Perfectly Perfect

Lately, I have been coming off of a chaotic streak. Okay, between facing eviction, a move under duress, and spinkle in a bad breakup with a liar things have been crazy. Did I forget my cancer scare?

Yeah.

Slowly and surely things have been returning to normal. Monday and Tuesday I open miced it. The mic on Monday was at The Unicorn, and it was fun because I got to go with an old friend. It was nice to be onstage again.

Last night I went to an open mic at the Metropolitan Room. Usually the open mic is a blast in the basement of the carbaret theatre. Upstairs is show tunes, downstairs is dick jokes. It's always fun and supportive, but nothing dramatic usually happens. Anyway, last night this comic starts dropping the "n word." Mind you he's white and usually a nice dude but it's a part of a joke. He says it's a "soft n" which is kinda stupid because there is no such thing. So this black dude jumps out of the shadows kinda and says, "What you say mutherfucka!"

Anyway, the dude dukes the white comic. And the mic stand got bent! Oh, and they had to break it up. The sucky thing is, I missed the whole thing. DAMN! Been a minute since I saw a good open mic fight.

Open mics and I, and I am free to admit it, have a weird relationship. At this point in my career I am kind of "famous." So to be seen at an open mic is like a cool kid in high school being seen shopping at an outlet. At the same time, it is a necessary evil. Also, to me the open mic is like the ex who you break up with, and remains friends with because you like them but dont love them. But at times you see them and remember why the relationship didn't work. Or you also see them and remember why they always make you smile. Yeah, the relationship is weird.

Tomorrow is going to be busy because I have a cake girl in the morning and a puppet show in the noon. How the hell am I going to do it? I am already dreading tomorrow. I booked the puppet show at the last minute yesterday and my boss has a cake girl today. One is in the Bronx. The other is in Brooklyn. I am secretly hoping tomorrow isn't going to kill me, although it is great to be working this much again.

Today my comic book drops at Forbidden Planet.

My new toilet bottom is kind of yellow and still looks like someone peed in it even when you flush.
My man hate issues

Words From a Writer

I haven’t blogged in a while because I have been busy. Busy with the holidays. Busy with family. Busy with all that Christmas/Festivus/Channakah/Sparkle Season entail for the entire world. In between, I have been working on a writing project-more on that later. Either way, I have begun to look like a writer. My shoulders are slumped and my spine is curved like Quasimodo. As for my eyes, they are dark like that of a drug addicted relative. Wait, the drug addictive relative looks slightly better and they managed to eat. Oops. Yes, I am a writer.

Writers are the indentured servants of the creative world. We are always the first called when someone wants a story. The world thrives on stories. We slave over keyboards and have to put up with pricks who couldn’t get published themselves correcting our grammar. After that, we endure the continuous agony of idiots who have no idea of what story is but are somehow in charge of the business end of things telling us what an arc is. Yes, arc, those assholes think it’s the thing Indiana Jones discovered. After which we are abused by the establishment, but we work the hardest. Then when all is said and done, we are the first on the chopping block. We are the first to get screwed out of rights and money. We are left in the poor house or to die with a pauper’s grave while the man chomps on our bones.

Some starlet who can barely read butchers our dialogue. Then an asshole model turned leading man can’t even read, so at least the starlet is winning the race of the beautiful and stupid. After that some director and his “creative license” totally adapts our work to a way in which we would object but we signed away our rights. When I hold a pen there is a part of my heart, a part of my soul, that wants to stab them all. To stab the idea. To stab the establishment.

The worst part is being a woman in this whole mess. When I stick up for my work, I am angry. I am a man hating chick with penis envy. My rage can’t hack it in the so called boys club. Female writers who churn out material that makes my skin crawl and makes me want to go out like a Hemingway when I read it inform me I shouldn’t let the paradigm insult me. I should let me be me, and be the best me I can be. Yet one of us continues to wait for the imaginary man we create in our books, and another one of us knows it’s fiction. Maybe the one that knows it’s fiction knows all too well.

I have stopped letting the sexism on behalf of some of my male colleagues crush my spirit, although it has been hard. One former writing partner in particular was incredulous over the fact I would get published and he didn’t. We were friends until he realized I was far more talented than he was. Then it became all about my man hate. Yes, man hate. Man hate this, man hate that. What about moron hate. What about you are a freaking, drooling, imbecile who sits on a soapbox and pretends to be a man’s man you moronic poser? Or perhaps it was because I refused to let him use me to get ahead. Hmmm….

Then when you write, you run the risk of your work collecting dust. My book is in several collections, several libraries. When I was younger I used to think librarians were anal retentive wart hogs sent from Satan to terrorize children. Now I respect them as the Earthly body guards of my work. I spent countless days and hours, sacrificing a life of any sort, to put my stories on paper. Sure, doggy ear my book. That means you are reading it. However, if someone spilled something on it I would be livid. Yes, livid. So therefore, I treat all written words with kindness just as everyone should.

Sometimes I curse being a writer. I am a wordsmith which makes me a total heal as a screenwriter. When writing dialogue, I am selfish and verbose which makes me a mediocre playwright. The personal essay is my forte because I am a self-centered prig. Novel writing is also my strength, I did it. But I wish I could sing beautifully and harmonize.

Better yet, I wish I could knock a trumpet solo out of the park like my cousin. That way people could sit back, relax, and just enjoy me rocking it out all Old Satchmo. Then there are other times I wish I could draw and paint like my uncle, where people could get lost in the beauty of my work. Or maybe dance like my cousins, where the glorious experience would be interactive. Reading my work involves thinking, imagination. People hate that shit, remember?

Then I remember everything starts with a story. The written word is the man begins the relay for his team. Ideas on paper, great books, inspire people to talk and think. Those great books are adapted to great movies. Those even greater talents keep the work alive, even when the author is long dead. The musicians, dancers, and visual arts augment the story making it fabulous beyond words and compare. This is how stories live for thousands of years and tales become endless.

When one is good at one creative art they are always good at another. Writing is a springboard for other creative talents we all have. Prince wrote songs for others, and then recorded many hit albums himself. Harold Ramis was Egon Spengler, but more also helped write the script for Ghostbusters as did Dan Ackroyd. Writing allows me to perform my own work onstage, sing my own songs, and be whoever I want to be because my imagination is my own unique original creation from heaven.

That is, until I accidentally cut my finger on the paper from all the drafts I print out. Be kind to writers is all I am saying.

Come see me perform my writing and comedy as I help break a world record for Guinness

Friday January 2 @ 11:45

Metropolitan Room

34 West 22^nd st

Xo

April

Almost Famous

Lately things have been kinda crazy.  Two Fridays I found out I was on TV again. It was kind of cool to find out the OWN channel is still showing me and my puppet babies. I was like this is soo cool. Then that Monday I was on my way to tape something (more on that later) and this Spanish dude yells, "Are you April?"

I turned around. And then he said, "You are a youtube legend. I saw your clip on the Today Show. Do you have a puppet or something with you?" McAwesome. I did a mini show for him and his boy working at the car lot. Cool.

Middle of the week last week I found out I was on the tele overseas again. YIPEE!!! And then I made a fan video for a fan in Scotland. They showed it on the jumbotron in Glasgow. I was like, I McRock!

After that I was asked to write a piece for a biggie-more on that later. Oh and I was booked for a big family festival.

And then there was the good news about the NYU Bookstore and Infinity has made me their author of the month. Check it out here. http://blog.infinitypublishing.com/bloginfinitypublishingcom/bid/116307/featured-infinity-author-of-the-week-april-brucker

Oh and it gets better. I delivered a Yenta Sunday, and the girl I delivered it to was like, "I know you from somewhere." She thought I was an old student of hers, bless her heart. Anyway she kept insisting she knew me, but I had never seen her before. Whenever this stuff happens in my experience it means they have seen me on TV and are not making the connection. Usually they recognize my voice first which is pretty cool. But they don't know from where, and when we talk they make the connect which is so damn cool.

And then yesterday I was chilling with some old friends when one says, "I was sitting and chilling and saw you on Anthony Bourdain a year ago. I was like, 'Shit, there is April!' You had that gay puppet."

What can I say, my life is awesome. I am feeling a little tired but that goes with having a career. People expect you to do shit. I still have ways to go but I am further along than I thought I would ever be.

xoxoxo
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

Leap of Faith: An Artist's Journey

There are times when the path of an artist is dark. On a path one takes when their gift is playing an instrument, writing a riveting story, performing a moving monologue, singing a flowery aria, telling a joke, painting a beautiful picture, sculpting a lifelike figure, whatever…..it is unsure.

Parents often say, “You are so bright. Why don’t you just use this as a hobby?”

Friends will tell you, “I wish I were as brave.” And then silently feel sorry for you as they go home to their bed, and yes they own a bed, and positive balance in their bank account.

Lovers will say, “Listen, the dream isn’t real. It only happens for one percent of people.” And if you are a man the lover will admonish, “I want  a partner who will make a steady living because I want to have children.” If you are a woman your lover will jab, “Look, lets get real. You aren’t exactly Angelina. Your little hobby is fine but what about my needs?”

This bending over backwards for a world that doesn’t always welcome art isn’t easy. There are times when you are passed over because of the way you look. Because you are a woman. Because you are a man. Because you are black, white, brown, a Smurf. Sometimes you look at your bank account and scream and the skies get darker. Then you wonder, “What the fuck am I doing with myself!”

It goes through your mind. You should have listened to your parents. You should have really put more time into math class. The journey didn’t involve learning how to pour beer, do power point, or hand out fliers on the sidewalk. This is when it starts to get dark and it is easy to throw in the towel. Especially when some people seem to make it with no effort whatsoever.

There is an old saying: “Easy come, easy go.”

What I am trying to say is hang in there. Gene Hackman struggled for years as an unknown in theatre before he won Academy Awards and he is perhaps the most brilliant actor of our time. Not only is he talented, but you can’t take your eyes off of him. JK Rowling was living in squalor when she wrote Harry Potter and was piling up the rejection letters. Now it is perhaps one of the most read books in the world. Madonna was considering quitting show business right before “Everybody” became a number one single. I don’t think she would have made a very good Michigan housewife. Mind you she was so broke she was eating food from trashcans. Bette Midler had doors closed in her face because of her weight and size. However she was going to give up as well before someone suggested she do shows in the gay baths. The rest is history. Louis CK struggled for years as a comedian and actor in obscurity. The son of a single mother never gave up on the thought of reaching into the television and making the world better for the woman that raised him. Not only is he successful, but he is a standup icon. Those who had the breaks come easy during the times of those listed above, we don’t remember them.

One of my darkest times was around the time I was twenty four/twenty five. The market had popped and a TV show I had filmed was shelved. I did a daring television appearance that was daring, and closed some doors. Years later people tell me Springer was an idiot. Then it was cool to be on TV but other than that, not much else happened. I was broke and at the time a roommate of mine was having a nervous breakdown over a guy. A good friend of mine, who had been drug free for years, relapsed and we had a falling out. He lost his battle and I never told him that I loved him, not what he was doing to himself. When it rains it pours and the shit was coming down quick.

I also had a series of fainting spells. They were scary because I didn’t know why I was getting them. I remember being afraid I had a brain tumor. My mom feared I was suffering from epilepsy that was an onset of an injury I had when I was younger. When I sat down and spoke to another friend about the spells it was revealed that I was harboring a lot of anger. Anger that it wasn’t my turn and that my dreams weren’t coming true. Angry at life. Angry at people. Angry at everyone. This friend suggested that I had to learn to accept people and things for who they were. But also, if I wanted to create my own work, why not do it? And while I was in that vein, why not have a better attitude? After that conversation when I began taking action, the fainting spells stopped.

Soon I started performing and produce my own one woman shows. I created an open mic to my liking where free speech was the rule and cliquishness not allowed. I got up wherever I could and pursued stage time like a junkie does a needle. I was still running with the herd though. That is when I met my friend Joe Cannava. At the time I got a job writing for a rag. My column was basically about the morons I dated. Joe, who worked as a celebrity personal shopper and was an artist told me the he had always wanted to be a writer. So I showed him my column. He called it drivel and told me I should have been writing about my job as a singing telegram person. Joe told me to write a book about it. My mom had wanted me to do it for years and I told her she was crazy. Joe wasn’t letting up though and I would lie to him and tell him I was chugging along on my book. One day I just decided to do it.

That summer, I wrote my book. I lived on the fourth floor with no AC in a cramped studio sharing it with someone else. She was having a breakdown over a man, yes the same man again, and I was writing. When I wasn’t typing away I was writing on scraps of paper during train trips to telegrams or gigs. I had been a writer all my life but had never written a book. Almost five hundred pages later and a shitload of typos, I had my first draft.

When I wasn’t doing that I found myself producing puppet webisodes where my guests included Michael Musto, Harmonica Sunbeam, Melba Moore, Diana Falzone, Jake Sasseville, Sabrina Jalees and loads of others. I found myself happy and most importantly, enjoying what I was doing.

Months later I got to do a television show with my puppet babies and lets just say the rest is history. I was asked to do the press tour which was fun. Some said I was crazy as a bag lady. Some said I was passionate. Either way, it seemed all the work had paid off and I was going to another level. The club I slaved for fired me. I panicked because no other club was picking me up. That is when I got a job with a web network and began producing content there. Oh and I recorded music and got a hit on the internet. So doors opened, just not the ones I expected.

As I rode the wave I found myself in some magazines overseas and getting lots of letters from young people. I found myself telling them to hang in there. That there dreams were worth it whatever they might be. I found myself telling them their thoughts were important. That is when I found the motive for my art changing and that showed not only in the redrafts of my book but in the final version. My motive was now to help inspire young people, to show them the journey as an artist was worthwhile and doable.

Since then the journey has changed in a good way. Has been much different than I expected, in a good way. I ended up publishing my book. Through the journey I ended up having my book featured on the Official Website of Britney Spears. In addition, it has been rated a Must Read by Mensa. My book is also in several bookstores and libraries. Recently, it became available as a paperback in Barnes and Noble. Through my travels and through the grace of something greater than myself such as the universe, I got a connection to a top notch recording studio and recorded an audiobook. That is coming out this summer.

As life stands I still work my day job, but I love my day job. It not only allows me to dress up in costumes and act crazy getting paid for it, but it makes me a better performer. The standup spots are getting better. Those that the career came easy to are now fading into thin air disappearing, and I am beginning to get the recognition I have worked years for. The difference is mine will last whereas theirs never did because it came easily. Yes, I still continue to bitch and moan about being a woman in comedy, but while I battle on I win the war. It is by making my mission about reaching others and not about pleasing myself.

Do I have waves where I panic these days? Oh yes. The panic always sets in when your phone rings. Julianne Moore even has that panic as an established actress. She spoke about it in an interview. However, these days I work through the panic in a different way. I take classes and have connected with some wonderful teachers. Through that network, I meet other people. In addition, I get onstage with my notebook. While it might not always be in front of people who can give me a job, it gets me unstuck. Chris Rock still does it. I also start on a new project, create my own work. But I also call on a network of not just friends but family members who are also artists: from my painter cousin Peter, my painter uncle Kent, my dancer cousin’s Lindy and Mara, or my musician cousin Bobby.

As of this weekend, I will be doing a book signing at Brown University Bookstore with my brother and sister, Bill Brucker, MD/PhD ’13 and Brenna Brucker, MD ’13 through PACE. PACE (Providence Alliance of Clinical Educators) is a nonprofit started by my brother to bring science education to under privlidged high school students. In their materials, they bring humor to science education through a series of educational comic books for children. While my brother and sister are not taking the artistic path, my brother was a cartoonist for years at Brown and my sister is published poet as well as visual artist. The event is a must for those who want to pursue a career as a writer, artist, or wants to use creativity through education. Either way, the three of us are using our gifts to make the world a better place in our own way.

I don’t know what will happen this weekend, or even after this weekend. Two magazines expressed interest in doing a story on my book. Another website wants to review it. My audiobook will be out soon as well. Who knows what is next. Either way, on this creative journey I must have faith. I wasn’t taken this far in order to be dropped

Love

AprilI

 Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
Paperback available on Amazon and 877-Buy-Book
E-Book available on Kindle and Nook
Audiobook available on itunes and Audible this Spring
www.youtube.com/aprilthestarr
Portion of proceeds go to Greenpeace

PS. Book signing at Brown Bookstore Saturday May 25 from 4-6. Be there or be square

Beating Yourself With a Feather

A lot of times I get letters from young people or people who have seen my work that want my esteemed advice. I don't know why on Earth they would want that garbage. My twenties have been spent in dingy basements, dating ex cons, and then there was that fugitive. I am hardly the wealth of good decisions. Okay, but at least my stories are colorful. But those are for a different day. That being said everyone wants advice on writing and how to do it if they can't focus, or how to make videos or how to pursue comedy or follow the dream and you name it.

Artists especially are easily frustrated. In an industry where one must get used to rejection and poverty, there are very few spots at the top starring in motion pictures and living in Posh Beverly Hills Pads. As a result everyone is just racing like a bunch of rats for the same cheese and is in a hurry to get it. But with every piece of cheese comes a glue trap. It's the pressure to succeed, to be at the top. It's the pressure to be recognized. It's the pressure to create worthwhile work. It's the pressure to be a good artist. It is the pressure to be happy.

I remember being a young comedian in the city and just felt overwhelmed. I was grabbing for my star and it looked like it was crashing down on my head. Being daring and unique I showed a lot of promise right away. I got on television without even trying it seemed. People paid me money. I was in a pilot. I was going to be a superstar. Putting my hands under my pits like Mary Katherine Gallagher I was ready to go.

But then it didnt happen. My TV appearance yielded nothing. As for the pilot, it didnt get picked up. I had a falling out with one booker, and then the market popped making people put on less live events. I had no money and felt extremely depressed. I had gone from the top of the world to rock bottom. I felt worthless and nothing in my life was sticking. When did I become a loser? And then someone gave me the best advice. They told me I was hard on myself and I wanted to rush things before I was ready. And then they told me the truth. I had a long way to go as a comedian and a person before I could be ready. Then they said something that stuck with me, "Be gentle with yourself. Beat yourself with a feather instead of a hammer."

I slowly began to change my whole outlook. Each set became a learning experience. With every tank there was not a pity party at the bar or bakery but rather an evaluation of why it didn't work and what I could do differently. And when I killed it, it was what worked and what could be improved upon, because the job was never done and one could never rest on their laurels. In addition, it was writing a book. Where instead of expecting the Great American Novel on the first draft I let the first draft be sloppy and then rewrite after rewrite I improved it, and at certain points even put it away. For my vidoes, I didnt expect to be a youtube sensation right away. Rather I saw what stuck and what didnt. As for criticism, I didnt take that so personally but rather took what I needed and left the rest.

Now I am at the same juncture I was when I was twenty four. I have been on TV several times. I have a project I am pitching. I have a book and projects based off of that. People tell me I am "taking off." While it scares me that it might evaporate again, I dont think it will this time. It is because this time I am ready for it. Success is one of those things you are ready for. It is like a ham in the oven, you don't want it before it's ready to eat.

In my travels I have seen people get success out of the gate. More often than not it is not long lasting. They don't know how to do the work to sustain it and they cannot handle it. The people who are successful for the longest are the people who have the foot work behind it and as a result can keep going. The crazy thing is, all the people I used to compare myself to back in the day and I used to envy because they seemingly took off with no work are no longer around. Bottom line, you are ready when you are ready.

The past two years I have been incredibly blessed to work with a lot of talented people. When I do I don't psych myself out by telling myself I will never be as good. Rather I see what I can learn from them. There are a great many things you can learn around people who are good. And if you beat yourself with a feather you can soak in that knowledge. Also, if you beat yourself with a feather, it is easier to accept when someone is extraordinary and not to get intimidated.

Chris Rock tells a story where he was fresh off of SNL and working in Chicago and was used to the openers sucking. Well a guy named Martin Lawrence got up and killed, and for once in Chris Rock's life he had to work to follow someone. Bottom line, a feather beating helps you with moments like that. Installing humility but being able to still do the job. Yes, while you can be good there is always someone beyond awesome. Translated, always work hard, keep your head down, and be on your game.

A feather beating can also help you deal with haters. Yes, haters come with this career. Beating yourself with a hammer is feeding into their nonsense trolling. A feather tells you to take them with a grain of salt and thank them for watching.

So what I tell everyone is in your process take your time. When you are meant to be ready you will be. Beat yourself with a feather, not with a hammer.

Love
April
I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
www.buybooksontheweb.com-paperback
Available as a Kindle and Nook ebook
Portion of proceeds go to RAINN

Welinda Irwin and the Worms

It was April/May like it is now. I remember I was thirteen, the shy, awkward years I want to forget. Of course it was art class. Our teacher was a woman, Welinda Irwin. A graduate of Hood College, a prestigious school for women in Maryland, she viewed herself as sort of smarter than many of the art teachers who had gone to IUP and Cal, both teacher’s college’s in Pennsylvania. Welinda was sort of a scary character in the eyes of children. She wasn’t Miss Nelson but more or less Miss Viola Swamp.

Mrs. Irwin had dishwater blonde hair with a sort of green tint. It was not the typical beauty shop dye job or number seven in some hair product, but more or less that she had crawled out of the creek behind the high school where students went for cray fish. Her skin was leathery and wrinkled, and her glasses, crooked, were always pushed to the edge of her nose. The clothes she wore were frumpy, looking like they had been stolen from a corpse she had probably killed for dinner, shaken out, and stuck on her person. Her eye makeup, a nightmare, was drawn on as if Stevie Wonder had done the honors. As for the lipstick, I have seen drag queens on crystal meth make a straighter line.

One thing about Mrs. Irwin was that she was passionate about her pottery and her kiln. My brother used to tell me she cooked students in there, or he swore she did. The two were seemingly mortal enemies. When drawing his cartoons, a form of therapy, my brother drew her twice and cast her in the role of witch. Upon getting my brother’s report card and seeing a C my brother explained his case. My mother sighed. It was seventh grade. There was no class rank…..yet.

My first encounter with the witch of Independence Middle School was when I was walking to Home Ec late. I had heard stories about her, and some of the kids even swore she turned students into toads. “Get to class!” She yelled.

I sauntered there, the latest note my best friend Erica had written in my hand. It was scoop about Justine, our friend who was quite the slut. Yes, Justine who messed around with upperclassman boys. Why would we say any of this to Justine’s face? The gossip behind her back was so much more fulfilling.

So I went to the bathroom, figuring I was late. Why not?

When I got out of the bathroom I remember being two steps away from the Home Ec room when Welinda Irwin popped out. “I told you to get to class.” She snapped.

“I am two steps away.” I informed her pointing to the door.

Welinda was not accepting that. On the war path she countered, “When a teacher gives you an order you take it.”

I nodded. “What’s your name?” She asked.

“April Brucker.” I said honestly.

Welinda nodded. “I had your brother for class. We didn’t get along. Hopefully you will be better when I get you next semester.” She hissed.

When I got home I told my brother about the encounter and he told me to laugh it off. My brother assured me to laugh Middle School in general off. I hated the whole place, the social ladder. I dreamed of leaving the whole mess and doing big things with myself. Gone would be the scorn of the all too popular girls. Gone would be the scorn of the all too popular guys. Little did I know I was about to make a friend though.

The next semester I got Welinda Irwin for class. The first week she proved to be a hot mess. She made one of the popular girls cry, which I sort of liked because this girl was mean to me. Then she failed some guys that asked me out as a joke because they were goofing off. In between there she went on tangents in between the lesson, muttering, about her husband who was out of work and her children whom were “ungrateful wastes.”

Our second week of class we began a pottery project. Mrs. Irwin was telling us how to make a coil. “As a visual, just picture the worms you see this time of year. They come out in the rain. Unfortunately when the rain dries and the sun comes up, it bakes the worms and they die.” She explained coldly. “So think of those dead worms when you need a visual.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. “That’s disgusting.” I whispered to my friend Erica. “And disturbing.”

“Yeah.” Erica said. We were both standing in the back of the room. As two misfits, we were experts in not participating and making sure our voices never carried.

“But they do April!” Welinda Irwin shouted. The class turned and looked at me. I turned white with terror. How had she heard me?

I asked Erica this question as we left class. Dressed in black with too much makeup, much like me, she said, “April, she’s a witch. How else?”

“Yeah, a total witch.” Diana Hermann said. She was a popular girl but I liked her. The three of us nodded.

“I think she levitates.” I said.

“I think her head spins around.” Trevor Green informed us running up to us. While Trevor was usually mean to me, most everyone had taken sympathy on me during worm gate.

I was pretty much quiet for the rest of the semester seeing that Welinda Irwin had supersonic hearing. The class itself was interesting, especially since she knew so much about Frick and Carnegie and the architecture surrounding their homes. However, the instructor scared the living crap out of me. I remember doing my pottery project with little to no drama. Some of my classmates had meltdowns when she yelled. Others had their parents complain to the principal. I knew it was useless, she had voodoo dolls of all of us. The best thing to do was to stay on her good side.

One girl, Jennika Gray, the pretty kid in all the commercials, complained about how the dust was staining her clothes. I really didn’t like Jennika. To me, she was just a stick in the mud who thought she was Marilyn Monroe when really she was closer to trashy ten cent hooker by the bus station. “I don’t understand why I have to do this. I am going to be a famous film star.” She exerted.

“It’s class. Everyone has to do it.” I informed Miss Attitude.

“Well rejects like you do. Face it April, you are ugly, guys ask you out as a joke. You can afford to get dirty.” She sneered.

As I was about to cap the skank Welinda appeared. “You have the depth of a baby pool. I wouldn’t want to see what you do on any stage or screen.” She said flatly. “Art is art, and those who can’t appreciate it have no place in any of it’s facets.”

My jaw hung open. Welinda gave me a knowing smile. Jennika, crushed, ran into the bathroom with her blonde curls bouncing behind her. She cried her eyes out, and I didn’t feel bad. Actually, I felt good.

“Your house looks good. Get back to work.” Welinda said and then left.

Towards the end of the semester, there was a chance to do an extra credit project. It was on our favorite piece of Pittsburgh art. Being a teacher’s kid, I have always jumped on an extra credit project. So I did it. I remember dropping it off, gingerly going into Welinda’s room. She wasn’t there. Thank God. “You need help April?” She said.

I turned around spooked. How had she appeared out of no where? It was like Lo Pan in Big Trouble In Little China.

I nodded. “My report.” I said.

Welinda looked at it. She said nothing for a minute. It was an odd minute. Then she informed me, “Well good for you. You were the only one to do it.”

I stared blankly. “You have a great mind on you. You need to focus it more and need to hang out less with those idiots Erica and Justine, but you have a good mind and you can do a lot with it. Just continue to be yourself and don’t let those morons tell you otherwise.”

A smile came over my face. This lady had been the witch of the Middle School. Children ran in fear of her. We all believed she perhaps flew on a broomstick. Now here she was this villainous, the one the children feared, being a friend to me. I thanked her and left her room, happy that I had an ally. Perhaps she had been a misfit and still was. That is why we spoke the same language.

Years later, when I was the Wicked Witch in the production of the Wizard of Oz, she made my costume. Welinda had told one of the high school sponsors what a good kid I was when she had me for class, and how she was glad I was finally finding my way, my niche if you will.

These days when spring comes, I think of my seventh grade self,gawky in her stride. I laugh when I think of all the boys that asked me out as a joke either working at the mall kiosk or pumping my gas, and now writing to me trying to make overtures for real now that my face has been on television. I think of the popular girls determined to make my life hell, but now determined to tell everyone they know me. Jennika Gray, I believe, even went so far as to go on to an online message board to bad mouth me. Of course, she was shot down making herself look like the obvious hometown harpie.

I also think of dead worms, my coil visual if I ever want to do a pottery project.

More so, I think of Welinda Irwin. Yes, she probably flew on a broomstick and was a witch. But she was my witch, and if you make fun of her broomstick I will turn you into a toad myself.

Love,

April