Donation

Brian did spring cleaning in November to finally eliminate things he no longer needed. When I helped him take the stuff down to the trash it occurred to me that perhaps the Salvation Army would be a better place, since I lived down the street. Then I remembered that the Salvation Army solicited help from Bush to become exempt from hiring gays and lesbians.

“Or I could just give it to the homeless directly.” Clearly I was having a Doriana Sanchez moment (she was my tour mother and boss on tour for years).

“Yeah you could,” Brian said. “There is a shelter over near Times Square somewhere.”

I didn’t articulate my more chance-y brainstorm. I was thinking of taking directly to the homeless people on the streets these bags and their contents. How hard could it be?

Whew did I find out! I parked on 54th and saw immediately an older black man whose deterioration caused him to look more elderly than he probably is. He had on an open jacket to reveal the emaciated frame beneath it. He sat on something I couldn’t make out, his posture still in tact, erect even, the beard approaching Rip Van Winkle length. He would be my first recipient.

I got a phone call and as I stood outside my car with the huge trash bag full of coats (I figured I’d start there), I had second thoughts. I mean it was an unseasonably beautiful night in New York on the cusp of December when an outfit sans scarf and beanie should not have been possible, yet there I was in said drag. I felt ridiculous passing out winter jackets to people who probably didn’t have the luxury to think that far ahead for struggling to survive day to day. Perhaps the revelation was God’s way of telling me that this was a bad idea.

But I defaulted to my first mind and committed my steps toward the man accordingly, before I lost my nerve. When I got to him, I stopped and put the bag down.

“Hello sir.”

He didn’t appear to even look my direction.

“Jacket?” I said, holding one up.

The man rocked back and forth slightly and began to hum in a raspy corroded voice a blues melody I didn’t recognize as anything specific beyond blues. I waited, trying to decide whether I should just leave the jacket or ask about shoes, or maybe investigate more carefully what he was wearing to find out what he was missing…

“I DON’T WANT ANYTHING YOU HAVE!”

The voice came booming, interrupting his song. I was so thrown, I didn’t know what to say or what to do next. I probably should have left the clothes right there for him but decided he may not have been yelling out of temporary insanity or dizzying hunger which would inspire regret after I’d gone. Sure enough, as I made my way down the block, he underlined his conviction.

“TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!”

Why do I suspect this would not have gone down this way for beautiful, Latina and perpetually-young-looking Dori?

Anyway, the scene at the church, when I made it there, was much different. Beneath the archway of carved Biblical happenings were about eight people, passed out in slumber of a kind one does not imagine feasible on concrete. Their poverty and homelessness suddenly did not feel so dire. In fact I began to feel intrusive. These people had bonded enough with this environment to christen it as theirs, at least for this night.

With concentrated stealth, I pulled jackets out of the bag and placed them strategically across the railing that divided the climbing stairs. The tip of toe, the slight of breath, it wasn’t enough; one of the sleepers awakened and I was instantly apologetic.

He looked right at the bag and then at me. In gestured sign language, I motioned that this was for all of them and to please share it with those still sleeping. He didn’t look too upset but I didn’t wait to find out. I returned to the car and decided one bag of charity was enough; I would pick another night to pass out the rest.

Except that I had old knock-off Timberlands that would probably fit the guy…maybe I should take a few pairs of shoes too? I rummaged through another black trash bag and found four pairs. Red Pumas. Work boots. Cute 8th Street sneakers Brian no doubtedly tired of. I took these to the stairs and prepared to situated them beneath the rail the jackets were slumped over. Except that the jackets were not there; they were already being examined by five people who had become conscious. The bag had been turned upside down to reveal things I didn’t realize were in it – shirts, scarves, a few undergarments. Brian’s stuff was in an open pile for all to partake.

“Pantalones?” One of the men asked.

I nodded and made another trip to the car.

I had no idea Brian was throwing away this many pairs of pants and I was happy right away; my ignorance about the matter saved me from the selfish temptation to see what fit me, as if I don’t need to be getting rid of some of my pants as well.

When I got to back to my car, I saw a scene canvas worthy – two men feet to feet sleeping horizontally across a porch beneath a smaller archway on the side of the church where I was parked. They fit with a symmetry that looked divine, and each side was bordered by a rail for the stairs to the doors. I laid a pair of jeans on each rail without waking these two and decided this is the way I imagined donating to the homeless would go down, with a little bittersweetness for the heart to swallow.

Nevertheless, I will definitely be taking a friend with me to donate the other bags cuz clearly I don't have it completely right...

Vacate

I am on vacation.

I will enjoy my vacation.

I will not feel guilty for studying the master schedule very carefully three months ago and, realizing that the schedule would involve a show on Tuesday, two shows on Wednesday, two shows on Friday, two shows on Saturday and a matinee on Sunday to serve the crowd and respect the mandatory Equity Thanksgiving-off union policy, putting in for vacation this week. I will in fact empathize with my cast members who have the additional burden of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, which means they will get off the stage at 11:00 Wednesday night and then be back in Midtown Manhattan at 5:30 a.m. to perform in costume in the morning only to go home and stuff their faces and struggle with the two shows the following day.

I will not resort to self-flagellation in the event that I don’t unbury my face from the pillow here in pleasant, quiet Dallas at 9:00 a.m. Thursday to watch my friends perform the Opening Number that Stephanie and I restaged just for the occasion. Nor will I call everyone I know and handle in advance their bewilderment about not seeing me anywhere on their television screens.

I will not worry about my vacation swing and new homey Daniel, who – when I checked on after his first and only opportunity to perform on-stage (with me watching) my entire track with tumbling passes – said his body was pissed. I will not answer his rampant text messages cursing me out for agreeing to put my body through absurdities eight times a week so that any swing or successor might struggle. I will not worry…especially since that Negro has keys to my apartment and can take the requisite Epsom salt bath there if necessary. Addendum: I will patch the hole in my heart that bleeds because he too is an only child and the poor thing’s mother is in town this week (of all weeks for him) and by show number six he might very well perish from exhaustion.

I will thank God every day that I chose this week to take off.

I will thank God that I put in my vacation request and got it approved before company management learned that Grasan’s replacement would not be available Thanksgiving week (it’s not feasible to have two dancers or two singers of the same gender out at the same time). I will thank God that I do not have to be there when someone calls out and Africa has to be danced with three men instead of four since both our swings are on stage the whole week anyway.

Whew!

I will eat turkey and dressing and stuffing and gravy from scratch and collard greens and candied yams and ham until I can’t stand up.

I will shove with Grecian delight a healthy slice of the homemade Italian cream cake my great aunt makes – the one so moist it jiggled like jello the entire ride from Dallas to whatever city we went to next on the Cher Tour when she last made it for me – into my stomach.

I pledge allegiance to really…well, vacate the synapses in my brain that fire off instruction to work.

I will not make plans this week.

I say yes to vacation.

Technology

On tour for so long I’d forgotten about one of the nuisances of living at home on a regular basis: the persistence of junk mail. Subscription invitations, charities and fundraising companies which (to a great degree of success in my house) use printed address labels to coerce me into sending money, bills and my favorite, credit card invitations. Recently though, I got something so interesting I had to add it to my collection of things to rotate on my little train commute to work.


So there I was on the train sipping my apple-cider-vinegar-spiked honey ginger tea, flipping through the Brookstone catalogue featuring “hard to find tools.” I was doing fine with the bionic wrench that instantly grips any bold and removes it by automatically adjusting to fit the bolt. The Swiss army knife that includes a USB flash drive, okay fine. But when I got to the hands-free voice-activated television remote I was bothered. With this device you can simply speak the channel into a little microphone located on the top of the remote and avoid the trouble of pressing buttons. Mind you, it’s still necessary to hold the remote so that it can hear your command. But I guess being a couch potato with the remote that requires the metacarpal muscles to work periodically to push the up and down arrows is too much now. If you’re feeling especially patriotic and want to repost your flag now that the Democrats have taken over the House and Senate (Hallelu), Brookstone offers a tangle free flagpole for a mere $39.95. Then the “Pet Steps” invention that gives your dog or cat a three step advantage to climb easily to the bed or any other “hard to access” area of the house I was done. Now the pets don’t even have to exercise as they make their way to YOUR bed. Hmm.

My all time favorite is the “Life Hammer” multi-functional safety tool for drivers. If you’re in an accident and you happen not to be conscious and not mangled, disoriented, or too sore to move, you can get free of your trapped position by using the safety tool with a blade sharp enough to cut through the seat belt. Then you flip it over and the machined steel heads can assist with breaking the glass. The inventors of it have thought it through thoroughly, right down to the fluorescent marker so that you can “pinpoint its location in dark or murky water.” Provided of course that the accident has left you able to reach into your glove compartment or the back seat or the belly of your seat and access it.

Up until now, I’ve been turning over the question about whether technology has gone too far. Now I’m sure it has. I’m absolutely sure. Now granted I own my Roomba robotic duster that goes over an entire floor and collects its dust; my sophomore Wester Civ teacher and her husband assured me it’s absolutely fine. But if I ever own a voice activated television remote, someone please intervene, intervene, intervene…

Covert

In our run around Brooklyn to find a rental apartment for Krisha, we narrowed things down to two places: one in Park Slope that she loves for its characters, neighborhood, backyard and space configuration, and one down the street from me closer to Pratt University in a huge doorman-guarded building renovated to the square centimeter. She likes both of them for different reasons but decided she could call either home. To give her brain more time to marinate on it, she took her realtor’s suggestion and put in applications for both apartments.

Her paper trail is quintessential: she has bounty in the bank from the sell of her last apartment, a job as a principal in a hit Broadway show, optimal credit, and a contract that ensures her employment for another year. So a quizzical expression formed on her face right away when her realtor informed her that one of the apartments did not approve her application.
“Why?”

“Well, the owners of the complex said that since they heard Purple is closing in April, they figured they would pass on you.”

Krisha was aghast. The words hung on the phone line for a while before she could speak again. The fact that they’d “heard” the show would be closing is ludicrous – it’s too easy to check. They must have defaulted to what they considered a palpable excuse based on some disconnected facts – the tour begins in April in Chicago (this is a second company that will run independent of ours) and the box office is not selling tickets for the Broadway show beyond April (as with most hit shows tickets are released in only six month blocks because there is not enough manpower to manage the volume otherwise). Krisha explained all of this to her realtor, then asked if they had any other reason.

“No,” the realtor said. “This was the only reason.”

Wow. Krisha has been a dancer with a paycheck a quarter the size of the one she sees now. She has been a student in school with no real credit history. Yet she has never been told that her job is the reason she did not get rental approval. Ironically, she is a black Trini artist with a Spanish last name and pigment too light to qualify her as “black enough” at certain auditions. Yet here she is unable to get an apartment while she is in a successful black show.

Krisha hung up and called one of our producers who became instantly livid. She confessed that this was the problem with the show when they pitched it to theaters on Broadway. Nobody wanted to house Purple because black shows have not generally been successful on Broadway in the past (from a numbers standpoint).

But as we know, God don’t like ugly. When Krisha made her rounds to horrify our colleagues at work with this story, one of the newest dancers explained that her husband works for the New York Housing Authority and will make sure that they investigate and fine the owners.

Of course you know me. I said the same thing the producer said (and with no conversation with her at all) – call our head producers and have them alert the building owners that their information in inaccurate. And when they call Krisha back with a reconsideration, she should tell them to kiss her entire ass. The whole thing.

Green

There are three newsworthy things that threw me recently: that it was 80 degrees outside one day and sweater cold the next, that the Vatican pretended to be poor long enough to announce its plan to raise 25 million dollars to send the Pope to Germany for his apostolic trip and that my plant was dying a slow death from having been fried by the direct sunlight.

Krisha and I are still baffled over the Pope situation - and our coffee conversation about it happened before the lecture fiasco (a clear indication of what happens when horny academic prowess lusts for common sense). We did the math, even factored the cost of maybe building a plane to fly the Pope to Germany with all his security, hotels, etc. We still couldn't come up with 25 million dollars and can't understand what the Vatican plans to sell as church paraphernalia to make the money. Disney does Mickey Mouse toys and whatnot. I don't know if Bible bookmarks work the same way. I digress.

The thing is, I was still a little hurt when Krisha, who is staying with me for a while and plays Squeak in the show, promised me that the sunlight was killing my plant. She relocated it for me to save its life but that didn't stop me from running around the botanical garden in Home Depot looking for other ideas. We managed to find this small potato shrub-looking plant with leaves that sprout out like a Tahitian jeri-curl. It's so cute and we loved it. We looked all over for appropriate bowls and found one a beige one with a thick burgundy trim around the mouth, which was open as if peeled out from the center. We put the plant in the bowl. With no further ado we decided the whole look was atrocious. I hunted out different varieties of tall plants and thought it might be prudent to just replace the dying one altogether with a new floor-sitting friend.

Much to my chagrin we could find no bowls large enough in diameter to fit the green generic containers all the plants came in.

"Does this mean we'd have to repot the plant?"

"Yes," she said.

"Or take it home the way it is and buy the bowl later?"

"Yes."

We looked at each other for a millisecond and with no further discussion walked away from the horticulture section of Home Depot. We fell out laughing before we could exit the building because two things were clear: both of us are too bourgie to look at the green makeshift potter for any length of time, and neither of us is willing to go through the trouble of repotting a plant when for us (whose thumbs have no kelly, lime, chartreuse or other variation of green anywhere) the whole point of the potter is to conceal the potter and match the decor of the apartment. We couldn't even get into the priority of having a plant for cosmetic reasons over zen-like ones:

"Krisha should I talk to the plant? I hear it will live longer?"

"You can barely water the plant!"

I was out done, especially since New York is replete with plants that are designed to survive with little sunlight and little water.

Thus concluded our shopping experience at Home Depot, a place that reminded us today why we are able to survive CNN world report every day.

Singing

The show had become a struggle in not slipping from my normal rank of weakest link to errant mic-offensive noise-maker. At times, during notes that Ms. Twine wants us to sustain, my voice would just drop off completely and then come back when it felt like it to the note I was determined to make happen. The morse code singing had gone on for two weeks before I finally decided that I needed to see someone; my colleagues helped usher me to an Ear/Nose/Throat specialist after the walk-in clinic physician could offer me nothing more than a prescription.

So off I went to see a doctor not too far from the theater. He interviewed me about my experience with this problem and began his quest for solutions by probing my mouth. He then felt around my throat and made a sound of nice surprise.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“I was just noticing your larynx is in exactly the correct position it’s supposed to be in. You have very good vocal technique.”

I snickered aloud, but in my head I was in a full out guffaw. He must have been kidding. But then I found out later he was serious. After taking pictures of my throat by holding my tongue and asking me to sing the “ee” vowel sound (it’s impossible but the effort makes the chords easier to see in action), he explained that my vocal chords were so swollen that the edges would not connect to make higher notes happen.

I asked him how this came about, what particularly caused this.

“Oh it’s probably just fatigue from years and years of singing.”

When I got to work I couldn’t wait to tell everyone, especially the singers, that according to an expert I have flawless vocal technique. A few of them asked me for this doctor’s name and number so that they could be sure not to go to him. I could only laugh…especially since several folks in the building have been sneaking to the keyboardist and assistant musical director to get vocal privates after hearing how much Stephanie and I have improved. As I told Doug, “I’m the advertisement.” Of course, to punctuate my truth, I then sang a very loud Q-sharp…

Cleaning

There was an article in a recent Daily News, one of the City’s many yellow journalism papers that digests so well with a bodega cup of tea. It had a full scale story on Brooke Astor, the 90 year old philanthropist whose last husband (Vincent Astor) had enough money for her to give away millions and still have take care of her medical needs. Except the scandal is that Brooke’s son in his seventies is mistreating her and being stingy with her money in an effort to maintain his wife in her fifties, denying Brooke a 24-hour nurse, swapping her fresh expensive floral arrangements with $10 bouquets from somewhere down the block, giving her generic medication instead of name-brand, and disallowing frequent visits to her sprawling mansion in the Hamptons. We can’t really call this “abuse” proper, but she’s that type of old white woman, you know?

My friends here in New York think I’m turning into her.

“You know, Jamal,” Brian insisted, “you’re becoming an old white woman. The fact that you told the service guy, ‘I didn’t ask you that’ says it all.” Brian was referring to the day I told the guys from the building management complex to install the second air conditioner in Dana's room while they were at it and my response upon hearing that it would cost an additional $125.

When I marched into Chi-Chiz with a Roomba, the electronic circular scooter that dusts the entire floor with the touch of a button and an overnight battery charge, my friends there balked at the price. “You spent $300 on this?”

“Sometimes my time is more valuable than my money,” I said. “This saves time I would ordinarily be sweeping.”

In my case, my time is almost always more valuable than my money. But Alaric just stared at me blankly as my other bid whist compatriot, Roddy, laughed into his cards.

“I mean I was going to hire a maid but I until then…”

“A maid?” Alaric asked, astonished.

“You know, just one of those cleaning ladies for hire that you can get to come in and clean your house for about fifty bucks and it only takes about two hours at most.”

“I will hurt you if you hire a maid! That’s absurd. I will clean your house for you before I let you hire a maid.”

“You will?” I asked. Was it really this deep?

“I’m not going to let you hire a maid, Jamal,” he said. “I won’t stand for it.”

Dana concurred.

“Whatever, that’s crazy. I’ll clean your house.”

“Okay fine.”

I’m still not taking my Roomba back…

Dear O,
Krisha is staring at the rehearsal, watching the makeshift revolve rotate six women with varied vocally delicious ways of advising “Hell No.” Brandon is comfortably asleep on her thigh and I struggle to understand how the rest of his body holds no complaint about the way he cluttered it on the adjacent chair just so that his head could rest on her lap.

Gonna be your rock
Gonna be your tree

Meanwhile, Krisha’s lap is fine and she is comfortable too. I imagine it’s because she is smiling inwardly at a personal connection to this particular song, a song that the writers nailed because they must have realized most women in the world will have personal connections too.

All my life I had to fight.

She is so relaxed I can’t see the breathing I know is going on. The denim-covered thigh not consumed by Brandon’s head seems softer with the cottony skirt over it. Oblivious to her dozing colleague/friend/pillar she is certainly relating to the Hell No. She has said it several times – once to her ex-husband when he made the mistake of thinking she might be trample-ready; before he could take his first misstep on that mis-thought, she pulled out her shotgun and reminded him that she was trained well and knew its properties better than he.

Squeaky she is not, at least not in real life. Alice Walker noted this from the voice pitched naturally lower than the mechanical feat Krisha pulls off to make Mary Agnes come alive. “Perfect,” Ms. Walker had said of her performance in Atlanta.

Ahh you better learn how to fight back while you still alive
You show them girl, and beat back that jive.

But really it’s the big hell no that sticks out, the one spelled out in the resolution of the Trini supple skin sealing all that knowledge, the one that cheerleads her integrity. That hell no was resonant, a siren louder than the neon of lights in Times Square. It pushed through calmly when she was fired from a first tier prominent world renowned dance company whose environment swallowed her spirit while the artistic director watched.

Sick and tired of woman still live like a slave.

The integrity prevailed though when it was time to stand up and acknowledge that with a new 53 million dollar facility and a legacy Gibraltar-solid, it was cruel to continue paying dancers slave wages to pirouette on its cement. Yes it’s easier to gather money for development than for operations but it’s not impossible. Feasible actually, she suggested, especially when dancers cannot afford to live after work in apartments that are as comfortable as the new building. Hell no a union company performing in a union house in a metropolitan city on tour should not hire non-union gospel singers to sing live for the performance, at least not without paying them accordingly. Union rep responsibilities plus cajones summoned from the jerk and aloo and the blue of Carribean water in her lithe Graham-trained body stood her up again, led her to call the union and alert them so that these singers could get the pay they deserved. She knew it would be pink paint for the slip that undoubtedly materialized when the powers that be realized her gumption, realized that hell no she was not just a dancer to settle into the docile insanity of complaining copiously after the curtain drops while picking cotton dutifully on the clock.

Francesca has just come by Felicia to sing,

Something to hold on to in your time of need.

Krisha’s chest jumps a little with excitement and Brandon reacts through his sleep, adjusts his position some. Suddenly it doesn’t surprise me at all that she was voted one of the Equity union reps right away when the question was posed. It’s a good choice. Probably nobody in the room could do it better.

“Yes ladies,” she says, as the women finish the last chord of the song. And I realized I have enjoyed watching her watch them. Because I rejoice in Krisha identifying. She ain’t no punk.

Hell no.

Pre-Tact

It was already a weird day with the airport staff having foiled a liquid-involved terrorist plot that rendered lotions, gels, shampoos and other bottles forbidden as carry-ons. I was sitting in the McDonald's with Jeremy and Bernard, two of my baby brothers from the Lula's company (home for me) in Los Angeles and we were devouring our varied choice fast food digs when the woman across from us asked if Jeremy is an actor, the beginning of a conversation that added light to the day.

"I'm a dancer," he said.

"She thinks she saw you in a concert recently," the woman said, indicating the marble-eyed child sitting across from her.

"You probably saw us in a concer in the park Wednesday morning," Jeremy said. "Did you enjoy it?"

"I was there," the little girl said. I dropped a huge glob of rice and beans from my burrito as I struggled not to laugh out loud. She was was clearly too young to have learned shade. She continued. "It was hard to stay awake. Tony fell asleep on my shoulder."

"Oh did he now?" Jeremy said. "Well it was really hot outside." Of course, this was probably the truth but the little girl did not see any reason to clarify.

"Tony is my boyfriend and I'm his girlfriend," the child said.

Bernard began choking on a french fry because the laugh attack was more than he could take.

"How old are you?"

"I'm five and my birthday is September 22."

"So is mine. Happy birthday coming up."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four," she said. "My daddy is 44 and my Mommy is 42."

Bernard and I loved how age five permits you the opportunities to just tell everyone's business and get away with it. Unsolicited or otherwise. Plus, the connection she made between her dad and Jeremy hapened so instantly, although no one was ready to ask how she got from one point to the other (it wasn't just age).

Jeremy turned to the woman across from the little girl. "Are you her mom?"

"No, I'm her babysitter."

"My babysitter is 43," the girl said pointedly. By this point it was too funny and I was done.

This went on for about two more minutes as I delighted in the intrinsic candid quality of this little girl, whose name turned out to be Ruthy. To think, in a few years society will teach her tact and she will learn to temper her responses for the sake of politeness. How unfortunate! :-)

Anniversary

Phillip Miner, whom I affectionately call “Daddy” because he has maintained a closer paternal relationship to me than any other man who could (my biological co-parent included), brought his lover of 20 years with him to New York to vacation and celebrate the their marriage. I turned on fires in my kitchen, something I haven’t done in a while with all the people in and out of the house lately, and cooked them a full out dinner, full out with Fetzer and garlic bread.

The strength of their marriage is still utterly miraculous to me – they have the interracial card, the gay card and a few other smaller cards in the game. The gay card has to be considered almost the way we differentiate dog years from human years: a gay relationship is worth at least three years of heterosexual marriage. Anyway, when I asked them how they’ve managed to make it this long, Daddy dropped his pearls.

“You know, son you have to start out every argument with ‘Ain’t nobody going nowhere’ and it works out.”

Something to consider indeed.

Dear God,

Thank you.
Scott just called a meeting at half-hour to announce that, critics notwithstanding, the show sold an outrageous twelve million dollars in tickets before opening night. Wow. Krisha was right; we can relax and get comfortable in these dressing rooms.

To our delight, Oprah showed up to say some words herself. I thank you for her, too.

At ten minutes to curtain, I came downstairs and saw Gayle sitting much more comfortably than I thought possible in a chair stuffed in the security closet that masquerades as an office near the stage door. I wasn’t going to rouse her from the article she was reading but when someone behind me spoke my name Gayle looked up, smiled, rose to hug me. We chatted a bit about opening night, the miracle of this show, the magic of being on this stage with this cast.
Then I told her how happy the opening night gift from Oprah made me.

“She’s right back around there somewhere,” Gayle said.

“Really?”

Why was I surprised at all? In the back corner of the stage left area stood Willie, Oprah’s tall mountain of security, and I knew she must be hiding back there somewhere. When I made it to the long crossover upstage, the blue pre-show lighting was so scarce I almost missed her. But the bounty of curls gave her away, curls that were so visible only because the Blackberry situated in her lap did its job in summoning her head toward it.

I smiled. “Hey.”

“Hi, Jamal,” she said and reached up to greet me. The warmth of the hug, a consistent pleasure every time I meet her, overjoyed me, as did the departure she took from her Blackberry (I can’t even pull Donald’s focus from that thing when we’re working).

“How did it feel to be up there during the opening?”

“It was exhilarating,” I told her. “It was sort of overwhelming because I kept thinking, ‘Wow, what is it going to feel like after this?’”

“Well, tonight’s crowd should be even better. Last night was the highty highs,” she said. I laughed, excited about her description of the entertainment elite. “But tonight you’ll have the true first crowd of folks who are just excited to see the show.”

“Yeah, you’re right, they’re going to go crazy.”

“Oh, and I loved my opening night present,” I told her, cuffing my left wrist with my right hand.

“You’re welcome.”

“I guess I should go put on a costume since we’re at five minutes,” I said. “But I meant to tell you, I have something for you. In about a week.”

“Make it a week and a half when I get back from Africa.”

God, it’s been more than a week and a half but I this is a good idea anyway, and it did my heart wonders gathering it for her. It took some time - when dealing with a wonderful, powerful woman who is blessed enough and ultimately human enough too feel the workings of God’s fingers as they stir the ingredients of this show, the questions forms right away: What does one gift her?

I kept coming back to the obvious issue – she appears to already have everything. I go through this every year with my grandmother at Christmas and on tax day, her birthday, when I struggle with what to get a 74-year-old who doesn’t need anything else. Whose closets, cabinets, bedrooms and kitchen are so full that to put something else in them causes more inconvenience (with much work I convinced her that she could part with at least three large bags of clothes that I promptly gave to my cousin Tim to send to Katrina victims).

Then it occurred to me that the only thing to give Oprah is something that few people have and that she deserves – glimpses of the process through which The Color Purple was realized on Broadway. Because Actor’s Equity, the organization that governs and protects Broadway artists, forbids videotaping of rehearsals, there is little substantial record of what went on during those glorious five weeks of workshop and two months of rehearsals before previews began. So I did what I hope others did as well – I wrote journals. By last week, I was only halfway through the process of editing these journals into letters and it occurred to me then that to fairly represent the scope of creative energy involved, I had to capture on paper all the cast members, even if it meant writing about them anew. To sit with everyone individually, to share with them the letters I wrote and humbly ask permission to include my visions of them in this collection became a greater task than I anticipated.

As I rushed backstage to the right stairwell, I heard her say, “And I love watching you dance out there, Jamal.”

The affirmation kissed my entire evening.

And God the audience did go crazy. About ten minutes after our conversation, before I had been in my church slacks long enough to wrinkle them, people in the house lost their minds. Apparently the house was not dark enough for Oprah to sneak into without being caught.

“They must really like the overture,” James Brown joked.

Rapture

First it's important to understand that there is a woman who works age in our building who embodies her stereotype as fully as one can. She (we'll call her Bobbye) is an ex-would-be-actress. I want to say this again because it says it all - Bobbye is an ex-would-be-actress. Which means that she wasn't good enough at it in her prime to succeed at becoming a blonde starlet, so she got as close as she can to getting a paycheck to be on stage: she works the backstage door.

In lieu of script readings and rehearsals she daily massages the microphone with announcements that are overly articulate and purry in that "Girl 6" phone sex way: "James Harknessssss you have a guesT at the stagjjje dooR. James Harknessss..." And we are worn out immediately. Her show begins the minute the band finishes playing - it is important to announce right away, before a costume can be hung up - that one of the principal's cars is waiting outside.

She might even tell a guest who managed to get in too soon after the show about the policy that no one is allowed backstage until ten minutes after the show. And then, after escorting the guest out, she might ask "Who is it" when that same person visible in her monitor rings the buzzard. The hair is always shockingly blonde and more than combed, configured actually. The lipstick is 80's red and sometimes she will occasion the Ritz cracker pendant with facke studs where the pores would be to torture everyone with the fear-laced urge to ask her why. Of course she only works the night shift because for some odd reason she can't get up in the morning to work the early one.

So when Annita Bakker, the recording artist of mystery and fairy tales and came backstage to the show one time bringing with her (no doubt) all the energy that musicians dread, the attitude that lives in horror stories I've heard about how nasty she can be, the scene was classic. This is a woman who, legend has it, returned from receiving her first set of Grammy's and cursed out the band upon returning and proceeded to bar them and their guests from the greenroom after the show.

The fact that Miss Ting was backstage forty-minutes into the show asking for tickets for the on-going show (and not at the box office) was eyebrow-raising enough. But then, Annita met Bobbye.

"May I help you?" Bobbye asked her.

"I'm here to get tickets under Annita Bakker."

Bobbye looked at her, shook her head, and said, "I'm sorry I don't know who that is."

"I am Annita Baker."

Bobbye's brow furrowed. She looked to and fro. She shook her head again with a tilt this time so that her hair could move to one side more freely. She genuinely had no clue.

Of course, Annita had to wait there pissed, a few expletives seeping out while Bobbye smilingly called for stage management or someone to assist this strange unfamiliar woman. I saw her standing there in my Africa costume (wow were we already at intermission by this point?) wondering what she was doing backstage as Bobbye, ever obsequious and clue free, worked to take care of things.

At that moment I wondered why there wasn't security camera feed to steel so that we could enjoy this in the dressing room.

To Walk Past a Field and Notice

Her name is on the marquee, granted. We performed on her show and had fried chicken and hummingbird cake in her annex green room after, where she proposed toasts and gave me a huge hug. But I never thought I’d have with her an encounter as magical as this one.

It started with the usual Opening Night plan – you want to do something special for everyone, get gifts and things with cards that say “Merde!” or “Congratulations!” or “Fuck you!” or whatever. Our famed producer should get something too but what do you get for someone who has everything? And can get everything? And worse yet, is notorious for not accepting gifts?

Nothing, except something no one else could give her – a retrospective in writing on what it was like to be in the creative process for “The Color Purple.”

And because I’m a little ambitious (quit rolling your eyes), I thought I could finish sorting through journals and editing them into a book of letters to her and to God in an effort to honor the epistolary form of the Pulitzer-Prize getter by December 1. I finished in March. I’d heard that she was going to be in the theater doing the Dateline interview with Ann Curry. When I brought all this to the head producer he was fully supportive and instructed me to bring three copies of the book – one for her, one for her buddy Gayle and one For Alice. I was elated to be given this kind of permission!

And it was a busy day – the interview was at 9:00 a.m. (you know I’m normally not even through with my second cycle of sleep by then) and we had a rehearsal for Easter Bonnet sandwiched in there somewhere (another blog altogether). She was running late but Alice was there and Scott re-introduced me to her which turned out to be an effort in vain. “Of course I remember you,” Alice said.

She gave me a hug and we spoke and I fumbled around with words the way I did when I met her during the workshop and explained what “To Walk Past a Field and Notice” is about. She thanked and hugged me for it.

I went to the rehearsal and came back to the theater as if I hadn’t just danced a seven minute piece. Ann Curry was full out with the marquee lady on stage, discussing her experience with “Purple,” its full circle nature, etc. After the whole thing O came to me with a hug and conversation that always makes you feel at home, on par even. Makes you forget you’re talking to HER.

On her way out, after she’d talked to everybody there (only a few people from the cast), I presented her with this book and spoke in complete sentences.

“So this is belated Opening Night present. It’s a collection of glimpses of the creative process through journal entries I’d written about the show…”

“Oh Lord, don’t get me to crying up in here,” she said, and we had a laugh.

“It started out as a gift for you and because I let each person in the cast see what I’d written about them it’s become sort of a treasure for the building. Still, you absolutely deserve this.”

“Well, thank you. And I’ll read it,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I appreciate it.”

There were a few more niceties to round out that exit conversation but the fact that this woman who motivated an entire population of viewers to active literacy said she would read something I wrote – that was all I needed.

Fast forward to the pre-Tony party. O had a reception in our lower lobby after one of the shows and made a beautiful speech about how unimportant winning was in the context of accomplishing a mission much bigger than us – affecting thousands of people per show in life-changing ways. On her way down the stairs from it, she saw me, came toward me with overhead arm cheers and gave me a hug.

I did not ask her about the book.
She instead opened the door. She grabbed me by my shoulders and looked me in my face the way Maya suggested “On the Pulse of Morning” we do our brothers and sisters and said, “Thank you so much for you journals. I read them and they were beautiful and between those and the letters from the kids [I’m assuming in Africa]…my goodness. I cried, I cried. I want you know I cried.”

“Wow.”

“Thank you for sharing something so personal with me. I will always treasure that.”

I was sort of stunned. What to say.

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” She gave me a heartfelt hug and then, as she walked away, before I could recover from the wealth of the moment, she added, “And you’re a good writer, too! Who knew?”

Months later, now that my serotonin levels have now returned to normal, I am ready to start putting a few of these letters on here from time to time, so if you see something addressed Dear God or Dear O, you’ll know it comes from “To Walk Past a Field and Notice.”

Tonys

It was tiring, the pushing and pulling, the buttons flicked on and off, the emotions hot-wired by forces everywhere grinning fiendishly at our predicament. The week, a slow motion, freeze frame avalanche of adversaries to our bodies, minds, spirits had caught up, culminated in a hole vulnerable and black as a wraith to follow us around the Broadway Theater as we got made-up and costumed to prepare for our performance at the Tonys while silently watching the televisions in the basement and 4th floor to hear how we were zero for three in the Tony count. No best score, no best choreography, no best costume design. We could try not to be upset that we were not doing any choreography from the show to highlight the brilliance of these dancers and Donald Byrd. We could fight to not notice that the costumes were period and detailed to the hilt, to the flowers on the intricate hats the Church Ladies where in the show. Most of all, we could struggle not to remember that it was hard to find logic in our anger since we had not seen any of the other shows nominated.

But it was a hard fight.

A few people lost it early on and vowed to stop fighting the anger and madness. Some of us conceded to our fears that perhaps this might be, as O warned in her toast the other night, history repeating itself: 11 Oscar nominations, no nod to the Mister character, and zero wins turning into (twenty years later) 11 Tony nominations, no nod to the Mister character, and zero wins.

We boarded the bus in awkward spirits, a troop of Southern church-goers displaced Quantum-Leap style in Manhattan. We made it to the stage door of Radio City Music hall where hundreds of people more interested in a bootleg, red carpet sight-seeing opportunity gathered and waved emphatically. Heads were held high beneath the hats we wore. But when we reached the stairway leading to the stage, the energy dropped. Angela joined our hands and led us in prayer to retrieve the truth we knew but had displaced – that no award could embody the achievement of touching and transforming the thousands of folks whose hearts are full by the time we sing the last Amen every night.

When we made it to the backstage wing, Alfre Woodard and James Earl Jones had just walked off stage. They were beaming as we stood there staring at them. Wonder trumped disappointment as several in the cast made their way to speak to them. Having met and spoken to Alfre when she saw the show, it was easier to tell her how fantastic she looked in the dress. “You’re going to make me cry,” she said.

Oprah looked amazing too, standing there to introduce us. She looked lovely, untethered. She delivered the famous line – “You told Harpo to beat me,” and walked off stage in character as Felicia walked on. In as little time as it had taken our heartframes to jump from melancholy to hopeful, we were on the stage singing the chorus of “The Color Purple.” Angled as we were almost toward each other, it wasn’t until the second verse, when we adjusted formations to face front that we saw the fright – a sea of black clad white audience members eerily homogenized. The composition was scary, like that of a gigantic congress with formal wear that varied in details too small to pick out from where we stood singing. The code of attire looked memo-driven it was so perfect coordinated amongst the orchestra patrons. What we see on television when we are watching is not as frightening as this, as being in it and not being able to see at all the few raising in the sun of Broadway because we are still such a minority. It made you want to cling hard to the energy of the colleague next to you because otherwise you felt overwhelmed by the odds, and utterly alone.

But we brought the audience to its feet and made it clear why we deserved every accolade, an instant high.

Then the worry backstage. The monitor with the teleprompter looked ominous as we waited listening to the presentation for Best Actress. No one deserved to win a Tony more than LaChanze. God had made it clear but it seemed doubtful that the Tony voters were listening.
When they announced her name the entire cast jumped up and down. We did not shut up until she made it to the podium to clutch her Tony and deliver a beautiful thank you.

To lose Best Musical brought us back to stark reality before we walked out of the building, but the collection of Tony fans outside made their judgments clear with #1 fingers pushing toward us as we boarded the bus back to the theater.

It was exhausting, amazing, triumphant, real.

Thank God for the after party, another story altogether…

Cut

I had no business going to the audition anyway. But the thing is this: You always need your good good good friends to get you together with the realness when it's necessary. Brian Brooks (that tramp) is the one who does it on the East Coast while Ryan Walker (hooker) does it when I'm in LA. Since we're dealing with dance, this one was Brian's domain.

"Well what happened?"

"I was cut," I told him, mustering up as much disappointment as I could feign.

"Really? Congratulations." The shade was mandatory - he often accuses me of never being cut from auditions.

"I've been cut before, we've had this conversation. This is not my first time. Besides, we both know that you're not going to let me qualify this in conversations because it was a type-cut and I didn't get to to dance."

"Yes bitch, exactly," he said. "You didn't have to dance for hours and hours so that they could waste your time and tell you at the end what they could have told you right away which is 'thanks, goodbye.'"

"True." I didn't mention that I was going to partake of the 9th Avenue street festival since the weather was so nice and I had time. "We did have to do a double pirouette at the beginning and you know it could have been that I was off my leg."

"I have no sympathy for you at all, bitch. None."

I had to laugh. He wasn't concerned at all because he knows without my having to tell him that I only went to the open call (where you're herded like cattle throughout) to avoid having to come to Manhattan on my day off from work, operative word in that sentence being "work." He also knows that the prospect of my "look" working as a teenager in a film musical version of "Hairspray" is wishful thinking - I don't look sixteen period.

"Dana felt badly for me," I tried, "and worried even."

"For maybe a moment. She had a momentary brush with sympathy because she lives with you. But that's it. Name someone who cares."

I couldn't come up with a compelling answer. So I continued walking down 9th Avenue browsing some cotton sateen 300 thread-count sheet sets for 10 bucks. Then I remembered an audition that I flew to New York for in college. I called back.

"You know I got cut from the audition for Fosse back when I was in my senior year."

Exasperated sigh. "Okay so we're at two times you've been cut. I feel nothing for you."

"I've twirled and been cut on other occasions to. I just haven't been to as many auditions."

"That's because you never have to audition you bitch! I'm hanging up the phone."

He was right. I couldn't pass this off as my good friend honestly offering no support for my traumatic morning. Because you see I had no business soliciting any support, especially when I had a matinee only hours away. And had I gotten past the type-cut and been able to actually dance I might have booked the gig and would have had to ask for a leave of absence for six months so that my job could tell me no. Hell no, in fact. That's the lyric. Hell no.

Clearly I'm supposed to be in the area though because the sheets are necessary and so are the t-shirts. And the vases. And the dried Himalayan flowers petrified in their various stages...

Eleven

I got a call from my good friend Brian that we received 11 Tony nominations. I got a follow-up email from another friend who'd just visited and seen the show. We discussed the possiblity that since the Drama Desk Awards (which are to Broadway what the Golden Globes are to film) snubbed us completely (0 nominations), we should be prepared for the worst. Well she sent me an email with a link to massacre my conspiracy theory.

The stage at five minutes to half-hour call was busy with excitement missing only champagne (we had to do the show tonight).

Most importantly though, I learned from one of my favorite colleagues a lesson that most women should certainly take note of. A while ago we had a conversation back-stage during the overture - it was about whether the man should be responsible for putting the toilet seat down. Since we need it up and have to raise it, Brandon insisted, isn't it the same as having to put it down if you're female? I didn't get into this because I knew where it leads. Kemba, who is now swinging the show to complete my since of Baduistic 360 circularity, mentioned that the two of us used to go through the same conversation.

One of my colleagues who is married with two kids pulled her husband aside and said, "Honey, if I go to the bathroom one night and the seat is not down I may accidentally sit down and fall into the water and develop a yeast infection. This means no sex. "

She said he never left it up again. We "Wow"ed on this for a while and then went to church to do the musical. Our jobs. Thank God.

Communication

Now that I'm truly living in my own house and not running amok, it occurred to me that I need to be more conscientious about spending. I've been cooking as often as I can and I've managed to get breakfast and late-night after-show dinners covered. It's now all about the meal between matinee and evening performances on two-show days.

Which brought me to thinking about alternative entree courses that can last a week because I may soon tire of my usual pot of spaghetti.

I made a wonderful batch of smoked turkey legs last year. Easy to make, doesn't take too long.

Off to the grocery store I went scouring the meat section for turkey legs. As usual, the store had everything else a butcher can package, but no turkey legs. Since this has been the case every time I've gone, I decided to consult about the matter a young butcher, probably in his early 20's.

"Sir, do you carry smoked turkey legs?"

"Um, no," the man said. "We don't carry them."

"Now is it that you're just out of them or is it that you don't carry them ever?" I asked, reluctant to believe that a grocery store as large and stocked as Pathmark never carries something so basic.

"No we don't carry them at all," he said. He then added, "I've never seen them at least."

"Well, okay, thanks."

Maybe the bemused look on my face forced him to reconsider, because the next thing out of his mouth floored me.

"We have smoked drumsticks, though. But I think we're out right now..."

Wow.

I am so excited that every day I turn on my television there is news about Coretta's passing, Coretta's living, Coretta's legacy, Coretta's works. It does my heart joy to know that her ceremony is televised. This one below looks like it could be the usual fwd seeping with altruism, but you know I like to do true stories on here...

Tribute

I had just pressed through the turnstile at the G train station closest to my house and the indicator on the marquee had gone off, alerting those of us with options that the downtown train would approach momentarily. So with my usual momentum, I sped to the stairs leading to the depths of the platform when I saw an elderly woman with irascibility springing from her parka begin her too-slow descent. I quickly analyzed: she would be evil if I said the wrong thing; if provoked she had enough spite to ruin an entire day, and most importantly she was going to miss the train.

I struggled. I wasn't in that big a hurry and I would feel appropriately guilty watching from my seat on the G train as she snailed down the stairs, even though there would certainly be another train in minutes. Meanwhile I would go to hell.

Carefully, I used more thought power than I had to construct the approach. "Excuse me, would you like some help?"

There are ramifications. Had I used "Ma'am" she might have been pissed - this wasn't the South and she may not have wanted to be reminded that she's older than me. Miss wasn't going to work for opposite reasons. Realize that had I asked "Do you need some help?" she may have said no, gotten a little salty perhaps, even though she was old enough to understand that my intention was still honorable. The phrasing was important. And if Carribean blood ran underneath the tenacious grip of independence old folks can wield (don't we all know it), I was doomed.

Fortunately, she smiled a dignified Coretta Scott smile and thanked me for my help. We made the train, and I was careful not to usher her too forcefully beyond its closing doors (read: I hoped the conductor saw what was going on instead of defaulting to routine).

Let's not get it twisted, I was still worn out. But at the end of the day, she was somebody's grandmother, somebody's mother, somebody's aunt, and she was old enough to have earned the right to require so much work.

Catch-Up

It was a beautiful December.

First the weather performed stunts. Some days I walked out of my house wishing I had thrown the hoody over the sweater before putting on a leather coat. Other days I ran around with a backpack crammed with extraneous scarves and furry hats I had no use for.

The schedule was pretty consistent though: Tuesday through Saturday shows every night, Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday matinees totaling eight shows a week. Rehearsals on Tuesdays which can only be scheduled for management (I’m one of the dance captains so that included me) and anyone new to the show, in this case Nettie. Thursday and Fridays were rehearsal days devoted to preparing the first set of understudies to cover any of the lead parts.

Of course folks came to visit me and see the show, my only condition a promise that guests would not attempt to make me believe that their urgency for purple was more about my being in it rather than just a general curiosity and excitement about seeing the story told on Broadway. They all laughed and complied. At one point I had a couple in from Atlanta, another friend in from Vegas, and my cousin Rosalyn shortly thereafter. The following weekend add Ryan subtract the others. A week later add a paternal cousin who we dragged out to a New Year’s Eve party only so that someone could steal money from her bag, but we’ll get to that later.

Somewhere in there we endured the MTA strike that, necessary as it was, meant a two-hour commute to work in a cab every day. The show went right on, theater-goers unbothered and completely ready for Celie and Nettie, transportation be damned. Then there were the tracking issues that we did not have an opportunity to map out coming to face us in any event. You know, worse case scenarios like two women dancers being out at the same time when there is only one swing. I remember sitting in a cab on the Manhattan Bridge having an entire conversation with my partner in crime (the other dance captain) about how we were going to cover two tracks with one person.

It was insane to say the least. But we persevered.

Our holidays became part of the four days we get off each month. There was an endurance stretch of 15 shows back to back at one point; we survived them. We worked Christmas Eve and Thanksgiving Eve. We worked the days following those holidays. I suffered with the sudden realization one day that I would continue to have only four days off each month indefinitely (the managed in presales packed houses for all weekends through November of 2006, nevermind expected walk-ups and last minute ticket purchasers).

Panic.

But I’m okay. I’m employed with a hit show on Broadway. My body is doing well. My voice sounds fabulous – okay okay you can call out my hyperboles on your own blog-page.

The New Year started with two days off. Ryan and my cousin went home happy campers despite the theft at the New Year’s Eve Party we attended. Someone apparently picked my cousin, a likely tourist, to rip off to the tune of a couple hundred bucks. I felt horrible – her first time in New York and she gets violated. Needless to say I reimbursed her for it. She insists that it wasn’t my fault and that I didn’t owe her that money and she’s probably right. But when you’re hosting family and you think your party choice is ideal, it’s hard to avoid wanting to fix it.

Are we caught up? Well, not quite. There are the numerous stories about magic moments of live theater that this show hardly gets reprieve from, soon to come to this page. There are the stories of the thousands of people who ordinarily would not make it to a musical; our swings report how folks come with their tickets to the building with O’s name all over it and, confronted with several doors to the inside of house, ask “Which door do we go into?” because they don’t realize that this isn’t the movies with several theaters. “The Wiz” and “The Lion King” and “The Odd Couple” are not also playing at The Broadway Theater.

Or my all-time favorite: the report of the family full of folks who sat in the box seats in the mezzanine and pulled out an entire bucket of chicken during the Overture before the first act.

Let’s just end with that. Let’s stay right there for a minute…a bucket of chicken in the theater.

December 2
Opening

It wasn’t the performance in and of itself. Every night of “The Color Purple” is a testimonial, an invitation for the souls of people watching to transform as Amens run amok in them. It explains the speed at which the audience jumps to its feet after we sing Amen, the only time it’s sung in the entire show. The show is a breathing Hallelujah deeper than vaster and more potent than the differences in religions, races and ethnicities represented in any given 1700 at our show. So performance itself wasn’t necessarily different Opening Night.

What was different for us is the realization of a divine creation succeeding right from its official birth into the world. It had a rough eight year pregnancy, replete with two workshops, a run in Atlanta, a month of tiresome trial and error with this cast and enough songs unused that an entirely separate album could be made. But tonight, the show was born. Gary detached it from the umbilical cord and during a tearful and emotional circle before the show gathered us to say how much he loved us and how completely his life was enriched having worked here.

It was Baptized when Felicia Fields prayed in the circle, reminding us that this is only the beginning that we were celebrating that night, the beginning of people being touched every night.

There were sightings.

Every black Oscar winner alive except the ghost translator and the one who “just wanted to feel good” was there. Ossie’s wife was there. Iman and her husband, Naomi, Kimberly Elise, and of course O was there.

The party was incredible. The entire NY public library became ours, marble floors and all. Debbie Allen, Angela Bassett and Pee Wee Herman were there. Jennifer Lewis not only took pictures but entertained my fanaticism over her movie “Jackie’s Back.”

It was a momentous occasion for another reason – I dressed. Yes I actually planned out something formal and picture-worthy for the event. I didn’t wear sweats or jeans and a sweater pulled up with a nice boot. No I got combat boots instead.

To wear with the skirt! Tuxedo jacket reconstructed and designed to tie over a longer, loose fitting white shirt. A reconstructed skirt designed by a fun chic designer here in New York. Long, Matrix-esque, skirt, screw a trenchcoat. With the combat boot. And the interesting thing is that I got more props from men than I did anyone else. I rocked the skirt as if reminding everyone that there was enough room for my legs to aim the boot into somebody’s head or booty crack should they say the wrong thing. But of course that wouldn’t be necessary because this was the premier party of the year.

Unfortunately, the party lasted until 1:00 a.m., too short a period of time to be glamorous. It’s probably for the best; we have a show tonight.