Shakespeare in Love

Last Tuesday, I officially accepted an offer from the University of Leeds for a place in their taught postgraduate programme. The Thursday before the official offer, I received a letter from the School of Philosophy saying that they have recommended that I be made an offer. Since then, I have been freaking out about actually getting over to the mother country. Science Communications would be (is) the ideal course of study for me...a perfect mix of science and writing (more writing, of course). I have gotten this far and nothing is going to stop me from getting to the end. I am the type of person that wants to complete tasks immediately and until I've gotten done all that I need to do, I worry about it...constantly. Basically, I will be freaking out until I am in the U.K., sitting in the first row of my first lecture.

My mother, the "free spirit" that she is, hates when I constantly worry. It is because when I constantly worry, I direct all “my negative energy” towards her in the form of a string of continuous questions:

"Mom, am I really going?"

"Mom, do you think I'm actually going to get there?"

"Mom, am I really going to go to England?"

"Mom..."

"Mom..."

"Mom..."

After four children over the course of the last twenty-one years, my mother has developed immunity to our continuous bugging. However, I think that because I've grown in intellectual thought and maturity during my college experience (or because I've been away for the last four years), her immunity to my voice has weakened. Now, when I repeat her name over and over again, instead of being able to ignore it, it actually annoys her. This drives her crazy, especially when she is in the midst of devising new lesson plans.

On the first day of bugging her, she was patient and kind towards me:

"Of course you're going to go! We're so proud of you!"

As a science major, I am always in need of proof in order to believe something. It is just my nature to constantly question. So when she begins to realize that her kind responses no longer have an effect on me, she begins to add in evidence, usually in the form of past events to give me faith that the situation will work out for the best:

"Soph, of course you're going to go! When have we ever not gotten you where you needed to go?"

After I've thought about this for a while and returned to her sitting area to ask more questions, she'll add something else:

"Remember Germany? You went there for a month. We got you there."

True. This will suffice for a short amount of time. After days of the same questions, her patience begins to run low. Her responses become progressively more annoyed until every answer is:

"Soph, just get away from me."

When today's interrogation began, she thought of a more creative approach to answer my questions. She got up out of her chair (which is a miracle in itself, a sign that I must surely be pissing her off) and proceeded to the VCR, where she put in Shakespeare in Love and gave me the following instructions:

"Pay attention to Geoffrey Rush's character.”

After bargaining with her, the decision was made that I will watch the movie if she talks to me about University afterwards.

So for the past two hours, I have been watching Shakespeare in Love, trying to understand the meaning of her antics. When it came to the scene where “Romeo and Juliet” was just about to be performed, my mother prompted me to pay attention. The dialogue was between a frantic William Shakespeare and Geoffrey Rush’s character.

Shakespeare: We're lost.

Geoffrey Rush’s character: No, it will turn out well.

Shakespeare: How will it ?

Geoffrey Rush’s character: l don't know. lt's a mystery.

Still a little confused, I was prompted to listen to the next dialogue between the two men:

Geoffrey Rush’s character: Another little problem.

Shakespeare: What do we do now ?

Geoffrey Rush’s character: The show must-- You know.

Shakespeare: Go on !

Geoffrey Rush’s character: Juliet does not come on for pages.

lt will be all right.

Shakespeare: How will it ?

Geoffrey Rush’s character: l don't know. lt's a mystery.

At this point, my mom was in hysterics. I now understood the meaning of her nerdy little joke. I was the frantic William Shakespeare, worrying about how things will turn out without a strict plan, and she was Geoffrey Rush’s character, reassuring that all will be well, without even a slight notion of how it will get that way.

My mom loves cheesy movies. I despise them. While my mom watches Tristan and Isolde, The Boondock Saints, and Troy in one after another, I sit on the couch and make sarcastic comments throughout the length of the film. My mom defends the validity of the film, citing Virgil during Troy or talking about the various historical writings of Tristan and Isolde.

At the “deeply meaningful” end of Shakespeare in Love, I found the comment “What? That’s it? Wah wah wah,” to be appropriate.

My mom playfully snapped back:

“My god, if there’s any “wah wah wah” at this house, it’s probably you!”

At the same time, my step-dad whined in a voice aimed to mimic my own:

“I wanna ride the pony…”

It was obvious that my parents had grown tired of my nagging. Interesting how much you can learn from watching Shakespeare in Love on a Sunday afternoon. Just in case I had missed it, my mom ended the movie with a moral:

“Soph, Soph, all will be well….all will turn out. It’s a mystery, but it does.”

Sleep

It is strange how much a place can change depending on the people who occupy it.  For the last four days, both my 11-year-old sister and my mother have been away.  Coincidentally (but not really), for the last four days the house has been extremely quiet.  When you're used to a constant source of noise, the sound of silence can be relaxing.  However, after a certain point in time, it can be unsettling.  I enjoy waking up at any hour and having the guarantee that my mother will be sitting in her chair, cigarette in hand.  The television is also always on, despite whether or not my mom is actually watching it (although she always claims to be watching it).  

During our childhood, my sister and I used to camp out in front of the television set when we could see that our mother was getting tired. While most children had the opportunity to watch cartoons, we had to watch ‘Ladyhawk’ over and over and over again.  The only time that we were able to watch something of our choosing would be when my mother had succumbed to sleep.  It would usually be after she hadn’t slept in three days and her body was beginning to break down.  We knew all of the signs.  We would observe her every move, much like scientists studying a wild animal in its natural environment. 

“There is the mother spotted hyena…she is the dominant female of the bunch.  Listen to her cackle, she appears to be directing it towards her cubs.”

When it came to the point when we would have to remind her to ash her cigarette, we knew that sleep was close to winning its battle.

We would sit there, poised and waiting attentively for the moment when we could change the channel without having to face the wrath of our mother.  This was a mission and we were secret agents.  Sometimes this would require waiting for hours for my mother to actually fall asleep but we were patient.  This was what needed to be done to ensure that we received some sort of sensory stimulation.

When she went longer than twenty minutes without having a cigarette, we knew that she had fallen asleep.  Now it was time to move in.  Each step of this mission would be dangerous. In order to ensure the operation ran smoothly, my sister and I devised a series of step-by-step plans in which we would:

a)   Creep over to my mom’s sitting area

b)   Once at her chair, steal a sip from the freshly poured glass of coke that she had yet to drink from

c)   Carefully remove the remote conttol wedged in between the arm and cushion of the chair

d)   Change the channel

These may not seem like very complicated tasks but the risk of getting caught was great.  Waking my mother from her slumber was only comparable to waking a starving dragon with the stab of a sword.

Success in this great endeavor was rewarding.  My sister and I would sit for as long as we could until my mother awoke.

“Who changed the channel?”

“We did, you were sleeping!”  We would reply.

“No, I wasn’t!  I was watching that.  Turn it back.”

There is always a constant source of noise at my house.  The sound of silence is something foreign...being completely alone is not a possibility.  That is why (when I’m not looking for company) I occasionally enjoy waking up on the rare occasion that my mom has finally passed out at 6 am, cigarette still in hand.  It gives me some time to myself.

My mother and my sister are nocturnal creatures.  I, on the other hand, thrive in the morning.  My brother and I are always the first ones awake in the house (given everyone has actually gone to sleep).  We rule the house in the am.  My brother uses this opportunity to play on the computer, which when not being used by my mother is taken over by my 11-year-old sister who finds it necessary to play Farmville all day.  I spend this time enjoying the sound of silence and relishing in my short-lived productivity.

I don't know how it's possible but my mother can go days without sleeping.  My sister is the same way.  When I was younger I was able to do this but my days of all-nighters has passed after they lost their mystique by becoming a necessity in college.  There is something mystifying about staying up all night.  The night holds many mysteries; it is when strange things happen.  Sometimes when I am awake at 4 am, I feel as if I am the only one in the entire world, as if time has stopped and left me to contemplate my existence.

Every once in a while I find the endurance to stay up all night.  This usually occurs when my mind is racing and I feel the urgent need to complete something, but I pass out once the primetime of morning has ended.  I do not possess the capability to stay up for more one night at a time without suffering from slight hallucinations and losing the ability to formulate thoughts.  My mom can go for three nights in a row and still be fine, well, perhaps not fine but she can function.  On the fourth day, her speech begins to slur and she stops making sense. 

My mother is a professor and during finals week, she stays up for days grading her students’ exams.  When she grades she provides detailed feedback to her students rather than just giving a grade.   This ensures that they are actually learning from their papers, something she does that I admire very much.  Basically, a stack of papers can take days to grade and during finals week, she has a stack for every class.

One finals week marked the longest period of time I had ever seen her remain awake.  When the day came to turn in her grades, she had entered a zombie-like state due to lack of sleep.  Her body was beginning to break down because she had not had any time to regenerate it.  The semester had come to a close and she was finally able to sleep but was having some difficulty doing so.  My sister and I were sitting in the living room with her as she dozed off in her chair. 

When we finally thought she had fallen asleep for good, she awoke.  My sister and I were surprised by this.  Usually after her runs of insomnia, she would sleep uninterrupted for at least one day.  She rose from her chair in a sleepwalk-like state, eyes barely opened, motions rigid and careless.  My sister and I asked if she if she needed anything or wanted us to help guide her to her bedroom.  She mumbled some sort of gibberish as she made her way to the fridge.  

From the living room, we heard her pour herself a coke.  On her way back to her chair, she was still teetering in and out of sleep.  She sat down with the glass of coke remaining in her hand.  My sister and I advised her against this, we told her to put it on the surface of the coffee table.

“I’m drinking it!  Give me a break,” she barked back at us.

“You’re going to fall asleep with it in your hand,” we warned her, laughing at the possibility that this may happen.

No matter what we said, she wouldn’t listen to us.  One trait that is deeply engrained in our Sicilian-German family: stubbornness. 

My sister and I went back to watching “Supernatural” when we were started by the crash of a glass, the clinking of ice cubes against the floor, and my mother jumping out of her seat, her mouth running like that of a sailor.

Just as we had predicted, my mother had fallen asleep with an entire glass of coke in her hand, the contents of which were now all over her.  I suppose she had fallen asleep and upon feeling the first drop of cold liquid spill on her, became startled and flailed the entire coke in the air. 

My sister and I tried with utmost effort not to laugh and assist in the clean up but we failed miserably.  Every time we made an effort to help, we began to laugh hysterically.  My poor mother just stood there, unpleasantly awoken from her first glimpse of sleep in days, coke dripping from her hair, covering her clothes.  She was still yelling, overwhelmed with the decision of what she should do first.  My sister and I finally managed to contain ourselves.  Bella helped my mother up to the shower as I stayed downstairs to clean up the coke-bomb that had exploded in our living room.

My house is a hectic place.  There are seven people, one Doberman, three cats, and a mouse living here.  Sometimes I crave a little time to myself; it can be difficult to get even five minutes of peace and quiet.  I say that but here I am, missing the solace I can only get from the constant chaos of my home.