My name is Katie Willert and I am a writer and comedienne living in Los Angeles. This is a place (that isn't my hard drive) where I can keep the things I find on the internet. Sometimes I type things that are in my brain and they end up here.
My balls to the wall/kickass/silly/dark-as-fuck sketch team, DJ Faucet, is doing a ONE NIGHT ONLY hour long sketch-stravaganza at the Kirk Douglas Theater on July 5th! It starts at 8:00pm and the tickets are only $5.00!
If you live in LA, please try to make it out. We’ve been working so hard and I love making comedy with these folks.
If you don’t live in LA, please pass this along to your friends that do! It’s going to be a really fun show!
So many amazing, talented, and strong women that I know have posted their experiences of simply being a women in our society. Here are a few of mine:
- Having “SLUT!” yelled at me from across the quad for the first couple of months of my freshman year of high school as a result of making out with a boy the summer prior, being manipulated into giving him a blowjob, and then having him tell a whole lot of people about it.
- Being at a park with a little girl that I sometimes nanny and having a man sit on a park bench close to us, aggressively mumbling things like “I’m gonna fuck you so bad” “Oh those fucking tits” “Suck my dick” and a whole lot more. I got the little girl out of there immediately and called the cops, but he had gone already. I took her home and left for rehearsal feeling so sad and gross and uncomfortable. I went to Jack In the Box for a burger because I just needed to eat my feelings. On the walk from there to the iO, a car full of men pulled up alongside me and catcalled me from the window. Double whammy.
- My friend Meg lives around the corner from me. It is about a three minute walk. I am afraid to walk there at night.
- I did a Game of Thrones themed improv show with a mashed up team, some who I knew, and some who I didn’t. In a scene, I recalled the only thing that I could remember from GoT, which was a scene about a knight who saved Peter Dinklage, so he gave him a bag full of coins to get some prostitutes. The next day the prostitutes gave the money back to Peter Dinklage because the knight was so good in bed. A man on my team who I didn’t know IMMEDIATELY tagged everyone out of the scene, grabbed me, and tried to pull me down on top of him.
- I was sent to the principal’s office in high school because I was wearing a white tank top and “tank tops make boys think of the bedroom and then they think of having sex”.
- I have repeatedly asked in sketch class “why does it have to be a rape joke?”, and in doing so, been referred to as a wet blanket by male students.
- This morning it was hot, so I decided to put shorts on. I put them on and immediately became flushed with worry and thought “Do I really want to get catcalled today?” but everyone’s courage with #yesallwomen made me wear them anyway. That fear about being objectified happens most days when getting ready. I hesitated to mention this event in this blog post, because I made it to the end of the day without getting catcalled and I thought that if I mentioned it, but it didn’t happen today (never mind the thousands of other times that it has happened) that people wouldn’t believe me. How fucked up is that?
This is just a smattering. There are worse things that have happened to me in this vein, but I don’t feel comfortable sharing them in a public forum yet. Maybe some day.
I love being a woman. I love our compassion and empathy and resilience. I love every single one of you. Thank you for your courage.
Brenda and Sam had been together for thirty-two years.
They met long ago, sitting at opposite ends of a long dinner table, glancing cautiously at each other as their mutual friend’s oak spanning conversations reached a raucous pitch. They each laughed exactly when they were supposed to, but they weren’t really listening.
Slowly, Brenda and Sam grew together, their individual selves wrapping tendrils around each other… pulling them closer.
They wed one autumn day, under the trees in Sam’s family backyard. Pledging love and companionship forevermore, hands clasped tightly together, Sam watched the warm sun flicker through the cream lace of Brenda’s dress. Four witnesses stood silent, smiling.
Brenda gave birth to their first child, Augusta, on the 6th of July. Being wide-awake most nights became their routine, as Augusta choked colicky screams from the nursery. Taking turns deep in the night, Sam and Brenda paced silently up and down the hallways, soothing their little girl with whispered songs.
With little rest and little to hide, all pretenses were removed. Every inch of Sam’s character had been revealed to Brenda; every hope, insecurity, blessing, and fault lay bare before her. In this openness she began to trust him, telling him every fear and every piece of her past.
As Augusta grew, their love became stronger.
This was not because their partnership was pristine and perfect at the start. There were sleepless nights of jealousy, forays into infidelity, and the days where they couldn’t speak to each other without the fear unloading every hidden hateful thought that they had ever possessed.
But they stayed. They were two people complete with prominent faults, but the thought of losing the presence of each other over these human failings was far too painful. They knew that they could be better for each other.
Augusta, just shy of nineteen, left for a college situated clear across the country. Brenda tried her best to give her daughter all of the love and wisdom that her mother had given her. She watched Sam squeeze Augusta with all of his might, so grateful that her husband was able to give their daughter the consistent and unwavering support that her father was so unable to give her.
Sitting next to each other on the couch, in their empty home, they watched the news. Holding hands softly between them, they absorbed the words flowing out of the television.
Soon the sky would rain down speeding hunks of celestial dust, sparing no one. There was no time to cry or scream at the injustice. Sam and Brenda called clear across the country to their beautiful Augusta and her husband and their three sons. They tried, in that short time, to express every ounce of love from their souls, hoping that perhaps when this was all over and done with, these feelings would have left some indelible imprint on the plot where their house stood.
Once the phone had been placed back on the receiver, there was nothing more to do.
Brenda wrapped her arms around Sam, burying her head into his chest. He kissed her forehead, and squeezed her tightly.
Once the smoldering rain had subsided, there wasn’t much left. The buildings, trees, and cars had all burned into non-existence.
The dry wind picked up, carrying the ash across the town and softly settling it on Brenda and Sam.
Even in the uncertainty of their last moments, they had stayed entwined, comforted in the fact that they had spent the last thirty-two years of their life working towards something bigger than themselves.
And the world spun on.
Note: I found this short story on my hard drive tonight. I think I wrote it about three years ago when I was doing Pride and Prejudice at the South Coast Rep. I hope you enjoyed it.
In that one scene? You know, the scene where she’s just walking around in her thigh high boots and her cut out shirt - just doing some window-shopping to the rhythm of that badass, upbeat Natalie Cole song, ‘Wild Women Do’? She’s having a GREAT day. Then she harmlessly walks into an upscale,…