MyFace

INTERVIEW WITH MYSELF

By David Roche

Q) David, what first gave rise to your career as a pioneer in the genre of facial-difference humor?

A) It was January 1990, when I was first falling in love with Marlena. We had a quarrel. I got discouraged and felt I was losing myself in the relationship, that I had to do something for myself. I decided it was time to take comedy classes. I had no intention of talking about my face at that time-I am part of the generation of denial. I rarely if ever talked about how I looked; I just pretended I was normal. This worked a great deal of the time, but it gets kind of ridiculous on stage. The classes were so supportive, I gradually was encouraged to talk about myself, which turned out to be richly humorous.

Q) Why are you sometimes called “Reverend Dave”?

A) My “Church of 80% Sincerity” grew out of improvisational work I was doing, as did the title. It is a church for people who are not perfect. Like me. I saw that we are the congregation of the flawed. And I get to be the Reverend Dave. I want to be Pope, but that seems a tad presumptuous to me right now.

Q) What do you feel like when you step up onstage to do the opposite of what people with visible disabilities so often want to do-hide, deny, change the subject?

A) Here is my secret: I have learned to tap into my inner beauty and express it on stage. I just try to be myself. This is very powerful, because it is commonly believed in America that the face is the locus of the human persona. So, a marred face reminds people that they themselves often feel disfigured, flawed, unacceptable to others. In performing, I deliberately bring up that fear and pain for the audience. Through humor, their vision of me (and themselves) gets reframed. When they see my beauty, they get a deep and healing reassurance. They like it and they pay me money. Cool, huh?

Q) What are some memorable audience responses to your work?

A) A very beautiful woman came into my dressing room, started crying and revealed that she wanted to disfigure her face because nobody really listened to her or took her seriously.

Oh, and I love it when someone in the audience loses control and can’t stop laughing.

The best compliment I ever received after a show was when a young man, an adolescent with multiple disabilities, who was in the audience, stood up in the audience after the show and said: “Up until tonight my heroes have been different than me, superheroes with costumes and superpowers. Now I have a hero who is like me and I can be a hero too.”

Q) You told me once that in pursuing this career, you’re scared a lot of the time. How so? Is it worth it?

A) I still get scared. Not because of my appearance, but because I am somewhat  obsessive compulsive. I often find myself taking new risks and challenges, things I have never done before. The problem is, this upsets my carefully planned daily routines which have always given me the illusion of safety. Then I get afraid because I forget that what is happening is actually wonderful. But I am learning to get over it more quickly. I get by with 20% faith. You can imagine that it takes a lot of work.

Q) In dull, daily life, does Rev. Dave really practice what he preaches?

A) I beg your pardon? My sincerity level has averaged 86% this year!

Q) Where is Rev. Dave headed? A three-picture deal, a multinational entertainment conglomerate? You have mentioned soap operas a few times.

A) My friends have always said I should be in a soap opera. Marlena enjoys Bollywood films, but I am not sure I could take that level of excitement needed to be a performer in Bollywood. All that dancing! Plus the stars have to be even more handsome than in Hollywood.

I am busy enough speaking, performing, selling my book, and now blogging.

Q) What would you tell our readers, young and old, who have a latent spark in this direction?

A) What is “a latent spark”?

Q) We know that Americans can be obsessed with appearance. Are there any good things about being facially different in America?

A) Well, a few. Once in a while, I get on the bus, an elderly woman will get up and offer me her seat.

Q) Do you take her seat?

A) Oh yes!

I have also found that I do have an all-purpose excuse. I just say, “Sorry, can’t help you. My face is acting up.” And people don’t question that.

And because I have very few teeth due to receiving radiation therapy as a child,  I save a lot of time brushing them. I am grateful for that.

Q) How many teeth?

A) I have four teeth left, all on top, and I love them dearly. I have given them names: Shaky, Sturdy, Lefty and Tiny. I always give them compliments so that they remain confident.

Oh, and because I have no chewing surfaces, I do not waste time chewing food. I just swallow it down.

Q) By “latent spark,” I meant an interest in being a performer, a humorous performer.

A) Oh. Number one, choose to be around supportive and loving people. Then get out there and do it. Take classes. Take risks. Find what gives you strength and faith and find ways to build them that work for you. Don’t wait for inspiration to be creative. Work is the source of inspiration.

End of interview

All We Remember: Reflections on Honesty from the Founder of the Church of 80% Sincerity.

People sometimes tease me about the title of my imaginary church. They ask me if I am really sincere, really telling the truth. They wonder if the stories in my show and in my book are actually true stories.

They are true. In some cases I have changed the names, especially when the story might be embarrassing to someone in it. In some cases I have put two or more stories into one story, or compressed a time frame that stretched over several months into one event.

But I do not think it is possible for personal stories to be factually true. All we remember about a particular incident from the past is our feelings about what happened. When we tell a story about something, we recall those feelings and then construct a story from what bits and shards of so-called facts that we can recall.

I recently talked with a psychiatrist at a party. He told me that he had the opportunity to work with a group of US infantrymen who had participated in a military action in a village in Vietnam. For many reasons, it was a horrific event, one that caused post traumatic stress disorder for the men. In the course of working with them, he heard their stories about what had happened. There was a core of truth to the telling of the event that had happened years previously. But details differed significantly to the extent of contradicting one another. Now these stories were told confidentially to a psychiatrist. There was no need for reconciliation of the details, for the determination of facts. All those stories were true. All those men had to make sense of that experience.

I wrote a story entitled “A Roche Family Christmas” about a Christmas eve that took place when I was about 18. A key element in that story was the description of my father introducing my youngest sister, Teresa, to sing “The Huron Christmas Carol” and slurring the pronunciation of “Huron” into “Urine.” Five of my six siblings agreed with my recollection of what had taken place, but Teresa’s memory was that we had all been laughing at her singing. She had kept that memory for thirty some years. She remembered her feelings and constructed a story to make sense of them.

Who among us did not grow up in a family with at least some degree of dysfunction? A lot of the it involved learning methods of filtering reality, of ignoring or redefining events and suppressing the voices of those who might be trying to tell what they saw as the truth. Children should be seen and not heard. We carry these habits of mind into adulthood and believe that our stories are true, in part because our emotional survival seemed to depend on it.

****

Sponge Speak

You might wonder how I know so much. An inanimate object. But, hey, I deserve some respect. I’ve been used as a metaphor for so damned long, same hackneyed metaphor, that is all people know about me. It’s never “as charming as a sponge,” “as durable as a sponge,” “as sexy as a sponge,” “as brilliant as a sponge”! No. It’s always: “he soaked it up like a sponge.” Passive! “Absorbent” is the most exciting thing ever said about me. Let’s not even mention “He was sponging off his parents.” And I get so tired of hearing, “Did you know a sponge is actually a living thing?” Well, what do you know?!

It’s not my fault I have a boring life. That jerk, David, with his obsessive compulsive disorder—would he ever let me visit the living room? Visit my family in the bathroom? NO. Not only am I stuck here at the kitchen sink, I am always—always!—on the same side of the faucet. My God, even when I go to the stove—aagh, the stove, don’t get me started—shoved up against a hot burner, wiping up unbelievable scuzz and gudge. I hate the stove. It’s like, like, going to Bosnia for a vacation.

Yes, I know about Bosnia. That’s my point! Listen to me. Sponges are absorbent. We…pick…things…up. Get it? Do you think we are stupid? Do you think when you squeeze us that it is our brains that drip out? That is water, stupid. Or soup or whatever scum you’ve pushed me into.

Thank god I am a kitchen sponge. Even if I have to sit in the same goddamned spot 24-7. God forbid that someone would move me to the other side of the sink. Or onto the counter. No. I have to stay here. I clean up everything else but my spot never gets wiped up.

I’ve seen it come and go, come and go.

It is not easy being a sponge. You know it itches a lot, all through me. Oh yeah. Bacteria. Billions. Billions of them. Whoa, I love a good bath in hot water. It relieves the itching for a while but it doesn’t cure it, the bacteria come back. Oh, what helps is to go into the microwave. Two minutes, that’s all, it fries the little buggers inside me. Feels so good. I come out a new sponge.

What? No, I don’t have e. coli. Never have. Proud of it. You must be thinking of the bathroom sponges. Go ask them.

No, it’s not hard work, you’re right. The metal thing, I don’t know its name, brillo, whatever, it does the hard work. No, don’t worry, it doesn’t understand what we are saying. No, you see, it’s not absorbent and intelligent like a sponge. It’s not a living thing. Touch it. It’s metal.

So, I just do what comes my way. They use biodegradable detergent, it’s a little milder, scent is not so bad, could be worse.

It’s not a bad life. Just lonely, pretty lonely. I’m glad you talked to me, good meeting you. Hmm? No, I don’t know what a sponge’s life span is. I think we live forever. Come back anytime.

Fudge and Forgiveness

On Sunday, Marlena and I arrived at Naramata Retreat Centre, where we were to lead a weeklong storytelling class. We brought our bags into Maple Court Residence Hall. After unpacking, I went to the common kitchen to stick a leftover sandwich in the refrigerator.

I happened to open the freezer, where I saw a white paper bag in the door shelf. It struck my interest because it was the kind of bag that candy comes in. It was sort of crumpled.

Aside from two ice cube trays, it was the only object in the freezer. I picked the bag up and hefted it. It held one object, weighing maybe half a pound.

Of course I was curious. Of course I opened the bag. Inside I found a piece of chocolate fudge in plastic wrap, with a label indicating it came from a candy store in Alberta.

We were in British Columbia, which meant that the fudge had made an arduous journey from another province.

The plastic wrapping was slightly clouded, perhaps with some condensation underneath, the kind of condensation that would form only after a period of time had passed.

Of course I did not open the package. I returned the fudge to the bag and to the freezer door.

*

On Monday, I didn’t think much about the fudge. I was busy with the storytelling class all morning. I did wonder why it had been in the freezer. Who keeps fudge in the freezer? Perhaps it stays fresher in there. But degree of freshness is not the main attraction when it comes to fudge. Plus, in the freezer, it gets frozen. Which means you have to thaw it out before you eat it. Who wants to wait to eat fudge? It was all very puzzling.

*

On Tuesday, during a free moment, I realized the white bag had camouflaged the fudge because it blended in with the white interior of the freezer. Which was probably no doubt why the person who put it there had forgotten it. Whenever that was possibly long ago.

*

On Wednesday, a funny thing happened. It turned out that I had been thinking about the fudge. I realized that, if it belonged to someone, that person would have taken it by then. A person who purchased fudge presumably liked fudge and would eat the fudge. Imagine my surprise when I happened to open the freezer door and saw that it was still languishing there. Whoever left it there possibly was not a serious fudge lover—like I am. This person did not have strong fudge needs. It came to me that I might probably need the fudge.

*

On Thursday, when the freezer door opened, the fudge was in the same place. There was no evidence that somebody cared enough about the fudge to be sure it was ok. I saw that the edges of the fudge were rounded, as if it had been handled carelessly before being discarded in the freezer.

I realized that not only did I deserve the fudge, but more importantly, the fudge deserved me—a person who cared about fudge, a man who could give that fudge what it needed.

The fudge spoke to me.

“Hello, big boy. Do you come here often? Listen, is it chilly in here or is it just me? Are you going to stick your hand in my bag? Oh, that’s nice and warm! Do you like to eat fudge? I’ll just bet you do. What do you say we go someplace where it’s a little more comfortable?”

I took the fudge to my room and set it on the dresser to let it warm up. Marlena spotted it an hour or so later.

“What’s this? Fudge! Where did this come from?”

“Umm, from the freezer. It had been left there some time ago.”

“Honey, this is nothing but chocolate flavored saturated fats and sugar,” said Marlena, viciously.

“Or one could simply call it fudge,” I responded, calmly.

“Hon? You’re not going to eat this, are you?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I’m going to throw it out.”

I said nothing for a few seconds while I wondered why God had led me to marry a fudge-hater. I sighed with dignity. “OK.”

“And I am going to unwrap it before I throw it out. So don’t bother looking for it.”

I was appalled by what seemed like a possible lack of trust.

*

On Friday afternoon I was making tea in the kitchen when Corinne walked in. She is a young, lovely, energetic woman who had been at the centre all week teaching world dance. She walked right to the freezer, opened the door and spoke.

“Hey, what happened to my fudge?”

My first thought was that I should tell the honest truth and say, “I didn’t eat it.” But I knew that would be similar to an untruth. I knew that I had to take a higher road.

“Maybe somebody cleaned out the fridge?”

“Oh, no! I was saving it for today.” Corinne frowned.

I decided I had to do the right thing.

“Tell you what, Corinne. Marlena and I are just about to walk to the bakery in town. Come on along and I will buy you a brownie?”

“Oh, you are so kind!”

I acknowledged her compliment with a nod and a smile.

At the bakery I bought her a piece of lemon cheesecake. She cleaned the crumbs up with her finger. We walked back.

“Well, that was very generous of you.”

“Well, thank you, Corinne.”

The way she enjoyed the cheesecake crumbs was troubling to me. Corinne had been working hard all week teaching world dance. At the end of the week she had come to get her fudge. Oh, well. She got cheesecake instead. There is a way in which it was doubtless God’s will.

At dinner I saw Corinne walking by. She was sweating after rehearsing for the evening’s performance. I was reminded of how hard she had worked all week

I jumped up and walked over to her.

“Corinne, you know that fudge? I stole it. Or, I mean, I took it.”

“What? My fudge?”

“Yes, but Marlena wouldn’t let me eat it and she threw it out.”

“You took my fudge?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I apologize. That is why I bought you the cheesecake. I was too embarrassed…”

She laughed. “It’s just fudge, David.”

She hugged me. “You’re forgiven.”

As she walked back to rehearsal, she turned and said, “You know, I’ve done the same thing myself.”

I knew that we were kindred spirits. Fudge lovers.

On Saturday, on the plane home, Marlena told me she had returned the fudge to the freezer. I was surprised by her duplicity. Maybe it will still be there next summer.

*