Back then I was just getting used to my life as a mother of one. I really had no concept of what it would be like to have 2 of them.

This past October, just 2.5 months ago I had baby number 2. Lilly Emme Paperny was born. I’ve been wildly overwhelmed by — wow, just having a second baby. I’m also so busy. Mon dieu. How did our mother’s do this? I mean, how did they do it? Motherhood has to be the hardest and the most unappreciated job in the world.

Meanwhile, I am feeling old and tired. My skin looks dry — and it is dry. I’m breastfeeding like crazy and I’m dried out. I feel like I’ve been through a war and I’m on autopilot. I have no “evening” because my baby only sleeps for 4 hours before I need to breastfeed her again. It’s exhausting. I’m on edge. And I don’t feel like anyone understands. Perhaps they do, perhaps it’s just tough. I want 20 massages, I do!  And then I stop and ask how have women done this for centuries? We are amazing. My mom is amazing.

At some point I’ll have more time. At some point my little girls will be grown. And then I’ll be sad. I’ll miss them as babies. My two-year-old is just hilarious. The things she says, the looks she gives me — her songs, her dances. What a great age. And little Lilly, oh my gosh. She’s so sweet, so alert.

So now I’m a real mother because I have 2. I have “children” not a child. I have context because I’ve just raised another infant from 0-2….

I am also more than just a mom. I am. I’m a playwright. I have a new job waiting for me when I’m ready. And when will that be? Right now…is right now.

Because I didn’t know anyone in New York City yet, I was also the play’s director and cast all my friends in the parts. The play happened right after Sept 11^th and it was such a scary time.  I was totally afraid to put on a play during such darkness, but there was light in this play and with these people. Plus, I was urged to continue. The play brought levity to a dark situation, so I learned that theater, my theater could heal the heart. I could make people laugh.

My roommate Gabe was our co-director and lighting designer. My other best friends were my actors. Somehow we filled those seats for every single performance. I remember sitting in the full audience feeling the energy and hearing the laughter. There’s nothing quite like it, hearing your own words being interpreted by actors. I felt so inspired…like if I can do this, I can do anything. You can’t go too far without good friends in this life. I love all my friends who helped with that production and I certainly haven’t  forgotten how much fun we all had. In December my 50^th production/and or reading/public performance of my work will be produced in New York City since that crazy show back in 2001. Follow this link for updates. My play He Says His Name Is John, a one-act I wrote while commuting to my job in White Plains in 2007 is getting a small production at The Looking Glass Theatre’s Winter Forum. I wrote this play when I was working for Starwood Hotels and I took the train to work everyday. The only free time I had back then was during my train commute. I wrote this play in the first few months of the job. By the end of two years I wasn’t writing so much, I had been corprotized.

Where are we 10 years later? I married that boyfriend who lived on 10^th street a few years later. We now have a toddler and another baby girl on the way. We still live in NYC. After 8 years of living in the West Village, in an apartment we inherited from a couple “who were too afraid to stay in the city after 9/11”, we moved to Battery Park City, a stone’s throw from where the Towers once stood. We live in a fancy “green” building with recycled central air and triple filtered water. 10 years ago I couldn’t even go down here because it reminded me of 9/11 and it felt dark and uninhabitable, like some sort of war zone. Now I live across the street from the buzz of the new “Freedom Tower.”

Because I’m so close to it all, I don’t think about it so much anymore. That is, until today. I watched a special on the show Sunday Morning. It talked about the strength of the new building. A 747 full of fuel could fly into it and it would survive.  The program also focused on the stories of the victim’s families. So many people lost someone that day. Just like all the other New Yorkers, I remember seeing the images of the “lost” all over the city and one image in particular is still vivid in my mind. It was of a man with white hair and a beard. He looked like Santa. He could have been someone’s dad, someone’s grandpa, someone’s husband. Maybe he was someone’s everything. His photo was plastered everywhere. I must have seen him 100 times in different places. For some reason it was his story, a story I made up that had me so sad. His story was the story of so many.

I can remember wanting to help, but feeling helpless. I can remember that I couldn’t stop crying. When I’d try to stop the tears welled up and I cried even harder. Days turned into nights, then weeks of this. Nothing but shock, tears and fear. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who died.  My roommate Gabe was supposed to be there that day but decided not to go to work. He was lucky, so many were not.

Back then I was afraid to travel, afraid to still live in New York, afraid I’d never get over the shock and horror of watching it happen right before my eyes. But like so many, I’ve moved on. I had my first play produced a month after September 11^th, and became a graduate student in playwriting at a NYC university the next fall. Did the experience influence me? My writing? Yes. I think, for me anyway, the party kind of ended on 9/11. That summer of debauchery was over. Suddenly, on 9/12/01 the reality of what I was in New York to do became clear and present. I wasn’t 100% sure of myself before 9/11, after 9.11 I had to be.

I feel there is an analogy between the Internet business and 9/11. The Internet business was so frivolous and new before 9/11. It was one big party with money being thrown around for and at anything with a dotcom sounding name in the title. No one really knew what was happening or what they were doing. I was part of this world. I worked for a few of these companies. It was how I made my way to New York City from San Francisco in the first place. Just like New York in 2001, there were a lot of vapid Internet parties, and yes, they were related and intertwined. The Internet business changed after 9/11 and by 2003 it had officially become something new and better. It was no longer vapid and full of cheap frills. Finally business owners figured out how to make money by using the web. Web 2.0 it would be called.  New York might as well be called “New York post 9.11″ or “New York 2.0.” The new New York was not nearly as hard and edgy as she once was, but the people making up her dreams are and will be (Paris Hilton aside).

It’s just so hard to believe that this little boy wasn’t abducted, he just asked for help from the wrong person.

This made me think back on something scary that happened to me when I was 6 years old.  First off, I grew up in the country and yes, my mom had talked to me about strangers. Probably because  I grew up in the country and wasn’t flooded with strange faces,  I think I was indeed more afraid and aware when someone was a stranger. I can remember  being fearful of my step mom because she said she had been to France.

Living in a big city like New York, I think about how many people and situations our children are exposed to, which is both good and bad.  At the playground, in elevators, on the street in cabs, etc, we (as parents) are always talking to strangers and so are our children.

One day long ago in a small city near our tiny town my brother was playing soccer at an elementary school, one that was, at the time unknown to me. It was a cold, foggy Saturday morning and my mom was sitting in the car with some other soccer moms chatting and laughing, so I guess she let me out to play — right in front of them in a playground. Sure, I played for a few minutes, but kids get bored and soon I had wandered off toward the school buildings, probably excited that I would soon be old enough to go to real school myself.

Before long I was lost and because of the fog, couldn’t remember the way back.
Out of the blue, a man appeared.  He asked me if I was lost. I was.
He said that he was a teacher and that he would show me the way back.
He held my hand.
As soon as he held my hand, I realized I had made an error. I was immediately uncomfortable and I had a feeling that he wasn’t a teacher.
We walked by a classroom and he pointed to it through the window and told me that this was his room and that he studies little girls bodies. I was very scared, and knew I was in trouble. I also knew that he wasn’t taking me back to where my mom’s car was. But I didn’t panic. I didn’t scream. I acted as normal as possible and actually continued chatting with him.
But I started thinking of how I was going to get away. I was looking around for where I could run, where anyone was. Where I could see people, hear people.
He took me to the back of one of the buildings and asked me to put my hands up against the wall, which I did. Then he asked me if I could take my clothes off.
I told him that I couldn’t easily do that because I had all my ballet clothes on underneath my clothes and I even showed him (I was wearing a pink ballet outfit with tights, all underneath my clothes) . He was not pushy. He calmly asked me if I would  take my pants off. I had the same response about the ballet costume and showed him again.
Then I heard voices, laughter. I looked to my left and I could see the other playground and that there was a girl was on a swing. From where I was standing, I could just catch sight of her when she’d swing to the back, because half the swing could been seen from behind the buildings where we were standing. This was not too far from us, maybe only one building away, and I realized that I was not completely alone and I needed to do something, anything.
So I pretended that I knew her. I yelled “Suzi!” Of course I didn’t know her or her name. I said to the man, “there’s my friend.”
So he said that I could go. And I ran over to the other playground. I waited until I felt safer and then walked along the sidewalk down to the other end where my mom was parked. I told my mom and her friends what had just happened and she drove me immediately to the police department where I gave an account of the story and a description of the man. They later caught him. He was a repeat pedophile who had molested other girls.

I realize that I was incredibly lucky and I learned a valuable lesson that day. I was a very independent, gregarious child and apparently before the age of 6, I used to get lost and walk away with anyone, despite what my mother had told me about strangers. When I was only one my parents lost me at the beach one day,  and turned to see my floating away in some wave. I was saved by a woman walking by who happened to see me.

This man could have taken me into the woods that were directly behind the school without a fence, or to a more private place. He could have been more forceful. This could have gone a completely different way, and I realize that I am lucky to be alive to tell the story.

One thing that struck me from my memory of this event is how easily I got confused and lost. Another is that I did have an awareness that this man was a stranger and I knew something was off right away, and I started looking for exits/strategies.
Outside of talking to our kids about “not going away with a stranger” maybe we need to talk to them about what to do if they become lost. What to do if they get in a bad situation. It’s easy to see how a lost child would reach out to someone who looks like a safe adult.  That’s what happened to me, and that’s what happened to this little boy from Brooklyn. Don’t forget, it’s very scary to be/feel lost to a small child. And there may not be a police man around.

My daughter is too little to talk to her about this yet, but yes, I am very scared. She is precocious and already runs away from me. She will be a handful when it comes to wanting her independence.  Sigh.

I plan to have this discussion with her as soon as I think she can understand.

Reporter Girl by Laura Rohrman

that will help you image what this play would be like fully staged. We would love feedback and are having a talk back after every performance.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE Press Contact: Lanie Zipoy | lanie.zipoy@gmail.com | 646.399.8650 Festival Press Contact: Emily Owens PR | emily@emilyowenspr.com | 972.743.3746
WAVERLY WRITERS COLLECTIVE Presents a workshop production of REPORTER GIRL as part of The Comic Book Theater Festival
J une 2 – July 1, 2011 at the Brick Theater (575 Metropolitan Ave.) Performances: Friday, June 3rd at 8:45 pm; Sunday, June 5th at 4:00 pm; and Sunday, June 12 at 8:00 pm
New York, NY (May 31, 2011) – Reporter Girl is Laura Rohrman’s full-length play about cartoonist Dale Messick, who created of the famous cartoon strip Brenda Starr Reporter in 1940. Directed by Erica Gould (world premiere of Neil LaBute’s autobahn), the play weaves together a narrative that spans four decades and includes family history, actual cartoon strip plotlines and characters, and most important of all — fantasy—to create a portrait of an artist as a creator and woman. Reporter Girl is a sexy re-imagining of Messick’s life in the 1940’s as her career was taking off. Messick broke through countless barriers and paved the way for other female cartoonists who came after her. She did this not just for cartoonists, but also for women in all professions around the world. She created a sexy heroine who didn’t need a man at a time when most women stayed home to be housewives and raise kids.
Reporter Girl examines what creativity really means and what Messick may have given up to get what she always dreamed of. The play also explores how this dream of getting what you want affects not just her granddaughter, but women around the world. Reporter Girl has been a Weissberger Award nominee, a Princess Grace and O’Neill Finalist among other awards. Laura Rohrman, the playwright, is the maternal granddaughter of Dale Messick.
The cast of Reporter Girl features Julia Crockett, Amy Dickenson, Meghan Grady, Kate Grimes, Chad Hoeppner, Betty Hudson, and Richard Thieriot. The production team includes Alexis Distler (scenic design), Evan Truesdale (lighting design) and Scott O’Brien (sound design). The assistant director is Blake Bishton.
Reporter Girl will perform Friday, June 3rd at 8:45pm; Sunday, June 5th at 4:00pm; and Sunday, June 12th at 8:00pm as part of The Comic Book Theater Festival at The Brick (575 Metropolitan Avenue between Union Avenue and Lorimer Street, Brooklyn). Tickets ($15) may be purchased online at www.bricktheater.com or by calling 866-811-4111.
The Waverly Writers Collective is a young, diverse group of talented, award-winning playwrights, directors, actors and producers whose work attempts to shine a light on the world in which they live. The company was founded in 2003 by Laura Rohrman and Aurin Squire, who both studied playwriting at The New School for Drama in New York City. The Waverly Writers Collective has produced 30 new plays and 12 new playwrights including: Carla Ching, Bekah Brunstetter and David Caudle. Productions include: 9 x 9 (2003), Two Guys and a Girl (2004), Babies Bombs and Love (2005). Co-productions: My Life As You (2006) and Femme Feast (2009). The group’s mission is to create new and exciting opportunities for emerging and established artists.
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LAURA ROHRMAN (Playwright) Playwriting credits include: Reporter Girl, a finalist for multiple awards including: The O’Neill Festival, The Weissberger Award and The Princess Grace Fellowship, and My Life As You a 2006 Playwrights First finalist that had a sold-out production NYC production starring the Emmy nominated Jeff Branson. NYITA Judges called the play “A great evening with smart and funny writing.” In addition to being a two- time finalist for The Samuel French short play festival, her plays have been produced and developed at many theaters around New York City and elsewhere. Her plays have been selected for readings and productions with the following theaters: Second Stage Theater, The Vital Theater, Manhattan Theatre Source, Emerging Artists Theater, Rising Sun Theatre, The Looking Glass Theater and Native Aliens Theater Collective. Outside of New York her work has been developed and produced with The American Conservatory Theater, Diva Fest (San Francisco) and The Lost Theater Festival in London, UK where here play Below 14th was called “Brilliantly funny” by adjudicator Adrian Brown. Her work has been developed with help from The Actors Studio Drama School/The New School For Drama, Vital R&D, RCL Writer’s Group, The Fold and The Emerging Artists Theater. Laura has an MFA in Playwriting and Acting from The New School for Drama in New York City. She is a member of The Dramatist Guild. http://www.laurarohrman.com, http://www.thepopcycle.com
ERICA GOULD’s (Director) directing credits include the world premiere production of Neil LaBute’s autobahn and the premiere of LaBute’s one-acts, Sound Check, and Stand Up with Mos Def (MCC); What Light From Darkness Grows (for NPR with Phylicia Rashad, Harry Lennix – Golden Reel and Gracie Allen Awards); The Minotaur by Anna Ziegler with Mario Cantone, Jill Clayburgh, and Campbell Scott (The Fire Dept/Players Club); As You Like It (Shakespeare Theatre/ACA, DC); Troilus and Cressida (NY Stage and Film); the new musical Max and the Truffle Pig (NYMF); Adopt a Sailor with Sam Waterston and Liev Schreiber (Brave New World, Town Hall); Ms. Gould’s adaptation of Milorad Pavic’s Dictionary of the Khazars (Culture Project, Williamstown, Yale); The Rover (Bank Street Theatre); SpeakEasy, a site-specific theater piece by LaBute, Theresa Rebeck, Rajiv Joseph, others (Joe’s Pub/Public Theater); The Beggar’s Opera (Pace); and a staged reading presentation of Kate Maracle’s Pretty Ugly Things with Kyra Sedgwick and Brian Dennehy. Currently running: US premiere production of Inigo Ramirez de Haro’s Me Cago En Dios (Holy Crap) at La MaMa. She is Co-Artistic Director of The Fire Dept Theatre Co and was the inaugural recipient of the SDC LiveOnScreen Initiative for directing on-camera. She has taught Classical Acting, Voice and Movement, Directing, and stage combat at Yale, NYU, Fordham, Pace, O’Neill/NTI, Bard, others.

Noni and Miles, 2002

"Mom" and me

 

Miles and Noni, May 1986

This has been a year…a year of me losing things…my mind, people and weight. There are such things in life as lost opportunities, “missed boats”…when the timing just isn’t right. I feel like I’ve spent the year re-creating my steps for one reason or another. Wondering why I took that left step instead of that right one. Wondering for example, when I lost my wedding rings at the pool in July while swimming with my baby daughter… “Why the hell did I decide to go swimming that day?” And “How come I was wearing my wedding rings?” And Why the hell did I take them off?”

The answers are simple. It was hot…there was a pool. My baby loves swimming. Of course I’d take her. I’m a swimmer. I don’t usually go to the pool with all my jewelery on, however…(usually I take it off way before deciding to go to the pool), but I have before, and when I take the jewelery off I put it inside of safe pockets.

I thought I was safe. I thought my rings were in safe pockets, but two days later I noticed that my rings were indeed gone…all three of them.

The days before the ill-fated swim date were muddled. What had I done? When was I wearing my jewelery? Why was I wearing it that day?

When I tried re-tracing the whole thing, I realized that as a new mommy I did a lot things this year — a lot of things were added into my agenda that I didn’t used to do and I couldn’t keep up.

In addition to wallets, clothes and rings, I lost people this year. Three people who meant the world to me died in 2010 and only one of them I felt like I saw “in time” and his death was the most shocking of all.

“Mom”

I didn’t have a nanny growing up. My mom raised my brother and me pretty much as a single parent. Now that I’m a mom, I don’t know how she could have possibly done it alone. But she wasn’t completely alone. We certainly didn’t have a live-in nanny or anything but we did have someone, a woman who was so close to me that I even affectionately called her “mom.” Well, I loved her enough to call her “mom.” Mom Klein was Ruth Klein, a beautiful German woman that my mom knew through her social work job. All I know is that she absolutely loved me unconditionally. I always felt like I was her favorite and I called her “mom.” She taught me German, painted my nails and took me shopping. I also loved sitting in her beautiful gardens, watching her cook her fantastic Bavarian meals and cookies. She smoked like a lady and drank coffee and spoke in German to her lady friends who would stop by.  I loved her kids, too. There were 4 of them and they were all 5 to 10 years older than me. When they were teenagers, I was envious. I couldn’t wait to be a teenager, but to “Mom” I was always a baby, even when I was a teenager myself. We stayed connected with “Mom” over the years, but about 10 years ago I told her I was going to come by and see her and I forgot. I can’t believe that I did that. I guess at the time, I was …rude and selfish. I saw “Mom” after my wedding 6 summers ago. She wasn’t the same as I remembered her. She seemed bitter in her old age. But I always kept a special place in my heart for her.  Every time I was home in these past 6 years, I’ve mentioned going to see her to my real mom. We’ve considered it….but it never happened. Before I could “consider” it again, my mom told me that she passed away this June. I cried and looked up at the clouds…”Mom.”

Aunt Marj

Marj Priestly is the opposite of “Mom.” I seriously doubt that she loved anyone without conditions, and she seemed to judge me in a way that never made me feel comfortable. If I said that I wanted to do something, like be a playwright or an actress, she seemed to think I should just “give it up.”  I can remember leaving her house and feeling like throwing up.  But she also supported me in many ways, and through knowing her, I’m very changed. My great Aunt Marj and Uncle Hank were “my wealthy” family that lived in New York somewhere. Apparently my mom was Marj’s favorite niece and once or twice a year checks appeared in the mail for no reason at all. My mom had such fond memories of spending time with her in White Plains, New York when she was a kid. “She’d take me everywhere,” my mom would say to me. These relatives sounded like people I should know. But my mom and I are different people. I wouldn’t say were cut from the same cloth, so-to-speak. I’m wild and crazy and very artistic — more than a bit like my famous granny Dale Messick. My mom, on the other hand is a square, exactly the kind of niece that Aunt Marj, who was the head of the Girl Scouts could instill good diction and motivate.

“My aunt is dud, but that’s okay,” is what I wrote in my journal of  my summer of ’86 visit to see them. In many ways, the Priestly’s lived up to their reputation: they  took me to the top of Tower One (of the Twin Towers). Later I’d move to New York City, but I’d never stand on the top again. They also took me to see the Statue of Liberty and I shed a tear. Even though I now can see the Statue of Liberty from my balcony, that was my first time seeing it and it was glorious.

In 2000 when I moved to New York City Marj and Hank were my only family on the East Coast, so I made a point of knowing them. I’d take the train out to White Plains. They’d pick me up and take me to lunch at their fancy country club once or twice a year. My uncle Hank always drove, which was very scary. There couldn’t have been an older nor scarier driver on the road. Not only was he as old as dirt, he was also flush with martinis. Though I feared for my own life, their boring tour of White Plains “here’s the garden that we built,” etc…always put me on the verge of sleep, and during those 45 minute drives through White Plains, I felt like a kid in the backseat, when I wasn’t one anymore. I had responsibilities in NYC, a job, rent, etc…but for now, in the warmth of this car…What? Was that a dog we just hit? I just hoped to escape before someone had a heart attack or we ran into a train or a tree or both.

Six years later, shortly after Uncle Hank had passed, I happened  to be working White Plains very near Marj’s house, so I started stopping by on my way home from work to check in on her. She was very distraught without Hank and I think she felt quite vulnerable. On one of my visits she asked me to take care of her finances and to be her legal contact. This was a considerable shock to me. Yes, I guess I was her only family near her…but, well, okay.  This changed our relationship dramatically and gave me a staggering amount of responsibility that I never asked for nor wanted. Her daughter lived in Alaska and her neighbors were taking advantage of her, preying on her growing paranoia and confusion. I often felt like I was in danger as I tried to help her. I started coming every week, even though I now had a full-time job in the city and going to White Plains every weekend was a strident task.  Through this experience I got to know Marj  on a completely different level than I ever expected or wanted to. This was both good and bad. My favorite part of this time in our relationship were the days when I’d come take care of her bills and we’d sit and watch TV together or have a nice chat. I gave her books, read her some of my stories and even let her read one of my plays and listened to her very constructive criticism. I actually changed something in the play because of what she said. She was smart and alert even though she was very old and extremely opinionated. She was a tough nut, but she did love me and I know she wanted the best for me, even if she couldn’t always say it.

After I had my baby I was only able to talk to her on the phone occasionally. I was about to call her when her daughter sent me an email and told me that she had passed “nearly two weeks ago.”  “Two weeks ago?”  How? I used to see her every week and in retrospect, I’m so glad for that time. At one point, Marj gave me a bag of her fancy purses from some of the many cruises she took with Hank when they could still travel. I pulled out one of the very chic purses and wore it to a party this fall. The black satin, jeweled bag was filled with a whole new light when I thought of her giving it to me. I touched my fingers on the lace and thought of all the good that came with it. Thanks, Marj for everything you were. Believe it or not, you really were my family, and you meant a lot to me, too.

Miles

Once, years after we broke up Miles showed up at my office in San Francisco. It was my first real “business” job out of college.  He was standing at the door smiling, looking incredibly chill in his jeans and t-shirt, while I was totally uncomfortable in my pencil skirt, nylons and heels.  He was kind of like family at this point, so I asked him to help me move some heavy chairs in our basement. Miles was a friendly face, just when I needed it.  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. He waited for me to get off and I think we hung out for an hour. The minute I got out the door, he held my hand, which I embraced. He looked over at me, almost gushing and breathed in the air like he was in heaven just to be with me for a few minutes. It’s a wonderful feeling to be so loved and he always made me feel that way whenever and wherever I’d see him, whether it was planned or not.  “Have you ever thought how weird it is – that we just ….I dunno. It’s almost like a spiritual connection,” I said.  He looked at me like I was nuts.

Fast forward to Thanksgiving 2010, New York City where I’ve been living for the past 10 years.  Outside of the “funny feeling” I’d been having all week, this year was going to be much better than last year. Thanksgiving 2009 I was so overwhelmed with my new job as “mommy” that I don’t even remember the day. This year we were having a houseful of people over and I was making the Pumpkin Pie and letting my daughter lick the spoon.

The meal was fine and the company even better. I felt like the crowd was pleased. For some reason,  I mentioned Miles during the dinner and talked about him for a good five minutes.  I rarely discussed him or any of his issues with anyone and I’m really not sure what made me bring it up at dinner. It was rather odd timing come to think of it.   The very next day, I got a message on Face Book from Holly, Miles’ ex-girlfriend. The message only said “Can you call me it has to do with Miles.” I called the number listed but she didn’t answer. What could it be? I knew it was bad, but tried not to think about it. Still, I called my three best friends to tell them about the odd message.  Holly was Miles’ girlfriend a few years after me, so by then I was long gone, dating someone else, off at college. But I’d see them at our hometown disco parties. She was a pretty blond and I always liked her (and I was a little jealous, since she was so hot). I hadn’t spoken to her in years. Even though I kept in close contact with Miles, I never knew their story, why they broke up or anything about her, except that they were still in touch.

I consider this hour of time before Holly and I could actually speak as the hour before I knew. The hour before my heart would break, truly break in half. It was so thoughtful of her to tell me, considering it took his sister another 24 hours to call me and by then, it was all over Face Book. Miles RIP. People were posting who hadn’t seen him in 10, some 20 years. Once she said the words, I felt blindsided. This is when I went into a dream state, half awake half asleep, full of memories and regrets.

When I started the 9th grade back at Petaluma High School, I was making a very wise decision, but I didn’t know it at the time. I had spent my 8th grade year living with my dad and step mom in Santa Rosa. So I met a whole new group of people, and I had new friends. But I decided at the last minute that I’d rather move back with my mom and go to high school in Petaluma instead of spending another year at a junior high. The junior high that I was going to in Santa Rosa was a three-year program and in Petaluma high school started in the 9th grade. Woo hoo! My life would become amazing in the ninth grade and it was 50% up to me and 50% up to chance. I met Miles Miller McNaught in the spring of the 9th grade and I’m not kidding, the air smelled different. I never knew that cut grass smelled so fresh, that I could feel so wonderful inside — like I was percolating and about to explode. It was first love and it would last all through high school and beyond, really.

Just this past summer when I drove up to his parents’ house to visit him (as I’ve always done), I realize that it was the 24th year that I’d been showing up there and that his dad said “Miles, Noni’s here!”  Last summer was the end of something that I’d come to just know as “is.”  Now, that’s just something that I used to do.

I remember furiously riding my bike to that same house 24 years ago. I was on restriction and my mom had locked me in the back of her office, but I had found a way out, grabbed my bike and took off riding as fast as my legs could carry me — to Miles’ house. When I got there, I remember he didn’t want to get in trouble with my mom…so even he was shocked to see me. “Hide me in your closet,” I whispered. So I hid in his closet. Then, I guess my mom called and his dad came in his room and said “Miles have you seen Noni? Her mom is looking for her…” I guess I figured I couldn’t hide in his closet forever, so I just jumped out the closet and said “Hi John.” I thought his poor dad would have a heart attack.

Miles was extremely handsome and two years older than me. He was the class president the year before and on the football team. I was younger and goofy with braces, but I was pretty cool too. I had my own special flair.  I obviously liked good music. Miles wasn’t just good looking, he was also an amazing, talented guitarist and was part of a band that played at parties and at local venues (and at school during the lunch hour) called The Accolades. So yeah, he was pretty cool.

We had this kind of instantaneous romance that apparently inspired our classmates to “love deeply.” It all started in detention one day about 2 months earlier. I was sitting in the classroom and there was this super hot guy sitting behind me. He had his shirt off and he was working on some special drawing. I turned around and smiled at him. He smiled back. I’m not sure why but I pulled out a pen and started drawing on his drawing too. We didn’t exchange names or anything. At the end of detention we went our separate ways, but something was happening. Like I said, I walked outside and can remember smelling the grass…I noticed that the colors were brighter. That the world looked differently to me…and things even tasted better. The next day, I don’t think I sat right next to him (that seat was taken – damn).  So I sat across from him and we smiled at each other.  You’d have to see Miles smile to know how cute it was when “Mr. Charming” was smiling at you. He’d smile and blink his green eyes at the same time, kind of part cat, part clown.

So finally, I asked the girl sitting next to me what his name was…”Oh that’s Miles – he’s so hot.” She wrote. So the next day I went into the library and looked him up in the yearbook from the year before. There he was — on the football team, as the class president…dating someone I know my older brother thought was cool. Of course — everything about him was “cool.”  I starred hard at his picture and I wished (as if on a star) that he was boyfriend. I mean, how else could a nerdy freshman like me nab a cool stud like him?

Meanwhile, I was trying to tell my friend Wendy about him. She totally didn’t believe me that some hot older guy was flirting with me. That same afternoon a group of guys rushed us in the hall after 3nd period. “Excuse me, pardon me…” and then they were gone, but I could have sworn that one of the guys was Miles from detention.  “No, you’re crazy,” said Wendy.

I couldn’t wait for detention that day…and then, he wasn’t there. I was crestfallen. All my hopes — shattered.

The  next day I was in line getting my burrito and there came those guys again…”excuse me, pardon me,” and one of them was indeed Miles and he put a piece of paper in my pocket.  “It’s a love note,” exclaimed my now believing friend. When I pulled it out and opened it, it wasn’t a love note, but more of  a drawing, the one we had been working on together. He had found out my name too and incorporated it into hearts with a special message “Bean Pie Love, Noni.”

That afternoon he was in detention and we sat next to each other — quietly drawing, looking up at each other, smiling, if only to confirm what we already knew was true. We were madly and totally in love — already and we hadn’t even kissed yet. Once we got out of detention we stood on the that beautiful grass on that beautiful day — not knowing what was next but having an idea that surely it would be good. We touched hands, but only barely. He walked me out to where my mom was waiting. “I’m speechless, Noni” is all he said grinning like a Cheshire cat.  I introduced him to my mom. She said hello and he waved goodbye to us.

“So who is that? He sure is cute and nice,” said my mom. “He’s my new boyfriend, mom.” “Oh…really?” she said. I just looked out the window and smelled that fresh air. Yes, this is what love feels like and I’m in it…so in it.

Miles was my boyfriend from that moment on at 141/2 until I was 171/2 and a senior. In between there was a great, great love that flourished and inspired and changed me and those around me. Through our paring we created many friendships. My brother Curt started hanging out with us and became best friends with some of Miles’ friends. My best friend Wendy dated his best friend Pete and so on and so on. Pete became one of my best friends too (we lost Pete 7 years ago and it was Miles who held my hand during Pete’s funeral.)

These early years were fun, fun times that were played out in a beautiful, still untouched country setting.  With such great love and friends around me and so many fun things to do, I often felt like we lived in our own movie. I had some of the greatest moments of my life with Miles. So many funny days and nights, lots of parties and sneaking out in Pete’s van so that we could make out in the hay bales in a field that is now filled with corporate offices. In the fall of 1987 Miles and I were in terrible car crash – he hit a telephone pole because we were kissing while we driving! Yes, seriously.  We could have died then. In fact, I was unconscious until the paramedics arrived. I survived, but was left with my Miles scar, like a tattoo of a time long gone; there is large gash on my leg that is still there to this day.

There were school dances, rocking parties where the Accolades played and tons of rock concerts. I think I saw The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Primus, Mr. Bungle and Victim’s Family at least 10 times in the eighties. There were beach bonfires, cliff diving into rivers, date nights where we saw movies with friends and long walks where I shared my beautiful mountain with my friends. There was also Miles’ 42-day stay in a rehab, long, delightful letters and later endless hours of trying to understand and forgive mistakes on both sides. There was one I just couldn’t dismiss and it seemed to unravel us, slowly. Recreational drug use became more common and Miles behavior more erratic. I worried about him, he seemed to be sputtering out of control. My parents fretted that he was going to take me with him. But we still loved each other — A LOT.  I can’t remember much about the last year of our relationship, I don’t know why. I try to conjure  memories of that last year and a fog pours over the tips of something, nothing. We weren’t as good that year and Christmas ’88 ended in tears and with us breaking up and not talking rather suddenly.

I do recall, a day that I’ll never forget. It was one of those days where you smile and look at the people next to you and you just have a feeling that wells up inside “I love all of you.” You make me laugh.  Miles, Pete, and Wendy and I all took the bus to the San Francisco. We ran into my brother on Haight Street — randomly. So we all spent the day wandering and laughing — and we walked really, really far. It was too much for my right leg, which was still bandaged and stitched up from our car accident, so Miles and my brother carried me to the Golden Gate Bridge. At some point I was sleeping on Miles’ shoe in one of the Piers.

Finally, there was the inevitable time as with “first loves” when you start to grow up and away from what was. You both have changed, or one has changed more than the other.

“We’ve got a love that goes soul deep” he wrote in my high school yearbook that fall. “No matter where were are 30 years from now, I know that we will never be far a part. I will love you until the day I die..”

Even five minutes after we broke up, I always knew where I could find Miles. I could ask about him, at the very least. Even if I couldn’t find him, I knew what he was doing…always. Eventually all of his girlfriends had to be friends with me. I was “Noni.”  Over the years, there were still parties and fun times, stolen kisses in moments of weakness and flirting.  He gave me rides, helped me move once, and came to all my jobs and apartments when I still worked and lived in San Francisco. He held my hand during some of my darkest times.  He seemed to always be there just when I needed him the most. Miles was very much a part of my life 21 years after we broke up.

This past July when I drove up to his parents’ house everything was so normal. His dad came out and said hi and then “Miles, Noni’s here.” His dad looked older, he was still very handsome, like Miles, but his hair was almost white. “John, come look,” I said.  And he came over and peeked in at my sleeping baby girl in the back seat.  “Wow!” he said and had to go in the house to take care of something….

Then, Miles appeared, smiling. He was very happy to see me, and I him. He was walking on his prosthetic which was great. He had come a long way since his accident where he had lost his foot five years earlier. His hair was dyed blondish again. He looked younger…and cute. But he was somewhat down and not as effervescent as I remember him from our younger days…but how could he be? Because the baby was sleeping in the back seat, we decided to take a drive. I hadn’t taken a drive with Miles in a long, long time.  First we drove passed the telephone pole we hit years ago when nothing could pull us apart, then by where the old Racket Ball Club used to be…this is where we’d swim together after school and where so many things “happened” between us in the bushes in the back.  We even drove by the corporate offices where the hay bales once stood under a moonlit sky.

We didn’t say goodbye that day as much as we were saying hello. After spending years calling each other on land lines at our parents’ houses, he finally had a cell phone – “Wow, I can’t wait to call you on your cell,” I remember saying.

I know that I hugged him tight, but because Maya had woken up (while I ran into Starbucks and Miles was watching her), she was crying through some of the drive and I was distracted and the rest is a blur.  Later, I couldn’t even remember what day it was that I saw him. I was home for six weeks, but I don’t seem to have a record of this meeting in any of my calendars or in my phone logs. I started to wonder if it happened at all…

By the time I finally called his cell it was just to hear his voice one last time. He died in his sleep of heart failure on Thanksgiving. My heart is broken, in half. I’ve been walking in a daze ever since. Living half in reality and half as if I’m 16 again and lying in his arms, re-living every last moment together. At his funeral and wake (or after party), I kept wanting to turn around and tell him something. I still do. Miles are you there? But running around free, with great health and both feet? Are you re-living some of your favorite moments? Because you certainly lived life with abandon when you could. Are you playing music? Are you watching over me? Your family?  I hope so…

If I live to be 80 years old, I will miss you Miles Miller McNaught. There’s nothing else I can be but grateful for the time we shared, even though my heart is just breaking.

Brenda Starr Reporter

Then, there is the loss of something, a character. My grandma, Dale Messick passed away five years ago, but the heroine she created, Brenda Starr Reporter lived on — 20 years passed her retirement and five years passed her death. It’s odd to me that my grandma lived to be 98, and her character lived to be 70…and my great friends Pete Hill and Miles died so young.  Maybe we are put on this Earth to do certain things  — to entertain, to cheer, to smile a certain smile.  I’m really not sure. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to certain things and then, yes, things do make sense.

In these past few weeks I’ve looked at hundreds of old photos and re-read letters and journals and re-traced my last 25 years, long before I was a married new mommy writing plays in New York City.  If Miles had done things differently, could it have changed things? He and Pete both the nicest of guys and so much fun to be around, but sadly they were both drug addicts. Then I think of things between us…What if I had forgiven him in a certain instance…?

Nope. This was what it was. I met Miles exactly when I was supposed to meet him, when he had the greatest impact on my life. We were probably able to love each other for so long and so deeply because we weren’t together anymore. Later, after college and such I was off on a different path – but that’s another story.  The many roads we can take. When there’s was a fork in the road, I kept turning East, to Europe, to New York City…bright lights big city. That’s me…

But there’s a part of me that’s right here, in this town, on those hay bales, and in those bushes. I’m running in the fog across the Golden Gate Bridge. Perhaps I did die in the car that night and I already lived another life.  I’m in those photo albums upstairs, I’m buried here in the ground, and there’s something new sprouting and growing from those ashes.

In life, as in death, we draw our power from the same source.

I’ve always wanted to produce an evening of holiday themed plays and finally I’ve done it. Here’s a link to our press release on Broadway World.com

It’s a mini production, a night of readings, which has turned out to be a lot of fun, and it’s cheaper and easier than putting up a full production. These days, I really need to try to make my life a little easier…

To make up for the lack of production, we are only requesting a $10 donation. That’s a fair trade, right? The whole thing is a benefit for Manhattan Theatre Source, a theatre that needs way more than your $10 donation to stay afloat, but that’s another story.

Why you should go:

Do you like funny one-act plays, goofy songs, already miss the show Mad Men and often pretend that you are Don Draper? Do you miss the days when Santa filled your stocking?  Did you enjoy the book Memoirs of a Geisha, then consider how you might become a Geisha?  Have you ever met someone online? Did you like the movie The Social Network? Basically if you are a human and you live in New York City, you’ll enjoy this show. The only thing missing is alcohol, which you can get at the bar next door, North Square, which serves the best “Blood Orange Martini” I’ve ever had.

The new comedic one-act plays include: “Geisha School” and “How Don Draper Saved Christmas” both written by Laura Rohrman (moi) and directed by Li Murillo and Michelle Pace.  Sara Adler will perform 2 songs and there will be one other play “Cyberia” written by Aurin Squire.

The Benefit is one night only. Wednesday, November 10^th at 8PM at

Manhattan Theatre Source which is located at 177 MacDougal Street/cross is at 8^th

Back in March when I thought I wasn’t going to work for awhile, but be a stay at home mommy, I was in search of the perfect volunteer project.  I was looking for something that was outside of me, but still me.  So I signed up to be the producer of what was then called Voices of Africa, part of The Estrogenius Festival at Manhattan Theatre Source.  By June I had gotten really busy, taking on private clients that I never expected and the Voices project seemed dead in the water. We had no script coming from Africa this year. I was about to call it a day and forget about it. Then things shifted and Jen Thatcher, this year’s Estrogenius producer put me in touch with Jessica Morris, who is the executive producer of a kick-ass group of young women performers called Project Girl Collective that is all about empowering young women through performance. Jessica also happens to be one of the most courageous, driven and inspiring people who I have ever met.

Welcome to Voices Without Borders: Project Girl Congo. I am one of what feels like 50 producers who helped shape this piece.  Led by hip hop artist Toni Blackman, the Project Girl girls’ have developed monologues, poetry, song and dance numbers inspired by stories told by the Man Up delegates working in the Congo, who in this case, are men who are working tirelessly to stop violence against women in the Congo every single day. These men have lost wives, mothers and sisters to violence, lack of education and health care. Many women die giving birth since there is little to no access to maternal health care. These men are standing up for women, as are the young women/performers of Project Girl who are taking time away from school and their social lives to stand up for women in the Congo. What are they giving? Their time, their hearts, their energies. What are we asking of you? To give the same. Be aware of what’s going on in other parts of the world. Watch our show, which is a fundraiser.  Every penny of the proceeds goes back to the Congo to stop violence against women and girls. If you cannot come to the show, please log onto, http://www.s317461102.initial-website.com/donate/, to support this worthy cause.

“Just about every kid in America is told that they can make a difference in this world,” says Project Girl performer Alexa Winston, age 17. “Now I have a real opportunity with Project Girl: Congo. For the first time, I have heard first-hand accounts about what life is like for girls in the Democratic Republic of Congo.  These stories are the bedrock of our show.  I know exactly where our donations are going and am proud to support the courageous young leaders who are “manning up” in the DRC.”

This ground-breaking show will be a staged reading performed at Manhattan Theatre Source as part of the Estrogenius Festival on Oct 29th and 30th in New York City. The show tells the stories of young girls in The Congo and helps us all realize that we can do something right here, right now by just being aware.

I never knew, for example, that the fear of being raped is a fact of life for women in the Congo and that being permanently damaged (or “ruined”) from a rape is a common occurrence there.  However, what trumps all of this violence is the fear of being killed as a result of living in a war-zone where child soldiers are shown with precision how to abuse women as part of their military training.

Through education and enlightenment, it is our hope as producers that we are encouraging awareness about what is going on for women in the Congo and for women right here in our community who are affected by gender-based violence.  The statistic is 1:3 women and girls around the world are victims of violence.  Clearly, this is a universal travesty that our youth-led theater company, Project Girl Performance Collective and Man Up, a youth led movement to stop violence against women and girls are working to change.

Voices Without Borders with be performed in connection with Congo Week, which is October 17-23, 2010, and Voices Without Borders will be co-produced by Congolese human rights organizers, Ally Malumba and Jean de Dieu Tshileu and Lewis Kasindi.

Proceeds from this year’s Voices Without Borders ticket sales and donations will benefit Man Up Campaign’s global anti-violence work in the Congo.

For more information and ticket sales, please visit Estrogenius Festival (www.estrogenius.org), ManUp Campaign (www.manupcampaign.org), Project Girl Performance Collective (www.projectgirlperformancecollective.org).

In the end, it was my mom who was calling me a hoarder and begging me to get rid of my stuff. I found more me upstairs…..boxes of old “reject” photos, costumes, books — so much, in fact, that I shut the door and turned off the light and wished it to go away. There’s something to be said for moving often.