If I was falling down on my job and it made it harder for him to do his job … it wasn’t just the anger and discipline to be meted out later that twisted my stomach in knots, it was also the fact that I was letting down the whole family unit.
But I simply couldn’t get it together in school. I was a prideful, mouthy kid (with a bit of a short fuse myself), who couldn’t resist the urge to make it known if an adult was being hypocritical or arbitrary. My mini-crusades were almost always about some injustice.
* * *
As I sat in the front seat of the car with my dad, driving to this meeting with Mrs. Turner, I had no way of gauging what he would think of her. Today I have a better sense of how formidable she must have been in person.
Frances Turner was brilliant, elegant, and economical in life and in her style as an educator. Frances was distinguished among her peers, and I always felt that she carried herself more like a tenured college professor than a fifth-grade social studies teacher. Well-read and well-traveled, Fran rocked a short, cropped Afro and one-of-a-kind frocks she picked up on outings to the Kenyan marketplace. There was a dignity and regality in everything she did. It came from a clear understanding of her place in the world and of her personal power within it. She was charged with shaping minds.
While it’s true that in the first couple of weeks in her classroom I never saw her laugh, I never saw her scream, either. She wouldn’t have wasted even a bead of sweat on a behavioral issue. Not at Masterman, one of Philadelphia’s prestigious and elite “magnet” schools, which required testing and interviews to attend. Her attitude implied that if you were fortunate enough to be here, you would respect the privilege.
Mrs. Turner ushered my father into a closed-door meeting in her classroom that morning. I waited in the hallway.
The meeting extended on and on. Dad was in there forever.
I could not see this ending well for me.
When he emerged from the classroom twenty minutes later, nothing in his face gave me any hint whatsoever as to what the lady had said to him. “Enjoy your day. See you at home,” he said. And then he was off.
The tense good-bye told me all I needed to know about what would eventually happen when I saw my father at home that night. I spent the day working on My Side.
* * *
IT WAS ONE of the LONGEST SCHOOL DAYS that I CAN REMEMBER.
* * *
It was one of the longest school days that I can remember.
That night, Dad came home from work, and there was still no mention of the meeting. Dinnertime came. I dragged myself to the table, where the conversation was muted.
When my father finally spoke, I was expecting his rage. Instead, he was measured.
“I have never ever taken somebody’s word without hearing your side first. I have never done that.”
I waited for what was coming.
“With Mrs. Turner, I will take her word. With Mrs. Turner, you don’t have a side.”
The law had changed. I was on notice.
“If you misbehave in her classroom or if you ever disrespect her again, you’re going to have a real problem with me.” That was his final word on the matter.
Dad had given Frances all the power.
I let it sink in.
Dad has always been tough on me—though my behavioral issues in school were tough on him. My folks were only a little older than children when they started a family and began having children themselves. I believe he really was doing his best. I believed it then, too.
At the end of the day, I trusted my dad. And if he trusted Mrs. Turner, it meant that I could, too.
* * *
Trust opened the door to one of the most formative and valuable relationships of my young life.
The tension and hostility faded away. Frances and I became congenial, even friendly, over the time after her meeting with my dad. I began to regard Mrs. Turner as someone in whom I could confide.
* * *
TRUST OPENED the DOOR TO ONE of the MOST FORMATIVE and VALUABLE RELATIONSHIPS of MY YOUNG LIFE.
* * *
Trust meant that when Mrs. Turner told me I should enter the citywide African-American Oratorical Competition because she felt I had a real shot at being a contender, I would take heed and get to work.
Having a platform to speak my mind was unheard of. Like most ten-year-olds, I’d been told that I was supposed to be seen and not heard. Now I was being encouraged to take a stand and speak truth to power in front of a room of adults.
Kids from all over Philadelphia wrote and delivered original speeches. The orations were judged on content and delivery. Prizes and trophies went to top scorers, but the greatest reward was seeing my potential in a new light.
It’s impossible for me to overstate the effect that oratory and the competition had on me as a young person.
With patience and diligence and grace, Mrs. Turner led me to the writer, and in many ways, the warrior within me. Every kid needs an outlet, a world in which they can discover and see themselves at their best.
That first year that I entered the competition, my best wasn’t quite good enough to win the grand prize. I came in second but vowed I would be back the following year to try again. I failed to come in first, but I loved the process so much, I used my near miss as motivational fuel.
When I hear people complain or bemoan coming close to a sought-after goal and missing by inches, I am quick to reassure them. Celebrate the fight and the proud run. Coming close can be confirmation you are on the right path. What can you do better the next time? What can you do to make yourself more prepared for the next time?
Mrs. Turner was just as motivated. We went back to the drawing board. We retooled and reentered the following year.
* * *
EVERY KID NEEDS an OUTLET, A WORLD in which THEY CAN DISCOVER and SEE THEMSELVES at THEIR BEST.
* * *
For the next four years—the rest of my time in middle school and even my first year of high school—my coach and I went undefeated in the Philadelphia competition. We had quite a run.
Our winnings included thousands of dollars in savings bonds (which went directly to my college tuition in my first year), two brand-new Apple desktop computers with printers (the very first computers my family owned), and a scholarship to begin studying drama (my first formal training of any kind) at Philadelphia’s Freedom Theatre, one of the oldest and most prestigious African-American repertory companies in the country.
Located on Broad and Master streets in North Philadelphia, the Freedom Theatre was a rose growing out of the concrete. Inside the walls of Freedom was an oasis of learning and empowerment.
Each student who entered the theater was greeted by Thom Page, the director of the training program. Page acted as threshold guardian, a job he took as seriously as a heart attack.
You had to know the password to get past Mr. Page. It sent the message right away that inside these walls, there was something worthy of protection.
“What’s the password?” Mr. Page would ask.
“I respect myself!” you would offer.
“You’re beautiful!” was always Thom’s reply.
To every single child who walked in. Every single day.
Maybe I would have found my way to Freedom Theatre and to my eventual path without the guidance of Frances Turner. But I can’t be sure.
Oratory was the gateway to the theater and Mrs. Turner helped me discover the password. She reframed notions that I was bound for trouble. She freed my voice and gave it back to me with style.
Mrs. Turner was a vessel for small miracles.
On the way UP, there’s plenty you can do on your own. There’s a great deal in these pages about how to make the best use of an hour of private time. The work you put in when no one is watching will matter far more than the work you do when the cameras are rolling. The private hours of hard work you dedicate in the dark will be their own testament when you’re finally standing in your light.
You
can do a lot on your own. But no one can do it all alone.
Who is your Frances Turner?
Even if you aren’t exactly where you’d like to be, I’m willing to bet you have a host of people to thank for the best parts of your journey so far. There’s a mentor, there’s a teacher, there’s a friend who believed in you. Let’s make your rise to the top the way you say thank you to the person who helped you see your own magnificent potential.
You’ve more than likely encountered bullies and naysayers on the path as well. There will always be people around us who are invested in proving their skepticism right. Make this the moment you wrestle your life back from the hands of bullies and the tormentors of your past and the ones you’ll face tomorrow.
This is your time.
We owe it to our mentors and we owe it to ourselves.
Onward.
CHAPTER 2
THE BIG BREAK
Be more than ready.… Start now, every day, becoming, in your actions, your regular actions, what you would like to become in the bigger scheme of things.
—ANNA DEAVERE SMITH
I didn’t want to be in show business. I wanted to be in Rent.
I was sixteen years old and I had never been to see a Broadway show, but I wanted to be in Rent on Broadway more than anything.
Broadway was expensive. The best seats in the house could run upward of seventy-five dollars a ticket! It’s somewhat laughable today but then, it was too steep for our middle-class family of four.
I didn’t know anyone in show business. And for a long time, I don’t think it even registered for me that these were jobs you could seek out.
Twenty years before Hamilton, Rent was also a far-reaching phenomenon with a hardworking team behind it doing their due diligence to ensure it was making noise on the national stage as well as in New York. I remember seeing the cover of Newsweek with Adam Pascal and Daphne Rubin-Vega on newsstands. I remember watching a TV news magazine feature that gave us a glimpse inside what was happening at the Nederlander Theatre on Broadway eight times a week.
The next day, I went to the record store to sample the cast album.
* * *
THE NEXT DAY, I WENT to the RECORD STORE to SAMPLE the CAST ALBUM.
* * *
I’d meant to only listen to a song or two. Ninety minutes later I was still standing there. Frozen. I was at the cash register five minutes after that ponying up the $19.99 for my very own copy of the double-disk recording—more than I’d ever spent on a single piece of art.
For a long list of reasons, Rent was a revelation to me. I wanted to be friends with these people. I wanted to dress how they dressed and eat what they ate. I wanted to love how they loved. My heart took residence in the world Jonathan Larson created. The themes and motifs spoke to me like the gospels. Friendship in the face of death. Love in the face of death. Art in the face of capitalism and consumerism. Protest in the face of injustice.
This was my tribe.
Jonathan Larson composed a tuneful and emotional Broadway score fashioned in modern rock and pop music. It sounded like music you’d hear on contemporary radio. It’s a very hard feat in the theater. It requires a unique talent. It requires someone who possesses skills as both classic storyteller and hit songwriter. It happens rarely, but when it does, the results can be magic.
I knew every note and syllable of the score in a few weeks’ time.
A dream started for me here.
I began to believe somewhere inside myself that I could will my way into the world that had captured my imagination.
Star or roadie, usher or ensemble member—I didn’t know what the capacity would be. But I believed that there could be, in or around the thing that I loved, a place with my name on it.
And there is no wasted time in the company of something or someone that you love.
Learning the songs, reading whatever I could get my hands on about the show and its humble beginnings at New York Theatre Workshop, soaking up the stories about Jonathan and the young cast of performers getting their big breaks standing at the center of the phenomenon, it was all preparation for the far-off time when I would find myself immersed in that world. Though if someone would’ve told me how soon that immersion would arrive, I wouldn’t have believed them.
Nothing can stop you from preparing for your dream opportunity. But you can’t know the day or the hour it will come to you.
You walk toward the things that make you feel most alive. You walk toward the things you love. You love them with your whole heart. Read about them. Talk about them. Find other people who love those things, too. And eventually, the thing you love most in the world will love you back. It is inevitable. Not always in the way you expect, but in exactly the way you need. The loving energy you put toward your dreams is magnified and returned to you in time.
* * *
I was very lucky to come of age in Philadelphia at the time that I did, and I’m sure I didn’t know it.
Looking back to when and where my dream first took form, I realize I was a part of a whole group of young people who were on a similar path. Friends from my childhood went on to achieve great things in their chosen creative fields.
America’s fifth largest city, Philly is marked by a reverence for history, education, and the arts.
Your hometown will shape your taste and your developing eye. Most of us travel a far distance from home in pursuit of the things we love most. But for better or worse, you take your hometown with you. Your hometown is the salt in the stew. Philadelphia is a huge part of who and why I am.
It was at the Merriam Theater on Philadelphia’s Avenue of the Arts where I first saw the touring production of Rent. The tour was in town for six weeks. I got a twenty-dollar student rush ticket and took in the show from the front row.
The lights went down and my heart beat a little faster in my chest.
I spent act one with a big, fat grin plastered on my face. The whole thing played like one continuous favorite song. When intermission came, my cheeks hurt from smiling and my head was swimming with the images I’d just witnessed. The show was perfect. Even better than what I’d imagined after listening to the songs hundreds of times.
Act two began and a small, seemingly insignificant, improvised moment between two actors on the stage—a flash of connection—burned into my memory banks and opened a brand-new door in the annexes of my imagination.
* * *
From my front-row seat, I clock an actor as he enters from stage right. He is wearing the most genuine and warm smile you can picture. There is a secret behind his eyes. He winks at a woman across the stage from him. It is quick and subtle, and if I wasn’t in the front row, there was no way I would’ve noticed it. A similar smile creeps across the woman’s face. She has a secret, too. They take their places among the rest of the cast with their smiles and secrets intact. They sing about seasons of love and the remainder of act two unfolds from there.
“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes…”
I am not certain anyone else noticed the wink or if it would have meant anything to them if they had. It was such a small thing, but at the risk of hyperbole, it was one of the greatest moments of my entire life, and I was never the same again ever!
* * *
THE WINK GAVE ME the TINIEST GLIMPSE into the LIFE that CONTINUED to UNFOLD OFFSTAGE.
* * *
Too much? Okay, that may be overstating it a bit, but I’ll tell you why it mattered to me for real. After so many listens to the album and imagining what the show might look like, I’d spent the entire first act utterly enrapt by what was unfolding onstage. The wink gave me the tiniest glimpse into the life that continued to unfold offstage.
Life continued in the wings and in the dressing rooms. There were probably genuine friendships, embraces, inside jokes, private moments that we were witnessing the whole time and didn’t even realize. They were incorporating it all into the show. Life and art, then, were intrinsic and even intercha
ngeable.
Boundaries could be erased between the two and the result was a richer and more deeply felt experience. Life was happening before they entered the stage and it didn’t stop once they made their exits. This wasn’t a museum piece. It was not fixed in time. It was a living, breathing thing, susceptible to change as subtle as a wink.
The theater became a 4-D experience for me in that moment. The cost of my ticket had been twenty dollars, but there was no dollar amount you could place on the experience I had that afternoon. Afterward, I no longer dreamed solely of the day I would become a cast member in my favorite Broadway show. I dreamed of a life where the art didn’t stop just because I’d left the stage.
* * *
Life can turn on a dime.
At the end of my junior year of high school, a few months before my seventeenth birthday, I spent hours in line for my chance to be heard. Rent was holding an open call in my city at a nightclub on 8th Street called Shampoo.
Standing in that line, which wrapped around the block, I was confident of only one thing: no one would be able to say that they loved this work of art more totally or purely than I. My preparation had made me fearless, and I had no expectations.
There’s nothing like preparation to make you fearless.
As far as prep work was concerned, there was all the time I had spent over years walking toward the thing I loved, and there was the Freedom Theatre.
Freedom Theatre had been a cradle and training ground. I came to it with no knowledge, no experience other than singing in church, and a certain confidence that came from public speaking. As I had a chance to observe the advanced students, who were so polished, I saw a way that I could ascend as they had and make myself proud.
There weren’t a lot of politics or favoritism at Freedom. As a student, you rose in the ranks based on your merits. Anyone who was in the advanced class was there because they had earned it. Many of the students had been studying since they were four and five years old. I had a lot of catching up to do.
Failing Up Page 2