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.

Do I want to be like Mike?

     My new manager accidentally called me Mike, then corrected herself.

     No, I wasn't insulted.  For some reason, people have always called me Michael.  They always seem to say the same thing (as she did also):  "I'm sorry, but you look like a Michael."  I always laugh it off, since I am not a person who lives in urine (in other words, perpetually pissed.  It's ignorant).  Still, my misnaming reminds me of the true to life doppelganger who accounted for some of my "Mike-ification".

     Yes, his name is Mike.  I'll spare his last name, but my FB Friends can see him on my list. We were friends in high school.  I didn't see it, but some people thought we looked alike.  In fact, we once portrayed the shape-shifting, persona switching duo from Arrabal's play, THE ARCHITECT AND THE EMPEROR OF ASSYRIA.  After graduating in 1979, we didn't stay in touch;  however,  I was shocked to learn that we had been shadowing each other for years.
   
     During the mid 1980s I was in Binghamton, N.Y., supposedly writing.   At that time, he was he was working in broadcasting, nearby.  He also married a young lady from the next town over.  By the late 1980's I was married and living in Florida.  My wife and I bounced around the state for years, chasing jobs and manufacturing kids until we ended up in Tallahassee.   One day,  I saw his exact name on a list of local videographers. I shrugged, since the full name is common.  A short time later I saw the same name on a list of reporters with the local NPR affiliate.  Still just a coincidence.  But when I heard his distinctive voice during a local segment, I knew it had to be him.  One phone call to the station, and sure enough it was him.

     Over lunch, I told him just how cool and popular I thought he was, "back in the day".  This was borne out at our recent 30th year reunion, wherein he strode as if he had never left New York City, while I unsuccessfully tried to obscure just how much of a hick I had become.  This, despite the fact that we both live in the same town. 

     This was supposed to have been a polemic about life's coincidences.  Perhaps a homily about identity.  But sometimes the best commentary is a stifled yawn and a shrug.   As I read about the lives of the people who infest the news du jour (Kim K. vs the Pizza Maker!), I realize how much of a blessing it is to be content with one's identity.  I like myself, just the way I am. 

     Even if people can't remember my name.

     Always Be Positive!