Pricey C

priceyc:

Show 22 – 6 July It’s the final show. I’ve both longed for this day and desperately wished it would never come. Deep down I don’t ever want the show to end. It sounds trite, and maybe months down the line I’ll be able to reassess my feelings with more clarity, but in my current state of mind I feel as though it has been one of the most profound experiences of my life. It’s like I’ve rediscovered theatre. It had almost started to become a bit mundane, over-exposure (both on and off stage) had lessened the magic. I could see the mistakes, I was hyper-critical of slow scene changes or word stumbles, it was becoming rare for me to leave a production and rave about it. It had to do something different – Black Watch, Curious Incident, London Road – for me to truly love it. Now there’s a whole new aspect to theatre – in Punchdrunk’s world I can actually become part of the dream, and, yes, immerse myself. And it’s got me excited again. I want to try new things that I would never have been brave enough to try before. And it’s awoken a love of contemporary dance – to the extent that a perfectly executed move will make me actually cry.

The end of The Drowned Man feels like the break-up of a relationship – admittedly a slightly difficult relationship where after every date I’d feel on a massive high but then when TDM didn’t call or reply to my emails, I’d be left bereft. I would read people’s Facebook updates about amazing evenings and feel even worse. I was definitely the needy one in the relationship.

In many ways I have been looking forward to it finishing for a while. This constant up and down of emotions has been at times exhausting. And I have spent so much money. I don’t want to even think how much money. And I don’t resent it. I can’t think of a theatre company that better deserves my cash. But I’ve also got to the stage now where I don’t need a constant fix. Where I can wander the Studios feeling a bit lost, unsure of what to do because I’ve pretty much done it all already. Where a two-month break had become a good thing because I could go back and rediscover it as if for the first time – with different actors, new little scenes.

So yes, maybe it’s time. But it’s hard to let go.

And I worry that this final show could be utterly miserable. If I place too many expectations on it, will I end up sobbing quietly (possibly even loudly) in a corner somewhere because nothing goes how I want it? Will I hate every other white mask in there just because they’re getting all the experiences and I’m not? But then, if I don’t go, will I be sitting miserably on a sofa in Tooting, wishing desperately that I was in Paddington? I don’t really have any choice in the matter.

On the day, the queuing starts very early. When I arrive at the local pub at about 1.45, there are already people queuing back to the exec entrance. By all accounts the queue has a bit of a party atmosphere, which is lovely, but I don’t need to be in the first lift tonight. A group of us have decided that we’re not going till 5. This isn’t an easy decision. We have always been the ones to arrive an hour early and be the only people queuing for at least half an hour. But things have changed, and so we hang around in the pub till 5, determined not to leave too early. I’m trying very hard to have no expectations for the show – this is about saying goodbye to the space, not about following three loops. It doesn’t matter if I don’t get in until loop two.

It’s tough but we hold out. And when we arrive at about 5pm, the doors are open but the queue is still stretching back around the corner. But it’s a great start to the evening as waiting in line with us is the incredibly lovely James Sobol Kelly – still my favourite Harry – who has a ticket to pick up and wants the full lift experience, but doesn’t want to push in.

After dumping our bags we register that there is no cast board. It’s exciting, but it does feel odd going in with no idea, apart from the usual photos in the lifts.

My only real plan is to say goodbye to the space. So I leave Larry’s lift one last time in the basement. And without even thinking I head straight for the PA’s office. As I get there I suddenly register that this was in fact the very first thing that I did on my very first show – when I came across a glamorous, leopard-print-dressed, red-bobbed PA (Fania Grigoriou as it turned out) – so tonight I’ve come full circle. There’s no PA to be found this evening though. I visit every space in the basement – often completely alone, no white masks or performers – and let the darkness, the music and the smells wash over me, running my hands along the wall and making a point of entering every room. I don’t feel moved to tears down here, but the spaces hold a lot of memories.

I come across BadlyDrawnDrownedMan in the foley room and wave. Without words we step onto the wooden sleepers that hold the various sound-making materials, and in sync step down into a space each, crunching, crackling our way around the noises. We leave our separate ways. I even make it into the drafting room, when a group leave and hold the door open to the models section. I wonder if it’s open to all today, but I poke my head around the corner and spot Mia Mountain’s Phoebe in there and duck out again, feeling guilty for trespassing. I don’t see a single character besides Phoebe, although I do pass a white-masked James Sobol Kelly, saying his own goodbyes to the space.

My final room before I head upstairs is the sunflower room. I close the door, breathe deeply, and realise I’ll never see the basement again.

Now for the ground floor. First stop is the finale stage and I see that Pascale Burgess’ Alice Estee is giving the grocer his script. I head over, hoping against hope that it’s Jesse Kovarsky, as the lovely James Finnemore is playing Marshall. When I realise it’s Monsur the sadness suddenly hits me right in the guts and I crumple a little bit, thinking I’ll never see Jesse perform in Temple Studios again. I struggle to control the tears as I head back in to wander around every ground floor space. I end up in Conrad’s dressing room.

I poke around briefly before I realise that it’s probably time for the 1:1 and I don’t want to be hidden in there when he comes in. But as I’m leaving the cage Adam Burton comes in with four white masks and locks the door behind him. Something is different here. He comes to each of us in turn and removes our masks, saying he knows who we are and why we’re here. Ironically he does know who at least a couple of us are – quite possibly all of us. He looks around each in turn and selects just one – Frances Koncan – to take into the cage for the full experience. It’s fascinating to watch a 1:1 taking place. We can’t hear everything he whispers but it’s an insight into what actually happened when we’d had the 1:1 ourselves, and how easy it is to be starstruck/awestruck when it’s you in the spotlight.

Feeling a bit happier, I head back to the finale stage, ready to go upstairs for a short while before I hit Studio 3 to drink away the sadness. And I almost bump into Paul Zivkovich’s Fool. PAUL. ZIVKOVICH. FOOL. I knew he was back for a visit, but assumed he’d be in the audience. I am incredibly excited to see him as I never got to say a final goodbye, even from behind my mask. It very nearly makes up for the fact that Jesse isn’t on, and I’m so pleased to be able to watch his snow scene again with Marshall. His William was my first show crush and it’s endured. I still love everything about him – his beautiful dancing, the way he moves across the stage, the way his eyes always look on the verge of tears, the way he is so incredibly, perfectly expressive.

I stick with him for the scene in the birthday tent, where, after Kath Duggan’s Lila leaves, he gets his sellotape in a tangle and can’t make the final line stick to the paper. We’re all a bit giggly and he’s clearly struggling to keep a straight face himself. On his way out he pulls the tablecloth (it’s unclear whether this is intentional or not), knocking over the glasses he’s just stacked, and gets someone to restack them. She does as she’s told, and then he knocks them over again, this time definitely on purpose, a cheeky glint in his eyes.

Not even pretending to read his map, he leads us down to the foley room. So I guess I am going back to the basement after all. The room is so packed it’s impossible to see much, but I catch little moments between people’s heads. As he makes his way out, I wait in the corridor and spot Emily Mytton’s Alice Estee loudly leaving the ante-room. Wait a minute – it was Pascale in the tent earlier. Something is going on here.

It starts to make sense when, after the script is dropped off in the ante-room, we come across Ira Siobhan’s Claude working those incredible spikey, bendy Claude moves with ANOTHER Claude Estee in a white mask. I recognise Omar Gordon behind the mask just as he takes it off and puts it on Ira, and Omar then struts off as Claude. When we reach Stanford’s dressing room there are two Frankies standing there, mid-kiss, and Daniel Whiley passes his mask over to Conor Doyle and heads to the party. Paul’s Fool then sits down at the dressing room table just as another masked Fool (Alistair Goldsmith) comes in. Paul hands over his jacket, drops his case, they each take a drink from the flask, and Paul heads off still dressed as the Fool but now masked. I’d wanted to see his snow dance so am slightly sad, but does this mean what I hope it means?

I leave Paul being trailed by a large group of masks and head to the orgy. Peeking over the heads of the huge crowd… yes! Jesse is now Marshall (currently being stripped on stage). I well up again with relief. And this also means that Leslie Kraus is Wendy, which makes me incredibly happy. Clearly I had more expectations about this show than I’d let myself believe.

I follow her and Lily Ockwell’s Andrea (now swapped with Fania, who is suddenly the PA) up the stairs, and watch the murder leaning against a tree, trying to control the sobs. I decide to wait for Marshall rather than following Wendy upstairs so I sit myself down on the stairs, practically alone in the vast, empty space and have a bit of a weep. It suddenly hits me that now I’m at the final loop, everything from this point onwards will never be repeated again. It’s a tough concept to come to terms with. I’m not sure I have yet.

I stick with Marshall for the first part of his loop, unable to stop crying every time he dances, and watching the birthday tent from the stairs so I can see Andrea dance her bit. I laugh and cry through the fun, uplifting snow dance again and stick with him up to his and Wendy’s caravan dance – which I’ve only ever seen once before, watching it shoulder to shoulder with a masked Hector Harkness, trying not to shudder or sniff too much as I cry.

But I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to follow characters tonight, so it’s time to leave him as he heads to his bedroom scene with Dolores. I run upstairs in time to catch Greig Cooke’s William tree dance, followed up by Sonya Cullingford’s Faye caravan dance – an abiding memory from my first show, in which Sonya’s Faye was the first character I actually followed.

As TJ Lowe’s Andy arrives to dance with her, I suddenly realise I need to head to the Horse & Stars now. When I get in there, it’s already starting to fill up, even though not much is going on, but I get a prime spot on the blocks opposite the bar, surrounded by friends, and it’s not long before Andy comes in for his 24 hours dance, which I was so sad not to see a few shows ago.

And then it’s the hoedown. The last ever hoedown. I’ve written before how this has become my favourite scene in the whole show, and it feels incredibly important that I’m there for the very last one. I’m so overwhelmed that I completely fail to notice that Badlands Jack is back. It all just feels right. As soon as the opening music kicks in, the white-masked crowd starts to clap in time, and then it’s Nick Cave and we’re all whooping and clapping and stamping in time. I wonder how this must feel for the cast to feel the warmth and love of the crowds around them. It must be a struggle to stay in character. As they flop to the floor and William leaps for the chandelier structure, the crowd erupts in applause and cheers.

I’m so delighted to see that Anna Finkel is back for one night as Drugstore Girl, so I follow her out to the drugstore for a short time. But I want to finish my show with Faye singing ‘Walking in the Sand’. It’s such a sad moment but it feels right to be there with her. Felix Barrett has clearly had the same idea and I follow him through the saddlery, and sit down at a table just before Faye staggers in to get her drink from Nico’s barman, and sings her song, crying real tears no doubt.

I follow Faye and Harry down for the finale, not looking for a walk-down or a walk-out. Trying to keep my expectations as low as possible for the finale. I make a point of placing myself a few people back just so I know I can’t be picked. And the finale is happy and sad all at the same time.

The second-half William and Wendy dance as usual until they get to the moment by the pools. And suddenly there are the other Wendy and Marshall on my side, and presumably the other William and Mary on the other side. And Stanford is walking forward, acknowledging all of them. Holding a gun. This is the final ever moment of the show. The very last moment of drama. As he puts the gun to his eye and shoots, there is a bright flash and bang, and the crowds erupt in applause so loud that we all miss the final voiceover. But no matter. We’re flinging roses onto the stage, and the cast are coming back on for a bow, and many of them are sobbing right along with us. We all get to our feet for a standing ovation – we can’t not stand for them. It’s their first and last bow.

The cast get Felix and Maxine up from the crowd and raise them over their heads and everyone storms the stage. There are walk-outs of a sort, but we’re all leaving together and everyone, cast and audience, mingled together, end up in Studio 3, tearful but joyful too.

It’s the perfect way to say goodbye to my favourites among the cast. I know I shouldn’t have favourites, but I do. I can’t help it. Those people who I only needed the briefest glimpse of – a dance on a roof, a shake of a moustache, a clamber in the trees, an incredible back bend, a velcroed red dress, a stamp on the bar – to make me feel happy.

Thank goodness I have the Monday off to recover from our audience wrap party in Studio 9, although the lack of sleep and alcohol are not the only things I need to recover from. One day is not enough to recover from this show. It could be a long, slow recovery. One day – maybe – these thoughts will be distant memories and not a part of me as they are now. One day I may be able to listen to the music and not start crying, or remember a particular moment or 1:1 without feeling as if I’m back there, or walk down a dark corridor and not picture myself in the basement, or smell certain smells and imagine I’m in the doctor’s room or dust witch’s chapel, or drink whiskey without being back in Studio 3. One day.

To:

Dwayne Shoop

Trailer 1

Park Royal

Encino

LA. 91316

13th September ‘62

Dear Dwayne,

Forgive me the impertinence of writing to you, but ever since the moment our eyes met across the cold meats plate in the canteen on Tuesday, your dazzling eyes have burnt a hole into my heart that I just can’t fill…

I’m sure you won’t remember me…of course you won’t, every sane woman in the Northern hemisphere goes simply weak at the knees when she sees you, I’m sure of it… but if you do (I played cheerleader number 3) perhaps you will write back? I have seen all of your films at least a dozen times each and I think you’re the most handsome cowboy a girl could ask for. Just the thought of you flinging me up unto your noble steed and riding side-saddle into the sunset makes my stomach feel as though it’s doing backflips. But I digress.

P.T.O

All I wanted to tell you is that even if you never find the time to reply, the memory of our moment together in the canteen has been scorched into my memory with a white-hot branding iron from now until forever.

But if you do want to see me again (Please Lord!) I will be waiting outside the Lot tomorrow night and forever or until filming comes to an end.

Yours, from now until eternity,

Dolores

Crowley & Aziraphale’s New Year’s Wishes

From http://www.harpercollins.com/author/AuthorExtra.aspx?displayType=essay&authorID=3417

Crowley: 

Resolution #1: I must accept that Super-Gluing valuable coins to the sidewalk and then watching events from a nearby café is not proper demonic activity.

Resolution #2: The same applies to rearranging the letters on wayside pulpits.

Resolution #3: Try to come up with something as good as cell phone ringtones, following one last stab at convincing Downstairs that cell phone ringtones are right up there in the whole Human Misery stakes. And iPods. Has anybody Down There even said thank you for iPods? Or “Googling yourself?” Frankly, I deserve some kind of award for “Googling yourself.”

Resolution #4: I must encourage greedy people to use the term, “Low-hanging fruit,” because that’s just like old times.

Resolution #5: This year, I will get a desk near the window.

Resolution #6: I will try to understand why Hell is a no-smoking area. I just think it’s ridiculous having to stand around outside the gates, that’s all.

Resolution #7: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design, because it upsets everyone.

Resolution #8: Stop Googling myself.

Aziraphale:

Resolution #1: Spread peace and love and glad tidings of great joy throughout the world. Also try to get out more.

Resolution #2: I will be charitable to people who use the term “core values,” however difficult this may be.

Resolution #3: Notwithstanding Resolution #2 (above), I will redouble my efforts to have the utterance of the phrase “core values” classified as a deadly sin. I believe Himself is with me on this one.

Resolution #4: I will try to be nicer to the customers. They want to buy books; I want to sell them. It can’t be that hard. (Memo to self: Regular opening hours? Mark prices on books?)

Resolution #5: I will try to be polite to Gabriel, no matter what the provocation.

Resolution #6: Find out exactly what an “Internet” is.

Resolution #7: Really must resume dancing lessons. Learn the “Galloping Major,” the “Gay Gordons,” the “Mashed Potatoes.” Possibly even the “Twist”?

Resolution #8: Thwart Infernal Wiles (ongoing).

Resolution #9: I will try to understand why Heaven is a non-smoking area.

Resolution #10: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design – despite the fact that the human airway crosses the digestive tract. Who thought that was intelligent?

Resolution #11: Feed the ducks.

…

(Thinks. Goes and finds the original email chain. It’s from December 2005.)

Ah. Terry wrote 4 Crowleys and 2 Aziraphales. Then I wrote 2 Crowleys and 6 Aziraphales. Then Terry added another 2 Crowleys and another 3 Aziraphales,  including one I would have sworn was mine. 

So now I know.

If anyone can correctly identify whose are whose (and I’ve done a fair bit of the work for you in the numbers above) post it here, and if I notice a correct one, I’ll find something fun and Good Omens related from the edit suite to send you.

(This is definitely not the sort of official contest that needs rules and stuff. It’s not the kind of thing you can “win” by picking every combination and posting it, because I’m going to be checking the replies to this, and that’s just going to irritate me. It’s more of a vague curiosity stop.) 

It’s been four years since Punchdrunk’s last original, full-scale production, The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable, closed. Four years since Temple Studios shut its gates for good. Until a week ago, as a former superfan, I honestly never thought I would write about Punchdrunk or their work again. Perhaps “former” is inaccurate, as I am obviously still very affected by their previous work, both Sleep No More and The Drowned Man. And maybe I’m a little bit embarrassed about that. But I don’t really want to write about Sleep No More or even Punchdrunk as a company. I want to write about The Drowned Man. I want to write about what Temple Studios meant to me.

I’ve recently been doing a lot of reflecting on the art and performances I’ve seen that have mattered the most to me, have had the greatest impact on my own creative expression, and that I keep coming back to, year after year. Late June was the last time I saw TDM, so this is the time of year my memories of the show are most likely to resurface. For whatever reason, this year I’m not able to let the memories pass by, I keep diving deeper into them. I’ve been re-reading several amazing, old show write-ups by other people on Tumblr, listening to playlists of the soundtrack, and have even begun re-reading Day of the Locust. It’s almost exactly four years later, but it feels like it happened yesterday.

I saw TDM a grand total of ten times: three times during previews in July 2013, and seven more the week before the show closed in the summer of 2014. I saw it in its infancy and again in its full glory, just before the end (some people will disagree that the show was at its best at the end of the run, but I have nothing for comparison aside from previews). Some hardcore TDM fans saw the show fewer times, and others saw it many more. Ten shows was not enough to see everything, not enough to follow every character’s loop, not enough to see every scene, explore every room. It wasn’t enough to really feel like I knew the show inside and out. Maybe I’ll always be disappointed that I didn’t follow Romola’s loop, or Lila’s, or the PA’s. It’s not like I can return to the Studios at any time and revisit the characters I missed (SNM superfans are lucky in that they can go back any time they choose, and regardless of new casting or even a few added characters, it’s still the same show). TDM’s doors and pathways are shut forever. The tragedy of The Drowned Man is that, as sublime as it was, there is no hope for it to return and run and run and run for years. But I know with total certainty that is, in essence, what a Punchdrunk show should be – ephemeral, not eternal. Their work exists best as a memory of something that happened to you, a long time ago. Or like a memory of a dream, where some details remain vivid, while others fade into little more than ghostly impressions of places and people that might have been.

Four years later, and I am still haunted by The Drowned Man.

I was interested to read in the Sunday Times this weekend of the move by Andrew Halls, Head of King’s College School Wimbledon, to veto certain books from his school library.  In a well-intentioned bid to generate better reading habits, Halls has jettisoned popular modern texts such as ‘Skulduggery Pleasant’ and ‘Eragon’ and sought to promote more ‘worthy’ novels such as ‘Goodnight Mister Tom’ or classics like ‘Moonfleet’ and ‘Just William.’

I have to say, much as I like and admire Andrew Halls and respect all the good he has done at KCS, I do disagree with this move.  Not only does the idea of dictating any type of reading matter to anyone in any circumstances feel rather uncomfortable, but, even if you dodge the censorship bullet, I don’t actually think his plan is going to work.  No doubt parents choosing schools will remember with fondness books from their own school days over those written since they grew up – a kind of nostalgia trap into which teachers can fall too.  And some will be impressed by the scholarly aspect a public move such as this will lend to an institution.  However, I’d be surprised if many 11 year olds would feel the same way.

Personally, I have come at modern children’s literature from a different angle.  And I love it.  Over a period of 20 years of teaching English, I have moved from telling children what they should read, to asking them what they enjoy reading.  I have learnt over time that this is more productive in a number of ways.  Firstly, reading should be enjoyable.  Once it becomes a chore, you have lost.  Secondly, if you can find out what they enjoy, you can guide them to the next level more naturally.  If they love Percy Jackson, for example, then Homer is an obvious next step.  ‘Eragon’ slips into Tolkien, ‘Twilight’ into Austen.  But my final reason for asking them what they enjoy is now totally selfish but also totally sincere; I might want to read it too.

Learning is not a one way street.  Yes, it is a major part of my role to recommend books to young people but I have also benefitted enormously from having them recommend things to me.  Without my pupils, I would not have come across ‘A Monster Calls’ by Patrick Ness (heart-wrenching reality meets psychological fantasy) or ‘Maggot Moon’ by Sally Gardner (dystopian political conspiracy thriller) or anything by Marcus Sedgwick.  The latter in particular is guilty of all the YA tricks Andrew Halls might be wishing to eschew – vampires, witches and page-turning plots.  But he also has a way with timelines and character development that places him right at the top of my favourite living authors.  I would challenge any adult reading this to go to ‘Midwinter Blood’ or ‘The Ghosts of Heaven’ and not get something from those texts.

In particular, without the encouragement of my pupils, I would point blank have refused to read ‘The Hunger Games’ by Suzanne Collins.  In my adult brain, I had dismissed the latter as a cheap copy of the Japanese cult movie, ‘Battle Royale’, until I was pushed into reading it by pupils at my last school.  I soon learnt that it has more to do with Roman Culture and modern politics than I could ever have imagined; ‘bread and circuses’ seems especially resonant right now.  I have also used Katniss Everdeen time and again as a shining example of a powerful young woman when speaking in assemblies or class discussions.  I used to hold her up as a contrast to Bella Swan, the swooning protagonist of ‘Twilight’ (and I do confess to not liking those novels – although that’s not the same as telling people that they can’t read them). However, I myself was pulled up by the wonderful Juno Dawson, another Young Adult author.  She came to talk about gender at JAGS and described Katniss as a typical version of a young woman behaving like a man in order to lead.  Why shouldn’t Bella choose to be a wife and mother if that’s what she wants?  And surely debate and discussion of this nature is at the heart of the study of literature.  Nothing is totally ‘bad’ just as nothing is totally ‘good’. If we are talking about books, we are winning.

When I was a child, I used to love ‘The Famous Five’ and ‘The Faraway Tree.’  A teacher at my primary school once told my mum that Enid Blyton would shrink my brain as her vocabulary was so limited.  My mum cheerfully ignored her advice and, two masters degrees in literature later, you could either say that she was right to do so or side with the teacher as I am still, patently, reading kids’ books for pleasure now!

Personally, I think we are living in a golden age of children’s and teen fiction.  Sadly, too many of those who want to condemn it have never actually read it.  And, if you haven’t read something, why should you tell a child it’s no good for them?  If you have read something,  then why was it ok for you to sample it first hand and not for them?  Not long ago, I enjoyed a Twitter debate on the merit of David Walliams’ work, ‘Gangsta Granny’.  Some on-line worthy was dismissing it as a silly and pointless novel.  Now, if any of you have read ‘Gangsta Granny’ to the end, you would know that this was far from the case.

As far as children’s reading is concerned, I would conclude with a summary which fits with much of our handling of the younger generation.  Don’t seek to dictate –  take the time to understand.

So…people started receiving ARCs for Will Hill’s stunning AFTER THE FIRE last week. You know the one. It’s that book that Usborne YA’s very own Maggie Harcourt calls “powerful and beautiful”.

It’s the book that Queen of Teen, Maureen Johnson, says “will keep you up late until you get to the very end”.

And that Amy Alward, YA author and Zoe Suggs’ editor, thinks is a “masterclass in suspense”. 

And that Juno Dawson remembers as “a gripping story of survival with a big heart”.

THAT book.

Yep, ARCs are out there in the world, and being read by people! Squuueeeee!

People like Sin Eater’s Daughter-YA-author-extraordinaire, Melinda Salisbury….

Top YA book bloggers such as Ryan from Empire of Books:

And uber-cool Pornkitsch editor, @straycarnivore

In fact, so many people were talking about AFTER THE FIRE, it started trending on twitter in London.

Pretty impressive, eh?

So we at Shelfies were wondering…would YOU like a proof copy?

Because we have THREE to giveaway.

All you need to do is REBLOG from tumblr, or TWEET, using #AfterTheFire and tell us why YOU want to read Will Hill’s “magnificent, beautiful, horrible, wonderful” novel about the people we trust, the lies we believe, and the strength we find to survive.

You have until midnight on Sunday 19th March, London time; the winner will be notified on Monday 20th March. 

Sonita Alizadeh’s family first considered selling her into marriage when she was just 10 years old. At 16, they said they had found her a husband, but she found a way to escape.

She wrote “Brides for Sale”, a rap tackling the issue of daughters being sold into marriages by their family and created a video showing her in a bridal dress with a barcode on her forehead. She raps: “Let me whisper, so no one hears that I speak of selling girls. My voice shouldn’t be heard since it’s against Sharia.”

Her family agreed she did not have to get married. She now lives in America, and is still writing songs.

Berta Cáceres was a Honduran indigenous and environmental rights campaigner whose high-profile campaigns against dams, illegal loggers and plantation owners were met with threats of murder and sexual violence. Last week she was murdered, days after she was threatened for opposing a hydroelectric project.

In an interview in 2013, she said: “I cannot live in peace, I am always thinking about being killed or kidnapped. But I refuse to go into exile. I am a human rights fighter and I will not give up this fight.”

Greek lawyer Christina Dimakou left her life and career in Athens to become a guardian to some of the thousands of unaccompanied child refugees who have landed on the Greek island of Lesbos in the last year.  

“I cannot save the world or make everything better,” Dimakou said in an interview, “but I can affect the things around me. If everyone does this then the world becomes better. And we become better.”

Harnaam Kaur has polycystic ovarian syndrome, which can cause excessive hair growth. When she was 11, her beard started growing. Initially, she did everything she could to remove it. At 16, after being baptised as a Sikh, she decided to accept her facial hair. Now, she has modelled for bridal sites, a project celebrating beards and became the first bearded woman to walk in a jewellery designer’s fashion show.

Ellen Murray is standing for election in West Belfast, one of Ireland’s most contentious constituencies, once represented by Sinn Féin leader Gerry Adams. At just 22 years of age, she is making Irish electoral history by being the first trans person to run in a Northern Irish election.

Her pledge? To fight “continued homophobia blighting local politics”.

Three women founded #BlackLivesMatter, an international movement campaigning against violence toward black people. Alicia Garza was among the many who were in shock over the acquittal of George Zimmerman, the man who shot dead 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. 

She wrote an impassioned message on Facebook, ending with: “Black people. I love you. I love us. Our lives matter.” Her friend Patrisse Cullors replied with #BlackLivesMatter. Opal Tometi added her support and the three began setting up Tumblr and Twitter accounts encouraging users to share stories of why #BlackLivesMatter. A movement was born and continues to campaign, online and offline, today.

Jennifer Doudna and Emmanuelle Charpentier’s work on CRISPR-Cas9 genome editing could enable use to genetically modify almost anything. In theory, the technique could be used to alter any human gene. Their work has an impact on several areas of life: from genetic medicine to the development of new crops and bio-products. Given future challenges facing life on earth, this holds revolutionary promise for disease control and ecology. 

My friend called Ford and asked him how much he was asking for the work. Ford told him doing that kind of thing helped him relax and stay sane when he was filming. Would not take a dime. Plus he paid for a new water heater and got the sewage system cleaned out.

“The Millennium Falcon was the first thing we were actually building. I had been in London and I came home back to L.A. for Christmas. So I go to Sports Chalet to do some last-minute shopping; I get there early, run to the back of the store, get what I need. I’m coming back through the store, and I just happen to pass this person holding up a pair of ski pants, and it’s Harrison Ford. I look at him, he looks at me and puts his head right down. I can tell he doesn’t want to be bothered; I’m sure from the look on my face he knew I knew who he was. 

So I walk past him, and after about 10 feet I think, ‘If there’s ever a time to say hello to Harrison Ford, I’m building the Millennium Falcon!’ So I turn around very hesitantly and go, ‘Harrison, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m co-production designer on the new Star Wars, I’m just back from London, and I’ve been building the Falcon.’ A big smile came across his face, he put his hand out, and we had such a great conversation — he couldn’t have been sweeter. 

As I’m walking away, he goes, ‘Darren!’ and calls me back. He goes, ‘The toggle switches.’ I go, ‘Toggle switches.’ He goes, ‘The toggle switches on the Falcon. When they built it the first time, they bought cheap toggle switches without any springs in them. Every time I threw a toggle switch, it fell back; it wouldn’t hold. It drove me crazy. Please, make sure the toggle switches are fixed this time.’ I go, ‘No problem! I’ll take care of it!’ 

So months go by, I’m back in London, we’re getting close [to principal photography], and I get a phone call saying J.J.’s headed down to check out the cockpit, and Harrison’s with him. I run down there and I see J.J. in the passenger seat and Harrison in the pilot seat. They’re just giddy; they’re having so much fun. And then I see Harrison look up, and he just starts throwing all the toggle switches: boom, boom, boom, boom. [Laughs.] And I remember thinking, ‘Phew, minor victory. Take solace in that and move on. Next task.’ That’s my favorite story.”

Warren and Tyagi demonstrated that buying common luxury items wasn’t the issue for most Americans. The problem was the fixed costs, the things that are difficult to cut back on. Housing, health care, and education cost the average family 75 percent of their discretionary income in the 2000s. The comparable figure in 1973: 50 percent. Indeed, studies demonstrate that the quickest way to land in bankruptcy court was not by buying the latest Apple computer but through medical expenses, job loss, foreclosure, and divorce.

He was in a college course for learning financial stuff, like how to invest wisely and shit like that because he was working for the local library system in their accounting department and had to be able to advise employees on how best to use the new investment options the library was offering.

So, the professor tells the class that they should ALWAYS be saving at least $25 per paycheck into a savings account even when it’s hard because that is the only way to get into the habit of saving and also the quickest way to having emergency cash, but it was better to do at least $50.

Not terrible advice, certainly, but… My friend said there was no way he could do that. The professor scoffed at him about high dollar luxuries like coffee shop drinks or name brand food or clothes or a computer or using the bus instead of a car.

Now, my friend did not own a car; he bike rode everywhere. His wife used the bus. Both he and his wife worked. He did not buy name brand food; he got cheap store brand food in bulk and only bought what he already knew would be used in his meal calendar planned for two months at a time. He brewed his own coffee at home. He kept his electricity usage to a minimum and taught his wife and children to do the same. His kids weren’t indulged with sweets or many toys. They didn’t buy candy or hobby items. They got the free local TV channels which they honestly only used to track weather on a salvaged TV they got from a friend. They only got new clothing when their kids grew out of the old or something of theirs was too worn to patch or repair and always from thrift shops. All their furniture was secondhand and usually picked cheap from garage sales. They made the agonizing decision to purchase a home instead of renting because the net savings over all were justifiable because the house payments were cheaper than renting. They budgeted for a total of ten dollars to be put in the savings account per month, not per paycheck.

My friend and his wife planned their expenditures down to the cent at least two months in advance to make sure they could make it. They constantly researched to find the absolute best value of every item they bought. Thankfully, my friend had the analytical mind for that kind of planning. No purchase ever went unremarked upon or without heavy consideration, no matter how small. They spent wisely and stretched every dollar as far as it could go.

My friend brought in a hand written copy of his budget (because he didn’t have a computer or printer and paper was an expense he built into the budget so he could do the planning) and showed it to the professor the next day in front of the class and asked, “Where do I squeeze out $25 per paycheck?”

The professor hemmed and hawed as he went through the budget. He kept starting to say something on one line or another and then would stop himself and go to the next. Sometimes he would say shit things like “where is your gas column?” “We don’t own a car.” He spent about twenty minutes staring at my friend’s carefully planned and managed budget and could not see a single place where it could be improved.

“I guess you can’t,” the professor said and was apparently so bitter about being wrong that my friend had to keep from laughing at him even though the entire experience had soured him something awful.

We need more stories like this to be revealed. These “Hidden Figures” we never knew about have done so much that we can’t even imagine. And noone knows about them! People need to know their heroes. This is one more story , where we see the miracle when a black person is given a chance to shine. Incredible story. I want a movie about this ,too.

#BlackExcellence