Dudley

Facebook, being the weird beast that it is, sometimes delivers bad news to a person in an unforgivably ham-fisted way.  You check Facebook, hoping to get up to speed on the latest BuzzFeed gif parade or register your liberal outrage by sharing an Upworthy post (hi Adam!) and then you run into a post by a stranger on an undergrad alumni page that gutpunches you.

"...any info on Dr. T's passing would be appreciated."

What?!  No. Dr. Thomas, dead?  Unacceptable.  Someone call someone because this is not actually possible and should be rectified.

Unbelievable.

No.

A little background: I went to a very competitive undergrad theatre program.  Crazy competitive.  I'm not going to get into details of how intense and sometimes insane this place was, suffice it to say that I was convinced that if I didn't succeed in this particular program, I'd never, ever work in the theatre ever.  I never felt at rest there.  I never felt good enough or smart enough or thin enough or pretty enough or talented enough.  I never felt ENOUGH.  Halfway through my freshman year, we had to pick a degree track and an advisor.  While most of my class' actors gravitated to our acting professor and our tech classmates drifted to our technical director, there was only ever one choice for me: Dr. Thomas.  If pressed, I couldn't tell you exactly why I chose him.  Perhaps it was the fact that, during my audition to get into the program, he was the only one who laughed.  Perhaps it was his patrician demeanor.  Perhaps it was the fact that he talked TO the freshmen instead of THROUGH them.  Perhaps it was a million things.  But part of it was definitely what the upperclassmen referred to as "THE class."

We all had to take "Survey and Analysis of Dramatic Art" with Dr. T in our first semester freshman year.  We learned, pretty quickly, that our pretensions and our artistic posturing were to be checked at the door because Dr. T would not put up with our adolescent shit.  He expected us to be serious and respectful and hard working and real because he just couldn't stand to see us waste our time on artifice. Still, the upperclassmen would corner us in the hallways: "How's Survey and Analysis going?  Have you had THE class yet?" We'd offer up the latest class topics, but were always met with "Oh you'll KNOW when you have THE class."  And then, finally, we experienced it.  THE class.

A play was being discussed in Survey and Analysis...  Since the class, many of us have tried to remember WHAT exact play we were discussing.  Various theories have suggested it was The Importance of Being Earnest or King Lear.  I think it could also have been A Flea in Her Ear.  Regardless, it was being discussed and Dr. T let us yammer on and on about our twee little 18 year old ideas of the central theme of this play.  We spouted rank nonsense like "Man's inhumanity to man" and used foreign words we didn't fully understand ("gestalt") and generally sounded like a bunch of twerps.  Finally, after an interminable amount of theatre-teen posturing later, Dr. T slammed his hand down on the desk at the front of the room.  The echoing boom of his fist on the desk shut our mouths and drew our attention immediately. Dr. T stood at the head of the class with thunder on his brow.  There was a collective intake of breath from the class, and then the storm broke.  "THIS PLAY IS ABOUT SEX, PEOPLE!  IT'S ABOUT FUCKING!"

Funny story, yes?  But in the years since that day, I have continually parsed it out for the underlying lessons it taught me.  Don't overthink the play.  Theatre is about basic human needs and desires. Stop trying to sound smart.  Shut up and listen.  Over and over and over again, Dr. T taught us those lessons.  Shut up a while.  Listen.  Don't think...feel.

I could tell you a thousand Dr. T stories.  About his thermos full of "coffee" during tech rehearsal and how one of his pieces of direction for me was to "Grab the wheelchair and just spin it the fuck around." About how he'd hold advising sessions outside when the university banned smoking in campus buildings and how he could smoke a cigarette in one drag if it was raining. About our Senior Seminar final which involved a mandatory margarita and bean dip component.  About how I saw him do a keg stand when he was 65 years old. About every time he used the word "fuck" in a way I had never heard it used before.  There are a thousand funny stories.  Pardon me, though, because I'm not feeling up to telling any of those particular stories.

See, Dr. Thomas was the first person who believed in me as a theatre artist.  Eh, no...  That's not quite right.  He didn't have time for that kind of Oprah/Dr. Phil bullshit.  It's closer to truth to say he gave me a spine for the first time in my life.  I lived or died by how I was viewed in the theatre department and I believed it to be the ultimate indication of my future success as an actor.  When I was cast in a lead role as a junior, I put all of my hopes and dreams into this one play, this one role, believing it to be the ultimate test of my fitness as an actor.  At the opening night party, I found Dr. T and asked him what he thought of my performance, hoping that I'd hear good things and be validated in my choice of career.  "I didn't like it, Amy.  I didn't like you.  Not totally your fault, though.  Play's a little preachy.  I hate preachy shit."  I crumbled, tears in my eyes.  "Goddamn it, Amy, it's a fucking play.  Don't WORRY about it." Time and time again, he taught me the same lesson:  Do your job to the best of your ability and do right by yourself because there will always be some dumb motherfucker who hated you.  Good news is that there will also always be some dumb motherfucker who loved you.  You cannot rely on the motherfuckers for your sense of self worth for the simple fact that they are motherfuckers.  The only one who can decide if you are going to be an actor is YOU. Now get the fuck out there and do your fucking job.

I wrote to Dr. Thomas once, when I got my first real professional theatre job.  It was important for me to let him know that I was doing OK, that I was working, that what he taught me was vital to my current success...  I had to thank him for giving me the figurative balls to exist in the world of live theatre. I had just been cast at the Improv Asylum in Boston and he wrote me a lovely response.  The interesting thing about Dr. T, in my experience, was that he was blunt as hell in person, but waxed poetic in writing -- I saved most of my papers from his classes for the evocative grading notes he wrote in the margins -- so, when I told him that I was working at the Improv Asylum, the letter he wrote me in reply was all about the beauty of an artist finding their asylum, their place of rest and protection and freedom, their home...  It was beautiful and it was true.

I don't have much else to say but this:  I owe who I am to Dr. Thomas.  Every thing I've done as an actor has been influenced by him and a large part of the good things I've done as a regular human being are because of his instruction and mentorship. He taught me that the only way an actor can fail is by giving up.  He taught me to advocate for myself and be loud.  He taught me how to use the word "fuck" in all parts of speech.  And he taught me the best vocal warm up ever:  "She offered her honor.  He honored her offer.  And all the night long, it was honor and offer."  Where many people saw me as a chubby, shy girl from Minnesota who would never succeed as an actress, he saw me as a chubby, shy girl from Minnesota would would never succeed as an actress unless she stopped listening to assholes.

Someday, I'll laugh at the thousand irreverent stories I have of Dr. Thomas.  But now's my time for grief. I would be such a waste of a person had Dr. T not cared enough to tell me to stand up and be a woman, to raise my voice, to raise hell...

God give you glory, Dr. Dudley Thomas.  You chose to shout where lesser men would have whispered.

My birthday request

Several years ago, I asked friends, family and strangers to send me a picture for my birthday.  It could be of anything they wanted, provided they tell me a little bit about the picture.  I got a photo of a flock of running Wonder Women, a picture of my friend in a junior high letter sweater, the first snowfall another friend had experienced,  a smiling Dalmatian, a metal nun, the hand of a great grandmother resting on the head of her newborn great grandson,  etc.  When I first asked for photos for my birthday , I specifically asked for a hard copy because I loved (and still love) getting mail, but this time, I'd like to make my birthday request entirely digital.

My birthday is on Saturday and it's a big one. Please send me a picture.  ANY picture.  Tell me a little about that picture and a smidgen about why you decided to send me that particular picture. The picture doesn't have to have anything to do with me,  it just has to be something that matters to you in some wonderful/weird/fun/silly/monumental/inconsequential/inspiring/dull/unique/mundane way.  In other words, Dealer's Choice. And the description doesn't have to be long.  Or complete.  Or coherent.  Or anything at all.

Stymied on what to send me?  I'll give an example of what I'd send you, had you made a similar request: a picture of the Denny's sign in Evansville, IN.  I'd tell you about how I used to hang out either there or at a nearby restaurant with my friends in college.  About how we wound up exclusively patronizing Denny's because the other nearby restaurant was partially destroyed when a plane landed on/in it.  About the corner booth where friendships were cemented over the Sleepwalker Special and of the origin of the phrase "A lot of Binaca and no ego."

Send your pictures to birthdaypicturesforamy@gmail.com.  Let me know in your email if it's OK for me to share your picture on this blog.

Another favor:  send this request to your friends, too!  I want to see what people I don't even know will send me.  This is a long standing anthropological art project that I am deeply inspired by.  I am so looking forward to seeing what comes my way this year!

All of this being said, don't send me pictures you wouldn't show your mother/grandma/thesis committee/boss/priest/guru/sister.  Be classy.

Send me pictures, you lovely weirdos!  And share my request, please, if you are so inclined.

Pride

For the first time ever, I got to be a part of Pride in Chicago.  And I got to be a part of it in a big way.  I marched in the parade with pH Theatre and spent three hours today "Marching."  I put that in quotes because, at the worst moments, it was dehydrated shambling and, at the best moments, it was a big, silly dance party.

Here's my take-away from Pride:  There is nothing more joyful that the celebration of love.

Nothing.

To my LGBTQ brothers/sisters/folks that don't subscribe to a binary description of gender who are as close to me as family:  I love you forever. Thank you for letting me be part of your party today!

A few, brief thoughts on seeing "The Great Gatsby"

- Though I am usually not a fan of DiCaprio, I found myself charmed by the subtlety of his acting in this movie.  Probably because it was so vastly opposite Luhrmann's directing style of "Beat the Audience About the Head and Neck With Camera Tricks."  In Luhrmann's hands, Jerry Lewis would look like a nuanced actor.

- Nick Caraway in a Sanitarium is not acceptable.  Fitzgerald should be allowed to come back from the dead to nut-punch Luhrmann.  NOT.  ACCEPTABLE.

- Women who identify with Daisy Buchanan should be gently told that they're probably more like Myrtle Wilson.

- What happened to that dog?  

- In order for the term "Old Sport" to sound natural, one should not pause immediately before saying it.

- "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." Oh God, it's true, isn't it?  We can't escape the past!  Our goals keep moving ever further away!  The green light is a sham! Is 2 in the afternoon too early to have a martini and go back to bed?

- Daisy Buchanan is a real piece of shit.

Students

I have been a teacher (of improv, of reading, of math, of acting, of theatre for social justice) for many years now and it is one of the single most gratifying jobs I've ever had.  I take great joy in watching people learn something new or learn a new aspect of an old skill.  It's the reason I went to grad school, actually:  so I could eventually teach at a university level and get to watch people make extraordinary discoveries on a daily basis.  With paid vacation time.  The beauty of teaching for me is also the fact that every student I've ever had in any program has left a mark on my life.  Every one is so ineffably unique.  I remember something of every student I've ever had and I love that so much.  My life is filled with a thousand small stories that other people have shared with me, simply by dint of being part of a class I've taught.

So, today I was standing in a cafe in Bar Harbor, waiting on a take-out order (a fantastic, life-changing turkey melt sandwich from Sidestreet Cafe, which offers gluten-free bread on request, fellow celiacs!) when I happened to notice one of the other patrons of the restaurant who looked very familiar to me.  After I got my sandwich (seriously, it's SO GOOD!), I approached her and asked if she had taken classes at the Improv Asylum.  In the next few seconds, I watched recognition break across her face.  I had been her instructor for more than one class.  We squealed, we talked, we hugged, we had a grand old catch-up.  It was wonderful.

Students, your teachers remember you and care about you long after you've finished studying with them.  They wonder about you and hold you in their thoughts.  They care.  They wouldn't be teachers if they didn't.

BTW, my former student has a pretty kick-ass business now. Maine Foodie Tours.  Check them out if you're in Portland, Kennebunkport or Bar Harbor!

Drama

Recently, a chancellor for the university system in the state of Georgia called "drama" the "wrong" major to pursue in college. Suffice it to say, that was a huge lapse in judgement on the chancellor's part.  Witness this lovely editorial here.  Also witness this badassery.  As a graduate of the University of Georgia system with said "wrong" major, I feel the need to defend my course of study a weensie bit.  Moreover, I feel the need to give a shout out to a company that I am particularly interested/invested in and rooting for.

Defending live theatre as a profession/resource/valid course of study: http://www.tcg.org/advocacy/impact.cfm

A theatre company that is kicking butt and taking names:  http://www.penobscottheatre.org/

And another theatre company nearby that I love beyond all sense and reason: www.improvacadia.com

In short:  Go into the arts, if you are so inclined.  Dream if you must, because the rest of the world is counting on your vision to pull us through.

Walking (where we shouldn't have) in Memphis

If there is a supreme being in charge of bestowing humans with good road trip juju, raise up a prayer for yourself that you may be given a travel buddy like my friend Jessica.  Good fortune, luck, grace, miraculous coincidence and plain ol' joy stick to her like dog hair sticks to dress pants.  Traveling with Jess is like walking through Oz with Dorothy if the witch wasn't trying to kill her and if Dorothy wasn't homesick.  A few weeks ago, she called me to ask if I wanted to tag along on a trip to Memphis.  I learned a long time ago to always, ALWAYS say yes when Jessica proposes an adventure.  Saying "no" to something like that is just an invitation to lifelong regret.

Our trip started off the way our last roadtrip together did:  I got us lost and drove the wrong way down a one-way street.  To be clear: I GOT LOST IN MY OWN CITY.  Jessica handled our unplanned detour into no-man's land with aplomb.  She didn't get flustered or upset.  She just said "If we don't get killed, I will never let you live this down."  A fair bargain.

Suffice it to say, we made it to Memphis in one piece.  We checked into a motel next to a race track with a meth chef mascot and got down to the serious business of touristing.  On our first day in Memphis, Jess brought out her binder of itineraries and we chose to drive into town to visit the National Civil Rights museum.  In 1995, Jess met a woman who was protesting against the museum and spent the afternoon she had earmarked for the museum talking to the woman and hearing her grievances.  In short, this woman (homeless by choice to protest the gentrification of her former neighborhood) dissuaded Jessica from visiting the museum and bought her a popsicle. 18 years later, the woman was still there, still protesting and still just as vocal as Jessica remembered.  Jessica introduced herself again and said that she had a debt to repay.  She reminded the woman (whose name was Jaclyn Smith, no word of a lie) of the popsicle and asked what she wanted.  Jess bought her a muffin and brought a cup of ice.  Note to self:  Repay every debt. 

We went to the National Civil Rights museum, despite the protestations of Ms. Smith who asserted that the museum was just a very expensive memorial to James Earl Ray.  Respectfully, Jessica said that she needed to see the museum for herself to make up her mind and, equally respectfully, Ms. Smith concurred.  I have known, since a cut-throat game of Apples to Apples, just how much Jessica respects Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  What I wasn't expecting was to find myself equally affected by Dr. King's legacy.  I didn't expect to be standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, where Dr. King was shot, in tears.  It turns out that Ms. Smith was right... The vast majority of the exhibits in the museum were dedicated to James Earl Ray, the assassin.  They even had the bullet that killed Dr. King in a hermetically sealed case which was, quite frankly, nauseating.  Ray's boardinghouse bedroom was on display as was the filthy bathroom from which he shot Dr. King.  It was suffocating.  It was...wrong.  We went across the street to the Lorraine Motel and walked up to the balcony where Dr. King fell. I wish I could adequately describe what I felt, standing there, but I can't.  I stood there for a long time, on the edge of tears that I didn't feel that I deserved.  I stood there so long that I lost Jessica in the crowd.  I found her again, speaking with Ms. Smith: debating, sharing, laughing.  That's one of the things I love about Jessica.  Nothing in the world gets in the way of her ability to connect with other people.  

Next on our itinerary was the Mason Temple, where Dr. King gave his last speech before his assassination.  Scratch that...  Next on our itinerary was lunch, but the Temple was a close second.  I was determined to drive to the Temple, but Jessica said "Why don't we walk?"  Internally, I balked, because it was more than a mile from where we were and I had a demonstrated track record of getting us hopelessly lost.  We wound up walking, though, and we walked through places where, if I was a resourceful serial killer, I would have thought to stash a body or two.  Industrial parks with razor wire and desolation...  Neighborhoods of boarded up windows and graffiti.  Long stretches of nothingness and blight...  We waded through mud and we walked through scary railroad underpasses.  We stopped in convenience stores with more bullet-proof glass than things for sale.  But Jessica was committed to walking to this church and I trusted her commitment.  I got us a little lost on the way but, in for a penny, in for a pound...

Long story short, we got there.  The church, on the exterior, looked unremarkable and I remember thinking that it looked like the Armory on the University of Evansville campus.  Slightly industrial and not unique.  We walked up to the door with masses of anticipation born of our perilous journey there and...it was locked.  I rattled every door, hoping that one would be open.  Standing there in frustration, I saw Jess standing still, serene. "It's locked.  We're skunked.  Might as well just go back."  Jessica looked at me and that one look said "Wait." So, I waited.

In a matter of moments, a gentleman hailed us from outside the iron fence ringing the church.  "We're closed to tours today, but you came all this way to see our church, we might as well show it off.  Let me make a call..."  Within a few seconds, the security guard came out of the church, waved to our interlocutor and ushered us inside.  He told us about the founder, Charles Harrison Mason, who was once jailed and (allegedly) prayed so hard that lightning struck the jail and caused every cell door to spring open.  He was clearly very proud of the temple and of its history.  And then we entered the sanctuary which was bathed in the amber light of a southern afternoon.  We were drawn to the pulpit which the guard said was original to the building.  I turned and he read my turn for the question that it actually was.  "Yes.  That's the pulpit that Dr. King used during his last speech.  Go ahead.  You can stand behind it if you want." And so we did.  And a splendid afternoon washed us with its golden light.  

Let's just break this down a little... If Jessica hadn't spent a long time talking to Ms. Smith outside the museum, if she hadn't insisted on walking to this church, if I hadn't gotten us lost yet again, we wouldn't have been at the church in time to run into the gentleman who got the security guard to give us a tour. Even though the timing was random and totally unpredictable, I can't help but believe that Jessica was somehow cosmically aware of the timing of everything. She was determined to visit the church.  She wanted to stand where Dr. King stood.  And that's exactly what happened.

Our time in Memphis was full of good things.  I performed with an improv troupe I have long admired, we ate serious barbecue, and we laughed like laughing was going out of style.  But none of this would have been possible without the grace attendant on everything that Jessica attempted.  In my journal on Saturday, I wrote "I lived the HELL out of today."  I pray that everyone I know will have the opportunity to say the exact same thing...  That, when faced with a chance to take a gigantic leap, we all choose to jump.  And that we are all rewarded with grace.  Moreover, I pray that you all have a Jessica in your life, guiding you to ever greater adventures.