Ma says there are two kinds of people: those who don’t know and those who pretend. We all know how this goes.

Imagine any play you’ve seen in a theater. Those who don’t know, sit back and watch those who pretend. Ma says how they sit back and watch their plays, their stages, their costumes, and faces, trying to differentiate what’s real and what is simply presented. The latter, what’s presented, well that’s easy to identify: the props, the scenes, the storyline, the conflicts, the resolutions.

Ma warms that the real, however, becomes vaguer. For what truly defines the “real” you’re looking for? Are you looking for showmances that move beyond the stage? Are you expecting real blows and attacks in fight scenes rather than fake dispositions that play with the audience’s perspective? Are you wondering if that young tree on stage is indeed a tree and not just made from synthetic foam bricks and polyester fabric? Perhaps. And these would be fair questions. I can’t promise an answer to you, but they would be fair questions as they used to be my own for Ma, until she asked me this: What authenticity could possibly exist in a fabricated show? What could possibly exist when from the beginning, you were just drawn into their perfectly off-perfect world with their characters?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

How would I know? Well, you’re standing in my world right now. You’re watching my play, my act, in my fabricated, perfectly off-perfect world. A world Ma told me to construct because Ma said a world of honesty would never be enough.

Repeat that. A world of honesty would never be enough.

Or did she say my world of honesty would never be enough? I can’t remember, Ma. I can’t remember.
Remind me, Ma. Remind me.