The saucer rattled against the kitchen’s penny tile floor as Rex lapped up the last of the cream. No one was home. It was easy to get lost in her thoughts when the house was quiet. Her mind reverted to her first few days of freshman year of college. Everyone in her program was still sizing each other up. Some came into the film program with a bit of a reputation. Teracita knew her schoolmates might’ve known she had made a documentary before college. Still, she never mentioned the award she won at the Marin Film Festival during her junior year.
As one of five recipients of the Alice Guy-Blaché department scholarships, the Alumni House invited her for a welcome dinner. The Filmmaking and Moving Image Arts department hosted this annual dinner during orientation week. The rising seniors of the school had a bit of a ceremony to usher them into their final year; they played a few select tapes to preview their work to the incoming scholarship cohort. The Department Head made a quick speech and moderated a 20-minute Q&A with the seniors on a small, lifted stage. The incoming freshmen were assembled in a horseshoe of seats, and they asked the seniors about their years in the program or any tips they should know going into their first year.
“Try to develop the concept of your freshman film as early as possible,” said a sandy-haired guy. A burlap string wrapped around his neck with an onyx medallion positioned just below Adam’s apple. “I’ve never known anyone to keep their first idea. Get it out of the way as soon as possible,” he said as he leaned back in the chair, wearing flip-flops; he kicked one leg over the other. Tera noticed that the hem of his khakis was frayed.
“I assembled a crew of five, a cast of four, shot for two days, and then told everyone to go home. I had to scrap it. It was crap. I needed to start with what I wanted to originally do. I tried to be too self-important with my initial concept — I’ll be honest: it was a Wannabe Garden State.”
A few voices from the audience chuckled politely. “Eventually, I got around to believing in what I wanted to do: make a horror film. Still, it's a love story. But with lots of B-rated jokes and gore and guts. What I’m trying to say is just go for it. Do what you want.”
His peer, a woman with raven hair slicked back into a low bun, dark-rimmed glasses, and a turtleneck dress, interjected: “Just remember. For your first assignment, you’ll have to do everything. You’re a one-person team. Most workshops after that will require you to assemble crews and casts, so be prepared to eventually be every role — director, DP, camera operator, gaffer, grip, boom. Every semester, at minimum, you have to work on at least one set to get your Production credits. Eventually, though, you’ll likely be part of way more. We all take turns, and there’s a healthy respect to see everyone’s ideas get made. Make friends. Make movies.”
The evening’s conversation transitioned to dinner. The table seated 12: five seniors, five freshmen, the Department Head, and the Student President of the Alumni House. Conversation flowed over oven-baked chicken, pilaf with bits of almonds and apricots, greens, and runny gravy. Teracita didn’t know anyone, and while she could muscle through small talk, she also wanted to make a good impression on the seniors.
It quickly became obvious to Tera that this dinner was, sure, a way to welcome the scholarship kids, but it was also a networking night to give them a leg up in getting to know the upperclassmen. At least, that’s how she saw it. With this prestigious scholarship, they were known as Aggies (short for Alice-Gs). This merit-based scholarship was awarded annually to a select few students who submitted a film project before starting their undergraduate studies. This was the only reason she had even considered applying to Sarah Lawrence. She found out about the program when she submitted her entry to the Marin Film Festival just a year and a half ago as a high school junior.
On a college message board, Tera read that the best experience you could get as a freshman in the Aggies was to work on a senior’s final film during your first year. Half the room wasn’t even 21, but once the Q&A was over and the Department Head slipped out, the seniors started passing wine bottles down the length of the table. The room’s atmosphere shifted. A quick scan of the group, and Teracita could tell which of the freshmen had never had red wine before by the way they gulped it down. As the dinner dwindled, Burlap Boy rallied everyone to continue the party elsewhere. Looking back, Teracita would say that was her first official night of college.
It was always strange to revisit that memory—a version of herself who didn’t know what she knows now. That first night of college was in 2006. If Teracita dwelled on it too much, she’d start feeling lightheaded. What even is time? She couldn’t believe she now had to set her age to “25” when stepping on the elliptical at the gym. She had the rest of the world ahead of her, but with her future feeling so ill-defined, she envied that former version of herself: someone naive enough to believe she knew exactly where she was headed.
“What was she trying to do?” This question had haunted her since that Freshman Year Film Workshop.
She remembered how the lights flickered back on after her class had just watched the first cut of her 11-minute documentary short dedicated to midnight snacks.
“Initial thoughts?” said Burlap Boy, the teacher’s assistant (T.A.) for Teracita’s class. The theater grew still, as it always did before discussion. The screen had been pulled down to project some of the early cuts of the students’ solo projects. It was Tera’s day to preview her work so far, and she was first up before two other students would share their pieces.
“I don’t know what exactly the filmmaker was trying to do,” a guy said from the second-to-last row of the small black box theater. Tera didn’t know him. She glanced in his direction while he shared his opinion but avoided direct eye contact to not fully absorb the searing embarrassment. “Good use of light, but that felt more like luck than intent. And it’s raw—raw in a no-real-style kind of way. I guess that’s my main critique: What was the attempt? It wasn’t clear, so I don’t know what to take from it. What am I supposed to know after 11 minutes? Are these just vignettes of different people, patchworked together? There were hardly any visuals of the food. Was it about rituals? The filmmaker needs to answer these questions and figure out what these 11 minutes are supposed to mean. I don’t know—I’m just trying to be honest. I hope it helps,” he finished, looking in Tera’s direction.
The heat of shame shifted from her face and settled in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to cool down. What was I trying to do? Teracita thought to herself—then, now, and likely forever.
She remembered how T.A. Burlap attempted to soften the moment.
“OK, Kyle, thank you for your input. Constructive feedback is always useful when we ground our perspective in something specific to the work. But I guess that was more of a meta-take. So… Let’s hear from someone else.”
It was going to take practice, Tera thought, learning through criticism. She knew she’d hear people’s points of view and would have to grapple with the attention. She took umbrage because she didn’t want to show her work at a midpoint. Filmmaking never felt linear to her. Her thinking wasn’t linear. The project might have been 50% complete according to the timeline, but that didn’t mean she was halfway through the process. That’s like saying you knew what the collage would look like while you were still cutting from the magazine.
While in her parents’ kitchen, now a year older, Teracita marveled at her brain’s ability to remind her, at the most inconvenient times, of all the big and small moments where she felt her humanity so viscerally. It was like that Paperclip in Microsoft Word, tapping the window and asking: Remember that time when… (1) your suede pants ripped when you attempted The Worm, (2) when that sun-warped lawn chair broke after your big ass took a seat, (3) when you gave your number to the barista and he thought you were handing him a used napkin, (4) when Redge got seasick on your shoe during the 5th Grade Whale Watching Trip. Her brain was relentless. It never ended. Meditation worked only some of the time. Mostly, she liked doing things that made her feel present in the world.
She had to stop thinking and get ready to meet up with Redge and Cal. “Okay, Rex,” Tera said as she picked up the saucer and placed it in the sink.
Tera popped into her bathroom and flipped her head upside down to gather all of her wavy, auburn hair into a ponytail. She began twisting and wrapping it into a tight top-knot bun. The flyaways she couldn’t quite tame, so she slicked them back with a wet comb. She then ran Carmex over her pink, sun-chapped lips and quickly brushed navy blue mascara through her lashes. She’d read that week that navy blue mascara would make her green eyes stand out, and she figured that was all the makeup she wanted to wear tonight. She had a few small breakouts along her jaw, but going out in The Mission was more casual than most, so she ignored the concealer. El Farolito was a hole-in-the-wall, and El Rio was essentially a backyard patio. For her birthday, it was casual. It was just going to be Tera, Redge, and Cal.
Tera walked into her room—her childhood bedroom, the one she was living in for now until who knows when. The closet held clothes from every stage after the 8th grade. A main chunk of it had finally been transitioned from the massive suitcase still standing in the corner by her dresser. It had been tough getting all her things back from New York. A few of her college friends were holding onto some of her books, and Teracita figured she’d just bring them back the next time she went to Manhattan. Her clothes, though—a mess. Nothing felt right or fit right, if she was being honest, but there were still a few staples that could work for tonight.
Tera stood in front of the mirror and felt content. She turned to the side to check herself. The tight black shirt was mostly hidden by the long, flowy mock-silk top, like a peasant’s attempt at lingerie. The thick flannel shirt served as her jacket for the night and a cover-up to blend into the aesthetic above 24th Street.
To get there tonight, the three of them were planning to take the L train to the Castro stop and walk along 18th Street, past Dolores Park, until they reached the heart of The Mission. On weekends, it felt like the L train left the Outer Sunset every 45 minutes, so if they were going to leave, they’d better get to stepping. Tera pulled two wisps of hair down by the sides of her ears as she checked the mirror one final time. She sprayed a combination of scents on her wrists, on her chest, and behind her neck — like sea air and lavender oil.
Purse, wallet, keys, phone, cash, Clipper card. I think that’s everything, Tera said aloud, quickening her pace to get out of the house and meet Redge and Cal across the street. Before hitting the lights, she scribbled a quick note on a light-blue Post-it to leave on the fridge for her parents to read:
Gone out with Redge. Text my cell! <3 T
