Faith for five dollars…and Tennessee Williams.

I did something nearly unforgiveable, today:  I cried in class.

Don’t worry, no one saw me.

The lights were off, and most were, I’m happy to say, engrossed in the video documentary I was showing on Tennessee Williams.  I counted three sleeping students, but I only heard two of them…so I let them rest.

They’re athletes and all, you know.

I’ve seen this A&E video on Williams a hundred thousand and six times, but today, today, the story resonated in a deep and tragic way, wholly new to me. I suppose it’s the stress, I’m saying it’s the stress, but whatever it was, it touched me. It moved me.

SPOILER ALERT: Sappiness is going to run rampant through this blog, so do what you got to do to get ready.

There are few things on this great earth I enjoy more than being moved. It makes me feel so normal and human.

Perhaps that’s just my church upbringing, but it’s, I feel, it’s akin to “seeing faith,” when you’re physically and mentally moved.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, to be honest. Tennessee Williams certainly has a psychological hold over us in Mississippi, especially when you teach theatre right down the road from his birthplace. But, there’s so much more that students here find challenging when they initially hear his story: his homosexuality, his alcoholism, his drug abuse, his abusive father, his demanding mother, his relentless pursuit of _________.

It affects them because, I think,  at some level, it’s a similar story to theirs. As it is to mine. It just has a greater perspective than most of our lives do, at the outset: Williams never gave up.

I guess that’s what got to me, that despite the critics, the bad reviews, he furiously held onto the belief he had in his talent. He knew, doubtlessly, that he had one thing to do in this life, and that was to write. So, that’s what he did.

Amid the grunts and the exasperated responses to the commentary about Williams’ blatant sexuality, which was to be expected, the students eventually settled on the idea of what impact can truly do. I wasn’t sure they’d be able to get past his sexual nature, at first, or be willing to look beyond what such a life does to the eager gossip mill in Smalltown America, but I think they did. I believe they saw that what he had to say was so much more vital and important than what he was.

At the end of this particular video, Dakin, his brother, says that in his mind, ”Tennessee was the greatest playwright that ever lived.” He stops, then, and corrects himself, “No, he is. He is the greatest playwright that ever lived.” And right then, at that moment, he chokes up.

So did I. So did a couple of students in the class. Because it’s human, it’s real, when Dakin talks about Williams’ legacy. He means it, and that’s moving.

We don’t often consider the purpose of legacy.

We don’t often have the foresight to persevere; we rarely have the motivation to pursue anything based on belief, alone…not to the point of ridicule, of being made a laughingstock. That’s what happened to Williams; it’s heartbreaking. And who knows, maybe he wasn’t aware of his drive, his own motivation. Maybe he was simply following instinct, or trying to destroy it.

The story doesn’t change, either way, for me, not at its base level, not at its Moral:  To find faith, one must lose something; to have it, everything.

So, then, I couldn’t help it. I started thinking of things I’ve lost, trying to separate the Big Ones from the Little Ones. I wanted to see if my theory could hold any water, aside from its apparent inability to hold tears.

• I’ve lost people. Loved ones, friends, martyred by illness or fate, or poor relationships. I think of one in particular on a daily basis and the importance his life meant to me, when I was struggling to find truth in myself. And, I somehow have maintained my foothold in the faith that because they lived, or still do, I grew longer wings.
• I’ve lost a continent. (And here I give a nod to the great Elizabeth Bishop). I tried to find a life in Europe with my father and his family there. I did try. I think he did, too. That was all I needed, really:  to see, feel, hear the effort. It restored my faith in small things, quiet gestures, honest attempts. After all, he is a man I owe my life to.
• I’ve lost time. Wasted it, worried it to death, forgotten it, tried to steal it…instead of just living through it. Nothing is as costlier or more valuable. We never use it wisely, and we never have enough. Lose a little time for yourself; you’ll see.  You’ll put a lot more faith in the time left, next time around.
• I’ve lost respect. For myself and others, family members. I’ve allowed hate and anger and malice and greed and envy to get too comfortable in my living room. It’s the hardest thing in the world to look at yourself in the morning when you lose respect, yours or someone else’s. It’s awfully hard to get it back, too. Faith cuts a humble pie with a very sharp knife, sometimes. And sometimes, we all need our Mothers, no matter what.

Once, and I must have been 8 or 9 at the time, I was sitting in church and the offering plate was being passed around. I’d pulled five dollars from my piggy bank (also known as a McRae’s watch box, which always had the most delicious smell, wafting from that soft, black felt), and I was so very eager to put these five dollars in the offering plate, like a bona fide grown-up. As the plate came down the pew to me, though, I saw this small postcard with a few simple lines printed on it. It read:

This is what Faith is: You step off into the Great Unknown, knowing one of two things will happen: you’ll either find something solid to stand on, or God will teach you to fly.

Had this been in the offering plate, I might not have seen the card.

I took that little card, in exchange for my five dollars, and tucked it away in that small McRae’s watch box. Sadly, I have no idea where that watch box is, anymore.

I guess I’ve lost it. So…

• I’ve lost that McRae’s watch box. But, it’s OK. It served its purpose; it gave me my first working definition of Faith. And that has made all the difference to me. And when the world becomes too much with us (a nod to Wordsworth), I am very quick to remind myself that today would be as good a day as any to learn how to fly…

If I could just get my feet to take that first step.

Related Posts:

• But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.
• A word about lesbians…
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
• That time I was in a Sartre play: part of a memoir, sort of.

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