toward them is a lady of ill repute. As she walks by, Churchill tips his hat to her. After she passes, his adviser, incredulous at this display of civility to a prostitute, questions the prime minister on his intentions. Churchill replies: “I tip my hat because of who I am, not because of who she is.” This becomes your point of view – and how you can take control of any situation. You act and don’t react. You’re going to tip your hat. Despite your general affability to everyone, you do, however, carry a slight chip on your shoulder. You declare yourself a chemistry major, but you hate taking the introductory courses. You feel like you’re just repeating your senior year of high school. But the department has its requirements and you have to take them. So, you don’t put in the work, and your grades show it. You also get ticked off at the cost of books. When asked about the bookstore by the staff of The Meteor (the student newspaper), you reply (in all sincerity): “I think that is one of the most ridiculous misappropriation of funds in the state.” You’re fuming that you have to pay $300 that first semester in books. You aren’t actually against the bookstore, but you feel it’s a little too much about commerce and not about education – especially in light of some of the books being out-of-date and out-of-touch with current knowledge. But you do love your political science classes. And you really enjoy Professors Doug Friedman and Jack Parson. These cats know a thing or two about international relations, Cuba and Botswana, respectively. You get picked to participate in Parson’s Model African Union and you partner with Jackson Davis ’90 and Jamie Moon ’90. You guys are the “Unholy Triumvirate” as you prepare like mad in representing South Africa’s African National Congress. You study the country’s many challenges, go beyond the headlines because you want to be genuine and accurate in your case against apartheid. In your afternoon workshops, Parson and the rest of the students in Applied International Diplomacy tear apart your language and arguments. It’s not fun being questioned on your ideas and interpretation of the ANC, having to defend every line of text, but you see how taking their criticisms can better the final product. It’s nothing personal. And you observe that not everyone can take that kind of critique without feeling defeated. You leave for Washington, D.C., packed tight in a van, you sitting up front, tasked with keeping Parson awake as he drives through the night. You arrive at Howard University, where the students have barricaded themselves in the main administration building in an effort to get Lee Atwater, then chairman of the Republican National Committee and a South Carolina native, to resign from their Board of Trustees. It’s a politically charged environment and one that makes the model union seem even more relevant in preparing students for the world. You, Davis and Moon impress the other delegations with your thoughtful resolutions and discussions, so much so that you are elected secretary general for the next year. You enjoy the political scene. You even like learning the nuances of parliamentary procedure while preparing for next year’s model union. If you listen to the whispers of others, you might be tempted a little to think about a life in politics, but you dismiss it because it takes away from your real goal, your real purpose, your true passion: storytelling.
Center Stage
Your freshman year you wander over to the fine arts department (a precursor of today’s theatre department). In tryouts, everyone seems to take note of you. You get cast as a guard in Tina Howe’s Museum, a farcical play critiquing the art world. Several people take you aside and tell you that you stole the show, that you had a physical understanding of the stage and rapport with the audience beyond your years. Even a future Emmy Award–winning actress thinks you’re good. Carrie Preston (later of True Blood and The Good Wife fame), one of the leads in this ensemble cast, can’t believe that she hasn’t seen you before. She thinks you’re hilarious and questions the other actors why they don’t know you. You take the compliments in stride, but you want something with more meat. Well, you get a lot more meat with the College’s production of Home, in which you are cast as the lead along with Alanna Johnson Steaple ’89. You have great chemistry on stage, and you help her find herself in the role. You love the immediacy of live performance. The rush. The daredevil act without a net. And you love how the stage creates this transformative moment in time – with its ability to inspire, to entertain, to communicate emotion. But while you were jazzed about this opportunity, you also take note that a bunch of other people in the department have done multiple performances – and as a black male in a predominantly white school, you know your chances and choices are going to be limited. Sure, you can do Othello (and you will), but what else? You want to be a bigger fish in a bigger pond. That opportunity to be a bigger fish comes to you in an unlikely place. One of your favorite professors is Shirley Moore, who teaches communication. Like Mrs. Robertson, Moore just gets you. You are taking her COMM 211 Oral Interpretation, in which you write a monologue and perform it in public. Moore has heard that a Hollywood director is in town and invites him to teach a master class on auditioning and to give some pointers about the business side of entertainment. She tells you that you’re going to con this guy and get your ticket to Hollywood. And she’s going to make it happen. You agree and promptly forget about it. In fact, a few days later, you’re on your way to the gym to play basketball and cut class when she reminds you that this director is coming today. You walk in and you see Paul Aaron sitting there. He has this booming voice – a voice that sounds like Rolexes, infinity pools and sports cars. This guy has directed Glenn Close, Mandy Patinkin and Chuck Norris. Moore asks if any of the students are interested in being critiqued by this Hollywood director, and you, alone, raise your hand. You turn to Aaron and say that before you do your audition, you need to share something, and you tell him about Chad: I had a neighbor named Chad, and we used to play in this creek in my backyard. We used to swim through there and catch tadpoles and minnows with breadcrumbs wound up in little balls that we put on a string. I came down to play one day, and I was looking for Chad, and he wasn’t there. I went up to his house and knocked on the door and asked his mom where he was. He wasn’t in the house, but he was outside, she said. So, I got on my bike and rode around the neighborhood to see where he was so we could go in the backyard and play. I couldn’t find
SUMMER 2014 |
63
|