Author: C. Fujikawa

My old friend Eliza, who has endured these letters for 16 years, just sent a small collection of them back to me. At my request, I might add.   (I am trying to archive.)  Boy, I really am Debbie Downer aren’t I?  Well not this year, folks.  I am ready to announce to one and all that this year, everything is fine.  Everything is under control. I know that every end of December, I act like it’s the end of the world as we know it.  It’s not. I would really like to avoid that headline this year. Things are A-OK. Let’s all repeat together: Things will be great again-again!  Are you with me?

Sorry, I can’t do this.  I want to know exactly what the hell is going on anyway….I mean how can it be that after all that effort, power has once again been centralized into one man (I will not use the word leader), whose ego is so overwhelming that  all our combined forces of good have been unsuccessful to this point? Are we that far out of balance? Has it come to this?  Are the scales of good vs. evil so tilted, so out of alignment, that we must eat our own?   Discrediting trusted heroes?  Destroying everything that your predecessor(s) had put into place?  Leaders falling from grace right and left.  Others leaving us in natural ways, granted. But does hope only rest in our rebellious nature, which is totally reviled in the current climate? The loss of our biggest female role model of all time.  All our hope placed now in one individual, while those in power take aim at him?  It’s bad, folks. Worse than we every thought.  I am sorry I couldn’t keep it together this year.  And what, of this notion that you have to drain the whole thingy and cast off the old ways?  Burn the past? I agree in principal you can’t live in yesterday, but aren’t those selling you this line just trying to seize the power from you?   You know what I’m talking about.  What is the one thing that brings us all together during the holidays?  No matter what your station is in life. No matter who you vote for, or whether you are coal miner, or Harvard professor.  We all saw that movie last week.  And something must be done about Kylo Ren.  It’s bad enough he killed Harrison Ford two years ago — our on and OFF screen hero and pilot — single handedly ruining my cousin Leslie’s birthday on Christmas eve.  But now this entitled brat has sapped Luke of all his metaphysical energy too. Is he really worth all this?  And with the off-screen death of the Princess, what hope do we really have for Episode IX?  Let’s face it…the best of these movies feature the OG, folks.  All we have left is Chewy.  Do we really see Chewy as being up to it?  How can we possibly carry on under these circumstances?  I demand a recount at the box office.  I am pretty sure it was a complete mistake to snuff out Mark Hamill’s career AGAIN.  We just got him back! And we need a hero more than ever.  Can I say that again? HERO NOW!  As I see it, if we don’t have Hamill, all we have left is Mueller. Let’s just hope he was never patted a fanny in his life cuz we need this SOB.

OK now I have that off my chest….there are a few newsy items I need to bring you up to speed on.  First of all, we made it to Santa Fe last week. It’s been 2 years since our family reconnected with the lovely little home I affectionately refer to as the money pit. Well, it’s going to remain on the family balance sheet a while longer. So two years ago, I had the opportunity to reclaim the family piano from cousin Lisa.  A beautiful Foster & Co upright that’s about 120 years old. Having nowhere to put it, I hauled it out to NM for $900, got it tuned, and wow it graced our living room.   Well last week, Robby the tuner gave it to me straight. Don’t spend another dime he advised.  He described it as a future piece of art.  “Perhaps a planter.”  What a comedian.  I’m a little crushed, but at least I got a wonderful video of Sam playing Mia and Sebastian’s from La La Land theme before it falls out of tune.

Christmas Day was spent on the manmade slopes of Santa Fe, and then a little family bonding at Ten Thousand Waves.  As you may recall, I was kicked out of there 10 years ago.  My children were supposedly disturbing someone’s chi in the lobby near the gift store, and a lady in one of those “kimono”-robes complained.  I was asked to get them out quickly. (I was also trying to pay my tab, having just dropped over $200 between the tub and the gift store).  When I became indignant, the manager called security.  They wanted to “escort” me out, but I decided to return my merchandise and make them wait on me a little more.  Oh that rebel nature.  Anyway, this year I kept it together.  We all did  until we got home and were starving.

File this under The Road You Didn’t Take:  this past year I directed a small production of “Tongue of a Bird.”  Wonderful script and cast; a truly great experience. So many people came to my aid to help and support the production: friends from high school, designers from Encore Theatre days, even my old drama buddy from elementary school lent a creative hand.  But especially my family, Nell, in particular, in dramatic role for a change.  A lot of the script takes place in the cockpit of a small Cessna.  I was on the verge of paying to have my actors fly in a small aircraft as research, when another old friend came out of the woodwork as technical advisor. This was such a stroke of luck, and I can say that creatively it added huge value.  But you know things come with a price sometimes. Once upon a time he represented a page or two…a short chapter in my life. So we hadn’t spoken in over 25 years when we got on the phone. He said he’s been great, very happy, not retired yet, keeping busy with the cabin and flying and guns and happy to help with the flight stuff. He took 3 of the cast up in his plane and effectively gave my lead actor a flying lesson.  After the show closed, we met for lunch.  We talked about his marriage, and he says they keep busy with friends and opera and grandkids and guns. OK already. Still in the same house after all these years; he’s thinking about leaving the state, seeing as how Brown is ruining California (lets just say Brown is a double entendre).  Change of subject.  Kids are great.  The youngest one doesn’t always agree with me, but she does like guns.   By now I am chewing a hole in my cheek.  Then something something else about that man who nobody had ever even heard of, who wasn’t even born here became president.  OK you know what came up; or rather who.  Wow, look at the time. Ck, pls.

As much as I love Santa Fe, I remain attached to my life in Mt. Washington too.  I saw an owl on my LA street recently.  Then again, I also saw a bobcat in the driveway in SF 2 days ago.  Both times, we stared at each other for a long moment before it flew/ran away into the twilight.  But you know of all places to find some truly straight talk, a little post inauguration pep rally, came a few doors down from me in LA. Some folks on our street had gathered at my neighbor Susie’s house for a city council event, and in walked Kevin DeLeon, president pro-tem of the Calif. State Senate.  Apparently he is my neighbor.   What a charismatic guy.  We were in fact discussing local issues, but the discussion shifted to our nation’s situation pretty quickly.  “Don’t look to Washington.  They don’t have the numbers. Look right here.  California.  We have the numbers.  We have the power.  We are the resistance.”  He said it twice.  “We are the resistance.”  Wow, I felt Carrie Fisher right next to me, I swear.

I spent a lot of time trying to find my way out of CA as an adult. Adopted identity as a New Yorker, a Santa Fean, perhaps a South African.  Bucket list has included Paris, Seattle,  Cape Cod, San Juan, and anywhere in Hawaii (the list never included Florida, btw).  But you know right now I could not be more proud to be a native Californian.  We are the damn resistance, and a beacon.  Let’s just hope it rains soon.

That said, when I arrived at home in Santa Fe, just before Christmas, I stepped out of the car and shut the door.  It was dark and light simultaneously.  In the dark, I was enveloped by a blanket of stars. I heard myself.   “Whoa!”    That damn sky always takes me by surprise.

Big picture, folks.

Love and blessings to you all.

My brother Charlie has some issues with me. We haven’t talked in like seven years. It will be exactly eight, come to think of it, this New Year’s day that he stopped talking to me. The following year my sister got sick and died, and a year later my other brother was on the verge of homeless, and I never heard boo from Charlie about anything. Yep, ever since that Jerry Springer New Years Day in Saint George, Utah. The cops came and everything. I had come to his apartment after what had been an abysmal New Years Eve the night before. I showed up without warning. He was not happy to see me.

The night before he had been trying to provoke me with the usual: jabs about Hollywood, the Liberal Media, how public schools were a waste of time, blah blah. Even something about guns. I admit, I’m not that strong. Eventually I took the bait, and he sort of shuffled into the next room in his neck brace after he got under my skin.

So New Years Eve day night, I was there to apologize, and also to bring him a gift….medical marijuana. See, he’d just had surgery on his neck for chronic pain he’s in. His estranged family all said he’d been a miserable human due to the painkillers. So me, the queen of fixing everything, arrived bearing a most original and frankly practical Christmas gift. It was all wrapped up in a box, and couldn’t have been sweeter unless I’d grown the pot myself. And I’m not even a pot smoker, mind you. (The first bag of pot I ever spied was in his desk drawer.)

So as I said, he didn’t look so happy when he found me at the doorbell, but he let me in. But he knew why I came:

I’m his little sister.
I’m here on vacation with my family.
He’s been actively ignoring us (except when trying to provoke me).
I’m leaving tomorrow, so this is our last chance.
And let’s not forget this little tidbit: our mother has just passed away;
Finally, last night did not go too well, and who wants to end on that kind of note.

Basically, I said what the hell is your problem. I don’t even think I said it like that. But I had cornered him. This was a very new me.  I can be confrontational, but not with him. He’s my oldest brother, and I know he won’t put up with that from little sister. I know my place.

So he asked me to leave, I said no, till I get an answer. I was still hoping we could actually talk in a meaningful way.

He called 911 and said there was an intruder in his house and that she won’t leave:

Charlie (on the phone with 911): Her name is Cynthia Murphy.

Cyndy: (sitting on couch, not budging): That’s not my name, Charlie.

Charlie: It’s Cynthia Murphy!

(note: Murphy is my husband’s last name. I don’t know why this formality became so important to him….something Rush or Laura told him really mattered to true family values.)

Charlie (into phone ) How old is she? I don’t know how old she is! Maybe 47 or 48.

Me: I’m 49. Tell them I’m 49. (trying to be heard on the call:) I’M FORTY NINE!

Charlie (into the phone) She says she’s 49.

Would I lie about this sort of thing?

He decided to wait for the police in his bedroom. I walked toward him and with a great deal of force, he put his hand on my chest and shoved me away, hard.

I felt his rage. I felt his absolute hatred of me. But I’ve come this far, haven’t I.  Stubborn me,  I decided to wait for the police outside on the porch.

After 10 minutes or so I got cold. It was a January night in Utah afterall. I decided to move to my car. The cops were taking their sweet time so I called my sister in law (his wife) and my husband, both of whom were up the street with the four kids. I don’t exactly know what he thought would happen If they took me away. It would just upset and confuse the most innocent among us.

Anyway, the St. George police showed up, and they seemed primarily concerned with my well being. They advised me to have my husband come right away (yes, they were male cops and I assume good Mormon boys). I told them everything, including that our family was a bit stressed, since our mom had passed away a few months before. I left out the detail about what was in the Christmas present I brought. They wanted to know if Charlie had a firearm, and I said I did not know. (Later I thought about it and realized he did.)

They talked to him some, and then returned to me and advised me to go home. I said the little woman was waiting for her husband to arrive, and they were ok with me waiting till then.

When Dennis came, he made an attempt to mediate it in the doorway. It did not go well. The last thing my brother said to me was “I’ll see you at my funeral!” Wow. The thing was was that he shouted it while he was brushing his teeth, in his neck brace, but with the passion and anger of someone who was absolutely furious that his little sister was interrupting his bedtime rituals. What can I say. I have that affect on people when they’re brushing their teeth.

Charlie’s then wife (from whom he was amicably separated) is a pretty gentle person. I admit, I had been a bit sour on her over the summer when she did not attend my mother’s meager memorial service. But I’d lost my brother that evening, so I turned to her.  She’s sweet, but she doesn’t mince words when it comes to Charlie. Indeed, she was well aware of his resentment and anger toward me for many years. She was sympathetic to the place this puts me in, having been the target of his passive-aggressiveness, and his outbursts.

“I don’t know why he’s so angry at you,” she said.

I know he was uncomfortable that I struck up a relationship with his son and his daughter. I know he was silent when I retrieved our mother from senior board and care in the state of Washington, when he moved away and left her there without warning me. I know he was upset that I criticized his choice to sell our childhood home to invest half her money in a South African diamond scheme, which went bankrupt about 6 months later.  Sure, I know he hates my politics, the industry which has fed my family, my many friendships, the fact that I keep in touch with so many people (he leads a solitary life…one might consider misanthropic). I know he resents that I have a house and a somewhat stable-ish financial situation. Clearly he hates that I go by our father’s name, and not my husband’s name. I know he was peeved that I was trying to stash away a few bucks for each of his kids for college. And I KNOW he absolutely HATED that I wanted my 10 year old to show Uncle Charlie a cartwheel and a (sort of) handstand two nights before. While Sam was hanging upside down, Charlie left the room.  After all, Charlie was the champion gymnast in the 1970s.

Ellen says to me with a note of sarcasm. “Maybe it’s because you got cfujikawa@aol.com before he did. He was pissed off about that.”

Yeah, that’s right. You feelin’ me? This is a no win situation. I can see, and you can see, that there is room for more than one cfujikawa in the world. But apparently little sister had just done it again.

My brother is competitive by nature. So’s my husband. I can honestly say that I am not. I have a lot of qualities that can be categorized as aggressive. But I don’t have a competitive nature. Not that that makes sense of this.

The truth is I am done with cfujikawa@aol.com. I would be very happy to bequeath it to him if that would make things right. I would even turn back time and give him that first America-on-Line cd (and the second and the third and the fourth…) that came in the mail and tell him, “Here…you’re the oldest. You go first. I’ll chose another screen name.” I  would do that if only to have my real brother back.

My brother was the best big brother in the entire world. He was silent and strong and good looking and (yes) popular.  Maybe I never really knew him, but that is what I saw as a child.  I saw someone to aspire to be; someone to emulate. Never someone to compete with. It never occurred to me that being myself would be so offensive.  I admit I don’t know how to fix it.

I don’t need to be cfujikawa.  I am cyndyfujikawa anyway.  I like it better, besides.  I’m me.  The other one is all yours if you need it.

well hello.  here is a space where if you want to listen to the sounds in my head.  or the ink from my dry-ish pen.  and certainly from my keyboard, which is my conduit now.  as I begin this, it is the eve of my 56th birthday, my son has managed to bounce back after a gnarly accident on Saturday night that shook me to my core, my 13 year old girl, a singer, is exploring the gender boundaries in musical theatre, and my husband has gone to bed rather early, after listening to Fresh Air’s terry gross’ story on the latest sleep deprivation research (>>>>Alzheimers!).  friends in puerto rico have patiently waited for days for fresh water, and other friends in santa rosa have been breathing smoke for a week. the winery we visited with these friends last year, lies in ashes.   trump wants to make america white again.  (and male)  Thank you for reading this far.  I do love you for it.  this is exciting.  please come back.  (PS halloween is in 2 weeks.  costume ideas:  Kelly Anne, or the “real first lady” Ivanna Trump?  Suggestions?

Dec 24, 2016

Hello again and welcome back to my holiday letter. It’s exactly a year later, to the hour I think. It’s been an interesting year for everyone, hasn’t it…and uncertainty abounds all over the world right now. How I wish this weren’t so.

No Santa Fe this year. I miss it more than ever. Sledding down La Marta Drive. Watching our 2 black doggies prance around in the snow off leash — (little Scruffy, and Trouble, our lovable Labrador). Making Scruff ride in the sled. Making the fire, then opening the chute when the house fills with smoke. Getting our tree on discount and decorating last minute. Farolitos, the Canyon Road walk — luminarias lighting the historic adobes. Riding up the quad or triple chair the day after Christmas with the kids and their friends – Emily, Sebastian — and flying down the mountain on our winter sports gear. Dinner with Mark, Dustin, Mary. Plaza Restaurant with Tone. The absolute stillness, quiet, and darkness except a celestial blanket covering us. Then, traveling to New York City for New Years. Celebrating Christmas again with our kids there… opening gifts with Carter, Ellis and Honor. And New Years Eve on the roof across from Prospect Park, where we can see the fireworks around the city. Oshogatsu (Japanese New Years traditions) with Jim, Jill and Miranda. Dinner with Chris, Liz, Alison, Mitch, Carrie, and our other friends. Shopping, skating, as much theatre as we can afford, and a daily dose or two or 3 of public transportation, or traveling on foot. I miss everyone already. Really.

2016 will be a UK Christmas and New Years. We have people to care for, and people we love there caring for others, or in need of comfort, that we want to see and be with. Three very unfortunate situations in total. My travel companions Dennis, Nell and Sam are game to go. American Express card cooperating for the time being.

For me personally, a very special woman in my life is at the end of hers. I found a bit of comfort in deciding to go to the UK to see her. Tho I haven’t begun to process this event. And it’s a shit storm I am walking into. I’m not sure how much I want to talk about this, or how appropriate it is. But this is where I am at. This is the main event this Christmas.

Bugger, let’s get to this.

In my senior year of high school, I went to New York City during Christmas week with my fellow drama students from University High. Chaperoned by the drama teacher Mr. Lomeli and his wife Lois, we flew red-eye on a chartered plane with other LAUSD drama kids to Newark, and then took a shuttle through the Holland Tunnel. Halfway through the tunnel someone shouted “We’re in New York” and everybody cheered. Seven Broadway shows (“the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” “Dancin’,” “Deathtrap,” “The Wiz,” “On the 20th Century,” “The Crucifer of Blood,” and one other I can’t remember!) and an older hotel, The Abbey Victoria, around the corner from Radio City. The drinking age was 18 and nobody carded. We were unleashed in Manhattan with our traveler’s checks, hats and scarves and with all our fellow cast members, scene partners, drama-fest mates in tow. We had to pair up for the hotel room. I wasn’t close to anyone however, though I had been hanging out in Lomeli’s classroom for over 2 years, so was dreading the roommate search thingy. But D asked me if I would be her roommate. And that was the start of our friendship. A few weeks before she had showed me a kindness…I had just gotten my hair cut short and was embarrassed about it, and she told me how great it looked and fussed over me like a true girlfriend.

D and I are both Libras, born 10 days apart; both from Los Angeles west-siders. Both demonstrated a social conscience in our youth and both had an artistic streak. Met in Lomeli’s class the year before. She used to do most of her scene work with Laura. The first thing I saw them do was the Maria/Anita duet from “West Side Story.” She had beautiful thick curly dark hair down to the small of her back, had a lovely soprano voice, and didn’t appear possessed with fear like I was. As we got to know each other better, I realized she was possibly the smartest, the most complicated person I’ve ever known. It was none of my business, but when we started planning our adult lives, I told her not to pursue theatre, but to go and change the world with her brain. (Something like that). I don’t doubt she would have succeeded in the arts. I majored in theatre, she in poly-sci. When we started looking at graduate schools, I looked at MFA theatre programs; she said she was looking at a one years MA in Women’s Studies…. in England. This was in 1985. Neither of us thought she’d be staying there for 30 years.

We would see each other on her visits home to her parents, and continued to intersect in political discussion, sometimes in heated debate, but always a shared interest in things people, the human condition, women’s lives, women’s bodies, the politics of … our complicated and changing places in this world– the social arguments ….in-vitro, abortion, and always whether the voices of those marginalized, including the voices of women, would and can be heard. I could barely follow a lot of arguments she was making sometimes. She pursued her work within academia, and became published several times, and an expert on the topics of reproductive technologies the study of genes — what in my lay person’s words I would call lesser considered perspectives on our rapidly changing world. But the friendship would always return to the basics…our old friends, our loves, or family, our health, our self image, and whether we were giving ourselves a creative diet. This was always a component. She remained a brilliant and prolific writer. Even now, there is book project, and she writes daily on her blog, “dark cloud,” about these final days. It’s hard to read, but it’s a distinct and familiar voice that I know well, and am still discovering what she is saying with her words and ideas.

D found a lump in 2007 and beat it with surgery and radiation. She got married, got a little Chihuahua, gave birth to 2 more books, and mentored many more graduate students at University of Warwick. But it came back. A tiny nodule in her thigh. She made a new plan, and it may have bought time I guess. But this plan meant not poisoning herself into an unrecognizable state, and not defining her life by the big C. Whether she managed that I am not sure, but she fought the good fight at remaining uncompromised in….well just about everything. And when she wanted to come home, she was too sick to manage it. So she will pass in her home in England. Anyway, that’s where I am headed tomorrow.

I would not be such a drama queen right now if I didn’t need all your strength and prayers for my very own. This will be the fifth time I have attended a dying person and the 3rd time I’ve had to do it over the holidays. Life is short and precious.

Today, Christmas eve, a lady in a crowded mall yelled at my daughter today, “your mom’s a stupid bitch.” (she wanted my parking spot). My set decorator sent me an email with a veiled threat on Thursday. Let it go. I also learned I got the rights to “Tongue of a Bird” and the theatre space to direct it this summer.

Something nice: my Executive Producer introduced me to one of our show’s writers as “Cyndy, she’s a playwright,” not “Cyndy our production accountant.” Definitely a first for me. My daughter catches light wherever she goes. Sam is a love bug. He embraced me as I was writing this letter. Five minutes later he did it again. A family with small children moved in across the street. They have the only flat yard on the block. Dennis and our closest neighbors, Bob and Charles bought a badminton court. Sam and Dennis just set it up in the yard so they will think Santa came. Nell fell asleep in her unicorn pajaminals watching “Elf.” Checking into my flight now.

And Donald Trump won’t last forever. Those of us that always do will pick up the pieces once again.

People do care. Some uncompromising people will give their whole being caring till their last breath.

Merry Christmas. Blessings to each of you.

Love,

Cyndy

There is a reason why I procrastinated about writing my Christmas letter until almost 2am on Christmas Day. The reason is that it comes from my heart, and to give it even just here in this holiday newsletter, it’s not so easy. I have 200 Christmas cards address, stamped and ready to be stuffed with this letter for 3 days now. But I couldn’t get started. Last night, Sam said something to me as he was about to go to bed. He said he had one last gift wish. I almost started yelling at him. I’d been shopping for weeks. Our Santa Fe house had been transformed into Santa’s workshop for two days, and I was tired of buying and wrapping. When he told me what he wanted, I nearly cried.

And I knew it was time to begin this.

All day I had been thinking about different Christmases. My Christmases for the first 9 years were really happy ones.

My parents always made things so nice for us. We didn’t have much, I know now, but it felt abundant. I only had one really bad one as a child, and it was a doozy. But mostly I have of love and gratitude for those early ones. Dennis and me had a good spat yesterday on the way to the ski area, and my daughter reminded us that it was Christmas and made us promise, for Christmas’ sake, not to fight again. So far so good.

Every year my friend Jason produces a faux Christmas radio broadcast called “The Mr. Soft Talk Show.” I look forward to it every year. Dennis became a big fan of Mr. Soft Talk this year, listening to 4 prior “broadcasts” on cd on the long drive to Santa Fe. When doing the Christmas eve dishes, Nell and I were listening to the 2015 Mr. Soft

Talk (a combo of music, comedy, and traditional readings.”)

Cyndy: …and did you know that Jason is doing all the voices?

Nell: but this is a radio show.

Cyndy: well it’s a fake radio show that Jason does. You know, Jason.

Nell: Who?

Cyndy: Jason. In New York.

Nell: Help me out, here.

Cyndy: Uh, we always meet him at that same deli. We always get the chicken soup.

Nell: Oh! The one with the hair…

Cyndy: Yes

Nell: And the eyes….

Cyndy: uh, yes.

Nell: Yes! This is him? On this show?

Cyndy: Yes.

(from the audio: Jason VO “And that was Boris Karloff reading ‘The year without a Santa Claus’”

Cyndy: Nell.

Nell: Yeah, Mommy?

Cyndy: That wasn’t Jason. It was Boris Karloff.

Nell: Who’s Boris Karloff?

Cyndy: You know Boris Karloff,

Nell: Help me out here.

Cyndy: He was the Frankenstein monster. I thought that voice sounded familiar. Never mind.

Once I fell madly in love. This love was so crazy, so wonderful that I couldn’t see straight most days. It was a blustery fall. I was in New York. The leaves were all turning color. I had never seen that before. I couldn’t believe my life most days. I had all this color, feeling, happiness. I saw it snow in New York for the first time that December. I was walking down Bleecker Street with my love and again, I couldn’t feel my feet, they were walking on air. We bought a Christmas tree. It was blue. I had never seen a blue tree. A couple of days before Christmas he broke up with me. He said he had to go back to his life and work things out. That this was all make believe. It was like a bad movie. Now New York was cold and harsh and unforgiving. A few days later, he contacted me and said that he would like to celebrate Christmas eve and Christmas day with me. A kind of closure. And so we did. On Christmas eve he gave me a book about the show “Get Smart” and inscribed it: “It’s always either Chaos or Control….” I made a beautiful holiday dinner. My friend Liam came over. It was my first Christmas away from my family in Los Angeles. After desert, after Liam left, after dragging out the last goodbye, he shut the door and left. And that was that. I never wanted to feel so good or so bad ever again.

For many years…maybe 1980 to 1993, my friends from San Francisco State University would go to Castro Street during Christmas week and sing carols at midnight. Darren Server was our leader. Ellen Idelson, Shanna Straussberg, Tim DiPasqua, Gale Bonoto, Bob Locke, Deborah Swisher, Mark Brazil, and others lifted their voices. I forget some names, but I remember their faces and can hear the arrangements and the harmonies like it was this evening. We would stand in the same spot each year, in front of the hardware store, as young men were coming out of bars, perhaps missing or estranged from their families at Christmas. No one had hears of AIDS yet. And these men would stand and listen to us sing. Some remained a long time, and many would join in. Some had gorgeous voices. It was joyous and memorable, and we did it every year for the music (we had amassed a big repertoire after 3 years) and for crowds and the looks on the faces of young homesick men, many who may be long gone.

I had a boyfriend once who made Christmas trees. He was a San Francisco lighting designer and had just moved to LA to be with me. He found a grunt job doing something related: making the strands of lights….rows and rows of them, for those big red and white light trees you see on the top of bank buildings. I used to come and meet him for lunch near Ivar Ave., and would see him, alone, with these strands of lights stretched across the floor. We would go get lunch at Molly’s (a burger stand). My dad had died that year. I now leaned on this man pretty heavily, and he accommodated my need to grow up and get married and live at the beach, and get a doggie, and all that play house stuff. Eventually this would come to no good, but to the very end he was kind and patient. When I cancelled our wedding and later broke up with him, and a bunch of other awful stuff, he gave me nothing but understanding. A couple of months later, his papa died, and now I wanted to be there for him but everything had changed between us.

Whenever I see those Christmas trees on top of buildings in LA, I remember a wonderful guy and I am grateful for our love and his shoulder.

The other night I went to Andy and Katy’s Christmas open house. I had looked forward to it for weeks and now the day was here. I wasn’t feeling well so I got there late and many people were leaving. Everyone’s getting older! There were so many unopened bottles of red wine and not so many drinking. If you don’t know, Andy was my longest relationship before my marriage to Dennis. His oldest friends are some of my oldest friends now, and nearly all are in the theatre. I cover a lot of ground at a party like this in terms of friendships, and extended family, and even some collaborators. But if you know Andy, he has some stuff locked up inside. Stuff I never had a pass to understand, though I tried. Recently, he portrayed his own father in a reading of “Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been?,” a docudrama about the House on Un-American activities hearings in the early 1950s during the height of the McCarthy era. I didn’t know this reading was going on. I cried when I learned on Facebook that I had missed it. I know how hard that must have been to do, and from all accounts, Andy was brilliant. I love this man and his family. I taught Andy to camp and to ski. I was the first woman he lived with, even though he was 35 when we met. I brought the first Christmas tree into his apartment. We made many Christmases together at 1831 Grace Ave., Apt 1.

But anyway back to this party at Andy and Katy’s. A beautiful Christmas tree. Tasteful, thoughtful. A Classic Garrett-Parks family tree.

When Andy and I ended our relationship, the main things that we had acquired as a couple were the Christmas ornaments. I remember we had to split them up, and each was like a little memory of us. Hard. Anyway, back at Andy an Katy’s tree: I peeked to see if some of our ornaments had made it into his and Katy’s beautiful home. But I couldn’t find any. A little pang. I couldn’t remember what I was looking for actually. But the love, the many Christmases, it’s all around us with the history we share with each other, and so many friends, and a community of talented artists.

A month ago I decided to buy Sam a snowboard for Christmas. Sam is my skiing buddy since he was a mere tot. A little speed demon I could barely keep up with. But recently he made the switch and announced he was not going back on skis. I figure he’s tall enough now (almost 5’10”) that it was time to make the equipment purchase. I got the board and the bindings at ValSurf and hid them in the car undetected. Dennis drove them to Santa Fe, and arrived a couple hours before Sam and I, so he went to REI to purchase the boots.

Then Sam announced he really wanted to go snowboarding on Christmas eve.

“Maybe we should give him the gift now” Dennis says. I am torn. I really wanted that happy Christmas morning moment for my first born, my shredding buddy. But I don’t want to pay to rent a board after this investment. “No,” I said to Dennis. “Let’s find another way.” Meantime Sam is saying “Let’s go rent our gear now, Mom.” Classic Dennis, the man who can make a deal for anything. Dennis talks the salesman at REI into being on our team. Sam goes into get fitted for his boots, and walks out of there with boots and board in hand thinking he has just rented the gear. The next day the family hit the mountain and Sam didn’t say a word. We didn’t know if he was on to us or not. My son Sam is a very bright kid. An A student. A math genius. Very geared toward science. He plays classical piano and is teaching himself guitar. He is starting to write music too. He also wants to act (ugh! Another one!) But you know, I forgot to teach my son to sing. I was telling Karen Culliver the other day at Andy and Katy’s party that.

My 11-year old Nell sings all time time. She has performed in 4 musicals, sung in front of bands. She’s belting it out in the school choir. How could I have failed my son so?

My Nell. She belongs to this theatre company. It’s awesome. I am so happy for her. They do experimental plays.

In the spring musical, “O Lucky Man” an entire RV full of children die in an crash, and the accident is staged in slomo in a very Martha Graham esque dance. In another scene, a woman is being tortured, and Nell comes on passing out café lattes to the interrogators. In their most recent play, “Everything” it’s set in a futuristic world in which teenagers have become so entitled, so over-indulged, that by law, on their 14th birthday they are forced to go to a labor camp in Arizona, called “Camp Holiday” until they turn 18. Nell played a sweet looking little menace who testifies against “Camp Holiday” before the Supreme Court. She screams 100% of her lines at the top of her lungs, ranting about hipsters, music buskers, and slow Starbucks employees. “Give me my FRAPPACINO NOW!!!!!!”

OK,you had to be there. Well no actually, it’s on vimeo if you want to watch it:

https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/#search/vimeo/151a36be55d6515e

Now I don’t know if I can take all the credit for Sam searching for his creative side. I have been telling him for years that it’s there. Nell never went in search. It was in plain sight. Sam is surrounded by his sister’s pursuits, his cousinroomate, the theatre student, and for a time this year, his mother the playwright.

This past year I mounted a workshop production of my play, “The Last Vaudevillian.” This opus had been in development for going on 17 years, and spans my family’s 6 generations in vaudeville and theatre. The play centers around a mother and daughter (based on my mother and I). The mother is very toxic, but desperate to be heard.

The daughter is equally desperate to get away from the mother, and eventually is able to face her by becoming a writer, and specifically writing about her mother’s demise. It was an interesting experience, though the lessons I learned, some were harsh and unexpected. I will say this. This subject is particularly hard to talk about, but here are

a few things:

• Note to self: when casting one’s mother and one’s self, please make sure that both actors, however seasoned, (dare I

say “professional” cuz that’s what they kept saying they were) understand that there is no point being on stage without

a strong objective. Also, knowing the lines would be very helpful.

• Other note to self: when casting yourself-self, and you are exposing possibly one of most eye opening moments of

your life at the end of the play, make sure you cast someone who knows how to put it all out there. I mean emotionally. Listen to your first instincts. When you are watching auditions and you see this actress who the director wants to cast as you, and you have to ask “but can this girl bring the emotional goods?” and the director doesn’t know if it’s yes or no, chances are it’s NO.

• Last note to self: when choosing a director, be mindful that you aren’t choosing someone with the very toxic qualities of your mother that caused you to write the play in the first place.

On the bright side:

1. Silver lining #1: Instead of memorializing my dead ancestors and telling a piece of history, the play actually spawned another generation of women in my theatre. We needed a girl child in the play to do several silent bits, and to portray successive generations of women in theatre. Nell was cast more out of necessity than out of nepotism because I could insure her transportation. But still, Nell stole the show. She did not have one word of dialogue, and apparently didn’t need any. Absolute highway robbery. I’m not kidding. So while those in the company that were arguing about who was the most professional of the professionals, Nell landed artist management. We signed last fall, and she has been out on several auditions. Generation #7.

2. Silver lining #2: during our short run over 3 weekends, Sam must have attended at least 5-6 times. Dennis even more. My nephew Kole (Sam’s roommate, and our resident theatre student) worked on the show backstage nightly.

Nell in the cast of course. When we would come home after the performance, we would sit at the table and talk about the show. Kole had questions about our vaudeville ancestry. And observations of the play and the performances.

We talked every night as a family. And sometimes the boys would even try some of the dialogue out for fun. The company was miserable and bickering about me. But my family held me up and we became closer than ever. They knew what I was trying to do and what was working and what wasn’t working. I relied on them, and those late night talks and got the greatest reward from the workshop right there at home. I love my family.

This morning, Sam was completely surprised by his present. No clue that the brand new boots and board he had been on a day before were a rental. And he was blown away. He hadn’t asked for a shiny new snow board with brand new boots.

This is what he asked for:

1:00 am on Christmas eve.

Sam: I just thought of one more present

Mom: Are you kidding? You know what time it is? It’s actually Christmas day already!

Sam: it’s just this…..can you teach me how to sing?

Mom: ………….

(Speechless, then hug)

Mom: Oh Sam.

(still hugging)

Sam: I didn’t expect this.

Mom: Yes of course.

Sam: OK, merry Christmas mom.

Mom: Merry Christmas….

And I will….

Cyndy Fujikawa

Dec 25, 2015

December 20, 2013

Merrry Christmas Everyone,

We had a great Christmas last year in Santa Fe.  It snowed on Christmas eve, We enjoyed the traditional Farolito walk with friends, as bonfires, luminarias, Christmas carolers, and cups of hot chocolate warm the way along the route from the historic Plaza to the end of Canyon Road. On Christmas day the kids went sledding in the quickly melting snow on our road.  We had an intimate family dinner and all agreed it was one of the best Christmases ever.  We vowed to go back this year, and were so resolved that we decided to leave all our Christmas ornaments in the garage in Santa Fe.

And as I write this from my living room in Los Angeles, I am enjoying the sight of a lovely noble fir with tinsel, a star, and no ornaments. The good news is that our place in Santa Fe has been rented for much of this year. Seeing as how in this crappy economy we don’t seem to qualify for a re-fi (the bank that happily gave us the bad loan in 2007, doesn’t seem to understand the concept of free-lance employment in 2013), well we can’t complain about an LA Christmas this year.

Other good news:  I have 3 new brothers!  Their names are Scott, Dale, and Rick.  I adopted Dale and Scott, and Rick adopted me..  Since I haven’t talked to my oldest brother Charlie in nearly 3 years (after a very Jerry Springer New Years Day) this seems like a decent dose of overcompensation.  At the very start of the year, I got the word that my niece, Cristy (age 48), was about to succumb to her cancer and flew up to Washington state to see her.  I ended up staying throughout her 5 day hospice, helping out her husband Rick and taking shifts with other family.  Camping out with my nephews (Christy’s older brothers Scott and Dale) on the living room floor, I was struck by how familiar this felt.  How much I missed my own brothers, and how these boys were losing their own little sister.  On Mothers’ day, Rick (the widow) was evidently experiencing a milestone.  In a Happy Mother’s Day text, he asked if I would be his sister, and of course I accepted. It’s all good.  Well, except for the part where new love is born out of loss and hardship.

Somewhere between Christmas and Cristy’s passing, I prepped and shot the teaser for a movie in LA that I hope to produce.  I discovered a new business model for independent film.  If you shoot between Christmas and new years, you get everything, and nearly everybody, for free.  Film people can’t sit still, even when the town is dead.  The good news is that everything went great, and I was very pleased with what we eventually put together to help raise $ for the full movie.  (you can watch it at http://youtu.be/PaHBfdWxzJA).  The bad news is that progress on this project has been sluggish, and we’ve had to perform CPR on it several times.  I’m between chest compressions as I write this.

Work-wise, it’s been a prosperous year.  Dennis worked on a terrific TV show called “The Bridge” as UPM/Co-Producer, and will return for a second season in Jan.  It even shot in LA for a change!   I was the one who had to go on location this year, working in New York on the pilot for “The Blacklist.”  The show was a great excuse to hang out with all of my friends. But the best part was hanging out every weekend with Dennis’ son Chance and his beautiful family in Brooklyn (wife Emma, and their kids Honor, Ellis, and Carter).  It’s always a funny struggle to visit with them and establish my identity with my grandchildren.  My name is Cyndy, and Chance’s mom is also named Cyndy.  Yes, that’s right.  The kids have 2 grandmothers named Cyndy. (Yes, Dennis married 2 women with the name Cyndy). I finally got beyond being the imposter grandma. I had a swank apartment on the east side, and managed to finally establish myself as “Grandma Cyndy with the pool at her apartment.”  In short, we had a bonding time, and I LOVE my New York kids!  I would be very happy if they would stay little and cute for as long as possible.

Since pilot season, I have been stay at home mom with my kids.  Sam is 13, and Nell is going on 10.  They are both doing great.  Healthy, good grades and all that.  I couldn’t ask for more in 2 children (well maybe more piano practice). I’m reluctant to take too much more time off, but I got to say that being home every day has been great.  I won’t ever get this time back.  I can see their childhoods racing by.  Sam grew 5 inches this year, and is officially taller than me. Next fall he’ll be a freshman in high school.  Nell has only one more year of elementary after this spring, and is getting pretty good about bossing me around.  Where does the time go?

With the stay at home mom routine, I finally got some writing done this year.  First I started blogging about my mom’s family’s vaudeville roots.  If you google “cyndy fuj’s vaudeville” (don’t forget the apostrophe) your search results will show links to all of the posts I did on “travalanche” which is my friend’s vaudeville blog.  It sounds really boring but I encourage you to check it out.  I have a lot of great historical pictures up there as well.  The blogging turned out to be a warm up for me.  At the end of summer, I started a workshop in my living room of “the Last Vaudevillian” which is a re-write of a play I began in the ‘90s about my vaudeville roots.  I recruited ten of wonderful actors, singers & musicians (mainly from Pacific Resident Theatre in Venice) and we started reading new and old scenes from the play. Many of the actors were also from multi-generational acting families. We strung it together one evening for an invited audience.  So I am out of the gate now.  I intend to begin another re-write on the plane to New York next week and intend to organize a public reading in LA next year, so consider yourself invited.

I know this is getting long, but I want to tell you one more important thing.  But first I have to tell you the story about how Nell got her name.

In 2003 were trying to get pregnant with a second child and we not having great luck with a fertility clinic in LA.  Then Dennis got a job in South Africa on a movie.  Sam and I came to Capetown for an extended visit.  Our gorgeous hotel room overlooked the Indian and Atlantic Oceans.  Within walking distance was the V & A Waterfront, where you catch the ferry to Robben Island.  Of course we went there (a couple of times actually) and you walk through a gallery where they sell art that Mandela created as a fundraiser for the AIDS crisis in that country.  Dennis and I decided to buy some of that art, and as a result we were invited to a banquet in Nelson Mandela’s honor in Johannesburg.  At the same time, I had stumbled upon an OB/GYN in Capetown who was doing some fertility work with me.  Basically, he had prescribed the same medication as the LA doctor, except that he made me do several blood tests to determine the exact hour that ovulation would occur.  While we were getting ready to leave for Johannesburg, I received a message from the doctor that the “day” would be the same day as the Mandela banquet.  “Don’t wait until after dinner” he said on the message.  “About 4pm would be perfect.”  Well we went to the banquet, and it was amazing of course. A long story made short, Dennis managed to be standing near the door when they escorted Mandela out of the room.  Mandela had just had a new baby granddaughter, and Dennis managed to say her name to him as he was leaving: “Zaziwe” which means hope in Xhosa (the native language there).  Mandela smiled and shook Dennis hand and said “Yes, Zaziwe!”   We vowed that if I was pregnant, we would name the baby Nelson or Nelly or something to honor him.  And the rest is history.

Remember Mandela. His passing is a great loss, but his legacy is tremendous.  A civil war that was about to take place did not take place.  A lot of very conservative people in that country – people that thought he belonged in prison for being a terrorist – were won over by him.  People that did unspeakable learned to ask for forgiveness.  Others who were victims were able to forgive their offenders. It’s an amazing story that we can learn so much from.

zaziwe.