My friend Yoda(that’s pronounced Yo-dee for you neophytes) in New York is a talented dancer, singer, choreographer, makeup artist, actor, and movie producer. He has been in a Wendy’s commercial and on Whoopi Goldberg’s short-lived sitcom. He is also the writer, director, and star of a little one man DVD show, “Damn, Damn, Damn”. The title comes from a line on _Good Times_when the long-suffering Evans matriarch Florida reacts to news of her husband’s death. She picks up a punch bowl, smashes it on the kitchen floor, and begins to weep. Once poignant, it is now camp, a moment of high emotion, unintentional laughter and melodrama only queens and fag hags can fully appreciate. That line and the video clips Yoda has strung together in a hilarious collage come to me at odd moments. They remind me of those moments of drama so tense, it’s comedy.
I have been silent for a few weeks now. It hasn’t been the solemn shiva of Job, those seven days in sackcloth and ashes, no one saying a word. It hasn’t been the forced exile of a prophetic witness. I’m not Jeremiah down in the well or Jonah inside the whale shark. Or maybe I am. In any case, I have kept my voice under wraps, out of fear, pain, exhaustion, and exasperation. But I’m all about resurrection.
I’ve had several punch-bowl shattering moments in the last few weeks. My original blog was removed because of a spiteful co-worker and a cowardly administration. I have had moments where I have wanted to yank the feathers off Fledgling. I have begun to see the flaws in my workplace, the Stepford school. I have avoided going to confession or writing. Enough is enough. The time has come to burst forth in song, scream, soapbox rant, and celebratory psalm.
Damn, damn, damn!