Umbrella

 We train our bodies for years and years to obey whatever challenging, sometimes dangerous instructions we give them. We fight to make things happen that should be reserved for other bodies, like those of cheetah or gazelles for example, or perhaps a snake/elephant hybrid, all so that we can manage simple and impossible things on stage for the delight and transformation of a person’s life/soul/spirit. 

            Unfortunately, props don’t invest in the same training. They do what they want, behave as they feel, mis-listen to our needs, fold their arms in defiance.   Investigations of how they work do not prove lucrative—for those of us not blessed with the good karma of prop handling magic, things go wrong.

            I am one of those people.

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Photo Courtesy of  John Wren

            I’m not sure if Sumayah is hostage to my bad prop karma or sabotaged by her own, but what’s clear is that umbrellas are not her friend.

            The first time it went wrong in “Burlesque” during tech rehearsal, her prop umbrella, which is rigged to not close shut all the way (since there is no time in the choreography to fiddle with the sharp button on its stem), wouldn’t open either.   We both rendezvous off-stage right near the stairs, me to make an entrance, her to grab her umbrella and re-enter. During the tech, she couldn’t find her umbrella because someone we have yet to identify moved it to a position on the stairs.

            As planned, I had grabbed the other umbrella to give to Ryan as I enter, since she has less time, and I watched Sumayah in horror search for her prop.

            “Where is my—I set it right here before this run!”

            “It’s right there,” I said, mid Fosse step fluttering my hand toward the stairs.

            This helped her none, of course.

            Determined to be a better friend during the actual show in front of people (18,000 of them in Phoenix, to be specific), I grabbed both umbrellas out of the holster and handed one to her when she ran to get it. 

            In the hasty world of quick entrances and exits and props, there is little time for "Thank you."  So I accepted the general smile of her aura about this consideration.

            The split second was decimated by the revelation that her umbrella stem was broken. When it got broken, how it broke, whether it tried hara kiri because it was done with us, we don’t know.  Just that it was broken.  And that when she pulled the handle, it detached from the rest of the stem.

            Sumayah then proceeded to go out with her very abbreviated prop and work the short stem like a pro.  She kicked her legs over it, pretended it could actually provide the kind of shade it was really meant for vs. the kind it was giving.  She pushed it over her head as if it were “Wade in the Water” high vs. just off her ear...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7huPVXNwOEM

     
       I had to stop looking. Because you see this is when the demon of laughter commences to take you out of your show.  All I could think of is how she had a shady umbrella. Ella. Ella. Eh, eh, eh.

        But then, the next night, I picked her up and swung her down around my waist, and my hat fell off, and I thought she maybe caught it in her other hand perhaps (desperation)...
 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgtNhrVtDkw

            Karma. Prop Karma. 
            And an oversized hat with an attitude...

Popcorn

At the time, I could come up with no good reason to order a large popcorn instead of the medium or the small, especially since I had whisked myself solo to watch Roman reputation be torn asunder cinematically for the second time this weekend.  Who was I fooling? I had even less business seeing “Pompeii” than I did ordering popcorn to satisfy my inner FB - if you don’t know what that stands for in this case, it’s safer you not know it applies to me.

           The woman behind the counter must have known. Maybe she saw my desire, my instant recollection of the downtown Phoenix AMC’s version of butter from my gluttony with it during “300: Rise of the Empire” a few days back. Now, I asking if the butter was self-serve, as if I didn't know.  She said yes.

            A beat.

            “Would you like me to dump half of it out so that you can butter it through?” she added.

            I nodded, embarrassed about my transparency, and then had the nerve to be sparing in my application—twice.

            By the end of the 98-minute festive disaster flick, I took the half of the bag of popcorn that I did not (and knew I wouldn't) eat, gathered it by its neck and sauntered the five blocks back to the hotel.

            Downtown Phoenix is quiet at night.  It's lonely, save a light wind with no particular destination, nor hurry to get there.  Lovely buildings, unblemished pavement.  And absolutely nobody on the streets. This night, I saw not even a random homeless person, odd since there was no abusive weather to hide from.

             Then one particular homeless man in a wheelchair made me understand the rulings of my gut.

            He had a long, clear face framed by gray hair that looked less matted than simply age appropriate.

            “Do you happen to have any change?” he asked.

            There was a casual tone, nothing ominous, desperate, or duplicitous in it. He did not appear high, drunk or mad at the world for his circumstances. The whites of his eyes showed none of the dramatic hope I had just witnessed in “Pompeii,” but they lacked expectation.

            “I don’t,” I said. “But I do have half a bag of popcorn.” I grabbed one last handful of popcorn and then extended the bag to him, knowing absolutely he would take it. “It’s good.”

            “Thank you sir.”

            I understood in that moment why I ordered the large popcorn, and it relieved me to have listened to the divine instruction instead of shooing it as bad judgment. Turns out, it was not mine to make.  God had plans, and I was the executive vessel.

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             I know, it's crazy, but go with me on this one for a minute. The payoff is often invisible: the times that the car doesn’t hit you when it could have, or when the brown recluse is diverted elsewhere, or when the cancer you never had the displeasure of knowing about dies first. Surely, these are balances for our right-doings. I am thankful every day for the thousands of times my life, my career, my loved ones are spared.  

           But rarer is the instant gratification in understanding my compliance with God’s good will had tangible, visible effect: this time a homeless man in a vacant downtown connected with the one passer-by who had food. Yes, he asked for money, but I'm sure it's because he didn't know I had food; Lord knows there is almost nothing open in downtown Phoenix after ten that he could have used the change for. 

           Other than perhaps popcorn at the movie theater. 

           The rest of my walk was slower, more relaxed even. And now it was okay for me to admit my appetite for disaster[ous] flicks. 

            And [fake]buttered popcorn. 

Spaces

In 2006, I choreographed two short ballets on promising, Plano, Texas teenagers at Kathy Chamberlain Ballet, a company with which I was a guest artist in college and for several years thereafter.  Both quartets were beautifully danced, extraordinarily well-received and heartfelt to experience at a Gala in Dallas that still stands out as one of the happiest nights of my professional life.

Turns out that one of the young ladies in the modern piece has grown into an even more stunning young lady than I imagined. She was a  beautiful chocolate 12-year-old when I met her, a teenager on the cusp of self-discovery when I made "The Troubled Spaces in Between," and a highlight recruited to the Broadway production of "Hairspray" before her teens were over. Three Broadway contracts later, she is wowing everyone over at the gigantic, certifiable hit, "The Book of Mormon."

When I saw her recently at a mutual friend's birthday party (yes, frighteningly, she is now old enough to have worked in shows with some of my colleagues), she confessed that she has never seen the ballet, which utilized the fabric of my Facebook profile shot before I entangled myself in it.Watching it again and seeing the other young ladies - I hired the lithe, long-legged Kimberly Van Woesik for a Blue Man Group flash mob I choreographed last year - moved me enough to post it.  In this age of digitized memories, some are criminal not to share.

Remembering Rita

People from the South know how to make you feel good even if only in the name of hospitality.  There’s something in the hello, the observation of what you looked like that day, the positivity in the comment on it.  It wasn’t until I moved to New York after graduation that I understood what made Mrs. Blackwell’s version of it so special.

            She meant it, deeply and always.

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            In DeSoto it made sense. This began when I was asked by the local chapter of the NAACP to coach her daughter for the national ACT-SO competition since I'd won years before (Courtney has been my little sister ever since). To walk into Mrs. Blackwell's home was to accept a quick descent into the unfair throes of overwhelming comfort, you know, “I may not leave your house ever” comfort.  At her alto “Hi, how are you?” your breathing slowed because you were cared for and asked to sit down somewhere. By “How is your Mom?” along with other qualifiers that she bothered to remember from your last visit, you were holding a beverage of the sort that directly contrasted the weather outside.

            If you stayed long enough for her to ask about school/career/work, you were handling a full plate of some delicious animal whose well-seasoned, tasty remains would not seem right without the collard green or yam she put next to it.

            During the afterglow of the meal, you were at her mercy.  Rita Blackwell had an internal GPS for personal inner-workings of the people she liked, and she could give Katie, Diane and Barbara a run for their money when it came to interview skills.

            By the second plate__“Do you want some more, there’s plenty of food?”/“No, ma’am, I’m fine really”/“Are you sure?”/“Maybe a small plate…”__you had given Rita an exclusive on your current relationship, sprinkled with bits on your last.  I say Rita because by now she had segued from Mrs. Blackwell, esteemed mother of Courtney and wife of OC to therapeutic ear capable of parlaying your issues with warmth where judgment could have been.  Emotional sobriety was only necessary should she catch you off guard with a Courtney question you had no business answering, in which case the scramble to present whatever truth would get you out unscathed became key.  (Over the years, I’ve watched a few people go down in flames behind upsetting a Blackwell woman, or any of her kin.)

            In any case, you were never an iota uncomfortable.

            I understood how she accomplished this in DeSoto, at her house. So does Dana, whose parents returned the favor to Courtney during the ladies' college years in the spirit of family village support.  And so do the numerous black kids from the SMU Division of Dance who couldn't make it to their homes for holidays and instead hopped in my Geo Prism to the Blackwell residence.

            But Rita managed to do it over the phone too, make me feel good, host me even in my house.

            This occurred on several occasions when I got ambitious in my kitchen and needed help. I knew the home number by heart and would call urgently:  Does extra flour thicken a lemon and wine based gravy as well or am I reaching?  What other strategic places do onions need to sit on the turkey other than between its legs? And what’s another recipe for stuffing if I don’t find the ingredients my great aunt—whom I also called for kitchen counsel—gets from Kroger, which we don’t have in New York? Does Aunt Cynth do this same thing with the slow cooked pork roast?

            I learned much about my kitchen from Mrs. Blackwell.

            My sister Courtney has the lion share of Rita Blackwell lessons of course, not the least of which is how to present a long leg and shapely torso in a dress (see photo).  But I got a huge gem from her through example:  God only put on the Earth a small number of kind people. Some of us are good, with nice moments and chipper dispositions, and others of us acquiesce to the spirit of generosity on occasion.  But few of us are born with kindness that needs no warranty and costs absolutely nothing to those fortunate enough to wander in its wake.

            Rita Blackwell was kind through and through.  Hopefully, we all learned her lessons; God saw to it that the aneurysm she came in with remained dormant for the whole 64 years she was here. She was classy (again, see photo) and it’s a blessing her daughter was so stunning in her wedding dress because Rita and I were giving her a run for her money.  

            I will miss her tremendously. 

            And I’m sure I won’t cook a turkey dinner without her in my kitchen.

Contouring Couric

 I was so happy to be there. The traffic was terrible. But a patient North Indian driver managed to get me to the ABC studio in time to burst into the sound stage and move co-worker/friend/dressing roommate Eric LaJuan Summers and his microphone out of the way.  To the utter delight of Katie Couric’s amiable staff, I enjoyed a quick lip sync for my life before finishing the tech rehearsal.

            Of course these kinds of antics can only be funny when the other four actors portraying the Contours with you on stage every night are friends off stage too. The joke was tinged with even more irony since these friends understood that I was much more amped to meet Katie Couric than even Berry Gordy, the music producing legend that wrote our Broadway musical. My friends knew that before I did my first pirouette or developpe or jazz slide, I was writing movie reviews and teen profiles for a newspaper in Torrance, California back in high school.

            So they did not look askance or point and jeer when our trip to the green room became a Dahl-esque chocolate factory journey for me, early hour notwithstanding.  I was as happy about the sundry TV journalism treasures around as I was about the plush carpet I warmed up on.

          My production stage manager went as far as to notice the copy of my book, which I’d taken out of my bag to sign, and insisted that Katie get it right away. Somehow, without a full conversation, she understood that it was dreadfully important, possibly more urgent even than performing on national television in my blue suit and pompadour wig.

            Katie, after all, was royalty in this world I studied in long enough to get an undergrad degree. She helped The Today Show defeat Good Morning America in the 90’s, endured an on-air colonoscopy to increase cancer awareness at the turn of this century, and—more remarkable than any of it—held her face together during that infamous, astonishing Sarah Palin interview.  Katie is one of my heroes indeed.

            Little did I know, she would find something else to add to that list of hero-making feats.  After a vicarious crash course in the mash potato (I’d taught her production assistant earlier), Katie came backstage seconds before our segment to makes sure she had it right.  Sanguine and bubbly, with the familiarity of an old theatre pro, she asked, “Now how does this dance go?”

            We were at ease showing her, even as she complained that this was not her talent.

            Turns out she’s an actress as well as elite journalist.  

            During the segment, not only did she succeed at learning the step, she decided mashing potatoes was not enough.  She french fried. She twisted. She jerked. Then she grabbed Eric’s hand and partnered herself into him. 

I was elated.  Me, a dancer gypsy with my novel, Katie a television titan with her smooth grooves - we were more alike than I knew.

           And she hadn't finished.  Next, a full twirling session much longer than her outro time commenced.  The smile under that well-known blonde do grew fiendish as she took over the stage, the pumps wreaking havoc on the glossy floor.  Eric handled it, partnering her into several dances that made me glad she had not been his competition at the Astaire Awards; fortunately he had won already and Katie is not in any Broadway shows. That we know of, anyway…

Tune in to Katie at 3:00 p.m. EST June 7 to see the airing of this show.