TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD: Facing tragedy as part of maturity

Can tragedy help us grow to maturity?

The Canopy Roads Theater Company is presenting a staged version of Harper Lee's TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD at Tallahassee's Goodwood Museum on November 10^th, 11^th and 12^th, 2015 at 7:00 PM.   MOCKINGBIRD tells the story of Jean-Louise “Scout” Finch, a spunky and tomboyish ten year old girl who witnesses the ugliness of racism in her small Alabama town, circa 1935.  Atticus Finch - her father - unsuccessfully defends a Black man falsely accused of raping a White woman.   By the story's end, Scout learns that ignorance is usually the basis of fear and that tradition and selfishness often negate freedom, justice and truth. But she also learns the power of love and empathy.

I play Reverend Sykes in this production; in addition, I once played a gender-reversed version of Scout in a freshman acting class at the High School of the Performing Arts, my alma mater. The irony of the latter should be obvious: I am Black, having been born and reared in New York City. My two parent family was solidly middle class and “Jim Crow” was not a factor in my childhood (although his cousin, “Sir James Crowe, esquire” certainly was). Still, tragedy factored into my upbringing.

One of my earliest memories was of an accident that occurred in Jamaica, N.Y., when I was four or five years old. A speeding car crossed the line and crashed head-on into a mid-sized box truck. My uncle hoisted me onto his shoulders above the spectators, to peer inside the car.  I distinctly remember that the crowd and the uninjured truck driver were all Black, while the dead auto driver and her two or three deceased young children were White. I remember their contorted bodies, which were smashed and splattered against what was left of the car's dashboard and windshield.

Despite my mother's overprotective nature, I still dealt with many other tragedies. One of my childhood friends died of an internal infection. When I was in the second grade, one of my classmates was killed while playing on the tracks of the Long Island Railroad. In 1973, a neighborhood boy named Clifford Glover – age ten - was shot in the back by N.Y.P.D. police officer Thomas Shea. Shea was eventually acquitted via the standard Thin Blue Line excuse - “The kid had a gun!” - even though no gun was ever produced. Later still, my teenage cousin was murdered by her boyfriend; likewise, I have known and buried too many other young people who died young, usually from murder or drugs or disease. I consider all of these events to be an integral part of my childhood.

In this adaptation of MOCKINGBIRD, Rev. Sykes tells Scout's brother to “Take Miss Jean Louise home now...These things aint fit for her to hear!” in response to the lurid testimony of an avowed racist. Scout does not leave. In this way, Harper Lee reminds us that Life cannot be ignored; that any genteel civility that covers evil must be scrutinized and stripped away. TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD serves as the mirror that we must face, if we are to continue to live and grow and thrive.

MOCKINGBIRD will be presented at the Goodwood's Museum's Carriage House on November 10^th, 11^th and 12^th at 7:00 PM. For ticket information please go to: www.goodwoodmuseum.org or call (850) 877-4202.

Got Gold?

     Gold.

      Years before I met my wife, I lived in a boarding house filled with creeps, junkies, whores and rats.  I brushed my teeth with detergent and ate whatever I could boil:   Spaghetti, grits, oatmeal, rice, beans, corn meal, weevils, etc.  To survive,  I pawned my TV in a squalid shop with bulletproof display cases that were filled with broken dreams and thick necklaces of braided gold.

     I know a man who is a technological genius.  In his yard and inside his house (stacked to the ceiling) are crates of broken computers and parts.  He doesn't even have a bed; apparently he sleeps in a large office chair, surrounded by dual 30 inch monitors.  Every time I see him, he is watching some movie in current release on one screen, while programming on the other.

     Periodically, the junk disappears.   Then over the course of a month or two it builds up, only to disappear again.   I learned that he sells to a salvage company, which separates and grinds up the parts, then either cooks or melts them in separate vats.  By doing this, the recycler is able to leech out and save all of the useful minerals and metals, especially the gold.

     For some, gold is the basis of commerce.  Without the "L", gold is Deity.  In an economy that has long since abandoned the Gold Standard - gold is still the goal.

     My wife still has her original gold wedding ring, but she doesn't wear it.   I have had two gold bands, and both times I had to cut them off when I got fat and my finger turned purple.  Currently I wear a $39 Titanium cheapy from Walmart.  Years ago I wanted to buy my wife some jewelry.  But instead, she asked for a freezer.

     Tomorrow I will rejoin the rat race via my cubicle, then later I will finish yet another manuscript which I will (hopefully) sell.  Weekends and evenings I work my side gigs.  Sometimes I wonder if the quest for the Golden Fleece - or any one of its modern day surrogates - is worth it.

     Ten years later, the deep freeze stills works and sits in the corner of the garage.  Each night I go home and my wife tells me about her day, usually while she cooks something criminally healthy.  I suppose some things are worth more than the "element Au"...even if they are best represented by the security of a cheap metal ring, aging appliances and a plate of tofu, garnished with love...