Cloaked Triggers

Linda and I watched In the Valley of Elah the other night. The film follows a father named Hank (played by Tommy Lee Jones) who learns his son is AWOL after returning from a tour of duty in Iraq.  It isn't long before we learn that his son has been murdered and the movie's plot centers on Hank's efforts to learn who perpetrated the crime.  In the course of the action we learn that Hank and his wife also lost their only other child, another son ten years prior in a military helicopter crash.

Watching the film, one can't help but feel tremendous sympathy for Hank and his wife, played by Susan Sarandon.  Two sons, both dead.   Watching a fictionalized portrayal of this kind of parental loss isn't easy.  You likely know parents who struggle with child illness and death.  Sadly, it may be you.  Death  - in whatever form it comes  - is something with which we all must eventually encounter.  But parents who've actually had to endure such tragedies must both cope with the reality of their situation and also figure out a way to live a life amongst those who haven't.  And for those of us who have lost a child, sometimes it's hard to know when those wounds, however long ago inflicted will be reopened.

Toward the end of In the Valley of Elah, when director Paul Haggis lays the sentimentality on pretty thick, feeling sadness rise in me, I glanced over at Linda and saw tears welling in her eyes.  Immediately, I knew that these were not tears for the characters in the movie.  They were tears for Leo.  After eight months of normal pregnancy and for no known cause, Leo was stillborn late last July.

So much has changed since then.  Our son Max is nearly two and half years old.  As parents well know, children of this age develop so rapidly that even a small amount of time can encompass monumental change.  Though a short amount of time may pass, it seems more has owing to the rapid rate of transformation.  Six months ago we lived in a city condo in Massachusetts.  We now live in the quiet country of Connecticut.  And while we've changed much in terms of our surroundings and circumstance when we think about Leo and linger in those thoughts for even a brief moment, all the same feelings come rushing, bull rushing back.  How can it be that Leo's not with us?  How can it be that this has happened to us?  This should not be!  And while Max is more than we could have ever of dreamed, by all rights we should have two sons.  We should have Max and Leo.

Moving to a new town, meeting new people.  They don't know us; they couldn't know our story.  They see us with Max and wonder where he gets his curls from (not from us but from his birth parents).  They ask if we have just the one child.  We answer yes because what else would we say to a new acquaintance?  But we can't say the words without thinking we should have two.  It's not that we want to immediately tell everyone we meet about our dear departed Leo (because, face it, that would just be plain weird), but in not doing so a significant part of our identity remains hidden. By not revealing this fundamental information it paradoxically highlights Leo's absence to us all the more.

Last fall, in Leo's honor, we planted a green mountain sugar maple tree on our family property -  The Farm as we call it.  We dug the hole and sprinkled some of Leo's ashes in amongst the the dirt and roots.  We staked the tree to keep it stable in the stiff breezes that blow across the open expanse.  During the cold and dark days of winter, I'd occasionally inspect Leo's tree to make sure it was fairing well.  In talking to Linda, I discovered that she, too, was doing the same.  Visiting Leo's tree, touching its trunk and caressing its branches is a way of communing with him.

Spring has finally sprung here in Connecticut and with the warmer weather I find myself outside at the Farm quite a bit more.  I have the opportunity to go to Leo's tree more and I do.  It brings me great comfort to see the new growth at the ends of the branches, the buds forming.  Soon the leaves will blossom.  I can't wait.  Yet even as I type this, the notion of the rebirth of Leo's tree fills me with mixd emotions.  I'm grateful for the symbolism embedded in nature's seasonal rebirth.  I am also more frequently aware that this tree which though it brings me so much serenity reminds me of the son that isn't in my arms.

Linda and I have undergone a tremendous amount of healing in the several months since Leo died.  Most hours of most days, you wouldn't, couldn't see the anguish that lies below the surface.  We can often have a normal conversation about Leo and get through it without the rush of emotion that used to be unpreventable.   But there are times when all of it comes at us with no warning.  Sometimes I wake up and feel the pendulant melancholy has returned, a sadness I owe and whose debt has come due.  Other times I feel right as rain, but then a scene in a darned Hollywood movie that, though the circumstances are vastly different, triggers familiar waves of sorrow.  I've never felt and earthquake, but understand that it can feel like the earth is undulating under foot.  This is how the grief sometimes feels.  One moment the ground beneath me is firm and then with little warning, it feels unstable, unpredictable, and I unsteady.

When I saw Linda weeping next to me on the couch and understood who the tears were for I didn't say anything.  I didn't know what to say.  Often there is nothing to say.  For a while we just sat there, adrift in our heartache.  Eventually Linda moved to get up, but I wasn't ready for her to leave the room.  I pulled her back down to the couch and we embraced each other for several minutes in silence.  I was trying to muster my strength to utter the only words that filled my head.  Each time I thought I was ready to speak, I couldn't bring them out.  I wanted to say the words without my voice cracking.  I wanted to say them in one breath.  I know not why, but it was important to me that I deliver them clearly, plainly.  I knew that they were the only words I'd be able to say that night.

"I miss him a lot."

An Actor

The play that I appeared in closed last Sunday.  We performed Larry Shue's The Foreigner.  Before a few weeks ago, I'd never acted before.  Well....I guess that's not entirely true.  I've certainly been performing for years.  As I wrote in The Funny Guy, I've long employed humor to get a laugh, ease tension, be mean spirited, be the center of attention, make clean phrases sound dirty, amuse children, get jobs, get free stuff - and food, and of course charm women (though now just one.  Yes, my wife.).   But never before had I appeared, so to speak, on the stage.  So to leap into a full-length play was perhaps a bit audacious.  Even for me.

A few months ago I saw an ad in the paper for open auditions at the Bradley Playhouse in nearby Putnam, CT.  There have been a few times in the course of my life when I've pondered acting (always briefly).  I felt the occasional pang of regret for not having been in a high school play.  Looking back, I realize now that despite my inclination to make jokes, I was a lot more self-conscious than I let on.  A classic case of my laugh-getting antics masking what is probably a normal in adolescent insecurity.  After all, when I told jokes, walked silly, or answered every question asked of me with, "Bend over and I'll show you," I was the star of my own show.  There were no lines to forget or cues to miss.  There was no scene to blow because everything was improvisational. I possessed (still?) a mind that was quick enough to be witty on the go and a predilection to be funny.  More than that, I processed almost everything I saw, heard, read or thought so that it was funny - and thankfully I could present it as such to my audience.  My audience was my family, friends, co-workers, and students.  Sometimes I gave toasts at weddings or was an emcee for large meetings.  I'd been up in front of several hundred people with their undivided attention before.  I had prepared and given speeches.  With my own material, and my own style of delivery, I said funny things and made silly faces.  But a play?  A play is a different thing altogether.

So after a lifetime of hearing people tell me how funny I am and asking me if I'd ever considered acting,  here was an opportunity perfect for me (as was the role).  An open audition at a community theater.  Why not?  A few days before the audition, before I'd even committed myself to going, I stopped into the theater to pick up the readings for the script.  The theater manager greeted me, introduced me to the roles, and asked about my experience.  I humbly told her that I had none.  No matter she said, the theater actively encourages first timers to audition.  She added that sometimes not that many people audition.  In other words, I had a shot at being cast.  Long story short:  I was cast and I was cast in the title role of the play.  I had only read snippets of the script, knew nothing of the character and how many lines I had, to say nothing of the fact that many of them were in a completely made up language!

I reflected in By Heart how the whole concept of learning lines was a skill I'd employed little of in recent years.  Memorization.  It's work.  When rehearsals began (three times a week) we had only 7 weeks or so until the play opened. At first we rehearsed upstairs in the function room at Victoria Station and later on a mostly empty stage while our set was being built.  Some of my fellow actors had years of experience in theater - acting, directing, stage managing, doing technical work behind the scenes.  I was the only one who had zero formal experience.  As the weeks progressed, I casually read my script and  also read from it during rehearsal.  The experienced actors had soon memorized many scenes, only needing to call for a line from time to time.  With less than two weeks before opening night, I was just getting a handle on some of my lines.  Frighteningly to me, I wasn't the only one.  At this point, I didn't leave the house, much less the room, without my script.  I tested myself and I had everyone in my vicinity read lines with me - my wife, mother, mother-in-law, friends, gas station attendants, pharmacists, and supermarket cashiers.  

A week before the show opened, the scenes were rough.  Some of us still didn't know our lines - well we did, but not exactly when to say them.  I left that rehearsal certain that the show would be a disaster.  I imagined a silent audience.  Perhaps a few polite chuckles at first -  then nothing.  Folded arms, people slowly and quietly leaving and then rotten tomatoes.  Remember I hadn't done this before.

Slowly at first, but at an increasing rate our timing and recall improved.  We got through scenes with less hiccups.  As we learned our lines, we learned our roles and were now freer to be the character instead of just speak the lines.  I might even hazard to say that I began to act.  Two nights before we opened our director had us do a 'speed through.'  We basically performed the play at double speed.  To our collective amazement we ran through the whole play barely missing a beat, cue, or lines.  It was, at least by our measure, crisp.  We, at least, knew our lines.  I finally gained the confidence to know that come opening night, we'd be able to get through the show,  perhaps even put on a half-way decent one.

The Bradley Theater was built in 1901 and has close to 400 seats.  (For a history of theater, click here and look for history tab.  Find out about the ghosts here)  It's a charming old building which though it shows its age, retains the warmth of its literally storied past.  Below the stage is a narrow hallway and a row of small dressing rooms.  Across from the dressing rooms is a low-ceilinged storage and mechanical area known affectionately and aptly as "The Dungeon."  When below stage, you can hear the floor boards creak above and the sound of voices, though muffled, is clear.  It's there, below stage that we gather before the play starts.  At regular intervals before the show, the stage manager alerts us of how much time we have.  "Doors are open."  "30 minutes."  "15 minutes."  "5 minutes."  Finally, "Places."

I stand on the stairs behind a closed door that opens onto the stage.  After the director makes some theater announcements the house lights go down.  When they next go up, I'll follow "Froggy" on stage.  Froggy begins the play's opening dialogue.  Except that it's really a monologue as my character - Charlie - is so despondent that he only stares forlornly into space.  As I cross the stage and sit on the couch, I feel my heart pounding.  My first line is "I shouldn't have come" and that's all I can think about.  I listen to Froggy for my cue and once I hear it, it's like I am shot out of a cannon.  Soon after the play begins, it's revealed that my character must pretend not to speak or understand English, though he most certainly can.  For much of the first act I have few lines, but must make faces which express what Charlie is either thinking or what he wants others to think.  By act two, I get very comfortable with "my pretending not to speak English" and have a lot of fun doing so.  

At the end of the first show, after everyone else comes out for their bows, I come front and center and lead our cast in a group bow.  I am not Japanese, nor ruled by royalty.  I haven't had much occasion to bow.  I found it an odd feeling.  Though I've long been shameless in seeking praise, laughter and attention, I never took a bow for it.  It was, initially, as if I was thanking them for letting me grace them with my presence.  Twenty plus years out of adolescence, I felt awkward all over again.  After thinking about it a bit, I think that I felt weird because for the first time I was, we all were, admitting that we were not who we were portraying.  It wasn't Charlie Baker taking a bow - as I actually did in the play, but it was Dave Ring taking a bow and that felt showy to me.   At first.

During the run of the play, six shows over two weekends, I got more comfortable - with everything.  I relaxed more before the show, I fell more easily into character, and we as a cast played better off of one another.  By the end of the show, going on stage and taking a bow no longer felt odd to me - it actually was just part of the show.  The play was a success.  We got lots of laughs, especially in the second act when the pace and action quicken.  We got standing ovations.  In the lobby after the show, many people (and not just the ones related to me) made a point to tell me that I did a great job and that they really enjoyed the play.  Many people (perhaps you, too) have wondered and asked if I am going to do another show.

The answer is probably.  Since it was my first time and everything about it was new it took a lot out of me.  Not just in the time spent rehearsing, studying lines, helping to put the set together, etc.  When you're acting - as we actors know - your senses are dramatically heightened.  You have to be hyper aware, engaged, energetic, and attentive.  Having run a marathon, I can attest that when on stage you are no less attuned to your body and mind.  It is the proverbial rush.  I am attracted to acting, but as with running, my body requires rest afterward.  So for now, I'll recuperate and consider future efforts when I can wrap my head and body around it again.

There were many laughs and for me, no surprise, that's the hook.  And not just the laughs we got on stage.  I also liked the laughs in rehearsal and after the shows.  We missed lines here and there and there were occasional snafus.  The cast and crew enjoyed the good natured ribbing that comes along with camaraderie.  We also laughed at technical difficulties and the audience itself.  One night it was raining so hard outside the roof began to leak onstage.  The play's first act is set in a rainstorm, so 'Owen' worked it into his entrance.  Another night, the explosion we were to hear didn't play and 'David' just yelled "BOOM" instead.  From the stage we could hear an elderly person's hearing aid beeping above the din of the show.  I saw a very large couple in the front row, splayed out and fast asleep for much of the entire play.  There were the requisite ill-placed baby cries, the strikingly loud 'guffawer,' and people who couldn't help but audibly repeat our punch lines or say things like, "Oh, so he's the one doing it!"

It's only been four days since our last show and I am sure many of these reflections will season with time, but as it stands now, fresh in my mind, I can't help but feel a great sense of pride in having done it. I took a risk and with risk there is reward.  To be sure it was a calculated risk, but frankly, it's good to try new things and it's good to push your comfort zone.  May this inspire you to try something you've always wanted to do.  And if it's not your style, it doesn't have to be in front of a live audience

Thank you and good night.