Clea Sanders

Confessions of a (Former) Forward Slash

Clea SanderS knows there are no small parts, only small actors.

It was the spring of 2010.

‘Dynamite’ by Taio Cruz was on every kid’s iPod nano, lunchtime handball games were more competitive than most Olympic sports, and Smiggle electric sharpeners had just been banned at my school.

There was a buzz in the air; partly because Healthy Harold had just visited and told us all what drugs were, and partly because our class was about to start rehearsals for our Year Six assembly item (AKA our Superbowl).

I felt quietly confident about my chances of securing a role large enough to get me out of class for the next few weeks. Throughout my primary school career, I’d already amassed a series of acting credits that were impressive in their diversity, if little else. My resumé included Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, Pirate #3, Endangered Animal Poacher, and Narrator (the role assigned by default to the students with the most advanced reading level and least advanced social skills).

This assembly, however, was the big leagues. Our teacher informed us that we were going to perform an original piece, much more cerebral than the derivative fairytale adaptations of years past. Punctuation Smart would be a gritty, atmospheric deep-dive into the inner lives of punctuation marks (plus it all rhymed, so the lines would be easy for us to remember).

Although there was to be no audition process, we couldn’t help but decide which role we were each ‘going for’. The full stop was obviously the star of the show, but we were eleven years old and no one wanted to have to say ‘period’ in front of the whole school, so it was decidedly un-coveted.

Personally, I felt drawn to the avant-garde asterisk, but there were two of those, and I saw myself as more of a solo performer so that was a no-go.

After being assigned to the role of the forward slash, a punctuation mark I considered criminally underrated, I was determined to do the role justice. I considered going full method and walking on a slant for the next month, but being dangerously clumsy, I chose to try and get inside the slash’s mind instead.

Did it feel like it was competing with the comma every time someone made a comparison? Was it proud of the fact that it had become such an integral part of the Internet? Or did it resent the way technology was eroding traditional linguistic structures? What was it like being appropriated for use as a mathematical symbol – was this the stigmeological equivalent of fraternising with the enemy?

Fortunately, some of these questions were answered by my character’s stirring monologue, which I am ashamed to admit I still partially remember: Solidus is my real name, but forward slash will do

Just watch me take over when the rest of you won’t do

I separate; I substitute, with talents I am blessed

No one can live without me, I’m in every web address

The fact that I can still recall the exact words I was expected to emphasise and enunciate but can’t remember my email password, seems like evidence of how little we know about the workings of the human mind. Yet, maybe my brief stint as a forward slash had more of a profound effect on me than I realised.

Could a simple / be the reason that I remain perennially in/decisive, constantly, ambivalently vacillating between either/or? The reason I’m always asking my friends whether they’d be keen for ‘coffee/brunch/ dinner/drinks (but no worries if not!!)’? Or is it a copout to blame your personality flaws on a piece of punctuation?

Un/surprisingly, I still haven’t reached a firm conclusion on this, a whole // years later. I have decided, however, that both personally and in the high-stakes world of school assemblies, it’s a/ok to be oblique.