by Pocahontas in Atlanta
Hey, it’s me. Poc.
I have a teensy weensy part in the play, but I did the website since I can paint with all the colors of the wind.
I also used to be the head navigator in the car but the “Blonde” Sister fired me because she said “just around the river bend” wasn’t good directions.
Still, I’ve paid my dues. I’m the Head Wrangler for all seven dwarves, I help Elena of Avalor with her wig (YES, IT’S A WIG), I pre-set all of the Wheeboost props, and I ran jump call yesterday even though everyone’s getting cocky and acting like we don’t have to anymore (this is how accidents happen!). Heck, I have four lines in the play and I’m the one leading a vocal warm-up every night (Zip Zap Zop, To Sit in Solemn Silence, and some kind of energy ball). And I can see Esmerelda and Anastasia mocking me, but I do it in anyway because we perform better when we are all connected to each other in a circle, in a hoop that never ends.
As they say, there are no wee parts, only wee actors so I have made myself a leader of the Whees. A Wheeder. So someone explain to me why, at one of our last shows in Atlanta, at a home for children where there are big buckets of toys and people like us scattered around the room, someone explain to me why
I SAW JOHN SMITH AND WASN’T ALLOWED TO GO TO HIM.
I’m about to enter the part of the set under a dark flap where I wait for fifty minutes until I say my four lines when I see a flash of golden hair, a trapezoidal jaw-line and chest like a shield. I see JOHN FREAKING SMITH in a bin of toys in the corner of the room.
I sing with all the voices of the mountain, “JOHN! JOHN! It’s me! Poc!”
And the Nose Ring Sister (eye roll) shoves me inside. I say, “Sister! It’s him! It’s John! They have a John!” She says, “He belongs to the children’s home!” I say, “He belongs to me!” She hisses, “Places!” and closes the flap in my face.
I wait fifty minutes and as soon as my flap opens (er, you know what I mean) I’m tempted to run right to him. But I don’t. Pals can’t run. I keep the show going. Surely, afterwards, the Sisters will have a heart; let me see him, hold him, get on a ship with him.
But, no. We bow. We’re thrown in a bag. Tossed in a car. And driven away. From the only love I’ve ever known.
Now I understand they can’t allow for a reunion with every little Quasimodo, Incredible and Good Dinosaur we come across. But I have given so much to this company. I would have thought….
The Sisters are heartless. Here we are doing a play about a tree and we haven’t once asked the tree for wisdom! I wish they knew what it was to be me. I wish they could spend one day in my bare feet. If they’d just get out of their Dad’s SUV and walk the footsteps of a stranger, then surely, surely, they’d learn things they never knew they never knew.