. The creativity does not stop at capes and armor, but extends to the props these characters chose to tote from session to session. There were enough keyblades[15], great swords, magic staffs and katanas to finally convince me that the weapons policy I had dismissed before was necessary.

                         

            It seems silly, at first. Who wouldn’t laugh (or maybe gag) at the sight of a full-grown man wearing the uniform of a middle school Asian girl? But, the mockery that typically follows is conspicuously absent. Why on earth wouldn’t someone gasp at a costume carrying the hefty price tag of $35,000? Who knows, but someone bought it, and instead of scoffing, the Cosplay Museum attendees nearby commented on the craftsmanship, the price of materials and the time invested in such a piece of art. The soul of anime is very much quirky and outlandish and its fans have caught the spirit. With one word I can make twelve friends. At one con, I can make connections to last me several years. People greet companions met at cons long past with wild waving and warm hugs. Old hands at the convention game tell the young ones how to do it right, and everyone is willing to help the hapless newb that stumbles haphazardly down the aisles of the dealer’s room. So much so that I find myself leaving with a black and red wig that hangs freely below my shoulders, and another one tucked securely in my bag.

             

            Even with all these other merits, the exchange of knowledge is by far the most interesting to witness. Experts who have studied the language, the culture and the art engage in conversation with those who have spent more hours watching a show than they should be willing to admit in public. I waited in line for the Rurouni Kenshin[16] panel, excited to learn more and meet with people who were also fans of the wandering swordsman. The line was long. The fans were buzzing with impatient energy, already swapping facts and fictions with one another. Those anticipating the workshop that would take place next door debated the pros and cons of preferred inking methods and made suggestions about where to purchase brushes and other tools.

Once inside the small room, the general excitement had calmed little. The discussion was lively and interactive, switching between clips from the show to panelist opinions and comments from the audience. One audience member spewed trivia like breath, and another spoke up to politely correct his mistakes. Another man shared the biographies of the warriors on whom the characters of Rurouni Kenshin are based, which sparks a discussion on the role of female warriors in the time period. Again, insecurity crept into my mind. There was so much I didn’t know. The sum of my knowledge of the show was only a portion of the summary the panel shared, “just for review.” Everything else was new and unexpected, shaming my fandom as though I had only been a child at play.

            A little discouraged and thoroughly worn out by the fast pace of the entire experience, I found a relatively secluded bench and sat to just process and observe. I watched the thin, but steady stream of attendants stroll through the passageway that connected the convention center with the nearby hotel. They all seemed to know what they were doing, know where they were going, know everything about this hobby, or fascination, or lifestyle. I didn’t even know what it was to them. I looked up from the thoughts I had scrawled in the notebook I’d brought for the day, just in time to see two furries, the nefarious creatures about which I had been warned, making their way down the hall. A woman dressed in Gothic Lolita[17] style wrinkled her nose and floated to the other side of the hallway to avoid the two. Meanwhile, a group of girls stopped the friendly looking fox and wolf pair to ask for a picture. I watched, waiting to see exactly why I had been warned away from this particular crowd. They hugged the girls excitedly, struck a fun pose, shook hands and were on their way. They waved at those who greeted them and committed none of the evil I had feared. As they approached my bench, they slowed and smiled at me. For a fearful instant, I was sure I had done something wrong. Instead, they began squeaking excitedly (apparently, they don’t talk) and gesturing for a hug. I stood slowly, bumbling awkwardly when I nearly drop the notebook on my lap, and hugged them both. They leave me then, a little confused about the encounter in general, as well as the stigma they are supposed to carry. As they turn the corner I wave goodbye and wish that I’d taken a picture.

The diversity of the event also strikes me as fascinating, and I cannot help but notice the nearly comical juxtapositions that cross my path. An old woman, trussed up in a full black, Victorian style dress, a curtain of gauze shrouding a head that comes to its zenith in a suitably sophisticated hat, was pushed around in a wheelchair by a green haired young woman, probably in her twenties. A not-so-secret mermaid tail, flashing in all its sequined glory, that stemmed like a growth from the bottom of a shirt, followed a little girl, sporting bright turquoise tights and a long-sleeved shirt of the same color. Her father trailed two steps behind with a watching eye. A mixed couple chattered away, spontaneously dropping Japanese phrases into their conversation, while eating cheap Chinese food from the food court below. A young man from Decatur excitedly greeted his Washington friends and was more than willing to give me the history of their friendship.

People attend the convention because it’s what they like, and that is enough to make a bond. Whether we know each other or not, we all like anime, and that is enough. I don’t need to know the name of every anime that has come out in the last two years. I don’t have to know the difference between manga[18], manhwa[19] and manhua[20] on sight. I like these things enough to wake up at 5:22 AM, get lost in the MARTA system for three hours, and wait in line for half an hour to pay thirty dollars to attend the convention for one day. Others love it enough to drive from California, Washington, Arkansas and Utah. Some cannot afford a hotel, so they sleep in a tunnel that connects to the convention center.

Even I had managed to attach myself to an experienced con attendee, so when we snuck into the “Cosplay On A Dime” panel nearly fifteen minutes late, he was willing to fill me in on the basics of the trade and regaled me with tales of his costume successes and blunders. A panel member shared stories of injustices she’d experienced on the internet while commissioning a costume, and the whole room expressed their sympathy in an oddly synchronized, collective gasp. Another gave tips on materials, stores and books that will help with creating a costume for the less than rich cosplayer. There is very little that is haphazard about the culture. The otakus[21], and the slightly less obsessive fans, take their world seriously. They remember the first anime they ever saw, can discuss, intelligently, the progression of the artistic style of the show, and are able to comment on the different ways in which it the underlying themes have impacted their personal lives.

            When I look at the anime universe, I see more than people in weird costumes, more than socially inept geeks. I see people with a collective interest in something they consider an art and more than just a fun hobby. Some are more dedicated to the culture than others, but all are welcome to join. They are willing to learn about a culture so different from their own. They are festive and artistic, dedicated and proud of who and what they are. While every once in a while, one may stumble upon a bad apple, I cannot help but feel that the stigma associated with the group is founded on assumptions made by those who have never attempted to enter that world. It is a concentrated sphere of activity and exchange, a collision of new experiences and old, an overlap between history and the future. It takes all types to make up such a picture. Perhaps you should see where you fit in?

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[1]Short for costume play, cosplay is the act of dressing up as a character from a manga, anime or popular cartoon or as a generic representation of a character type.

[2] Anime, in North American culture, refers to cartoons which were originally produce in Japan, though the word is often misused to describe cartoons that appear to have similar artistic styles.

[3] A Japanese anime and manga annual convention that has taken place every year in Atlanta, Georgia since 1995

[4] Manga (comics) that are only one chapter long. The can range from a few pages to longer pieces of work, but they are defined by the fact that the entire story is contained in a chapter.

[5] A subculture focused on defying popular culture by directing musical, artistic and fashionable interests to less well known, or underground, styles.

[6] From the popular anime, manga and game series Pokémon on which Pikachu, a yellow, mouse-like creature, is a central character and

[7] Ideas, symbols, pictures or phrases that spread quickly from person to person. In this case, it might either be a popular internet trend or joke, or a catchphrase from a popular anime.

[8] Anthropomorphic creatures with human habits and characteristics. Think of a fox walking on two legs with human gestures and expressions.

[9] Another popular anime that attempts to recreate the world wars through comedic representations of the Ally and Axis powers as cute boys.

[10] Manga, literally translated, is simply a comic book. However, much like anime in American culture, it has come to refer specifically to comic books produced in Japan.

[11] A bounty hunter in Star Wars

[12] A character from Star Trek: The Next Generation

[13] A subculture that blends Victorian Era fashion and culture with steam-based, futuristic technology.

[14] Another word for ninja.

[15] A key shaped weapon from the popular video game Kingdom Hearts

[16] An anime about a wandering swordsman who has vowed never to kill again in post revolution Japan.

[17] A blend of gothic style (dark eyeliner, smoky eyes and dark clothing) blended with the Victorian based Lolita trend popular in Japan. Typical attire includes petticoats, corsets, knee length skirts, knee high socks or stockings and more.

[18] Refers to comic books produced in Japan. These comic books are longer than what most Americans would consider a comic book, and are typically produced in volumes about the size of a novel.

[19] Comic books produced in Korea.

[20] Comic books produced in China.

[21] A word used in Japanese culture to describe an obsessive fan, often of anime, manga or video games. The closest equivalent might be the term “super geek”