Witness to Protest: Justice For Philando March Part I

On Sept. 6th, almost three weeks ago, I headed downtown for a protest march: “Justice For Philando.” 

I went because I received notification from AR14, which seems to me a wiser group than Black Lives Matter, and because three African-American adults whose actions I have admired were among those who went me invitations. I went despite my intense dislike of crowds, an innate wariness of herd behavior, and a learned fear of being on lists and being caught in large groups that comes from being part of a Holocaust survivor family. 

Our city is shaped like a large stone axe, surrounded on three sides by a giant bend in the Mississippi River. City Hall and the Ramsey County Courthouse are housed in a large, gorgeous Arts and Crafts building, which sits at the corner of one of the major bridges that cross the river, and directly in front from a main boulevard that fronts it. 

I was told via Facebook, that 700 people were going to attend. Nobody was outside when I got there a few minutes early. Naive, I went inside City Hall to ask the security guys manning the metal detectors if they knew where the protest was. (Protests are a part of our civil liberties, so I wasn't worried about mentioning this one.) 

They didn’t, but they did inform me that the protest couldn’t be inside, because they didn’t allow any signs in the building.

I walked around the building for a while, looking for people wearing the black they had requested.  Finally, I found some other youngish white people. We all walked to the front and waited. A few more people—black, white—dribbled into the crowd. Then, we saw a large crew walking across the bridge. They seemed cheerful, as if this were a picnic. Some of the younger ones were cavorting. That's the only word for it. A few wore shiny construction vests. 

I felt very much out of place. 

I’ve been looking for a group to join, someplace to go for Phil. I so want to be part of a community working for Philando. I was hoping this would be that place, and that community. I want to work for justice for him. I want to remember him. I want to have ways to make his life keep on living, although I know that’s not literally possible. 

Members of the crowd began to pass out signs. None of them said what I wanted to say. I should have brought my own sign--Philando was not a number--he was a good man. Or Phil cared about kids. Or His Mother Loved Him. Among the gathering crowd sat a young black man, dressed, despite the heat, in a black leather jacket. He was on the bench that edged a yard-sized planter, one arm on his knee, his head on that hand, and he was falling asleep. I knew he wasn't a part of the protest to come--no one spoke to him or even seemed to see him. He was one of the invisible, ones, the lost ones, the homeless, the mentally ill who haunt our streets, and he had to be either drunk, intoxicated, or completely exhausted to be able to fall asleep amid the crowd and the noise. As I watched, he twitched, his body slowly relaxing, muscle by muscle, leaning forward. I was afraid he was going to fall on his head on the concrete. I watched, waiting to leap for him if he started to fall. Finally, I woke him. I had to. 

He startled. I said, "Sorry, sorry. I didn't want you to fall and hit your head." 

He put his head back on his hand and started to fall asleep again. 

I said, "Where's your mother?" 

"Dead," he said. 

I asked, "Do you have somebody who can help you? Somebody who loves you?" And then wanted to kick myself. 

He said no. He was having a hard time getting his social security card, he said, and his legal i.d. He was hungry, he said. Did I have a snack. 

I usually do, but I didn't. Phil would probably have fed this guy, I thought. Philando fed people. That's what he did. The man asked if I could give him three dollars. I don't give money, but Phil was in my head. I gave him the only dollar I could find, loose in my backpack. He put his head on his hand and his eyes oozed shut. The dollar landed on the ground, next to a piece of paper. I picked them both up. It turned out to be his parole paperwork. 

Then, as the protest began to fire up, I went into the courthouse. I explained that I was worried about this guy. The guards called a Ramsey County Sheriff who said he could call St. Paul Police to do a welfare check, but, he said, they'd have to send a car and the officers would have to be in uniform and if they came out in the middle of a protest they'd have a riot. 

So, I went back out. The guy was sitting up, more alert, but still invisible to the crowd around him. The protest had spilled into the center of the street, to the narrow space between the yellow lines. The chant switched from "No Justice, No Peace," to "No Cops, No KKK." I had a huge disconnect. I had just gone to the police for help, for a black man. We need police, just not racist police who view anybody black as a terrifying monster or someone to dominate. 

I put my hand on the sleepy guy's shoulder. The paperwork had said his name was Lamont. (not his real name) I asked what I could do. 

"Can I stay with you tonight?" 

I said, "I have a special needs kid. That wouldn't work." 

He asked for twenty dollars for a room. I didn't have any money. The homeless shelter was three blocks away. And yet--I know people who've been in these shelters. They're crowded in a room with hundreds. It's noisy. They don't feel safe. They can't sleep. And this guy seemed much more alert. Maybe he was just exhausted. 

I dug into the open section of my backpack again, and out came twenty bucks that I didn't know I had. I handed it over and looked into his face. He looked back into my eyes. I said, "You matter. Your life matters. I'm not your mother but I'm a mother, and I know that you count. Just hold on. Get through this. You can make it. You can make a difference in the world." 

I might be deluding myself that he listened, who knows? It seemed to me that he heard it--heard a fellow human person, caring. He nodded, a couple of jerks of his head, and then he crossed through the protest and the crowd, and heading off, walking straight, not at all like someone drunk or on drugs. 

The Times We Lie

Yesterday, in the car, my youngest listed multiple times when she had lied about misbehavior. 

She had:

Scraped the fridge: "You know that little drawing on the side? I accidentally scratched the paint off with this paper clip and then I thought, I can make a drawing, so I kept on going." 

Drawn a head with legs and arms attached on the wall in the bathroom (when she was very little). 
Hid under a towel with a friend and a pen so they could extend the arms and legs of the drawing in the bathroom. 

Hidden under the bed with several children at a birthday party and drawn all over the wall down there with all of them. (More about this later.) 

Turned the fridge and freezer temperature so cold that the ice machine froze. (That one cost us 100 bucks on a service call--we thought the water main was broken) though fortunately, the repairman kindly also fixed something on both the dishwasher and the dryer for free.

I stayed completely mellow about these confessions, for several reasons. 

First: Oldest is the one who usually gets into trouble--though clearly Little One is as capable of doing Bad Things, but much better at getting away with it. And Oldest was in the car, listening to Little One addressing the balance. 

Second: Research Has Shown that all kids lie. Even ones who get beaten, punished or humiliated when they're caught in a lie. When children are punished for lying, that simply serves to drive lying underground. This may not mean as much when the lying is about who snuck the candy or drew on the wall, but it will mean a great deal when it's who is sneaking out of the house to run around with teenaged friends and possibly get pregnant/drunk/STD's/in an accident.  We have friends who severely punish their children any time they catch them in a lie. With very stern faces, they say to very young children, "We will always love you if you tell us the truth, but we will be very, very, very angry if we ever catch you lying." And, indeed, any child caught in a lie is severely punished. 

Their oldest middle child (they have several) is one of then best and most frequent liars I know, and is often involved in my own child's admitted lies (see above, friend under towel, one of friends under bed, etc.) 

Third: I lie, too. "I have a previous engagement," with quiet and a good book. "I'm sorry, I did not see that email," when I'm pissed at the organizer's request. "Thank you in advance for your prompt and thoughtful action," when I know that the action will be neither thoughtful nor prompt. "I love that haircut you just got," when I think it makes them look like a hamster, but know they have a big job interview tomorrow.   "I'm sure that he was completely responsible for the divorce," when I know the opposite will never be heard but I want my kids to still be allowed to play with their little friends. 

I even use bendy lies, implications, like, "I can understand how you would think you were responsible for your husband's adultery," and the subsequent child this friend is partly raising, when, in fact, I don't at all believe that she's responsible for his callous choices. 

And we're not even getting into times when we have to lie to the boss because the boss is a controlling disaster but we can't get fired; or the many, many times when our relatives lied for their very survival, during the Holocaust. 

Lying, to me, then, is a continuum, and a life-skill. Frankly, it's one I need to learn better. I was once booted from a writing critique group because I couldn't lie well enough. (The leader had pulled me aside and said, "She's not capable of learning to write any better. She'll never learn subtext or how to write dialogue. So when you make those notes, you just make her feel awful. You need to simply praise what she does.")

(Of course, the leader, too, had massive blind spots that needed tender-loving lies. I tried, but failed in Lying 101, so out I went.) 

At any rate, as I heard Little One's list, I simply laughed with the rest of the family. When Little One said, "I'm pretty good at lying," I replied, "Well, sometimes we do need to lie in life, but I hope that, from now on, you'll tell us when you do something wrong. Look at us--we're hardly angry." 

"But that's because it's a lot later," said Little One, who may have a point. 

Then, Little One asked if I had ever lied to my parents about things I'd done. 

"Well," I said instantly. "There was the time--I think I was ten--when my best friend and I rode our bicycles far beyond the boundary I had at the time. We knew we could get back in time, and we wanted to explore. 

"Unfortunately, my front tire went wobbly. It wouldn't turn, so I couldn't bike. We didn't have any tools. We were too scared to ask for help.  So we had to run my bike home, holding up the whole front half of the frame, because only the rear wheel turned. My best friend took turns with me, thank goodness. We made it in time. Barely. We were exhausted and our arms ached, but we never told." 

And then, oddly, I thought of something else that I never told, also when I was ten. I thought carefully and decided to tell it to the kids. "There's this other thing that happened when I was ten that I never told about," I said. "We lived near this big drainage ditch that was kind of like a small river with riparian woodland all around it." (Of course, being a mom, I had to explain riparian woodland before I could get back to the story.) "We used to play there all the time. It was called Gregson's Ditch. 

"And one time, when I was ten, these two girls, Kelly and Heidi, sisters, they told me they wanted to see my bra. I already had a bra. And they wanted to see it. And I said no. Kelly was nine and fragile, Heidi was eight and built like a horse. And when I said no, they wouldn't let me go. They kept yanking up my sweatshirt. I kept holding it down. I couldn't get away from them. Every time I managed to get Kelly's hands off my sweatshirt, I had to get Heidi to let go of my arms. I was crying."

"That was sexual assault," said my oldest, and I felt gratified that these days, kids know, that they are certain. We didn't know when I was little. In fact, without that announcement from the back seat, I'm not sure I would have realized it (with certainty) even today. 

"Yes," I said. "It was." Now, it turned out that Kelly and Heidi had also pulled down Melinda's pants in her garage and stuck pebbles up her butt, all of which makes me think that somebody--maybe Mr. Ettinger--was doing something he shouldn't have been doing to his two daughters. In fact, come to think of it, I remember overhearing the parents talking about this, but they didn't report us playing with Kelly and Heidi or even tell us to stay out of their house. How times have changed.

"Anyway. I don't know how long we were down there. Maybe an hour, maybe less. I know that it felt like it was forever. I know that I thought I would never get away. I know that when I finally managed to escape them both and take off--red-faced, huffing, sobbing--my sweatshirt was so completely stretched out of shape that it never recovered. And they probably did manage to see parts of my white cotton training bra, despite all my efforts. 

"But I never told." I said. I'm still not sure why I never told. I know I felt shamed. I felt besmirched. I felt stupid to have gone to the little paths at the side of Gregson's Ditch with only Kelly and Heidi, even though they had never bothered me before and I didn't yet know about what they'd done to Melinda in the garage. I felt there was something wrong with me that I needed a brassiere while Kelly and Heidi didn't. And I liked Kelly, though I did not like Heidi, who was often hostile and physically rough. In fact, I remember that I kept pleading with Kelly, reminding her of how awful her sister was, telling her I would play with her if she'd just get Heidi to let me go--it was Kelly masterminding this, or so I thought at the time. 

(Of course, part of the reason I never told might have been the way my own mother would usually say to me, if I mentioned any problem at school, including bullying that broke my collarbone, "But what are you doing to make them act that way?" But that's another story. 

At any rate, I thought it was all my fault, and my shame, which is why I never told. "Do you think that was right, or wise?" I asked. 

"No," said my little one. 

"So I'm telling you this story because I want you to always tell us if anything happens. No matter if you feel ashamed or you're afraid you might have done something to cause it. " 

"It's sexual assault," said my oldest. "Of course, we'd tell." 

But I, with my Gregson's Ditch experience, am still not so sure. The shame I felt was enormous. And the self-blame. "I will never, ever treat you that way. Because I know how it feels," I said. "That's not something you can ever lie about. Okay?" 

I got agreement, but of course, you never really know. Kids--all kids--lie. 

Severn Darden, You Are Missed.

Last night, before our youngest's mouth was affected, my hub and I went on our first date in ages. It was billed as a political improv group as they played Presidential-debate Jeopardy. We later learned that the moderator was someone who analyses faces, like the main character in Lie To Me--so his hints of analysis were fascinating glimpses into a specially educated mind. 

Unfortunately, the improv team's best political comedian could not see the screen, which was where most of the humor was taking place--in the facial reactions of the presidential and vice presidential candidates. 


Also, unfortunately, his teammates were not very aware politically, which does make it harder to improvise political comedy. I found myself wishing my very funny husband were on the team instead. And also wishing that there had been some women up there, as their lack drastically reduced the opportunities for humor--which, of course, made me wish I could have been on the panel as well. 

I suppose this wouldn't be so farfetched, if I chose to pursue it, because a long time ago, when I was a teenager, I took a class with Paul Sills. In those days, I was in college already, though still very much high school age, and spent a lot of time pretending to be a grownup, so pretending that I understood a word that Mr. Sills said was not such a stretch. Mostly, he yelled, a lot, in a strained, desperate baritone, words like: "What? What? What?" or "No, no, Where? Where? Where?" and my favorite ever comment from any  teacher I've ever had: "No, Sakki, it's not your fault." (spoken with pity. "You're the victim of a public school education." A pause. "You think there's a right way to do things." (A quote I return to on a regular basis when I am struggling with whatever the hell we struggle with in our lives, creative challenges, say, or just plain life itself.)

Viola Spolin in the 1930's. 

Sill's improv was based on his mother, Viola's Spolin's improv work, which had been designed not for theater, but to help English language learners get over their shyness and leap into language. If the kids were focusing  on goals like creating an imaginary place (a Where) and interacting with that, they wouldn't be as focused on making mistakes in their English. 
On the right in the striped shirt, Viola Spolin, above, her son Paul, and in front, his shoulder's hunched as he listens intently, Severn Darden. 

Viola's games, the basis of all modern improve, might things like building an imaginary identity, (a Who) while working away at some imaginary activity (obviously, a What.) Unfortunately, Paul did not explain this concept, just dumped us into exercises and yelled WHO! WHO! WHAT! WHERE at us. Usually for each exercise, we'd be given two of these objectives and have to create the third--like the fabulous improv I got to do one time with the extraordinary Paul Sand. 

front row, from left, Barbara harris, Paul Sand, Mina Kolb, Severn in beard in back, and Andrew Duncan? (Alan Arkin is tucked behind Paul Sand.) 

He was the boss, I the secretary and our objective was to create the Where and the What (where we were and what we were doing) and the way we were to do it was taking turns going on stage to create (via pantomime) one object in the space we were creating. Each time one of us came on, we would have to interact with the item the other person had just added before add our own, around and around, until we had a complete (imaginary) office and could then, focusing on the things in the room, create the What--whatever it was we were doing, which in this case turned out, (rather unimaginatively) to be a romance. But, I have to tell you, when you've both been flirting via the creation and use of every conceivable (invisible) piece of office equipment or furniture long before you actually interact with each other, everything that takes place becomes fresh and unexpected--everything has been created in that magical somewhere between you, not within the shoddy little limitations of your own imagination. 

But the scene with Paul was later. Now, I was in the middle of a class that Mr. Sills cancelled in the middle of one of his shouting fits. "No, no, no. You're not--you don't--Where! Where! That's it. The class is over. We're done. We're finished. " And he stormed out of the room while we students--and they were all at least ten years older than me--all stood there, eyes wide, v-e-r-y confused. 

I followed him outside, where I found him muttering to himself at the end of the outdoor hallway--this was one of those hideous sixties Los Angeles apartments that were built with the hallways outside. "Did you just cancel our class?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said. 

"For today? Or forever?"

"Forever," he said. "You're not--! You just don't--! You can't learn it. You're not, you're all NOT learning it." 

"Well, I know I'm struggling," I said, because frankly I never had a clue what he was yelling or why. "But I think I am learning something from you." 

And just like that, he invited me to "play" with some people, giving me a When and a Where--a shady neighborhood near downtown--but no Who. A bit later, my mom dropped me off, I went inside, and found a bunch of pretty old people (especially to me) whose names I recognized from old Second City Recordings, and who knocked me breathless with their improvisatory skills. The greatest of all was a bearded, shuffling bear of a man named Severn Darden. I still remember him encouraging me (ha!) by telling me about the incandescently twisted Barbara Harris, who joined the Compass players when she was my age. "Don't worry," he said. "Barbara was a teenager, too. She barely talked for months and months and months and then one day, she said--" a dramatic pause--"'A whole half a lemon?'" He sighed. "Brilliant. Absolutely genius." (And okay, but even sans context, in Severn's mouth, those words were hilarious. It didn't matter what led up to it, you could tell it was a hell of a punch-line.)  

So, in honor of Severn, I will tell you my favorite improv moment with him. I don't remember our What, or our Who, but our Where was a picnic. While we others created our fancy little scene, Severn, in one of his favorite roles as the moon-faced, rebellious, adult teenager muttered things now and then, ignoring us, and focusing on eating grapes (pantomimed, of course) from a large bunch held over his mouth, lipped into it one by one.

Then, at the ultimate moment in the sketch, (when he had to begin to behave like a grownup,) he began, in character, to pretend he was a WWII plane spitting machine gun bullets which he spewed--imaginary grape seeds aimed at us all, chasing us off the blanket and away from his picnic. It was the funniest and most unexpected thing I have ever seen. And it was utterly and completely Severn Darden. 


I know that I am a fortunate person to have seen him at work so many times, to have heard his wisdom, however hard it was to translate. I know I was fortunate to study, however briefly and incoherently, with Paul Sills. (Tino Insana, when he joined us, explained privately that Sills had mellowed with age and with treatment for his diabetes, and that, he, Tino, had known Sills to chase people across the stage, knock them down and blam their heads into the floor, trying to get them to understand his concepts. Talk about listening as a wide-eyed teenager!) 

Anyway, yesterday, seeing that group--as generous as they were with one another, as kind and supportive--I longed to see Dick Schall (the best pantomimer I have ever known) and Valerie Harper--a couple of times--Dick Libertini now and then, Mina Kolb and Tino Ensana and Paul Sand and Annie Ryerson--she was so kind--and Avery Shreiber and what was the name of the little Lebanese guy who would always get into fights with Paul--fights you could tell they'd been having for the last fifty years? Oh, yes, Hamilton Camp--otherwise known as Hamid Hamilton Camp. 

And, of course, Severn, who was so amazingly, extraordinarily, incredibly brilliant and so willing to plunge into whatever he was doing like a peregrine falcon in a stoop, all 240 miles per hour. 


For those of you who wish to see him in his professor mode, here's one interview, and for those who want to read one of his professor riffs, I will include it in the next post--though it's really not the same unless it's coming from his brilliant mouth. 

Still, I strongly recommend you read it, and howl. And when you're done, check out anything by Elaine May and Elaine May on the internet, including but not limited to her roasting of him as the cousin of Albert Einstein. Life is too short not to spend a great hunk of it roaring with laughter. 



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrXFQNXmwqM

Nope, Another The Tudor's Post--Why Don't They Ever Start When Henry VIII Is Little?

The story of the Tudors starts with a woman named Catherine de Valois. Her daddy was a madman. Today, we might say he suffered from psychosis or schizophrenia--periodically, he thought he was made of glass, and if he bathed or touched water or had his nails cut, he would shatter. He also happened to be Charles VI, King of France.  


He became King at eleven, at the death of his father, and was ruled by warring uncles until he took power at twenty-one. His uncles had depleted the treasury and burdened his people with taxes. Charles changed that,  and thus became known Charles le bien-amie (the well-loved). Then, one hot August day, while leading his army to Brittany, Charles went mad, killed four knights and almost murdered his brother, Louis of Orleans. That's when he became known as Charles le foi (the fool.) 



Afterwards, he fell into a coma. Clearly, this was either witchcraft or divine punishment or a chance for his uncles to seize back power. Unfortunately for them, he recovered, though he was to suffer periodic bouts of madness for the rest of his life. 



During these episodes, he thought he was, as I said, made of glass, or that he had no wife or children, or that his enemies were chasing him--and he had to run to exhaustion to get away from them. 

He and his wife, Isabeau, married when he was seventeen. People speak of the wedding festivities, and the "hot young couple." (I am not making this up.) Since he didn't go mad until he was twenty-four, they at least had seven good years. 


He seems to have adored Isabeau who was quick and clever, learning the ways of the French court quickly. (There she is with her ladies on palfries underneath the hunting king.) 













After his first insanity, his physician recommended a series of amusements. Someone said, "hey. Isabeau's lady-in-waiting is getting remarried. Wouldn't it be fun, King, if you dressed up like a wild man and joined a bunch of other courtiers to invade the wedding?" (Only they said this in archaic French.) The torch Orleans carried sparked onto one of the dancer's clothing and four of them burned to death. Charles himself was almost killed. This became known as the Bal des Ardents. 
The tragedy set Charles off on a six-month period of insanity. A chronicler claimed Orleans was guilty of attempted regicide, and was a wizard, besides. In the outcry, Orleans was forced to do penance.

Needless to say, this episode did not reassure the people of France of the King's ability to lead.  

Richard II and his tiny Queen

During his periods of sanity, King and Queen still had carnal relations, producing twelve children. Not many of them lived to adulthood. But he was insane for a very long time, during which everybody fought for power, including Isabeau, and the English. Katherine's older sister had the dubious joy of creating some peace during the Hundred Years War between France and England--did I mention they were at war for most of this time?--by marrying, at age six, the widower-King Richard II of England. This was shortly before Richard was forced to abdicate his crown and died, so she was only queen of England for about three years. 

Oh, and shortly after the Bal des Ardents, Charles kicked the Jews out of France, giving them time to liquidate their belongings and pay up their debts. 

Meanwhile, Charles' wife, Isabeau, was either a spendthrift and a wanton or that was propaganda--kind of hard to know when a kingdom is in such disarray as hers was. The King's brother Louis (he who was almost murdered) and the royal dukes of Burgundy, were both jockeying for power, with Isabeau shifting sides depending on who looked most likely to support her surviving heir, Charles. (Several of her sons were Dauphin for brief periods of time and at least two of them, I think, were also named Charles.) 

Louis duc d'Orleans et Comte
c'Angouleme

When Isabeau supported the Armagnac, the Burgundians said she was screwing her brother-in-law, Louis of Orleans. When she supported the Burgundians, the Armagnacs imprisoned her in Paris. A friar named Jacques Legrand, preached a long sermon to the court about excess and depravity--exposed necks, shoulders and décolletage, speaking of "furious, vengeful characters. If you don't believe me," he said, "go out into the city disguised as a poor woman and you will hear what everyone is saying." 

Meanwhile, Henry V came a-warring into France.  In 1415, Henry's Welsh long-bowmen defeated the French knights at the battle of Agincourt and all of France shuddered.  Somebody murdered John the Fearless and the dauphin, Charles, claimed credit. 

King Charles disowned his son, claiming he was illegitimate, and betrothed his youngest daughter, Katherine de Valois, to Henry V. They married when she was eighteen, almost nineteen and her brother, the dauphin, was was seventeen. Here they are, getting married. 

So--great-grandmother of Henry VIII's childhood, chaotic, ruled by war, political factions in pitched battle, a possibly philandering, spendthrift mother, and a father who slipped in and out of believing he was made of glass. Great, great grandfather was completely insane with an illness very likely genetic. (Katherine's child with Henry V seemed to suffer from the same illness.) 

And I haven't even gotten to how Katherine came with Henry on his battles, and after his death, may have had affairs with a Duke of the court, and certainly had an affair, leading to the births of three children and subsequent secret marriage to this Welsh guy named Owain ap Tudor, who was either a bastard son of an alehouse keeper, or the keeper of the Queen's household or wardrobe, or an esquire of Henry V, or that he was her sewer (he placed dishes on the table and tasted them.) He may have caught the queen's eye when he fell on her lap while dancing, or because she saw him swimming. In some way, though, he did catch her eye, and Henry VII's grandfather. 

Or, that was the Duke of Somerset, who was a Beaufort like Henry VII's mother, Margaret Beaufort. We will likely never know. 

But you see what I mean about telling the story of the Tudors? It's like following the Bushes--you find out about Pappy's secret affair, (but openly known about in the press according to reporters I have spoken to) and suddenly, Shrub's drinking--and his need to prove his masculinity-- make a lot more sense. 

The Value of Friends, Critique Groups, and Creative Circles.

I have a friend who lives in West Virginia, in a New Englandish town that is picture postcard perfect save for the squeal of heavily loaded coal trains twisting through town, and the neon-orange acid mine run-off that fills the ditches on either side of country roads. 

The mines themselves are long defunct, so the region bleeds its smartest children. 


My friend's life is complicated--for a time, she was married to her sister's ex-husband, so her niece and nephew were also her step-children. This tends to be what happens when you live in a town of 3,000 people--when the college is in session--where families still run large--my friend was the youngest of thirteen--and where there isn't much to do on Sundays after church except have go to the beauty parlor (women), polish up the car and the fire engine (men) and have affairs (pretty much everybody.) 

Another friend, who is a newcomer to the same town, has had a hard time making friends. Well, think about it. If Mama has thirteen siblings, figure Child has at least 132 cousins,  first, second and third, not to mention four or five brother and sisters of their own. And since families tend to spin the generations quickly there, the youngest aunt and uncle might be near enough in age to be playmates, too. Who has room to make new friends? This friend's children used to come home overjoyed if a native invited them to play. Where you are makes a difference in how you make friends. 

People in Los Angeles, at least in the wealthier areas, have often moved to the area to reinvent themselves. They will not be eager to let you get to know them deeply. You might uncover the playground nerd they know they once were. 

New Yorkers, overwhelmed by the crowd on the streets, may seem cold and distant--until you make any kind of human contact. Then, they will warm up instantly. 

Those in the community where I now live are more like West Virginians. They come from large families. Lots of cousins, aunts and uncles. Their best friend since kindergarten's grandmother was best friends in kindergarten with their grandmother. They may have never left this community where they know everyone, so they have no notion what it is to be an outsider. Every year, the news does stories on how rough it is for newcomers here. Nothing seems to change much. 

Add to that the logistics of daily life--nobody having any time anymore, everybody struggling to make ends meet. Homework. Sports. Music lessons. Middle class parents who feel they must schedule their children every moment--like the best friend of one of my children who could only meet at a classical children's concert, after church, the music lesson and the swim lesson. 

Mix in a school magnet program and religious elementary schools, making sure the children don't attend class with their neighbors. Sometimes, I go to the zoo and wistfully watch the snow monkeys at the zoo, their children scampering around their mothers, who sit in a circle, gossip and eat one another's lice. (And no, I'm not wistful about the lice.) 

But--there are my writer friends. Huge sigh of relief. My critique group, sane, eager to both give and get productive criticism. 
I have said this before and I will say it again--I am so grateful to work with these sane, adult, people who are rapidly becoming dear friends, folk who limit their drama to their work. And believe me, their work is incredibly good. 

There are also two local writers, Sue and Lorie, with whom I exchange work, so that what I first run by my critique group can get another polish. 

There is my dear online friend, Cece, who provides such wisdom and humor and support, and when she is writing, the delight of reading her brilliant pieces, or when she is composing, hearing her delicious songs. 

There are my friends, Marylee and Marylou, who have both been such strong backers of my work. There's Elisabeth and Bryna, who check in now and then, and a small, helpful crowd from She Writes. 

Mystery picture--no explanation.

We're also blessed with a local community of agents, editors and writers who have begun to gather monthly to celebrate and commiserate and possibly tweet about the word in the world. Gratitude and cheers to you, Dawn, for making it happen.


So--hip hip hooray for creative friendship, Critique Groups et. all. Oh, you sane, lovely, funny, interesting people. You can be a part of my circle any time. 

How Close Is Too Close When You're Writing From Life? Post #1

* Foot note.
So, let's say there's this young guy named Thomas Williams. Daddy is a salesman, who travels as much as possible, and drinks, both at home and on the road. 
Mama is the daughter of an Episcopal priest (read someone of high social standing) and a music teacher, miserable in her marriage. 

Edwina's parents--note their gentility.

Edwina's second child, Thomas, gets seriously ill. There she is, living with her parents her drunkard of a husband (when he's home) a slightly older toddler (daughter Rose, sixteen months older) and a kid who has come so close to dying that it takes him a year of being housebound to recover. Edwina is living with her parents throughout this time. She and Thomas' big sister devote themselves to entertaining the invalid. Along with Ozzie, his colored nurse, they make his restricted life bearable. 

Note how disassociated the nurse, Ozzie, seems from the family group. I wonder who is taking care of Ozzie's children?

Thomas is--well, there's no other way to say it--effeminate. Daddy tries to beat the nancy-boy out of him. Thomas is very close to Rose. In fact, they're more like twins, but Mama is disappointed by Rose, who, far from being vivacious is nearly crippled by shyness. 

Thomas in college

All Mama's focus, all her energy, all her love, goes into Thomas.  And because the family moves so many, many times (due to Daddy's wild behavior when he's drunk and Mama's desire to find a more socially appropriate address for her gentility,) Thomas doesn't really find a place in the world until college, at the University of Missouri in Columbia. There, he is a social maladept, but becomes the first freshman ever to receive honorable mention in a writing contest. He's found a home in writing. This matters, because 

junior year, when he's twenty-one, Tom fails a ROTC exam. Furious, his father pulls him out of school and sticks him into a job at the International Shoe Company factory. Tom hates the job, hates it, and yet--he's grown up around his mother's pressured gentility. At the factory, he has to face the reality of their lives, that they're not much better than the working class men around them, including a rough-hewn drunkard/poetic soul who, in many ways, reminds Tom of his father. 


Tom can't wait to get out of his dead-end job. Every weekend, he stays up both nights, black coffee and cigarettes fueling his efforts to write one short story a week.  By the age of twenty-four, this overwork pushes Tom to a nervous breakdown. Daddy's drinking and crazy temper leads Mama to push him out, though the two never divorce. At twenty-nine, Tom enrolls in Washington University in St. Louis, Mo., and two years later, has moved on to the University of Iowa, where he finishes his uncompleted undergrad degree to earn a Bachelor of Arts in English. And all this time, he's writing stories and plays, a lot of plays. He studies at the Dramatic Workshop of the New School in New York City, co-writing a collaborative play called Cairo, Shanghai, Bombay! and it's produced, in Memphis Tennessee. "The laughter enchanted me," Thomas writes later. "Then and there, the theater and I found each other, for better or for worse. I know it's the only thing that saved my life." 

Our brilliant, obsessive, effeminate Thomas comes up with a pen-name, changing Thomas to something more memorable. He works a string of jobs--as a laborer, mostly-- to support his writing, though the worst is probably that horrible stint as caretaker of a chicken ranch outside of L.A. It isn't until 1945 that his first play is a hit. It's a memory play, based on a short story called Portrait of a Girl in Glass, about big sister, Rose, but it's also about a young man named Tom who hates his work at a shoe warehouse, and a guy named Jim, who used to be a high school hero, but has gone downhill from there. Most of all, the play is about Mama Edwina, here called Amanda. In the play, Thomas pillories her. Amanda is unable to view her children as separate from herself. Just like Edwina, Amanda talks, frantically all the time, "about her gentleman callers, the DAR, salivary glands and the fine art of mastication. Her silences were worse. She had a way of looking at her children to register a deep disappointment." "She not merely talked--and talked--she had the ability to overcomes friend and adversary alike, usually leaving them limp and defenseless under the sheer weight of words."  

Amanda is still alive when the play is produced. When she comes to see herself, she is cornered by the actress Laurette Taylor who so brilliantly portrays Edwina as a tragic monster. ""Well, Mrs. Williams," asks Laurette, "How did you like yourself?"

How Amanda must have felt. 



And yet, The Glass Menagerie is an extraordinary play, a transformative play, and ultimately a loving exploration of fragile creatures struggling with mostly worthless tools. Is not Tom wrestling with his demons? Is not Amanda all too human?  How close is too close when you're writing from life? 

What do you think? 

* (please note: throughout the following, I am using the language of the times for certain minorities.) 

Note number 2: To honor Pat Conroy and Harper Lee, I plan to explore the value and ethics of this writing close to home--from real life. I would love your thoughts on it, as both writers and readers. Thanks. 

The Tudors TV Series, or Tits And Ass in Tudor England

Okay. Here's what one of the things I think about while I'm watching The Tudors: Contracts. Legal Contracts, specifically the pressure on young actresses to sign legal contracts that specify, in detail, how much of which body part they are required to show in order to get cast in a terrific role. 

Here's how it works: somebody writes the script, putting lots of nudity. A member of the production team reads the script and develops a cast list, what they call "a breakdown." This list goes out over--you guessed it--a breakdown service, sent to agents and managers. It describes the character, and then it may say something like, "Nudity required," or "Full frontal nudity required," or even, "Some partial nudity may be required," which means if you're a big enough star, you can get out of it, but if not, you're not going to get the part unless you're willing to strip, and, in the case of The Tudors, simulate sex with people you hardly know. 

I speak from experience. As an actor, I once got a fabulous role in a movie. The breakdown listed "some partial nudity may be required." Several friends who auditioned for other parts in this major film went through callback after callback. I, however, was offered a star-making role after one single audition. 

The caveat was the topless scene. I didn't worried about it, because I thought that partial nudity "may be" required meant that I could say no. 

Well, maybe if I had been a somebody. And it didn't matter that the director had so much loved my performance. I was expendable.  Being topless was "historically accurate," he said. 

I pointed out that it was historically accurate that guys had penises during sexual encounters, even though, if they show a penis, they're rated x and lose a ton of business, whereas if they show, oh, say, ariola but not full nipple, or as is the case in the photo above, curve of the buttock base, but not the buttocks itself, or, as is the case for many of these young women, pretty much full everything, then they get better sales all over the place (and the actress involved gets to see herself through infinity at websites like "Thenudityleeringguy." Just what you want to show your children.)  

Come on, put a chemise on these girls. No woman in this era *ever* wore a corset without a chemise!

So, the pressure is on for young woman to show as much as possible. I would venture to say that Gabrielle Anwar, today, is a big enough star that she doesn't have to get totally naked (anymore), but Natalie Dormer sure does. And those young women in bit parts will have already learned that they are as disposable as Kleenex, and have made their decisions accordingly. 

It can be so hard to say no. I know this from experience. When I turned down that film, I lost my powerful, supposedly adoring, boutique agent. When I told people what I had done, successful actors looked at me like I was insane. That decision was basically the end of my acting career. The young woman who took the part after I turned it down wound up having her own TV series shortly after, along with lovely roles in films, even now. When I said no, and hung up the phone, I remember hyperventilating. But  ultimately, for me, it was simple. I don't like to be exploited and this felt--and feels, watching The Tudors--like exploitation. I have friends--raised in Marin County, in and out of hot tubs-- for whom film nudity is no biggy. 

Still, even they can't deny that their naked selves become commodities. Sigh. 

And guess what? No matter how many times they have to take their shirts off, nudity is nowhere near the same problem for men. Okay, maybe they have to work out a little more, but they are not pressured to put their--as children would say, "private parts," on public display.

Ruda Getmintas, who plays Bessie Blount, is so exploited
in The Tudors that you barely notice she
does a decent job when she's clothed. 

Clearly, The Tudors is not art. It's not even decent history. I can--and will--write more about the fabulously complex and wonderful history that the writers keep mangling. I'm watching for the performances, and, frankly, for something to keep me from boredom while I fold the laundry. 

Still, it makes me oddly grateful that I made the decision I did. Even if it meant leaving acting. So many female actors, including those in the Tudors, are very smart people. You can tell by their performances. But their brains don't matter when it comes to the nudity clause. There, it's all about T and A. Plus those countless unknown guys leering over them on the internet through all eternity. 

After/Before Hamilton--1776, the Musical

So, if you're busy teaching yourself or your children about the Revolutionary War, and you want to expand beyond Hamilton, get yourself  a copy of the 1969 Musical, 1776, book by Peter Stone, lyrics and score by Sherman Edwards and (The film was done in 1972.) 

The cast of the film, 1776, getting into it with words--and swords.  

The cast of Hamilton, getting into it with rap. (The guns come later.) 

So, you'll notice right away that the cast of 1776 is white, older and mostly male. (There are two women in the cast--we'll talk about them later.) But--this is a huge but--like Hamilton, 1776 is a musical about ideas and ideals--our ideas, our American ideals--freedom, equality, taxation only with representation, the value and the profound responsibility that comes with liberty. 

It's very funny, with lyrics like the oft-repeated, "You're obnoxious and disliked, that cannot be denied," in reference to John Adams, with domestic (and accurate) arguments between Adams and his wife, Abigail, over sewing pins and saltpeter (a prime component of gunpowder that required much housewifery.) 

Virginia Vestoff and  William Daniels-in both film and original cast. 

There is also much jockeying over who is going to get stuck writing the Declaration of Independence--T. Jefferson draws the short straw, but will only do so after his lovely wife arrives, "to waltz through cupid's grove" with him. 

Blythe Danner in the film/Betty Buckley on Broadway. And
isn't she full of the glow of pregnancy? That's Gwyneth in there.

The delegates to the convention, and their servants and messengers are men, yes, and  white yes, but human. Passionate. Stubborn. Angry. Many are fighting to defend their much vaunted way of life --mostly the wealthy and southern planters. Many are fighting injustice. Sure, it makes a buffoon of Richard Henry Lee "The Lees of Virginia," but it also presents a huge battle over including wording in the declaration of independence, wording to state that slavery is an injustice. 

1776 also lays plain, in music, no less, the terrible financial equation that linked northern merchants to southern slavery (Molasses to Rum to Slaves) and one song, Cool, Cool, Considerate Men, speaks so convincingly about the joys and values of conservatism-of political decisions only being made by men of property--that Richard Nixon successfully asked the film's producer (his buddy, Jack Warner) to remove that song from the film after his private screening of it. 

Don't worry. Though Warner demanded the song be destroyed, the film's editor saved it, and it is currently in versions that are available for sale.

The Brilliant Paul Hecht is the first full figure on the right. 

In this song, the men sing: 

"Come ye cool cool conservative men
The likes of which may never be seen again.
We have land, cash in hand
Self-command, future planned.
Fortune flies, society survives
In neatly ordered lives with well-endowered wives.

We sing hosanna, hosanna
To our breeding and our banner
We are cool." 

And while they sing, they dance their staid minuet (a dance of an earlier time) only to the right. And okay, that term is an anachronism--nobody called conservatives the Right in those days--but it is also philosophically dead-on.

In fact, it is during that section that John Dickinson states in both play and film, John Hancock tells John Dickinson, leader of the conservative opponents to signing the Constitution, "Fortunately, there are not enough men of property in America to dictate policy." 

Dickinson replies, in the most telling words of any musical I have ever heard, "But don't forget that most men without property would rather protect the possibility of becoming rich than face the reality of being poor.") Keep that in mind during this Presidential election cycle. 

William Daniels, Howard Da Silva and Ken Howard
as Adams, Franklin and Jefferson, waiting for the eagle of liberty to hatch. 

William Daniels is still alive, and better known for TV roles-- St. Elsewhere, Girl Meets World, etc. Howard Da Silva was a wonderful character actor, who played the original Jud Fry in the original Oklahoma, was called before the House Committee on Unamerican Activities and refused to testify, which resulted in his being black-listed for many years. 

I am a passionate believer that education doesn't have to be a slog. Watch 1776 with your children, and listen to Hamilton--or go see it, should you be so blessed. You might find yourself learning something, too. And I guarantee you that what you learn will stick.