The very universality of emotion, and vulnerability, was the sentimental zenith of this revue. The concept of storytelling through common ethnic experiences made this year’s POC Revue an affectionate one to watch.
Through stuttered sobs, I thanked him for being a good grandad. He snorted; “I haven’t done much”. I said that he had, trying to articulate through my running nose and gasping breath how much he had done for me, but in the moment, I couldn’t.
“If I had just been a better child, less of a troublemaker in school, less of a problem child, would she be whole? … I broke my mum.”
I am grateful that you never throw anything out. If you will not tell me about your life, I will at least be able to piece it together through your belongings.
To put it simply, family stories fascinate me. I always want to know about people and their pasts, how they spend time with their family, how their family sees them, and about what families can teach us.
The room is still. I want him to make a quip: to break the silence that began in peace and now festers between us. He begins to play a study that I do not know.
For no reason at all, she thought about her youth. She remembered when couples slow-danced at the local hall and when it was so cold you could barely feel your feet and when parents took their children for ice cream near the water. For no reason at all, she thought about great big cargo ships and waves and tears.
Theoretically, I ticked all the boxes of a carer, but a label will never do the experience justice.
What do Renaissance-era slurs, electronic music, and sibling love have in common?
On karaoke, family, and memory.