DON’T DRINK THE HATERADEIt's all on you
by Cameryn Moore
It was in Winnipeg in 2010. I was doing Phone Whore and steadily building audience, but I couldn’t stop, right? So, after finishing a show and changing, I drank some water, pulled another wad of cards out of my purse, and hopped over the low-slung chain barrier around the nearby café seating. I approached the first table, with two women sipping at some wine. “Hey, there,” I began, and the older lady interrupted me. “I just came out of your show,” she said, her brows knitted together. “I was appalled.” “Oh,” I said, and took my card back with a courteous flourish. “Well. It certainly isn’t for everyone.” The people at the tables nearby laughed a little, and I shrugged it off and continued through the patio, but I could feel the woman’s eyes burning through the otherwise sturdy back of my long-line bra, leaving a little stinging spot on my soul.
I was talking through some of this with a friend of mine recently, a psychotherapist and a performer, and she noted how easy it is to take things personally when you’re a one-person operation versus an ensemble troupe. “With a group, any criticism or external negative energy gets diffused out among the members, so that no one person is absorbing all of it. Or that should be the way it is. With a solo show, it feels like it’s about you personally. It’s all on you.”
If it feels like hate, and looks like hate, then add some water and call it haterade.
Yes, it is. I mean, the Fringe touring community is super supportive when it comes to muttering into beers about fucking stick-up-the-ass reviewers, but most of the time I’m just walking around by myself out there, being all sexified and in-your-face and honest in the middle of Winnipeg or Calgary or Victoria, and acting all upbeat with people and yeah, sexy! But that is a lot of effort when some of these people hate me. Okay, maybe not hate, but you know what? If it feels like hate, and looks like hate, then add some water and call it haterade. Some people drink a gallon of that shit for breakfast, apparently. And then…
They hate the images on my posters. A certain amount of poster vandalism is going to happen, and sometimes people want souvenir posters (I think?). But when they slash Xs through mine while leaving other Fringe posters on either side untouched… yeah, it’s personal.
The words “whore” or “slut” push a big ol’ button inside and these people close down as I approach them in a line-up
Or they hate the clothes I wear when I’m out promoting. On the days when my garter-belt straps are showing under the tutu, or my tits are bouncing extra hard, trying to get escape velocity, some people hate that shit.
Or they hate the titles of my shows. The words “whore” or “slut” push a big ol’ button inside and these people close down as I approach them in a line-up, or squint judgingly at me, pursing up their lips and pointedly turning their backs.
Or they write ad hominem attacks in reviews or audience buzz, about my weight, about shuffling around stage, that I’m not what people would think of as sexy (Phone Whore), or about my lack of control over my appetites being evident in my body (slut (r)evolution). They’re galled that I’m putting myself out there as a sexual being, dubious that I have even earned the right to do so, and scornful of the idea that sexuality is worth that much focus in a theatrical production… all things that have nothing to do with the quality of my shows. Oh, yeah, you can see it. They are dropping bricks. They hate it.
They don’t hate me; they’re just embarrassed for me.
Or they walk out. There aren’t very many, only for Phone Whore so far, but a few. Yeah. The ones who sneak out, they’re trying to be nice. They don’t hate me; they’re just embarrassed for me. But the ones who make a point of it, who have no problem cutting in front of the whole stage or stomping down the center aisle, every click of the heel, every creak of the rented risers, echoes in my head, beats out a time. I hate you, I hate you.
Silly, isn’t it?
I should have known that I would attract haters as well as lovers, that my shit is gonna polarize people. Anything that makes people feel strongly sends a certain percentage of people in the opposite direction of fandom. I should have known it, but I didn’t, not really, which is why that lady’s disdain in Winnipeg, and all those other hateful things, hit me so hard sometimes. It’s a sign of how strange a bubble that I live in that I JUST COULDN’T IMAGINE getting hated on for doing what I do. Because inside the bubble I get love for it!
I know I can’t stay in my bubble, or I’d be performing a lot less than I do, and that would suck.
Inside that bubble of my friends and fans and sex/fat/queer-positive culture, there is joy and sweetness and fierce hugs and amazing feasts, laughing and strokes and hearty cheers and thoroughly empowering wolf whistles and “why yes, I will take a postcard, you make me so happy just looking at you, honey!” I find it hilarious—and awesome—that some people want to hang out with me and/or get in my pants for many of the same reasons that other people want to hate on me.
I know I can’t stay in my bubble, or I’d be performing a lot less than I do, and that would suck. But goddamn, as I’m gearing up for another six months of putting myself… my shows… well, yes, and my self… out there for haters and lovers alike, I am SO grateful that I have it to come back to.
No haterade in here. Just pure, tasty love.
I know I shouldn't be surprised that people feel entitled to shame and hate, but it bothers me nonetheless. You're completely fearless (or appear to be) and it's good that you're out there. For every one of the haters, there's probably ten (probably even more!) women and men who are glad to see your image and glad to hear your stories. Keep it on up hun. (It's Em P btw. :) )
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