Mother's Day; Never Forget

I remember watching my Mother in the family room ballroom dancing with my Dad while we waited for the babysitter to come.

I remember I told her that I just had to have the Mother Karen Jacket everyone was wearing at school so she stopped making dinner after a full day of work, drove me to a store where they were sold and bought one for me.

I remember Saturday mornings she would wear her hair in two long braids that made her look like a Cherokee Indian and a big kid.

I remember, "Jokes should be far from the truth."

I remember, "If someone trusts you with a secret, keep it." Consequently, I will take a person's secret to the grave unless otherwise directed.

I remember, "Give me five minutes to walk in the door before you start asking for things." I've said the exact same thing to Audra. Payback.

I remember her bringing one shoe to a purse store or a purse to a shoe store in an effort to find the perfect match for an outfit.

I remember she always looked fabulous.

I remember in fourth grade she came to my class and spoke about Haiti then made me wear an elaborate Haitian costume for "The Parade of Cultures" that took place in the gym. I was mortified. She took a lot of time getting that costume together.

I remember crawling in bed with her when I was sick or scared. Best. Sleep. Ever. Audra does it now and I cannot deny her.

I remember her handing me a crumpled brown paper bag on my birthday with an impish grin. It had the Tiffany bracelet I wanted inside.

I remember she saw every performance of my high school production of Mame. I played Mame. The box office knew her by name.

I remember.

I hope she remembers. I hope she knows. She is a good Mother.

I will never forget.

Why a Teacher Oughta Be Rich

Recently, a former teacher friended me on Facebook. She taught me theatre in high school. In other words, she instilled my work ethic, discipline, and a love of the rehearsal process. She supported my ambition and drive while teaching me how to set a goal and work toward achieving it. On her lunch hour, she would help be practice for auditions. She gave me the one and only A+ of my academic career for a monologue I wrote based on a painting. Most importantly, she saw my talent, not just the color of my skin which was black amongst an almost all white student body. She was Caucasian as well.

Mrs. Barry cast me as Miss. Hannigan in Annie my sophomore year. The boy who played my brother Rooster was white. Nothing in the script was changed. No questions were asked. My junior year she cast me in The Wiz as the Wicked Witch; not Dorothy. The Wiz is the all black musical version of The Wizard of Oz. At the time I was horribly disappointed and indignant. “How could she not cast the only black girl as Dorothy?” I railed to the heavens. I wasn't right for Dorothy. That was how. The character Evilene better suited my comic timing and ability to play broader characters. I wasn't the ingenue then or now. Never will be. Them's the breaks kid.

My senior year, she cast me as Mame. I was playing a musical theatre icon immortalized respectively by Rosalind Russell and Angela Lansbury on stage and Lucille Ball in film.

The character of Mame is a high class Manhattinite with a white nephew. The story is set during The Great Depression and World War II. As Mame, I had white servants and fell in love with a white man from the South. Colorblind casting in traditional LaGrange, Illinois; 1987. Mrs. Barry was not going to let the color of my skin prevent her from casting who she felt was the best candidate for the role. She was a pioneer.

I’d experienced losing a role because I was black in grade school. Nobody told me as much, but I knew. My grade school had four black kids at the time I attended; me, my sister, a girl named Melissa and a boy named Earl. Every year, my grade school did an all-school production. Each grade performed and a group of kids served as narrators tying all the sketches and songs together. The narrator characters were siblings. The conceit was that they found various items in their attic that inspired the scenes they introduced.

I was the only student of color who auditioned for one of the siblings. I kicked some grade school-ass. That’s not ego, I swear. Only a handful of kids auditioned at all. Some were inaudible, others not quite right. I didn't get cast.

After the teacher announced the names of the kids who would play the siblings my face fell and I caught the teacher’s eyes. I caught the teacher, really. Her face was full of shame. Clearly embarrassed, it’s almost as if I could hear her say, “I know. I just can’t. I don’t know how.”

There’s this thing about prejudice or racism that can be hard to understand unless you’ve experienced it, personally. When you feel in your gut that there is a form of prejudice taking place then hands down there is some form of prejudice taking place. It’s the same as thinking you smell gas in the house. You can’t see it or touch it but it’s prevalent. It is there.

The fact that Michaellene Barry, unlike the grade school teacher, did "know how" and didn't go with the safe choice, empowered me. I am no longer an advocate of colorblind casting which asks an audience to overlook the color of a person’s skin. I advocate non-traditional casting which encourages diversity and creativity in the casting process. What matters, though, is at a crucial time in my development, I had someone who did not choose to limit me because I was not white. I had a teacher who took her time and nurtured me. Her attention single-handedly enabled me to believe that hard work mattered; that I mattered. What a priceless gift.

Long Lost Never Forgotten

I ran into a woman I went to grade school with the other night. My husband and I were at a benefit and she was at our table. I hadn't seen her in almost thirty years. I didn't recognize her right away. When I first saw her, I felt she was familiar but I couldn't place her. I didn't even try to do the math. I just figured she looked like someone I knew once.

At one point, everyone started introducing themselves. When I gave my name she spoke it with me and then said my last name with a big smile. "How? How?" I asked as I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders trying to convey that I felt like I knew her but couldn't figure out why. She told me her name was Laura then said, "St. John of the Cross." Our grade school. A rush of warm feelings came over me. I had the fondest memories of this girl; now a woman. I realized that she looked exactly the same. Her hair was still down to her back. Always tall, she was now six feet. In school, she had a light, joyful energy and she was always nice to me.

We weren't quite friends in school. She was in the grade ahead of me with my sister Lissa who passed away over twenty years ago. Spending time with someone who knew my sister and is currently the age Lissa would be had she lived put my head in a strange place. I wanted to move across the table, change seats with her husband and sit next to her; up close. Throughout dinner, I kept looking her way hoping she wouldn't catch me staring. She was a window into Lissa's past and unwritten present. Laura had four kids. Lissa could have had four kids. Laura had a Masters in Education. Lissa was in college at the time of her death. Would she have graduated and gone on to get a Masters Degree, too? Who would she have been?

Laura and I had a lovely chat and everyone at the table was delighted by the small-world-wonder of our encounter. Somehow it felt as if Lissa was there because someone who shared in her life was there. Through Laura, I felt Lissa's presence.

I miss my sister. Her birthday is today. She would have been forty-two. It's been so long since she died that there are few people who are currently in my life who even knew her. My husband has never met her. My three year old daughter doesn't yet know that she has another Aunt who is in heaven. It's hard to know when to introduce the concept to someone so young. I had an opening when we were reading together but I chickened out. The moment is coming soon. She will know about her Aunt Lissa. This I swear.

I'm grateful that synchronicity, or serendipity, or chance, grace, or God put me at the table with my long lost past. My sister. Long lost. Never forgotten.

Reach Out And Leave Me Alone

On March 6th, 2010 I posted an entry entitled "Parental Theatre" "The problem is," I wrote,"that as parents we haven’t given people (outside family or paid employees) the permission to help us even though we desperately need it." This was in reference to being left alone to handle my two and a half year old's tantrum in a restaurant. Nine months pregnant and utterly defenseless, I was convinced that strangers should have stepped in and offered their assistance. I claimed that I would not have been offended. With a kumbaya-spirit, I encouraged people to reach out and help me and each other.

Fast forward to February 14, 2011. I had to run a quick errand with my now three and half year old and nine month old daughter. My oldest, dressed in her princess-best informed me she did not want to go by screaming at the top of her lungs and throwing her hat at me while I tried to finish a conversation on the phone while parked in the lot of the grocery store. Her screaming and whining continued throughout every aisle while I tried to get what I needed and did my best to ignore her.

I'm a fan of letting kids cry. Let me clarify. When my daughter is in full meltdown mode and I know she is not in jeopardy I see no reason in trying to manage her tantrum. Reacting only fuels her fire. So, I let her kick, yawp, and moan. People marveled at her lung capacity and longevity as they passed by. In between deep cleansing breaths, I teetered between losing it and laughing it was so absurd.

At our last stop, Audra had convinced herself that something actually was wrong and was full on crying, with tears, red cheeks, quivering lips; the works. I made sure she wasn't sitting on something sharp, her temperature hadn't suddenly spiked, and she hadn't swallowed anything poisonous. She was fine so I recommitted to ignoring her after I wiped her tears and said, "I'm sorry you are upset."

Then, Grocery Store Lady (a store employee) flew up to the cart. "What's wrong, sweetie? Are you having a bad day?" Audra's fingers were in her mouth. "Is something wrong with your teeth honey? Are you teething?" Audra nodded. Audra is three. She wasn't teething but she had finally gotten her audience. "Oh," the woman empathized. Audra's crying reached the stratosphere. "That can really hurt," Grocery Store Lady informed me. Thank God. I had no idea teething hurt. "Can I give you something? Will that make you feel better?" Audra nodded, again. "Is that okay, Mom?" the woman asked. Nice of her to ask me after she already asked Audra. Even though I knew it would be a quick fix, I didn't want to reward Audra for her behavior. I told the woman I didn't think it was a good idea but the disappointment on Grocery Store Lady's face made me buckle under the pressure.

The woman went behind the counter and started blowing up a pink balloon. I looked at Audra who had a most satisfied grin on her face. We stared each other down like Clint Eastwood impersonators. Her smile grew wider and I had to hold my face tight so I wouldn't show any teeth. Audra-One. Mom-Zero. Grocery Store Lady-Below Zero because she should have stepped aside and not gotten up in my bizness. I didn't need her help if it was going to get in the way of what I was trying to do. I mean, did she think I wasn't aware that Audra was crying? Did she think she was saving the day by coming to the aid of this poor child whose death Mother couldn't hear her cries? Why didn't she pick up on the I-am-ignoring-you tactic I was clearly employing?

Grocery Store Lady couldn't have known what I needed, of course. She is not a mind reader. Nor is she my co-parent. Not her job. Now I see that unsolicited help is not helpful. Help when there is some cue that the parent wants help is helpful. So, forget most of what I said in that other post (though some of it is still very wise) Instead, remember, in most areas of life, keep your eyes open, don't judge and stay out of people's carts (especially when there is a kid in it.)

In Defense of Barbie

Recently, I lost myself in the Barbie Exhibit at the Indianapolis Children's Museum. As soon as I hit the entrance I was swept into to all the good feelings of my childhood. As my three year old daughter busied herself at the Barbie reception desk and spoke on the Barbie princess phone, I could hardly wait to run ahead and take in all the sights.

There were life size Barbies in gowns, Barbies in haute couture by designers like Vera Wang and Bob Mackie. She wore an elaborate get-up with a mermaid tail that would fit right in at a Miss. World Pageant. Barbie represented every decade. She apparently ran for President and was a Soccer Star. Barbie was there in every version a grown woman, er little girl desired.

My husband sat in a corner of the exhibit waiting patiently with a rueful grin as I ran around with a smile from ear to ear. He doesn't like Barbie. He'd rather not have his daughters play with her because he believes she upholds an impossible ideal that makes girls hate their own appearance.

Granted if the original 1959 Barbie were real, her measurements would have been 39-18-33. Poor thing would have cracked in two. Mattel has since adjusted the measurements but I'm certain her traits aren't anywhere near the plus size region. Ooh, Plus Size Barbie! I like it. They did have the Rosie O'Donnell Barbie for a minute. That was progress, right?

Unlike my husband, I want our daughters to play with Barbie. When he protests, I argue that I played with her and turned out just fine. (Insert his joke here.) I tell him it never bothered me that I didn't look like a doll who was 11.5 inches tall. Besides being average height, my skin is black, my hair was in pigtails, and I wore glasses. I didn't want to look like any of my dolls; not even Black Barbie. Looking like Barbie wasn't the point of playing with Barbie. The point was to use my imagination. Barbie helped develop my creativity and sparked my desire to tell stories.

I created obstacles for her to overcome; triumphs and failures. I mixed and matched her outfits, and transformed the couch in my basement into a two story home by making the cushions the upstairs and the area in front of the couch the family room and kitchen. I could play Barbie for hours without ever thinking about turning on the television. I learned about focus and follow through.

I played with Barbie until the seventh grade; past the socially acceptable age in my neck of the woods. I was part of a secret society of girls. We were sort of like Fight Club. Rule #1--You did not speak about Barbie. A few key words and nods of the head helped us recognize each other in plain sight.

I am way, way, past my Barbie playing years but I want to thank her for always being there, never judging me, doing whatever I wanted, and making me very happy. No harm done here.

Spiderman: Turn Off The Light

"Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark" previews have been riddled with multiple injuries and technical snafus. Both shows were cancelled on December 22nd. Opening night was supposed to be January 11th, now it it has been postponed to February 7th. One of the performers is in the hospital after a thirty foot fall from a platform. The stuntman was attached to a cable that snapped. He was supposed to fly. Instead he plummeted--Stuntman? Wait a minute is this theatre or film?

Flying in the theater has been done before thanks to stalwarts like Peter Pan and Mary Poppins. The actors soar through the air, the audience is dazzled, the moment passes and the story proceeds. In "Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark" the characters spend all sorts of time in the air. They fly around engaging in aerial combat; executing cirque-de-soleil-type stunts. There is that word again: stunts. Is "Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark" trying to be a musical for the stage or a movie on stage?

If a stuntman for a movie is asked to take a leap from a thirty foot platform he is asked to do it a minimum number of times. When they are asked to take that same leap on stage eight times a week are the creators stretching the limits of the stage? Should there be limits to the stage? Is that a bad thing?

The show's creator Julie Taymor boasts about the complex flying and visual effects. The budget for the show is estimated to be $65 million. That sounds like movie money to me. By having the performers in Spiderman fly over and over executing death defying acts is Taymor blurring the line between what can or should happen on stage and what can happen in film? Do the producers of theater feel compelled to compete with films like Avatar and Yogi Bear 3D? Stage and film are different mediums for a reason.

When Julie Taymor thrilled the theater world with her stage interpretation of Disney's film "The Lion King" she found ingenious ways to theatricalize the cinematic. She let the audience fill in the blanks and see that actors were portraying the wild animals by melding the human form with masks and puppetry.

None of the press about "Spiderman: Turn off the Dark" has had anything to do with the acting, music or lyrics. The word on the street is that all of those things are quite weak.

What about the story? Julie Taymor calls it a rock and roll circus drama. Then Bono (yeah that Bono) who wrote the music and lyrics says, "We've moved out of the rock and roll idiom in places...including big show tunes and dance songs. U'2's The Edge: a co-creator is unsure of what description to use for the production. Bono has also deemed it "pop- up, pop-art opera" which he then admits is pretentious. Taymor has also told brokers that it isn't a musical. Is this show so good it defies description? Or is it so bad that it defies logic?

Meanwhile, performers are risking their lives doing things they probably shouldn't be doing. Christopher Tierney the young man who fell thirty feet underwent back surgery on Wednesday and his family is celebrating that he can walk again.

There is something insidious about pushing the limits this far most likely for profit rather than improvement of the content. The collateral damage is mounting. Maybe "Spiderman: Turn off the Dark" should turn out its light and be the most expensive Broadway show ever to be produced that never opens.

The Wave

Ah, the wave. Not your garden-variety-crowd undulation that happens at sporting events. I'm talking about the conciliatory wave that driver's give one another when one has yielded to the other. I love that wave. I consider it one of the final vestiges of humanity. I depend on it. When I get it, my faith in mankind is refreshed. When I don't get it, I am offended.

The least a person could do after you have made their day a little easier in traffic is throw up their hand and acknowledge the kind gesture. Do the people who don't wave feel entitled? Are they some kind of royalty who assume that people should defer to their presence? Just who is it that they think they are?

Recently, a guy on Facebook took the time to post the law in Illinois that states a driver doesn't have to stop when an ambulance passes with sirens blazing they only need to slow down. How stupid people are for stopping instead of slowing down, he argued. If only these simpletons knew the letter of the law these idiots would not get in his way when he: Mr. Smarty Pants, simply slowed his roll in deference to peril. Clearly, wherever he needs to be in these moments is far more important than where any ambulance might need to be. Really, buddy?

Despite my new knowledge of this factoid I will always come to a full stop when an ambulance needs to get through. If there is an ambulance there is an emergency. Something bigger than myself. I can stop. Just because we don't have to doesn't mean we shouldn't.

If it's a firetruck rushing to get a cat out of a tree or a policeman turning on his lights just to get through, I'm going to stop. I'm going to wave when people are kind enough to let me go and I'm going to continue to let people go ahead of me. Cause that's how I roll, T-style.

To quote Jon Stewart in his final speech at The Rally to Restore Sanity in Washington, D.C. "And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile long 30 foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river... You go. Then I’ll go. You go. Then I’ll go. You go then I’ll go... Well, that’s okay—you go and then I’ll go."

Err on the side of decency and kindness. "You go then I'll go." There's a mantra I'd like to have sweep the nation.