Somewhere in my parents’ cabinets lurks a dusty stack of home videos on VHS. There may be copies at my grandma’s house as well; she is the one who would tape my siblings, cousins and me as we’d perform plays written during the late-night hours of our sleepovers there.
Wherever those tapes are, there they can remain. They are painful to watch: My sister’s plots about Principal Watkins (played by a cousin with a furry pillow poking out of the top of his polo), et al., are actually quite clever, but we were not the least bit skilled in performance arts.