Let me set the scene, for you: I’m teaching my Theatre Appreciation class, which is held each Monday and Wednesday morning in the small theatre studio, a few rooms down from my office. I’m in the middle of my lecture, standing in front of several large benches, set pieces for our upcoming production.  My back is both to the door and the darkened stage.

One of my students, who insists on being called Poonie May, suddenly emits a tiny screeching sound that catches my attention.

As if on cue, the entire class, with one gigantic move of their heads, turns to my left and craning their necks slightly, stares.

I felt that someone, or something, was behind me.

And there was.

I turned along with them to find that a tall man in a red Polo shirt, with a school logo embroidered on it, though sans Name Tag, is standing, almost directly so, behind me.

This man is from Maintenance.

HIM: “I’m sorry, are you teaching class?”

ME: “Um. Yes. Yes, I am.”

HIM: “Sorry, I didn’t know you were teaching class.”

ME: “That’s, OK. Can I help you?”

HIM: “You called.”

ME: “Excuse me?” (I didn’t know whom he was, at first)

HIM: “You called Maintenance, right?”

ME: “Oh, yes. I did, yes.”

HIM: “So, I’m here.”

ME: “I see that. Thank you for coming. But, I don’t actually need you until 3:00. I thought I said that in my message.”

HIM: “Yeah, 3:00.” (He flicks the edge of the paper in his hand) “That’s what it says here.”

ME: “Oookkk. Well, it’s 9:00, now, though. And I’m still teaching.”

HIM: “Yep. Oh, you want me to sit down, then?”

ME: “No, you don’t have—no. Actually. Could you come back at 3:00? That’d be better.”

HIM: “Well…what do you need?”

ME: “A truck. As I said in my message. I need a truck. And some help to move these benches to the other theatre.”

HIM: “A truck? What you need a truck for?”

ME: “To move these benches.”

HIM: “These benches, here? You gonna need help with that, or what, right?”

There is a pause, at this point in our conversation.

ME: “I—right. Well, yes, I’d like that. I can’t move them by myself, as you see, they’re a little heavy for just one, and, and I certainly need a truck because they won’t fit in my car. That’s, that’s why I called and made the request.”

HIM: “What kinda car you got.”

ME: “I…a Honda.”

HIM: “A car? Like, an Accord?”

ME: “A Honda Accord. Yes.”

HIM: “Yeah. Hm. You’ll need a truck. We’ll get you a truck, then.”

ME: “That’s most encouraging. I’m glad to hear it.”

HIM: “But now, I’m leaving today at 2:00.”

I have paused, yet again, at this point.

ME: “OK. Well, you can bring the truck earlier, then? Can you, that’d be fine.”

HIM: “Like now?”

ME: “I…I, maybe in an hour? I’ll be done in an hour.”

HIM: “Just. Here.”

And that’s how I got the keys to the truck.

I turned back to the class, who was fully entertained by this inopportune exchange of half-wit, and I tried, I did, and valiantly, to get us all back on track, and further into Chapter 15, a.k.a. the “chapter from which no bad student returns.” We were discussing, among other heady things, the architectural distinctions between Greek and Roman theatres, both thematically as well as structurally.

But, I couldn’t. I just, couldn’t focus, anymore. I couldn’t even glance at the open textbook, which I’d held in my hands throughout my alleged conversation. So, I dismissed the class.

I don’t know how this happened, this abrupt loss of interest, but by the time I found my way out of this dotty dialogue with a man, a character, so richly and originally drawn that he could not be accurately recreated by any playwright south of Shakespeare or northwest of Moliere, I was frankly, exhausted. I felt defeated, somehow.

I sat down on one of the benches and said to myself, You’ve got only a few months, left, Kris, and then, then NYC.

And though that usually perks me right back up, (at least, it has lately) and though, under normal circumstances, that thought alone would fuel me with such excitement that I could teach all of Chapter 15 in one breath and a hand tied behind my back, it made me a little sad, instead. (And nervous, considering what had been behind my back already).

As aggravated as I get in this job, as frustrated as I am each evening when I drive all the blame way back home, I’ve gotten used to this crazy box of crayons. I like the colorful people I work with, and sometimes, against. They’re hardly more than average, as far as crayons go, mostly your run-of-the-mill Reds and Browns; nothing more exotic than a Burnt Orange…or if you’re lucky, a stray Forest Green.

You know the colors that only get used when they’re all you have left. Or, it’s Halloween in your second grade art class.

Still, it’ll be sad to have to “buy” a new box.

I mean, I’ll do it. I’ve got the change in my pocket, as we speak, don’t you worry about that. I carry that change around all the time.

But, it’ll be different, for sure, an adjustment to make…because God knows, the Big Apple is a brand new box (the kind with the pencil sharpener built-in on the side) of weird, strange colors waiting for me like Electric Lime and Jazzberry Jam, Outer Space and Mauvelous.

All of which are actual Crayola crayon names. Check it out for yourself, if you don’t believe me.

It worries me; I haven’t the faintest idea of how one would even go about using a color known as Outer Space.

Although, on days like this, I have to admit: Outer Space sounds pretty Mauvelous.

And I hope it is, because in my book, New York City and outer space are pretty much the same thing.

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Don’t worry, no one saw me.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not cry stone tears. Anymore.

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.

As you can see, my class was riveted to the idea of a documentary.

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.

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I’m sure there’s a finer art to it than what I’m putting to paper. No, I know there is as evidenced by PaperGirlMemoir’s blog. I enjoy her blog, among several others, those detailing their writing journeys. I suppose she’s serving as a “model,” though she has a much better, cleaner handle on how to go about writing one than I do. I tend to ramble. (I’m pretending it’s my style, so don’t say anything).

Sometimes, it reads like this, but it doesn't feel like it.

At first, I thought, why on earth would I think anyone wants to read a memoir by me. And then, I thought, why not?  Words don’t exist just for those with accomplished lives. Nor do they wait for sentences that only come from the pens of established literati. I have lived, and that is miracle enough.

If we take Jung at his word, and dip our own toes in the “collective unconscious,” then surely there is no life unworthy of being written about.

Besides, what you say isn’t the point, is it?  The challenge comes in how you say it.

I’ve been stressing and stressing this to my students, this first summer term: that their opinions are of merit, that they really already know most of this critical theory “stuff,” (we do it daily in our normal lives) they’ve just never had to give it a name, before.  The higher hill to climb for them is in learning just that: how to justify their opinions. Most of them immediately jump to Reader-Response criticism, overlooking the necessity of understanding the purpose of becoming an “informed reader” within an “interpretive community.”

But, twisting that critical concept, a bit, I suppose, that’s what I’m trying to do, too: justify my opinions (except in this case, they all total up to My Life)…but, I mean, that’s one way of looking at a memoir, or the impetus behind writing one, right? It’s the ability to interpret your community.

I’ve been irregularly writing a memoir, or two, for the last couple of years. I never put a great deal of steady stock in it, but the idea, I find intoxicating. One day, maybe, I’ll put all these random pages together. But, in the meantime, I thought I might share a couple with you.  I’ve put, perhaps, a total of 60 pages into two different collections; the reason for that is they come from two very different stylistic approaches: singular personal (mostly me with opinions) and plural personal (mostly me + others + opinions). The titles I’ve given them are Loud Enough and Deer in the Road. I’m writing the titles here for posterity’s sake.

I got first dibs, in other words. (I worked really hard on coming up with them, too). 

…from Loud Enough

Maybe this is a work of fiction.  There’d be a certain irony in that, if it were.  Maybe this is an autobiography; there’s a good deal of personal experience and truth to the subject matter.  Or, maybe it doesn’t matter.  I’m probably only vaguely aware of what I’m saying.  But first things first, of course.

I’d been obsessing over a book, a memoir, for a long time because I thought I was interesting; I’d conquered (and that’s a term I’m using loosely) prose and poetry and playwriting.  Granted, these conquests occurred mainly in the privacy of my room, and the only witness was my cat, Aristophanes.  

Still, she was nonetheless proud and a harsh critic. 

But you know, I almost didn’t get this far.  I was almost too afraid of having to be responsible for words.  I’ve also been obsessed with that concept, with language in general.  For instance, I don’t own any of these words, and yet, by putting them into these sentences I’m basically contracting myself to their overall impression, their intent. 

There are few words more disappointing, more potentially upsetting in the whole English language than intent. It’s a frightening responsibility, too, to commit to something as determined as intent [...]

I was haphazardly cast as The Tutor in Sartre’s The Flies, one February, early in the month, years ago.  I use haphazard because, to be honest, I didn’t want to be in the play.  I’d grown very upset with acting and tired and weary.  After all, I’d just turned 27.  I was already washed up, I felt.  I’d done nothing with my life, in theatre, at that point, of any real significance and I’d had such plans.  God, did I have plans.  All my friends were doing their, you know, plans, but not I.

Even a picture of flies is aggravating.

I fell in love.

That’s not so necessary for this book, though. 

At least not for this part.

I still had my professional experiences.  I still worked with good people who had a lot of knowledge about their place in the world of theatre and masks. 

A large criticism in my past has been my reluctance to commit; perhaps, I should use the colloquial term here for easy reference:  I was lazy.  But, now wait.  I had a good reason to be.  My procrastination came from an abundance of directions.  I was consumed with ideas for plays, for scenes, as an actor, as a singer, cabaret artist, and in character analysis, for design and costume, and so on and on and on.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities, and when you’re  faced with an endless array of potential, no matter which way you turn…what do you do?  I slept, usually.  My potential was deeply rooted in depression, a rhetorically habitual Remembrance of Things Past (I really should have read more Proust in life), a negligence of what was right in front of my face – I was nearly my own demise. 

Surely, you know that feeling.

Now, of course, I should explain about Sartre.  He’s really the reason I’m at this point, and really, in all honesty, why the hell should you care if I don’t at least explain the basis of this bizarre ramble…because of all the things I’m kinda OK at, rambling is not one of them – I’m more than OK at it; I am a Master of rambling. 

And, besides, you have no idea who I am.  But, you will.  You’ll care, because despite the idiosyncracies that are me, despite how different I might seem, I represent you, in a way.  I had a story I wanted to tell, and now I’m telling it.  I just decided, Enough!  It’s self-pity or self-preservation.  I suppose, though, you’ll decide that later, after reading this.  Still, that sort of passion in life is sorely overlooked, I think.

Don’t you?

As I said, I was The Tutor.  I had been unwilling to accept the role, even though I was asked three times to take it; the director, bless her beautiful heart, had offered it to me originally but I was suffering from a severe nonchalance of the stage. I’d spent, a few months earlier, over 350 rehearsal hours, every day of the week, on a somewhat shoddily written, original musical (though two of the songs were digestible), with a director incapable of producing a random scribble from a pencil, much less a vision for the piece (which was in and of itself a powerful story), and this, all from a nonprofit theatre organization with really good intentions (i.e., we all had day jobs, other contracts, etc.).  It was a painful process and nearly destroyed my faith in theatre.  That’s the part that would be severe. 

So, I wasn’t terribly excited or looking forward to another venture on stage.  Especially, Sartre’s The Flies, in which, I almost had to perform barefoot…which I never do. Ever. It was quite a struggle: me and the costumer.

You should know, first off, that The Flies is an excruciatingly lengthy production, and not one of his best.  Or perhaps that was only the case for ours? Most of our leads were magnificent, I must say, (though we did have a weak Orestes), and personally, I loved the material. It was, perhaps, my reticence that kept me; I also got in trouble for sneaking out, in costume, during Act One, third night of the run, and buying a bottle of champagne. I also got gas; I was on empty. (For shame!) But, The Tutor doesn’t come back on, after Act One, for a very long time. (Kris, Kris, Kris).

The play was still a poignant piece, and well-attended.  But, I took the role out of pity, a major offense in the craft of acting. 

No caption necessary.

That didn’t change much throughout the course of the run, either. I carried my plastic cup of pathos everywhere I went.

However, despite my best efforts at being indifferent and “put-upon,” Sartre got to me with one line. One line that would not escape me. One single line that made the entire show “worth it.”

[...]

There’s a moment in the opening of the play in which Orestes, the rightful heir to the throne of Argos (though I can’t see for the life of me why he’d want it) turns to The Tutor who had begun to politely berate him, if you will, about his aloofness to his upbringing and of course Orestes, being displaced royalty and spoiled, immediately starts in with “I know how lucky I am, but all the same, yadda yadda yadda…”

Kids.

But then, in one of his diatribes to The Tutor, he actually turns the tables.  It’s very slight, very subtle.  He’s in the middle of another “yadda yadda yadda” spiel when he suddenly (this is Sartre, so the use of the word suddenly is generous) accuses The Tutor of having no “joy in going somewhere definite.”

And all of a sudden, just like that, I was not The Tutor anymore. 

I was a 27-year-old man on a plain stage in Bloomington, Indiana, and I was…well, I was exactly what Orestes said, a man who had no joy, not going anywhere definite, not really going anywhere at all. 

Anymore.

And I wanted to know what happened to that curly-headed kid in glasses from Mississippi who had all his life been lauded as the next great piece of poetry in motion.  When did he slow down?  And why? 

So, here I am, writing a book about my life as if I’m great, one painful, pulled minute after another.  As if I’m worth it.  

And you want to know why? You want to hear the truth?  It’s because I’ve never believed I wasn’t. And that’s why I’m not afraid to write. This or anything else.

More to come…?

God, I hope so…(though it is a tad boring. But, I’m working on that, sorry).

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Instead, I just say it shortly and sweetly, like this, comparative: emphasis on the first syllable, omitting the middle “a,” and running the rest of it together under the “r” sound). It sounds more intelligent, I think. I am quite a strong advocate for doing all I can to make our atonal, uninteresting, Germanic-based language, at the least, a little more British sounding, if possible. (I know British is also Germanic-based, but it doesn’t sound like it. I get this linguistic need, honestly; my Aunt Vera, may she rest in peace for a little while, was from the Mother Land; she like to rrrrrun syllables into a high lilt mish-mash, and use everyone’s entire name in conversation no matter the topic at hand, even if there was no topic at hand, and play Rook).  It wasn’t what she said so much as how she sounded: better than I did.

Also, I admit, I enjoy making up my own words, such as infidelitous, and kiosked…I think you get the picture…

Why learn words? They're only worth 11 points.

(For argument’s sake, I will allow that Amanda, a.k.a. Commander the Walking Dictionary, has often taken great pleasure in reminding me that some words have alternate pronunciations and synonyms that we mostly overlook – that I’m certainly not creating on my own – or, I guess it’s more accurate to say that we’ve not been taught the full English language, so we don’t realize how many ways one word can be said, or pronounced.  I’m considering writing my Congressman about this.  Not that he’ll change anything, but at least I’ll get to use the words I’ve been not taught; I’ll even burn a CD for him of me pronouncing all the variations of each word in the letter). 

That’ll get me on the 6:00 news, I bet. And probably on the FBI watch list.

Anyway, I try very hard to be polite and say the right thing.  That comes from my aggravatingly good upbringing. I know, I know, it’s what people who are trying to be nice to me call that painful part of my charm, I understand that, but yesterday on my way to what was supposed to be a simple little dinner, one of them, the nearly cute one, turned to me and began to comment on this delicious “dish” he’d had in Atlanta, the weekend before, in which he’d been served, “grilled shrimps with a creamy lemon-garlic-butter sauce.”

Oh, and yes, also “bread.” He’d had bread, with the rosemary baked right into it. (Too much of that is poisonous, I’m almost positive). 

No one else seemed to notice the slight slip of his tongue on this. But, I had.

Clearly and plainly he’d annexed the letter “s” to the tail end of the word shrimp.

I couldn’t help myself (I’d been battling an ant issue around the lip of my bathtub, which is a shrine to me, the bathtub, any bathtub, even your bathtub…the point is, I was already a little worn).

I said, “I’m sorry, did you say shrimps?”

“Yes,” he said. “And they were delicious.”

“Be that as it may.” I began, disappointed in myself as memories of my gauche Great Aunt Maudy clouded my mind; she always managed to work this phrase into any conversation, even at funerals. She also never shut up. If she’d been talking about things anyone cared even marginally about, Uncle Big Man, her 100% opposite and a man of a very few choice and select words, most of them curse-words, would inevitably have turned to me and said he could’ve eaten a can of alphabet soup and shit a better conversation, but nevertheless, when the twain shall meet, there I’ll be, running off at the mouth, just like she did, and a little bit of him, too; it’s genetic…

And that’s why I couldn’t let it go. I continued, “I’m not so sure that shrimps is correct.”

This is one shrimp. Singular. That's all I know.

In retrospect, it was a foolish thing to say. I mean, if beaten about the brow on it, does it really matter, I had to ask myself? But, then again, if it’s important enough to be beaten anywhere at all, I suppose I’d have to answer Yes, it does matter. Especially if beaten about the brow.  I mean, there’s always a chance, small as it is, that I’m wrong, but when I’m wrong, the bruise might as well show.

“Do you have a problem with my saying shrimps?” was the comeback.

And to be honest, I did. “Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because…well, it just, it just sounds…stupid.”

What ensued was perhaps the longest philosophical debate ever given to shrimp. And not about their ontological well being, or their spiritual place in the world of man, but rather, the entire debate was predicated on the simple rule of pronouncing their species in the plural, of which none of us could recall.

But, oh, how we continued after realizing that none of us could remember if there were any such grammatical rule about it. We argued then, in unison, for the misunderstood plurals of all things…fish versus fishes (and if that rule applied to a group of the same kind of fish, or groups of different fish, which of course, would then be fishes); we railed against the tired age-old debate of moose to moose but goose to geese, and how was it mouse to mice, house to houses, and then, of course, the Seussian misstep of one sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four sheep, and so forth and so on.

It didn’t rest simply on plural forms, either. I mean, who hasn’t been lost at understanding the suffix stumbling block of –ough? It’s cough, but it’s through; it’s bough…but then enough; and really, isn’t it…isn’t it?

As we pulled into the parking spot, we decided it’d be best to just part ways over shrimp(s).

He said he was fine with his plural and chose to keep it shrimps; I said I was not ok with it and chose to tell him that he sounded retarded and uneducated. And then, we began to discuss the abuse of words in colloquialistic manners like “retarded” and the resultant offenses such misused words would cause when used out of context…and furthermore, how impossible it was in this day and age to combat context; it was much too late for that battle to begin.  My students could barely write as it was, and now, with cellphones regressing texting back to the days of telegrams…it was enough to make you cry, bawl, blubber, sob, weep, lament, grieve… 

CRY: origins from Middle English crien, from Anglo-French crier, from Latin quiritare to make a public outcry

I threw that part in for you. It also made me feel better.

All in all, I have to say, though, if the truth be told, it was one of the most exciting dinners I’ve ever had. We’re doing it again, real soon.

Or would that be really soon?

Well, whatever, we are doing it again, and it’s going to be soon. It’s going to be a real dinner. A real dinner that is going to happen and soon. 

There, that works. Sheesh.

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