Chasing the scent of Love, Truth, Beauty, and Mirth, wherever it may lead.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Trump and Envy
Nov. 21, 2015--Journal Entry
coming into Thanksgiving week, one of my favorite times of the year. I love the
sense of holidays approaching, and it all begins next week, or really now, the Friday night before.
a bit of Barbara Walters’ interview with Donald Trump on TV earlier. I think
he’s popular because he’s a projection for most Americans of what they wish
they could be—rich with a big family of attractive young descendants (to a few
different wives) and a blunt way of speaking that ridicules all the people in
power who nobody really likes and who half or more didn’t vote for. Didn’t even
vote at all. Now Trump seems to be someone different. But mostly—my theory—they
see him as an enviable figure. They identify with him through their own
there’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe success in doing global business is the
Aquarian model. I wouldn’t be surprised, actually. The world is always vulgar
as well as splendid, and it may be that Trump is both. But if it’s Trump vs.
Hillary next year, it will be hard for me to take the election seriously. Both
are suspect in my mind. And unfortunately it looks as if Bernie is losing
ground. That’s a shame because he’s the only one whose platform I really
respect. For one thing, he’s clean. He comes from the heart, but he’s very up
on the details. Soon I suspect his horoscope will become available, and more
will be revealed. But his chances right now seem to be dimming.
time it happened, my wife answered the phone. It was some guy from the IRS, he
said, with a concern about some questionable reporting of our income which they
needed to look into.
my wife—she does the taxes—which alerted me to pick up another phone and listen
in. His accent was not American, but I couldn’t identify it. I heard him tell
her that our difficulty could be resolved, he was sure, if we would go to the
bank and put all our money in an account whose number he would give us. There
it would stay until our records were cleared of suspicion, and we could have
our money back. Possibly even in 24 hours.
was certainly not comfortable with this. Could she have the situation explained
in writing? The man scoffed at her resistance, threatened reprisals if she
wouldn’t cooperate. Did we want a law suit with the IRS?
Now I was
getting scared. I covered the receiver with my hand and called to my wife in
the next room, “Hang up and call the bank.” She told him she was not going to
cooperate any further. He seemed startled, said, “Who’s there? Why did you
change your mind?”
up. We were both rattled and kinda pissed.
the bank. They told us to rest easy, nothing like that was possible. The
reassurance was soothing. But how did guy get her name and phone number?
considered reporting it, but to who? Police? This isn’t local, it’s possibly
ongoing life soon covered it over. We had more interesting things to do than
file a nuisance complaint.
about two months ago. Today—Oct. 22 around (EDT)—I
answered the phone. A man with a non-American accent asked for my wife. I said
she was not available. He said he was a technician from Microsoft with some
urgent news about our Windows 10 computer. That’s my computer. He said it was
in a dangerously vulnerable state which at some imminent moment would cause me
irreparable damage, like massive identity theft, unless I followed his simple
quite suspicious, but he was very insistent, and like most who use computers, I
don’t know how they work. Yet I’m increasingly dependent on mine, and I know
what it’s like when a computer crashes. It’s a hassle I don’t need.
listened to what the guy had to say.
directed me to open some programs I didn’t even know were in my computer. It
took awhile, because I couldn’t understand his accent very well, but he was
very persistent and finally guided me to a small screen which had over 10,000
red-alert Error messages listed. This, indeed, looked dire to me, so after much
back and forth on what I should click on, my friendly technician guided me to a screen where I was to type an internet address he gave me, and I typed it. Then he told me to click on open.
have written the address down. But it was like nothing I recognized, certainly
not a Microsoft address. I saw him leading me to a website where he could get
into my computer. He wanted to steal my information, not protect it, as he kept
the guy we were through, I thought he was a scammer, and I hung up. He called
me right back, I picked up, and we had another short exchange of some heat,
since it became obvious he didn’t know my name. He knew my wife’s name and
assumed they were the same. But they’re not, and she has an iPad, not a
got all this clear in my mind, I hung up the second time and turned on the
answering machine. Sure enough, he called again and threatened bad outcomes for
thirty seconds until our machine cut him off with a beep. Good riddance to bad
garbage, as we used to say.
looked more closely into what all those error messages are about. They seem
like routine reports, a log of the machine’s actions when an error occurs in a
program or online. I looked at a number of them randomly. They seem to be
systemic, the result of unforeseen glitches in an increasingly complex
technological environment. How does this put my computer at high risk?
other hand, what is this information for? Who needs it, and for what?
one thing is clear, though. My wife’s information has been breached. I don’t
know enough about iPads to make a diagnosis, but she reminds me that her name
is on the Verizon account. So if there’s a breach, is it at Verizon?
From left: DD, Judith, C.J., Maddie, Betty, and Jack
I don’t know what moved me more, the
ringing applause or the smiles of delight on the faces of my fellow poet-actors
as we took our bows last Saturday night, May 16, after our second and final
performance of “A Conversation About Race Among Poets.”
(For background, see Part 1, below.)
We’d attempted something difficult,
and apparently we’d pulled it off. It was hardly noticed, of course, in the
wider urban frenzy of things-to-do on a beautiful May weekend. I suppose over
the two nights we attracted no more than thirty-five paying customers.
But they stayed afterwards. They
engaged with our poems, they understood the flow of the show, and they shared
their perspectives, not just about the show but about race in America, in Ferguson, in New York City, in Baltimore. In Norfolk, Virginia.
The conversation continued well
beyond the last poem.
And we’d done it. We’d accomplished
I find it hard now to put my script
away. It’s loaded with nostalgia, after long hours spent compiling it, breaking
it down into theatrical beats, finding the staging, learning my own parts, practicing
and polishing and practicing some more, my script going with me to work, to the
beach, to rehearsal. It was at the center of my life for the past few weeks, a
living thing, with all its penciled notes and edits in the margins. I leave it
lying on top of the pile on my shelf of current projects. Can it really be
The freshness of this reminds me of
some of the early successes I enjoyed when I first began doing plays in my
hometown some 35 years ago. At that time I attracted a company of amateur
actors, and we went on to surprise audiences with a new kind of communal
theater which, however, could not sustain itself, emotionally or
Yet it’s such a wonderful,
life-affirming experience, that creative excitement, that spirit of selfless
sacrifice which infuses the starving artist with exuberance far into the night!
How quickly it dissipates as soon as the real world returns to focus. Then you
realize you can’t really live on wonderful feelings. You have to have a
practical, daily life to return to, where you can renew contact with the source
from which that creative excitement sprang in the first place. You have to sit
with that for awhile. You have to learn how to re-create as part of the process
Boredom can set in quickly in the
re-creating cycle, particularly for a white male who’s worked all his life, or
at least for the better part of it. I always like to have a project going, and
this last one caught me emotionally. That’s because it wasn't just about race.
There was a message running under it, about women—women of all races.
Realizing that, I began to wonder if
gender inequality—males dominating females—is an even more deeply engraved
habit in human consciousness than race discrimination, or racism. You don’t
have to be white to beat your wife or rape your neighbor.
Actually, you don’t even have to be
Anyway, our project ended on a high
note. Everyone was pleased. We got a great review on Facebook. And we fulfilled
my criteria for the success of any production.
First and foremost, we got along
well together, making it easier to take creative risks by exposing ourselves to
one another’s scrutiny.
Second, the material was varied,
interesting, often evocative, and the performances were well rehearsed and
And finally, the audiences were
stimulated and supportive of our effort, and that made everyone happy.
Three for three is as good as it
Now, reabsorbed back into my daily
routine, reflecting on what was, scanning my mind for a clue to what’s to come,
taking care of my daily chores and responsibilities—not too difficult in my
relatively uncomplicated life—I sit, I breathe, I inflate my bicycle tires and bury some
compost in the garden. Soon enough it will be time to do another show.
All last year and into this winter I
kept reading and hearing in the media and elsewhere that America needs to have a National Conversation
I was part of such a conversation
several years ago, on a local level. It was called Norfolk (VA) United Facing
Race (NUFR), organized and facilitated by Bev Sell, who now runs the Five
Points Farm Market on Church St. downtown.
In that conversation we dug a few
layers beneath the veneer of polite society, to the point where I realized
there was so much more to talk about. But the six weeks were over. I wished we
could have continued that conversation for many more weeks.
I finally got my chance this year.
Poets who frequent the Venue-35 Open
Mic in Norfolk, including many of my Acting-for-Poets
students and graduates, have strong things to say about race and racism. Some
of that was aired in our Venue Voices show last November, when my students
surpassed themselves in a moving demonstration of their skills as performance
Maddie Garcia in "Venue Voices" November, 2014
But as the stories of police
brutality and fatal shootings piled up in the media over the past year and
more, I wanted to try facilitating a more ambitious project. I wanted to bring
Venue Voices together into a multi-racial conversation about race in honest and
fearless poetry, written back and forth in response to each other.
Some friends advised against it. “No
one will ever be honest about race,” my most cynical friend said.
But I stubbornly plunged ahead
anyway. In late January I began a workshop which, over the course of a couple
of months, I hoped would produce enough material good enough to invite the
public in to hear it.
A lot of poets said they liked the
idea, but in the end only five saw the project through to its final weeks. Six,
if you count me.
They are Betty Davis, Norfolk native
and retired police officer descended from slaves; Maddie Garcia, Dominican
descendant of white, black, and indigenous races; Jack Callan, of pure Irish
descent, who recently retired as vice president of the Poetry Society of
Virginia; C.J.Xpression, a Venue-35 poet
of Cherokee-Irish-Italian ancestry, and Judith Stevens, a native of the rural South and
active member of the Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment.
My own background is in the rural
North, son of a liberal mother, and white as vanilla except in the summer when
I burn my face to disguise my race.
C.J.Xpression in "Venue Voices" November, 2014
We six, on May 15 and 16, will
perform “A Conversation About Race Among Poets,” a staged reading at The Venue
on 35th. After each show, we’ll invite audience members to add their own
thoughts to the Conversation by responding to what they've seen and heard.
It should be lively. We are a bit of
a cantankerous bunch, though we agree on many things. We all condemn racism. We
all realize that prejudice has long run rampant in our society. Every immigrant
group has felt it, every minority movement, every new idea.
But in America there is no question that race prejudice,
or racism, is an evil promulgated by whites on all other races but falling
particularly heavily throughout our history on African slaves and their
These are the people on whose lashed
and bleeding backs America’s economic wealth was built, making the American
South before the Civil War the acknowledged Cotton King of the world, as I
learned in my research for our weekly project meetings.
And cotton truly was king for
Southern white plantation owners and Northern textile magnates, who became
fabulously wealthy from the profits of world trade which then trickled down to
many white workers but to no black workers. They couldn’t share the wealth
because they were property, like horses and mules. However much money Massah
made, the slaves got only what they needed to keep them working.
Betty Davis in "Venue Voices" November, 2014
To me, that sniffs heavily of karma.
White people today, especially those whose
ancestors were in America before the Civil War, are certain to have
benefited, directly or indirectly, from the ill-gotten gains of involuntary
servitude, usually enforced with violence. Much is owed that has not been paid.
So it’s an unavoidable conclusion
that in America racism starts with whites. As the dominant
American race—and for the record, my ancestors are overwhelmingly white—we
institutionalized it when we wrote it into our Constitution. John C. Calhoun
summed up the white patrician’s position most succinctly in the 1840s, arguing
against emancipation. “We have never dreamed of incorporating into our Union any but the Caucasian race,” he said.
Using this “Calhoun doctrine” as the
non-negotiable principle of traditional white male dominance in America, our
group covered a range of topics in our meetings—the genocide of Native
Americans, the horror of black and brown enslavement, the Civil Rights
movement, white privilege and
unconscious racism, the meaning of equality, the militarization of police, and
the emotions—the anger, fear, hurt, despair, and sorrow—evoked by experiences
of race and color prejudice.
Here’s an edited sample of an
exchange which appears in our completed script:
DD: Look through my eyes,
of the world you've passed on,
street to the suites
an ugly word
that curls the tongue.
forests, bodies hung....
BETTY: The freedom of my heart has been denied for so long.
That is why I
could never love in an earthbound way.
MADDIE: The time will come we will be so mixed
there will be
no need to check ourselves into a box.
JACK: The last poets line up
To save America.
about black and white
And we’ve got
to tell it right
CJ: Mental bombs explode,
Thought construction—in poetry—is
what Venue Voices is all about. Our Conversation About Race will be shared,
live at The Venue, on Friday, May 15, and Saturday, May 16, at . The Venue is at 631 W. 35th St., Norfolk. Admission is $10, all proceeds to benefit The Venue.
Reservations may be made at 757-469-0337.
Back in the mid-1980s, when I landed
my first living-wage job as an ensemble actor at the venerable Fulton Opera
House in Lancaster, PA, non-traditional casting, as it was
called, was encouraged in professional theater. There was an Asian-American in
our company, for instance, who played parts written for Caucasians, and I
myself played an Asian buffoon in one of the productions.
Later, as a director myself, I cast
African-American actors in a variety of non-traditional roles. Among other
considerations—like availability and talent—I stood behind the policy of making
more choice roles available to good actors who didn't happen to be white.
But something I never considered
before last weekend is how rare it must be for a white actor to be cast in a
role written for a black. In fact, without a background in non-traditional
casting, I might have shied away when Patti Wray called at on Jan. 4 and asked me to play Nat Turner
in “Nat’s Last Struggle,” her one-man play scheduled for a staged reading
before a live audience at that evening.
She’d had a black actor cast, but
she’d just found out that he was sick and couldn't make the gig.
How could I say no? Patti is my
friend, and she’s also my boss at The Venue on 35th in Norfolk, VA, where I’m artist-in-residence. I told her
to email the script to me. We joked about doing the role in black face.
The script came around I printed it out and began reading. Though
I’d seen the play before—in fact, written a review of it in 2009 in Thinking
Dog Reviews—I remembered little about it or its protagonist except that George
Davis, the black actor who played Nat, turned in a
I read the script through carefully
twice, making notes to myself in the spaces and margins. I dressed myself in
somber shades, ate a slice of Jala’s nutritious, freshly baked quiche, and we
set off for The American Theatre in Hampton, just across the water from
Norfolk, where the reading would be held.
We arrived around . Aside from artistic director Jeff Stern,
Patti and her Venue co-owner Lucy White, and Kaitlin Koch, the sound operator,
no one was there. I checked out the lecture room. Not many chairs were set up,
but not many people were expected. The Lighthouse Series, as
it’s called—this trial relationship between a well- appointed professional
touring house and a local playwrights’ group—had yet to draw much audience.
What chairs there were faced a
playing area along one wall of the room, where props were arranged at different
stations. The actor originally cast presumably knew when and how to use them,
but I didn't. I asked for a music stand to be placed center stage, giving me a
base from which I
could expand—or not—as the spirit moved me.
I got some notes on sound cues from
Kaitlin, then I sat down in a chair on the set and began reading through the
It was about by then, and two or three people had
drifted in. As I read, still making notes, more people arrived. More chairs
were being set up, more people arriving, still more chairs. By the time we
started, not long after , the chairs had overflowed into the halls.
Most of the people, by far, were black, and some of them were looking at me
through furrows of doubt.
Jeff introduced the evening,
explaining, of course, what had happened with the original actor, though I
don’t think he ever actually uttered either the words “black” or “white.” For my
part—naively but fortunately, as it turned out—I saw no reason why I couldn't read the script
with sufficient conviction and authenticity.
The play begins with the prerecorded voice of a judge ordering Nat Turner to stand, which I did. My reading glasses in place, I moved
to the music stand to hear the judge sentence me—that is, Nat—to
be hanged by the neck until “dead, dead, dead.”
I've always had a fascination with
the whole process of execution. What would it be like, after committing some
heinous crime, to hear that sentence, absorb the finality of it? Of course any
of us could die at any time, and often do, but to know the date, the time, and
the method, then be led away to wait until they come for you, gives me a very
weird, primitive feeling of damnation and hell and longing for redemption. In
that sense a death sentence offers the opportunity to enter a sacred space where execution is transformational, the door to a delirious freedom.
I tapped into that emotion as I
absorbed Nat’s death sentence, and when I began to speak a voice I hadn't rehearsed and didn’t quite recognize in my repertory of voices boomed forth in
an accent I wasn’t sure I could control, and I launched into the play—an
approximately 40-minute monologue—feeling a bit like a white-water rafter
shooting forward through unpredictable rapids.
But my audience went with me, offering
an example of the validity of non-traditional casting. In the talk-back, which
customarily follows these staged reading events, a good bit of time was spent
on the credibility of a white man playing Nat Turner, especially before a crowd
who expected a black man and, whatever their reasons, were not so ready to
accept non-traditional casting in this instance.
But before it was over—in this
instance—they did. That was the consensus, and added to it was the fact,
surprising to some of them, that the playwright is a white woman.
There was a full Moon that evening,
culminating a holiday season of much sectarian and racial tension. But in the
lecture hall of The American Theatre there was a palpable relaxation of that
tension. Everyone was surprised, everyone turned on by an evening that started
out as a predictable disaster.
I don’t know what lesson to take
from it. But I can say for sure that I’m glad on that particular night I
happened to be in the right place at the right time.
It’s been a long time—not since the
end of Lent this year—when I've had the urge to sit down and work an idea into
a coherent essay.
But now that it’s Christmas again,
the mind finds time to give to itself, and with reflection comes coherence.
I've just finished my ninth season
of “The Concise Dickens’ Christmas Carol.” It was a rattling experience, to say
the least, and led me to question many things. Like, what the hell am I doing?
On December 1 I got hurt pretty
badly in a bicycle accident. The first two shows of my 2014 season, on December
5 and 6, had to be canceled. The details are unimportant, except for their
comic potential, but as my bike went down into a 10-foot-deep construction
ditch I went over the handlebars and landed on my forehead on the street.
I could have been killed. I could
have been broken in countless places. But I only broke my nose and tore the
flesh off one of my arms. It was ugly and hurt like a mother, but it didn't incapacitate me, though I did have to put off the show’s opening for another
(The bike was undamaged.)
So I could say I was lucky. But how
lucky was it to ride into a ten-foot ditch in the first place?
That’s a paradox that confounds me.
Somewhere between having the accident at all and not getting hurt badly enough
to cancel my ninth season lies a gap of ambiguity. Why did it happen that way?
I've read—and tend to agree—that all
any of us can do in life is follow our natures, wherever they lead. My nature,
I’ll admit, has a certain reckless streak, a devil-may-care spark of
independence. I try to follow the rules politely, but sometimes I just can’t.
It’s not deliberate defiance. It’s my nature. I can’t do otherwise, and so I
create experiences for myself, some pleasant, some not so much.
Can I change my nature? Or at least
alter it? Is my bicycle accident a message that I need to do that? If it is,
where do I start? My life’s work, such as it is, hinges on that attribute and
where it’s taken me. “The Concise Dickens’ Christmas Carol,” which has received
spontaneous standing ovations from scores of audiences over its nine years,
depends on that very same trait that plunged me into the ditch. On the one
hand, it produced a bewitching hour of stagecraft for many people, and on the
other a foolish wreck on my bike.
There’s no separating good from
evil, as far as I can tell. They are like Siamese twins, joined at the hip,
with only three legs between them. Embrace them both, or neither—you can’t have
one without the other.