Drama High

by Michael Sokolove

  Not long before rehearsals began for Spring Awakening, Volpe decided to move out of the town house he had lived in since his marriage ended. He bought a house, bigger and with more privacy, in a new development less than a mile away. The first person he told was Marcy. “But I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you,” he said on the evening he walked over to let her know. “I’m not. I’m just going to be right down the road.”

  He bought packing boxes well in advance and began the excavation and sifting that is part of every move. He unearthed a photo album of his father with his buddies at a Marine base in 1943, and sat there just transfixed at how handsome his dad had been. A porcelain lily given to him by a friend when his mother died (her name was Lily) made him think of the wedding gown his mother had sewn for his sister, Rosemary, even with her hands racked with rheumatoid arthritis. He opened up Tommy’s sports bag. The cleats were still caked with mud. His bats, batting gloves, and caps were stuffed in there just as he had left them after his final high school game. Volpe had never wanted to shine or clean any of it. His mind flashed from Tommy playing T-ball at five to making the Holy Ghost varsity in tenth grade to winning the baseball award when he graduated and then being inducted into his high school’s hall of fame. It was a fast reel of his son from boyhood to young manhood.

  The first items he placed in the packing boxes were nonessentials of a certain kind: playbills from shows he had seen in New York; photos; thank-you notes and gifts from his casts; a big album of photos and mementos from Truman’s Rent. The porcelain lily was handled with particular care. Somewhere in the anticipation of his move and the tactile handling and sorting and bubble-wrapping of these objects, he came to realize that he was going to leave Truman High. He had not soured on teaching, high school theater, or his students. But he wanted to try something new while he still could—maybe take a shot at directing in a regional theater or teach some college courses or even see what role there might be for him at MTI.

  In the summer of 2012, he announced that he would retire at the end of the upcoming school year. The musical in March 2013 would be his finale, the last big Volpe production on Truman’s stage. He had previously directed several religious-themed musicals—Children of Eden, Godspell, Jesus Christ Superstar. (His oeuvre really did mix the sacred and the profane.) He didn’t repeat himself much, but Godspell was a notable exception—Volpe produced it three times, though the last was back in 1990. It was a Biblical story, but one told with enough sass and humor as to feel entirely current to his young cast, and a true ensemble piece, with room for many different actors to shine. It wrestled with leading and following, inclusion and exclusion, suffering and redemption, through the story of an alpha male (or was he?) and his acolytes. Volpe decided it would be his last Truman musical. “It makes people happy,” he explained. “I do like to make people happy.”

  • • •

  The final night of Godspell was a celebration and a homecoming. All 864 seats in the auditorium were filled, and hundreds of people who called for tickets were told it was sold out. Former students of Volpe’s came back, many from decades past and some from substantial distances. A friend from my class of 1974 flew in from Los Angeles. For two others from my era, it was the first time they had set foot in the school in forty years. Volpe’s current actors looked on wide-eyed at a reunion a few days earlier, as members of the casts from Truman’s 2001 Les Misérables and 2008 Rent stood atop cafeteria tables and did impromptu numbers from their shows.

  Levittown rarely felt like a small town, a cohesive place where people were connected to one another. It was sprawling and diffuse, and even more so in the years after its anchors—U.S. Steel’s Fairless Works plant, the public pools, the churches and synagogues—fell into decline. We had all emerged from this town of mass-produced and nearly identical-looking houses. Volpe bound us to one another, to our pasts, to a particular moment when we had first felt intellectually and creatively alive.

  Everyone who walked into the theater on closing night passed under a freshly unveiled plaque that said LOU VOLPE AUDITORIUM, the theater’s new name as decreed by the Bristol Township school board. It included two pictures of him, bookends—his photo from the 1968 yearbook and the upcoming 2013 edition. Bucks County’s elected leaders declared the day of the last show “Lou Volpe Day” throughout the whole county—north and south of the Route 1 divide. “Does that mean I get a free cup of coffee at Starbucks?” he asked.

  John Prignano of Music Theatre International traveled back to Truman (stopping first for dinner at Cesare’s) to present Volpe with MTI’s inaugural Lifetime Achievement Award. In honoring his “incomparable” contribution to theater education, MTI also announced guidelines for future honorees—among them, that they be teachers who “use theater to promote discussion [and] debate, and to challenge traditional assumptions.”

  Volpe fretted that his kids would feel overwhelmed by the pressure of performing in his last show, but their closing-night performance was free and exuberant and up to Truman Drama’s standard of excellence. When the curtain came down, Tyler Kelch, who moments before was Jesus in Godspell, stepped forward and asked everyone to stay so the cast could thank the teachers and others who helped them. Tracey Krause, though not yet formally appointed, was soon to be given the formidable task of succeeding Volpe. As she stepped up for her gift, Tyler handed her a plastic bag from the Wawa, a local convenience store. “To the only woman in the world who doesn’t like flowers,” he said. “Krause, here’s your hoagie.” She pulled it out of the bag and looked genuinely pleased.

  When Volpe climbed the steps to the stage, the crowd stayed on its feet for nearly two minutes. Most of the cast wept, and so did many in the theater. Volpe was dressed as . . . well, Volpe—in a pair of black-and-white madras pants, a white shirt, and a black velvet sport jacket. He noted that the audience was filled with his former students and fellow teachers, many of them long retired. He said he didn’t want to call out too many names, but pointed out that Roger Vaserberg—“my original Snoopy, from my first musical in 1975, You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown”—was in the theater and that his niece, Carol Ann Vaserberg, had been Mary Magdalene in Godspell. “It’s a family we have here,” he said. “That’s who we are to each other.”

  Volpe thanked several other people, including Marcy, who was sitting in the third row. He said that in the month between when he sold his old house and when the new one was ready, she had insisted he move back in with her. “Who does that?” he said. He asked Tommy to join him onstage and delivered his remarks with his right arm draped over his forty-year-old son’s shoulders. It may have been partly for support, though Volpe was one of the most composed people in the auditorium. He had his own standard to meet—he was on Truman’s stage, and therefore not about to break down in a puddle of tears. His program, after all, was all about composure, discipline, craft.

  He spoke, as always, without notes. Summing up the breadth of material he had produced at Truman, he said, “We have traveled the world together. From the barricades of Paris to an enchanted castle where a beast fell in love with a beauty to a crazy British guy who baked pies to the East Side of New York and those bohemians who were dealing with AIDS and drug addiction. We covered so many subjects, some of them very happy and some of them extremely profound. And it has been a great ride. I have had a blessed and enchanted and almost spiritual experience at this high school.”

  In 2012–2013, nearly three hundred Truman students took Theater 1 courses—just about one in five students at the school. Many of them would want to continue into the other three courses in the sequence, which meant that in addition to replacing Volpe as director, another theater teacher would have to be hired or identified from within the district.

  Volpe used the occasion of the MTI award to thank the school board for its support, but also to hold them to their commitment to offering arts electives. In the case of the truncated music program, it was perhaps a plea
for a renewed commitment. “I accept this on behalf of arts education, the band and the music program and visual art and photography, and those teachers in math and the sciences—everyone who helps provide our kids with a full education,” he said. “When I leave here, I know that our students will not just be skilled or trained. They will be educated, and that’s what’s most important to me.”

  • • •

  The Godspell cast did not give Volpe his gift onstage. They presented it to him at a dinner about three hours before the final show. In a picture frame, under glass, were two ticket stubs to the original 1984 Broadway production of Sunday in the Park with George with Bernadette Peters and Mandy Patinkin in the lead roles. In the frame and just below the tickets was the Playbill for the show. Volpe put his glasses on to read the handwritten note on the cover of the Playbill. It said: To Lou Volpe, thanks for inspiring so many young people—Stephen Sondheim.

  He seemed at first like he might hyperventilate. No words came forth. Finally, he said, “He signed it.”

  “To you,” Krause said.

  He asked the kids how they had gotten the reclusive Sondheim to write to him. The answer was that they had found a home address for him and sent him the Playbill, which they had purchased on eBay. They wrote Sondheim a letter about their teacher, never knowing if he would receive it, read it, or send the Playbill back.

  “This is the best present I ever got,” Volpe said. “I never got a better present in my life.” For a few minutes, that was all he could say—variations on that same theme. “Tomorrow I will be putting this up. There is nothing in my house that will be more valuable. There is no other present that could be comparable. It will hang in my house until the day I die.”

  He told them that what touched him more than the gift itself was the thoughtfulness and love required to give him a present of such deep meaning. “I will leave here tonight so completely fulfilled, so completely realized, as a teacher and as a person. Part of it is the gift, but most of it is you.”

  He asked them, “Do you all understand what this means to me? This musical changed my life. When I walked out of this musical, I was not the same person. That’s how much of an impact it had, and to this day, it still does. I can barely get through it in one piece. I went to see it in New York again a few years ago. I thought, Okay, I’ve seen it twenty-five times, it won’t happen again. And it did.”

  Volpe might have continued, but a cast member in Godspell, a bright, self-possessed senior named Tamera Cato-Walker, rose up from her seat and took a step in his direction. “Mr. Volpe, it’s kind of funny that you’re telling us that this play and this character changed your life,” she said. “Because that’s exactly who you are to us. You’re that person who changed our lives.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s an unusual experience to return to your own high school, and not just to visit, nearly forty years after graduating. The two years I spent back at Harry S Truman High were enriching and rewarding, sometimes in ways I never expected. I am grateful to Jim Moore, the principal at Truman High, Sam Lee, superintendent of schools in Bristol Township, and the members of the district’s school board for granting me full access to the school. They gave me the chance to dwell fully, which is an essential element for any work of nonfiction. I’m proud of the staff card they issued me once I passed my background check.

  Much of this book is told through the dozens of student actors and actresses, as well as members of the technical crew, whom I encountered in Truman Drama. I found them remarkable and inspiring, and there was not one day I spent at the school that I didn’t love being around them. To all of you boisterous and rigorous Truman Drama kids: Thank you for letting me into your lives. Your energy and exuberance are infectious; don’t lose that.

  Tracey Krause, Ryan Fleming, and Carol Gross were my interpreters in the land of modern-day Truman High and Truman Drama, and along the way, they became friends. Carol, the documentarian of Truman Drama, took many of the photographs that grace this book.

  I am indebted to Marcy Volpe, Lou Volpe’s former wife, and their son, Tommy. They helped me understand the man at the center of this story and did so with an abundance of heart and courage that I will never forget.

  This book is mainly a work of on-the-ground observation informed by my own memories and reflections of my childhood. In the passages on the earliest days of Levittown, David Kushner’s Levittown: Two Families, One Tycoon, and the Fight for Civil Rights in America’s Legendary Suburb helped further my understanding of the violence directed at Levittown’s first black family.

  Writing a book is a solitary and sometimes lonely endeavor. I have been buoyed throughout by a circle of support from family, friends, and professional colleagues. Bruce Martin has been my closest friend and steady truth-teller since junior high. Together with Darryl Hart and Hillar Kaplan, he helped confirm or debunk my Levittown and high school memories. He and his wife, Lorie, opened their home to me often on my many reporting trips.

  My daughter Sofia Sokolove and my friend and former editor in Philadelphia, Avery Rome, read drafts and offered valuable guidance. My father, Leonard Sokolove, faithfully showed up at every Truman production during my reporting, and clapped heartily, because supporting a child is a lifelong endeavor.

  I am fortunate to have a home base at The New York Times Magazine, which for the last dozen years has sent me to far-flung places and beautifully displayed my work. Hugo Lindgren, the editor, and Dean Robinson, my longtime story editor, were gracious in allowing me to step away for a while. Every writer needs a close writer friend to whom he can turn for urgent editorial guidance, gossip, or general griping about how difficult the business can sometimes be. For me, Jonathan Mahler is that comrade.

  I benefited immensely from the editor’s sensibility of Scott Moyers, at the Wylie Agency, who helped shape my idea into a proposal. When he returned to publishing, I was taken on by Andrew Wylie himself, who is the ally and advocate every writer deservers.

  Geoff Kloske saw the potential in this project immediately, applied a deft editing touch to the manuscript, and was there whenever I needed him over nearly three years. I am also indebted to the team at Riverhead Books, including Jynne Dilling Martin, Katie Freeman, Elizabeth Hohenadel, Helen Yentus, Casey Blue James, and Laura Pereiasepe. Kate Hurley did the vital work of copyediting and spared me errors and made improvements.

  The reader and editorial partner I value most is my wife, Ann Gerhart, a fine writer and editor herself. It was she who pushed me to tell this story, then talked me through it, lifted me when I faltered, and read early and late drafts. Her ear, tone, and judgment are exquisite. She elevates everything she touches, including, she has just reminded me, these acknowledgments.

  Finally, Lou Volpe. He first taught me in 1972. He opened a realm of words and stories and ideas and gave me my first inkling that I might be able to inhabit such a place. To be back by his side, so many years later, has been one of the great joys and honors of my life. He bravely and openly shared stories that he had told no one else, and he did not want to read a word of this book until it was between hard covers. I am overwhelmed by the trust he put in me, and the faith he had in me, to tell the story as I saw it, and I hope that what I have written is worthy of it.

  One day before auditions, he told the group: “We’re going to need to see how far you can go. We need to see the fire. If it’s anger, if it’s pain, you can’t be afraid to go to that place. I’m not talking about shouting. I mean something you find deep inside.”

  With that, he had taught me again, something I needed to know more fully, which I didn’t realize until months later.

  That is his profound gift, to me and to all he has touched.

  PHOTO CREDITS

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo courtesy Volpe family

  Photo courtesy Truman High

  Photo
by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo courtesy Temple University Libraries, Urban Archives

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo courtesy Volpe family

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross

  Photo by Carol L. Gross