The Infamous Nina Nightshade
Burlesque Performer, Producer, and Instructor
Nina Nightshade Productions LLC
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Motivation on Hiatus

1/30/2023

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Here's a little something I wrote April 2021 about a loss of motivation for writing... It taken me this long to get the motivation to put it up here. So... We'll see if I come back to this.

From April 2021:
I haven’t kept my promise. I haven’t kept up on this blog. It was mostly a promise to myself, but made public to keep me accountable. I am more likely to keep my promises to myself if I feel beholden to others. And yet I failed my promise anyway. Not because I forgot, but because, like many this past year, I lost my creative drive. Well, here I am again. It is still hard to stay motivated, but I am building it back. And for my return to writing, I am starting with a short essay describing my lost battle with trying to hold onto my creativity.
 
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A notebook sits open on a table. A page is filled with looping letters and barely legible words. Some lines are written in a careful hand like it is a love letter written by a wistful teenage girl. Other lines are crammed with words made of scratches that are messy and give the viewer a sense of anxiety, lines that scream with the impatience of a hand that cannot keep up with the mind it is attached to. All across the page there are scribbles. There are blocks where one continuous line loops over and over until the words underneath are buried. There are violent slashes that hex out words that refuse to deny their existence. If these endless loops and aggressive slashes were placed in red pen one might imagine at giant “F” circled at the top by a sadistic teacher.
 
A ballpoint pen, that cheap kind with the messy ink and the logo of some random business, taps on the bottom of the page making a constellation of blue dots. Tap, tap, tap goes the pen until it seems to come to a decision. The ballpoint stabs into the lower left corner of the page and grinds a long, slow, continuous line up to the top right hand corner of the page. The mark it leaves behind implies the universal symbol for a single word: NO. No, you cannot read this. No, these words are not worthy. No. The pen bounces down onto the notebook leaving one last small smear of ink before slipping off the paper and clattering onto the table.
 
Fingers spread wide across the page pressing down on the forbidden words. Ink smears from the freshly made line across the page. The fingers begin to slowly pull themselves into a fist. The tension between flesh and paper forces the page to wrinkle and fold. As the hand continues to implode the sheet of rejected words the secured edge gives way, releasing from the coils that bind it to the notebook. As each coil releases its grip on the sheet, a sharp “thip” emits from the book.
 
The fingers finally turn tightly into the palm with the paper crumpled beneath and rests there for a bit. Then in a burst of motion the fingers splay wide. The crumpled wad of paper and the words it holds are released. The sheet slides across the table until there is no more table to cross. From there the words fall off the table edge into the abyss.
 
Softly, it lands with a whisper like dry leave in a breeze. A whisper created not by itself, but by a multitude of voices. It becomes another drop in a pool of tears. Nestling next to its siblings of lost words.

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The Corgis Theme Song

3/11/2020

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Yes, I’m an obsessed mother of corgis. So, I present you with a gem of stupidity sparked by an interaction I had with my lightly-toasted girl, Brioche. There’s no deep message here. Just a bit of silliness inspired by my need to de-stress. I hope it brings you a fraction of the joy it brought me.

The Corgis Theme Song
(Sung to the tune of “Part of Your World”)
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Look at this stuff
Isn’t it neat?
Wouldn’t you think my collection’s complete?
Wouldn’t you think we’re the corgs
The corgs who have everything?
Look at this room
Treasures untold
How many wonders can one Bark Box hold?
Looking around here you’d think
Sure, we’ve got everything.
We’ve got dog bones and chewies aplenty
We’ve got squeakers and plushies galore
You want tennis balls?
We’ve got twenty.
But who cares?
No big deal
We want more
We want to be where the humans are
We want go
Want to go on walkies
Eatin’ lots of those
(Whad’ya call it?) Oh quiche
Sittin’ at home you don’t get to far
Stumps are meant for jumpin’, dancin’
Strollin’ along without
A (what’s that word again?) leash
We wanna walk
We wanna run
We wanna toast our butts in the sun
Wanderin’ free
Wish we could be
Part of your world
What would we give
If we could live
By your side always?
What would we pay
To spend a day
At the dog park
Chew bones and then bark
While our humans snark
And they don’t reprimand their corgis
Just for loving
And always wanting
to bork after dark
We’re ready to know what the humans know
Ask ‘em our questions
And get some answers
What’s a “momo” and why are you
Obsessed with our butts?
When’s it our turn
Wouldn’t we love
Love to eat all the treats that we want
Corgs should run free
We just wanna be
Part of your world
***********************
Oh and, if you want to see more of Brioche and Miko (Side-Eye and the Derp), follow them on instagram at @brioche.and.miko.corgis 

Or buy their merch! https://www.redbubble.com/shop/p/45729280.5X2YF?asc=u 

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A confession of sorts

2/28/2020

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I have a confession to make. I’ve touched on it in the past, but haven’t come out and said it. I fear sharing it because it is the type of thing people like to internalize. I keep it to myself so I don’t have to worry about someone saying to themselves “If that’s what she thinks about herself, what does she think about me?” Before I make this confession I want to make something very clear to anyone reading this. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU. It is not a commentary of how I see you. It is not about what I think is right and wrong for the world in general. It is about me and what I think about myself.
 
Got it? No, really. Don’t move on if you cannot read my confession and not make it about how I feel about anyone else.
 
Okay. Here it is. I lied to you when I said my body size no longer keeps me up at night. It isn’t all consuming, but I have been struggling for quite some time about the weight I have gained in the past five years.
 
If you are wondering why I am so paranoid to share this confession, then let me give you this fine example. I was once backstage at a show getting dressed for my next act. I was performing an act I hadn’t done in a few years and the dress was not terribly forgiving. I asked another performer to help me zip up the dress and said to them “Don’t worry about zipping it up all the way. She doesn’t fit around me like she used to. Just do the best you can and I’ll keep my wrap over it.” As the performer went to pull up the zipper another performer shouted at me from across the room, “Hey! I will not tolerate negative body talk back stage! This is a body positive environment!” I immediately felt like a scolded school kid and it ruined the rest of my night. Thanks for that “positive” environment, friend. I had said nothing about how I felt about my body or my weight. In fact, at the time I was feeling really good about my body, I just wished the dress grow to fit around it. I was stating a fact that the dress didn’t fit around my body. I made no comments on anyone else’s body. Yet here I was, accused of body shaming. Thanks.
 
So, yes, it makes me nervous to share that I miss being thinner. I miss my old clothes. I really miss my old costumes. I hate my belly and the way my torso is now shaped like a bean (I HATE beans. If I have to be shaped like food couldn’t it at least be something I like?). I hate that I have spent the last three years exasperated as a performer because I am both too fat to compete with the “skinny bodies” and too skinny to compete with the “curvy bodies”. I’ve told myself a number of times I either need to lose weight to get back to something close to what I was or gain weight to at least have some juicy curves to go with a larger dress size. (Kudos to my hubby for not responding when I lamented this out loud!)
 
There you have it. I struggle with my body. A LOT. And you know what? It still isn’t about you or what I see as beautiful.
 
If I haven’t lost you yet, let’s move on to an adjacent story.
 
Years ago I performed with an amazing show called Rosehip Revue. At the time this show was going on there were a lot less burlesque performers in Portland. It was a time when I actually knew every performer and had shared a stage with them. We were a pretty close-knit family and I felt on top of the world. We were going places and we were all going to support one another getting there. Since then many of those people have gone places. Many of them still are and I couldn’t be prouder of these amazing humans.
 
Recently, we had a reunion show that included a majority of the key players from that era. This time I was both excited to be there and intimidated. I haven’t accomplished what some of these fantastic performers have due in part to their sheer talent that outweighs my own and due in part to their ability to hustle more than I have. I felt insignificant next to these success stories, but I also felt part of this was my body and how it no longer measured up. I felt like the audience who knew the show before would only see how far I had fallen from what I once was. I could hear in my head the comments “Wow, she really let herself go…”.
 
I let these thoughts poison my head all night. Because of this my performance didn’t go as well as it could have. Because of this I felt it was even worse that it truly was. Because of this I cried on a night that was meant to be a joyous occasion in which I had performed my most joyous act.
 
Weeks later and I had come to the next difficult phase of a performer. The show photos. The part where the photographer sends the photos and I get to look at the action caught on stage. One of my favorite things to do when sifting through show photos is to find all the weird faces and contorted body shapes caught on camera. I am a dancer. This means I am constantly moving and catching that perfect moment is nearly impossible for most photographers. I have a collection of photos where the photographer has caught that delicate moment in moving from low to high where I look as if I am checking to make sure I’m wearing deodorant. Cute.
 
I got the link for the reunion show photos about a week ago, but I haven’t had the courage to look at them until today. I wasn’t ready to look at my larger body (especially the ones where I’m standing next to the magical creatures in the rest of the cast). But I finally did.
 
Know what I found? I didn’t hate every single one. Sure, I started by comparing my body to the body I want to be in, but then I found one that really struck me. And then another. I saw for the first time a woman who had those juicy curves. I saw a woman who isn’t thin, but is looking pretty damned good for being in her 40s. I saw hope.
 
I will probably always struggle with my body weight, especially as a performer. I will continue to hate photos of myself. But I will also have photos like these that remind me I can be okay with that. I am still beautiful even if some days I have a hard time believing it.
 
You can internalize that last statement.

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How does the flawed character develop?

12/21/2019

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Let's talk about pedestals.
 
They are beautiful. They elevate a beautiful thing to a higher level so it may be appreciated. They call attention to a thing and say “Look at this thing. It is important. It is beautiful. It is a shining example of perfection.” Pedestals are also precarious, and the thing balanced on top must ensure it keeps that perfection or it will topple down. The scariest thing about pedestals? It is how much delight people take in knocking the thing off.
 
More specifically let’s talk about the pedestals we place our idols, heroes, celebrities and mentors on. We love to read about (or watch) a flawed character in a fictional tale. We cling to Alice’s blind curiosity which sends her on a bumbling escapade through Wonderland where she gets into situations which are unsafe and questionable. We accept that the Doctor was the hand that killed two alien races and countless others, but he feels really bad and usually gives them a chance to choose the right side, so we empathize. Sherlock Holmes is an absolute arse to everyone including his friends and yet we find him charming in his sociopathic idiosyncrasies. (I’m right there with you on all these counts.) We enjoy a flawed character. They get to stay on their pedestal despite weaknesses. Unless they are a real person. Then we must not only ensure that person no longer stands on their pedestal, we must burn down anything tied to them.
 
This idea has been mulling around my brain in light of the recent disappointing news that JK Rowling most probably is a TERF (trans exclusionary radical feminist). *if you don’t find this news disappointing, I think we can agree to very strongly disagree* I am extremely saddened and frustrated by this news. I am understanding of the people who are hurt deeply by this. Fans who built so much of their lives around the world she created only to find out they do not fit her mold. I used to have a very high opinion of Rowling that is greatly diminished with disappointment. I want to make it clear I am not okay with Rowling’s standing as a TERF.
 
Rowling was on an extremely high pedestal held up by literally millions of fans and hundreds of deeds. She is learning how precariously balanced on that pedestal she was. I don’t presume to know if she cares, but we do. On either side of the issue, we care very much. I fully support discussions about this issue, but the ire in response to this very real issue has culminated to accusations beyond the issue.
 
I read one post that said “It’s not like she cares sitting on top of the pile of money.” Now we are lashing out and being petty about it. One, she earned that money. She worked her ass off for that money. Two, Rowling was the first millionaire to lose their millionaire status due to philanthropy. She has literally been paying it forward on her success. This act of charity does not excuse her being a TERF, but nor does being a TERF diminish the massive amount of charity she contributed back.
 
I have also read many comments telling people to stop reading her books, stop watching the movies, stop using words like patronous and houses to describe ourselves. A huge group of fans are left worried that if they still love the Potterverse, they are betraying their trans friends and family or themselves. Here’s the thing, I believe the Potterverse is bigger than Rowling. It no longer belongs to her alone. It belongs to all of us. The movies. The fan fiction. Hogwarts houses. The theme parks. Even Harry Potter himself. They belong to all of us; the fans, the actors who brought them to life, the authors, the artists.
 
Yes, I am saddened to discover that Rowling is a TERF. I am angry with her. But I am also saddened by the absolute glee with which many of us have brought her down. I will turn my back on Rowling and no longer be a fan that holds up her pedestal, but I will not be the one to take joy in her diminishment.
 
No one is perfect and we must many times answer for those imperfections. Rowling deserves the anger from her trans and trans-supportive fans. As the saying goes “Karma is only a bitch if you are” or something like that…
 
Here’s what I’m struggling with the most in situations like Rowling’s. Like the characters we love so much, real people are flawed. How do people move past those flaws? If Rowling truly came to a place where she decided that being a TERF was wrong, how does she make amends with those she hurt? If your answer is “she can’t”, you may be a part of the problem. How do we come together and learn to understand and respect one another if we don’t have the ability to get past our anger and hurt? How does the flawed character develop?
 
My “full” stage name is “Infamous Nina Nightshade” (no, there is not a “the” in front, it is a title like “Duchess”). I’ve been asked on occasion, why not “Famous”? It’s simple really, Infamous implies flaws. Infamous means I can not only be a shining example, it means I can be a terrible warning. Infamous means I can be both. Infamous means I cannot be placed on a pedestal only to be gleefully knocked off. Infamous is a form of protection that with either help me weather the storm or buffer my landing should I fall. I may still be bruised afterward and need to do some mending, but I won’t be broken.
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The "B" Word

12/3/2019

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Let’s talk about a personal and professional choice regarding the “B” word.

When going through the exhausting experience of job hunting that ultimately resulted in my current place of work, I made a very specific choice on my resume. I very purposefully chose to have the “B” word right there for everyone to see. No, not that one… I’m talking about “Burlesque”.

In searching for a new place to spend a majority of my hours each week, it was important to me that I not need to keep my “other life” hidden. I only wanted to work somewhere that was accepting of my life choices and one way to ensure that was to include that “taboo” word in the very document that summed up who I was in one page.

It is possible that, of the many organizations I applied to, I was never given the opportunity to interview because of that choice. Some would argue that I limited my choices. To that I say: Yep, I did and it helped me to narrow down my search to only the organizations where I would never have to worry about being “found out”. I have watched many friends and acquaintances within the burlesque community who have actively worked to keep their performance lives a secret, who have been shunned by co-workers who discovered their secret and, in some severe cases, people who have lost their jobs over it. I refused to live with that kind of fear. I found a job that accepted me as a whole package. A job that has become that thing that up until now had eluded me: a career.

Everyone has to make their own choices. I don’t judge those who live their burlesque lives in secret. It just isn’t for me. It truly never crossed my mind to try. That is, until last week…

As most of you who bother to read this blog already know, I have decided to take on even more in my already overly busy life and pursue a masters degree in higher education administration. I am two classes in (with a 4.0 thus far, if you’ll excuse the boast) and loving this journey. I have discovered that I enjoy scholarly writing as much as I enjoy spouting my opinions in blog form. 

Side note: I truly wish I could share some of my writing with all of you. I think I have come up with some pretty decent scholarly writing that would be of interest to my readers. But the new-to-me concept of “self-plagiarism” holds me back.

In my most recent course the instructor asked us to talk about our career goals and why we are pursuing our degrees. My answer was simple: I see a serious lack of gender diversity in academic leadership (or leadership in general, really) and I saw an opportunity to “become the change I want to see in the world”. (Nope, not gonna APA cite that quote.) By becoming a leader myself I can not only add to the ranks of “gender oppressed”* representation in leadership, I would also be in a position of power to pull up other women, transgender and non-binary humans as well. I have strong opinions about why I’m in school, clearly. However, I stumbled a little when I was then asked to pinpoint a specific title I was looking to attain. What specific job title was lofty enough of a goal, but leaned on my strengths? I finally settled on Chief-of-Staff. (Because President requires a PhD and I’m not sure I’m up for that kind of commitment to schoolwork.)

While thinking about this level of leadership and influence an errant thought came looming into my head like a black cloud and broke with a rainstorm of questions: Can I hold a position of that much power and influence while still performing on the burlesque stage? Would I become the next scandal in higher education if I did? Were my career goals going to force me to decide between moving up the ladder and moving on the stage? Can I be a leader in academia when I am also tassle twirling while doing the charleston?

My first answer is an obstinate “I do what I want!” My second answer is “Who am I kidding? Of course, I can’t!” My third answer is “That all depends on who you are working for. Look at where you are now.”

I currently hold a director-level position at a small university. I also continue to perform. While I don’t advertise my performer side at work, it isn’t a secret. In fact, many at the university know all about my “other life” and some have even come to a show or two. It wasn’t taboo when I started and it isn’t taboo now. 

I know it is unlikely I will spend my entire career in higher education at the same university, so I will have to make choices in the future. I can’t change my past on the burlesque stage, but I may decide an opportunity is worth changing my future there. My current plan is to keep working my through this career journey and choosing to cross bridges when they come. 

I don’t know what the future will hold, but for now, I will keep using the “B” word. I will use it without shame and without apology.

*Note on the term “Gender Oppressed”: This is a term I recently learned from Dean Spade in a talk they made to the community of Barnard College. I appreciate this inclusive and simple term and have chosen to adopt it into my vocabulary.
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The Climb - An Allegory

9/30/2019

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There is a meadow in a forest. It is carpeted with soft green grass, clover and tiny white daisies. Surrounding the meadow is a protective forest. Each tree is strong, green and is a replica of the one next to it. This meadow is the serene vision of comfort. Look to the right, the left, behind or forward and the view is the same lush landscape.

Lavena stands in the center of the meadow and surveys the view around her. Everything is perfect, consistent, and… boring.

Tipping her gaze above the treetops she surveys the view again. At first all she sees is blue sky and clouds and then she sees... something else. Just beyond the trees to the north of the meadow the ground rises up. Trees follow the ground as it rises, but start to thin out until there are only a few still clinging to the incline. Rocks and dirt jut up into the air. A thin trickle of water can be seen cascading down from heights where the ground disappears from view hidden by a crown of clouds. Every so often Lavena can see ledges and green patches. She does not know yet what a mountain is, but she is in awe of this thing. It is not boring. It is lovely and lush, yet it is also savage and unruly.

Lavena wants to go explore the mountain, but it is scary and big and does not have the promise of comfort that she has here. She waits. She watches the mountain. She is laying in the middle of the boring, safe meadow when she is struck with a realization. The meadow is safe, but it is no comfort to her. She is protected, but she is not happy. With this new realization she gets up onto her feet and starts walking in the direction of the mountain.

She walks into the forest with an excitement buzzing inside her. She passes the safety of the protective forest, the trees that all grow exactly alike. In the shade of the branches she continues. The trees begin to change. She notices that outside of her circle of protection the trees begin to vary. Branches grow at odd angles. Some trees have trunks that twist and turn. The variation interests and excites her.

She continues on until she reaches the base of the mountain. Here the trees are still surrounding her, still varied, but now they are spread out farther. The ground becomes uneven. Roots bulge from under the earth. Rocks litter the forest floor. Small shrubs fight for the sparse light that reaches down through the branches. With wonder in her eyes, Lavena takes in this new knowledge. Taking in a deep lung-full of air, she is ready to climb this mountain.

Beyond the forest existing at the base of the mountain is the rocky terrain where a few trees still grasp at the ground. The rocks are a glittering myriad of grays, browns and blacks. Small pebbles cascade down the steep incline like a golden river sweeping down from shimmering rocky heights. Lavena steps into the river of gold. The pebbles shift beneath her weight and crunch under her feet.

On a particularly steep incline the pebbles sweep away too quickly beneath her feet and Lavena is pulled down sliding on her hip. Her hands and feet scramble to find anything to slow her fall. A gnarled tree branch offers itself and Lavena grasps it. She pulls herself to her feet holding tight to the tree. Her hip is bruised. Her legs are scratched. Her shoulders ache.

Lavena thinks to herself that perhaps she made a mistake. She looks back towards the meadow she left behind, towards the safe and boring. No, she tells herself, she doesn’t want to go back. Slightly sore Lavena heads back up the mountain. This time she is more careful about her steps. This time she looks for other ways to keep moving toward the top.

After a while Lavena reaches a flat spot on the side of the mountain. This ridge cuts into the mountain just enough that Lavena can rest. She leans her back against the stone and stretches out her legs.  The ridge stretches out around the curve of the mountain. Looking down at how far she has come Lavena is proud. Look at how much she has accomplished!

After a short break Lavena follows the ridge. She does this for a while, proud of her progress. However, she soon realizes that this path may be easy, but it will not take her to the top of the mountain. She looks up. The way above is difficult and without a clear path, but it isn’t impossible. Grasping at the roots of snarled trees and jutting rocks she climbs. 

Lavena keeps grasping up the mountain. Keeps getting closer to what is hidden beneath the clouds. Sometimes she falls. Sometimes she slides back and has to climb a section of it all over again. Sometimes she finds a ridge to rest on. Sometimes she rests on that ridge a little longer to let her scraps and bruises heal. Sometimes she stays on it too long and forgets she is meant to climb. The climb is long. Seasons change. With these changes come new challenges. Sometimes she changes her path, but she never gives up on moving up.

Lavena spends the rest of her life climbing that mountain. Although she did break into the clouds, she never does find the top. The climb is rewarding, exhilarating, frustrating, discouraging, fulfilling, and generally a lot of hard work. And it is so very worth the effort.

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Artists constantly walk this line where at one side there is belief and passion in our talent and another side that says we aren’t good enough or life is trying to hold us back. The line is not a straight one. It is not always easy to see. It is possible to walk with one foot on both sides. It is littered with landmines, sharp rocks and unexpected turns. 

The worst of these struggles for me is the one where I feel super-competitive, incompetent, forgotten and frustrated. That space where we feel like the no-talent police are just grinning at me and sucking the life out of every accomplishment I’ve made. In this space I will watch someone else climb the mountain and get farther than me. I will be so focused on how upset I am that their path allowed them to reach higher up the mountain that I will forget to focus on my own path. You can guess what happens when we lose focus of our own climb.

Focus on your Artistic path. Make your climb in the best way you know how. You may never reach the top, but is that really the goal anyway?

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Shameless, Yet Refined

8/22/2019

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I am what my husband lovingly refers to as “highly principled “. I have a very strict inner code on how I believe the world should work. I often get frustrated when others don’t act within the same set of social rules. 

So, basically I’m pretty damned judgmental. 

That being said I have learned over the years to be less judgmental, more kind and extend more patience with other humans. Some of that comes from personal experience of others judgment and opinions on who I should be according to their code.

Now, I haven’t stopped being highly opinionated and frustrated by other humans on this planet (no power in the ‘verse can do that), but I have learned to keep it to myself a little more. To take time to try to understand the other person. To not let it drive me quite as mad. Today I’m more of a Cheshire brand of mad rather than a March Hare.

Still, I do hold some pretty strong personal principles and one of them is this: I am unapologetically proud of being a burlesque performer, yet I can respect others discomfort with my chosen art form under one condition: that respect must be reciprocated.

Burlesque holds a specific place in my life. It helped me find my inner strength. It took away the fear holding me back from becoming the person I am today. It gave me permission to be my whole self. It still positively affects all other aspects of my life. I have no shame in displaying my feminine form (with all its “flaws”) on stage. Burlesque is my empowerment.

But it isn’t for everyone. I understand and respect that. It is for this reason I am somewhat private about my performance life outside of the community. I don’t hide it. I have no shame in what I do. I will say I am a burlesque performer if it comes up in conversation. I’ll answer anyone without apology when they inquire about this side of my life. I just don’t feel the need to broadcast it. I let my work and my life speak for itself.

I have patience, understanding and respect for those who are uncomfortable with the idea of burlesque. It’s not for everyone. What I don’t have patience for is people who push their judgements onto me. I have zero tolerance for those who outwardly attack burlesque performers, physically or emotionally.
 
I have chosen to respect your discomfort by not throwing my art form in your face, I expect you not to throw your discomfort into mine. 

What do I mean by that? 

Well, every time someone asks me about burlesque only to sneer or roll their eyes, it jabs at my heart a little. Every time someone tries to pose their judgement in the form of a question (“Yeah, but you’re, like, a real dancer. Not a stripper, right?”), my disappointment flares. Every time I hear about a burlesque performer who loses their job because of the art that empowers them, my blood boils. 

Even the awkward silence that sometimes comes after telling someone that, yes, I do go all the way down to pasties and a g-string, is disheartening. These silences, though, are different. These reactions I am willing to do the emotional work for. 

Why? 

Because of my personal principle. (Again for the people in the back: I am unapologetically proud of being a burlesque performer, yet I can respect others discomfort with my chosen art form under one condition: that respect must be reciprocated.)

I realize some people need time to process that a woman would find empowerment and joy in showing her body and all its flaws on stage. People sometimes need a moment to remember who I was before this piece of information was added to their catalog of “Nina”. That I am still that person. It is my genuine hope that they are taking time to understand and this is a reciprocation of that respect.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a difference between the people who think me being a burlesque performer is awesome and those who are uncomfortable with it. I am less guarded and filtered with those who embrace it. Yet I can have healthy relationships with both. Some people I adore in my life do things that make my eyebrow raise, I can only expect I am the same for them.

I “came out” to my mother about burlesque by writing a long letter just after I was accepted to perform at the 2011 Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekender. This show was a really big deal. It felt false to not talk about it with her, but I was afraid of how she would react. Would she be disappointed in her daughter? Would she yell at me? Would she (worst of all) just pretend like she never got the letter? I was a ball of nerves about it. But knowing my mother, I shouldn’t have been. Truth is I learned most of my patience and understanding from her. Her response came in a long letter where her final words were, “I don’t understand it, but I support you in whatever makes you happy.”

Other people have a different set of personal ideas on how the world should work. That’s okay. I only ask that we not hurt others with our own code. So this is one principle I expect everyone in my life to follow: Be like my mother. You don’t have to understand what makes us fulfilled, empowered, and happy, but you do have to respect it. 

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Of Humility and Pride

7/20/2019

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“Careful the things you say
Children will listen
Careful the things you do
Children will see
And learn
Children may not obey
But children will listen
Children will look to you
For which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say
‘Listen to me’
Children will listen”
-Stephen Sondheim

Disclaimer: Children will listen, but the message they hear may be different from the one you think you are sharing. In my mother’s defense (and not just because she might be reading this), I’m sure what follows isn’t exactly how this story went. This version is how I remember it, though. It’s what stuck with me from my little girl brain. Knowing my mom, I’m sure my tone of voice was overly proud. It’s possible I wouldn’t stop talking about it and my mom was sick of hearing it. Whatever the full truth of it is, I know for a fact the end result wasn’t her intention. My mom still is my strongest and most beloved role model. She gave me my independent spirit and taught me to be understanding of others. 

Once upon a time when Nina was a little girl, perhaps seven or eight, she was on a plane coming home from a summer with her grandparents. She was traveling on the plane by herself sitting in her window seat with a ginger ale and coloring books, proudly wearing the airline wings pin the stewardess had given her. On the aisle seat beside her sat a business man in a stiff navy suit. He had a briefcase on the empty seat between them, both tray tables open to spread out his many papers, a calculator and a pen. This was the era before laptop computers.

As a mostly only child (half-siblings you don’t live with or see often make for “mostly” an only child), I was pretty good at keeping myself entertained. When the coloring books and word search puzzles lost their appeal, one of the things I liked to do was sing. At home when no one was home I would sometimes belt out whatever was my current favorite song. In public I would sing under my breath. I still like to sing in my car like no one is watching.

Side note: I have always been amused by the fact that we all seem to feel isolated and free when we are in our cars. I am in a box surrounded by windows and yet I will dance, gesticulate, sing and make weird faces when I’m in the car by myself. I’ve witnessed enough other people in their cars jamming to whatever is on the radio often enough that I know it’s not just me that feels invincible in my metal and glass box on wheels. Okay, getting back to the tiny Nina on the plane…

My crayons were long forgotten. My ginger ale mostly just sweetly flavored ice cubes. I was staring out the window of the plane getting lost in the fluffy clouds and imagining myself curling one around me like the softest blanket. I was also singing to myself, probably “Puff the Magic Dragon” and “Scarlet Ribbons” as both songs had special sentiments that stick with me today.

Then came the time to get ready to land. I gathered up my crayons and put them into my bag with my coloring books. Meanwhile, the man next to me shuffled his papers together and snapped them closed in his brick of a briefcase. The stewardess came by and I held my now empty cup out. My arms were so short the business man had to take it from me to reach the trash bag. It was the only time on this flight he acknowledged me.

After handing the stewardess my cup he smiled at me and said, “I was a little worried when I had to sit next to a kid, but you’re really great. Thanks for letting my spread all my stuff out.”

“Sure,” I replied feeling just as awkward about talking to a stranger as I do now.

Then he leaned toward me conspiratorially, “And, hey, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard your singing. You should know you are really good. Your voice is beautiful. I think you could even be a singer someday.”

“Thanks,” I said feeling really excited by the compliment.

The business man then went back to prepping for the landing. We landed. I got off the plane and ran straight into my mom’s arms. I was so happy to be home. 

I chattered to my mom all the way home about my trip. About the road trip we had taken to the Grand Canyon, the donuts Gramps and I would get almost every morning and the Bearobics* tape Grams had bought me.

*I’m sure you are dying to know… Bearobics is aerobics with your teddy bear.

After we were home and unpacking my bags I shared with my mom the incredible compliment I got on the plane, how the man said I was a wonderful singer and he was really impressed.

My mom’s response to this was to tell me I shouldn’t be boastful. She didn’t say a word about my singing ability or if I had deserved the compliment.

My pride was squashed by guilt. I still vividly remember the physical feeling of that moment when I was told the need for humility far outweighed my need to be proud. That one comment, that my mom probably doesn’t even remember, seeped into my being and took away what little confidence I had to share my accomplishments.

That feeling comes back every time I want to share something I am proud of, even today. I feel guilt when I want to share how well a new act went or tell someone about I show I have coming up that I’m really excited about. I feel the need to downplay my biggest moments. I still get anxiety when I sing solo in front of anyone. I panic when I have to advocate for myself to get the promotion at work I know I truly deserve. I let the need for humility cast too-dark shadows on my accomplishments until I feel forgotten in those dark spaces.

Humility is a quality I highly value. Humility allows people to value each other and work together. Humility allows us to grow by accepting that we have more to learn and accomplish. 

However, too much of a good thing can also be harmful. Too often I have seen humility become a looming beast. Too much humility will stop someone from advocating for themselves. We will make ourselves appear smaller and are then perceived as weaker. I can think of so many times in my life when I didn’t speak up when I should have. I can think of so many moments where I had an opportunity to grow if I hadn’t been so busy making myself smaller. I’m disheartened to think of all the compliments I dismissed and excused away because I didn’t want to believe I deserved them.

I’ve always been a late bloomer, but it’s never too late to change. I’m learning to balance my humility with a healthy dose of self advocacy. I’m learning to ask for what I need without demanding it. I’m learning how to take a compliment. I’m taking my growth into my own hands rather than waiting for someone to give me permission.

Another side note because it’s my blog and proper writing be damned: Learning how to take a compliment starts with remembering the compliment tells you more about the person giving it and less about you. As someone else once told me, by dismissing the compliment you are in a sense telling this person their opinion is wrong. Is that really what you want someone to walk away feeling? Take that reverse psychology!

So, here I am now, writing because I think I have some ability in doing it and asking the world to give me some of their precious time to read it. I feel I deserve that time. Not just because I think I have an opinion worth sharing and the brilliant words to do so, but because I hope it helps my reader learn something about themselves as well. Let’s lift each other up, be proud of who we are and what we can do, and do so with a healthy dose of humility.




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From the journals of a young Nina (circa 1997)

6/13/2019

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While I’m still hesitant to call myself a writer, the truth is that I’ve been writing most of my life. This month we will take a step back into my writing history. Over 20 years back to 1997 when a younger Nina was an undergrad student at ASU. My degree was industrial design, but I was taking an Arthurian legend course to fulfill my english credits.

I present to you a journal entry scrawled across three pages of an Alice in Wonderland coloring book (seen in the photo above). Yes, a coloring book. I was just as contrary wise and weird back then as I am now when creating. This entry is presented without edits (so. hard. not. to. edit.) to keep true to the person I was then. I apologize for every time I use “thru” instead of “through”.

So here you go, a glimpse of my mind just before I turned 20. (My birthday is this month, you do the math…)

******************************************************************************
We are the Generation X. The lost generation. We are the society of free ideas and empty morals. We thrive on a lifestyle of broken codes. We stand and hold before us our dying society. We have let our freedom to think override our obligation to respect. We have made pride of treason. We stand tall and proud as our world crumbles around us.

But this picture is not a new one and not as foreboding as it seems. We are the generation that are living the downfall of Camelot. In our childhood we saw the glorious blooms of that enchanted life, but nothing can bloom forever. Even Camelot, in all her splendor could never hold together. She too, in her enchantment and perfection, must fall down.

But life rides like seasons. No one would ever appreciate the summer if winter never came. The downfall of Camelot, the perfect city, exemplifies my generation. We are the generation that saw perfection through a child’s eyes, then we watched that perfection fall apart thru its own ideals.

We are a generation who knows the enchantment that has passed us by, but we do not struggle to revive what is already dead. But we are also the generation that understands that only thru this death can we be reborn. We do not follow this path of darkness because we have given up, but because we know the light is ahead. We are a lost generation of faithful souls. We are the downfall of Camelot and her rebirth.

Camelot, the magical land, the beautiful society, came down with a sudden snap. Corrupted from the inside, a small touch to the outside set it to the ground. But how many people could see that thru the ruins a new Camelot would arise? We can. My generation. We may be living the downfall of Camelot, but we are NOT lost. We are merely facing the inevitable. We must let go of those old ideals. We must open up our minds and find that new life.

We have not let go because we have given up, we have let go because we know it’s over. We must let go of that dead society so that we can find a new one… our new Camelot, the next level.

Do not weep for us the Generation X. We are children playing ring-around-the-rosie in the fields. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” But that’s not the end. Don’t forget, we are children, we simply get up and play again. This time louder and closer to harmony.

*****************************************************************************

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Six Reasons Why I Am Content Having a Muggle Job

5/23/2019

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I have a confession to make. I have a day job. I would even call it a career.

I know, I know, you’re thinking: What?! Tell me it’s at least related to the Arts!

Nope. Sorry, I work in an administrative role at a graduate level university. It’s health and wellness based. There isn’t a single course remotely close to being considered Art. (Although I dare say meticulously carving a cadaver over the course of 9 months requires a bit of an Artistic hand.)

But I thought you were an Artist! I feel so betrayed!

Some days I do too. I even have an Industrial Design degree. It’s not as high-brow as an Art degree, but it’s at lot closer to Art than what I actually do.

There. Now you know. I have a muggle job. It isn’t magic, but you know what? It is fulfilling.

Here’s the other thing about my muggle job, it allows me to make my Art. It allows me to love my Art.

Now, I’m not here to draw a line on where one crosses from “hobbyist” to “professional” in the Art world. That line is about as useful and lasting as one drawn in the sand at the edge of the waves. It’s easily blurred, erased, redrawn and lost again.

To the Artists I know out there who are able to work only in the Art world in some capacity, I am proud of you! To the ones who have made it big within their Artistic passions, I salute you. To the ones who struggle every day to make ends meet, but feel more fulfilled in their life work, I bow to you. It some ways, I also envy you.

But my Artistic path is just that: mine. And my path includes a day job. I like my job and I love the freedom it gives me as an Artist. So, here we go…

Six Reasons Why I Am Content Having a Muggle Job

1. Freedom to Create
This one is pretty basic, but let’s face it Art can be expensive. I feel pretty lucky that I have gotten to a place in my Art where it pays for itself, not many people even get that far. But it’s nice to know that the big stressors on the bank account are taken care of. Mortgage, bills, groceries? The muggle job covers those. It gives me some cushion to float the cost of a new costume until gigs pay it off. I have the ability to purchase the things I need to create the kind of Art I want to build.

2. Freedom to Say No
Nothing kills Artistic passion like being forced to create or perform when you don’t want to. With a day job, I have the freedom to turn down a gig or a costume commission. I don’t have to teach a class or produce a show. I never have to take work for an event when I’m conflicted with the venue or producer. I never have to kill my Artistic spirit by making it feel soul-sucking.

3. Refreshing Perspective
Having a day job means getting out of my Artistic head for a bit. When creating a new project, it is easy to get bogged down in the creative process. Sometimes I go so far down the rabbit hole I forget why I’m there in the first place. Having a day job means I must change gears regularly. I am forced to step away from a project. I have the opportunity to take a break and then come back with a fresh perspective. I may see a new answer to a problem or find that I was getting so distracted by the details I was missing the bigger picture or simpler answer. Sometimes we have to step away from our Art for a bit to see just how great it is.

4. Jackie of All Trades
I have a strong desire to do it all and know it all. (Shocking, I know…) I will never be the master craftsman who hones one skill to perfection. I’m too easily distractable. I like my muggle job. It takes a different set of skills. I’m learning something different. Doing something different. And in a different way, I’m making my mark on the world. If a master craftsman leaves his mark like da Vinci painting the Mona Lisa, I am more like Zorro leaving my triple slash in the walls and curtains of all the buildings I enter.

5. Battle Imposter Syndrome
Most Artists (and I’d even go so far as to argue all Artists who are passionate about their Art) feel Imposter Syndrome. That inner critic voice that says you aren’t good enough, that you don’t belong here, that you will never belong here. It is hard to escape and can burn out many Artists. My muggle job allows me to take a break from that voice. I get to go do something else that I’m good at. Bonus, I get to be surrounded by people who are awed by anyone who can create Art and the fact that I have the courage and talent to pursue my passions. While one should never surround themselves fully with sycophants, a few are good for the ego. Because I can step away, I can come back to my inner critic with the understanding that she is just one voice in my head instead of THE voice in my head.

6. I Like My Job
I love the Art I create. I enjoy the creative process. I enjoy the end result. I enjoy the community. But, truth me told, I also like my muggle job. It, too, fulfills me.

So now I’ve confessed. I not only have a muggle job, I like it. I’m sure it makes me less of an Artist in some people’s eyes. But, you know what? I can live with that.

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    Nina Nightshade's Random Thoughts

    Random writings regarding the Art process, the emotional roller coasters of being an Artist, character development and anything else that comes to my mind.

    If you are here to judge punctuation, spelling or run-on sentences.... perhaps this blog isn't for you. If you are here to read thoughts from the heart, sometimes flawed, sometimes at odds with themselves, then enjoy!

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