Dad Hands

When I was talking to her, I had to stop and think about it: are my dad's hands still larger than mine? I looked at her tiny hand laid against mine, palm to palm. I was sure the difference wouldn't be as dramatic, but his are surely still larger than mine. They must be — he's my dad.

It had been a while since the last visit. I live in Minneapolis, just over three hours up the road from West Des Moines. It's not that far, but when you work weekends as well as weekdays and get no paid time off, it complicates things. When you're an actor juggling multiple jobs, it makes the concept of vacation time even more unlikely. At ten months and counting, home felt too close for it to have been as long as it had been.

I wasn't smooth about asking and with Dad I didn't have to be. I told Dad how tiny her hands are and how it made me wonder. Being the person he is, knowing his adult children to be bigger, more experienced versions of the tiny humans he helped create and raise, he obliged.

I had expected there to be a huge difference.

Because of my frame, my hand was not as thick. The fingers were more slender. My skin was lighter than his, but the differences were small. End to end, heel to finger tip, my hand was the same size. It was odd. And it was a testament to the fact that I am indeed an adult.

By my age, my father had a fourth child on the way. Even when I stopped being short and could look my dad in the eye, he seemed to tower over me. Even now, when I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the man who taught me to shake hands — and hug — like you mean it, I feel I will never be as big a man as he.

Sunday Callback Freewrites (with prompts)

I had an amazing callback audition on Sunday. Part of the process involved freewriting and even though neither of them was incorporated in the final product (which we were proud of), I liked them enough to keep them. Sometimes you don't have to kill your darlings, but you set them aside for other uses.

THE SUN SHONE THROUGH THE CRACKS IN THE GYM CEILING LIKE LATTICEWORK IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN.
Weaving a pattern, a blanket of light. It was an odd blanket, but in that way that mystifies instead of scares. It was thin at one end and spread wider and wider, with room enough for anyone who could see it. Dust motes were not dirty, but living, warm and comforting, massaging each tiny hair that rose in goosebumps. I wasn't cold; I was energized.

GRAVELLY, DRY, DUSTY; THE ROAD TO HEAVEN IS PAVED WITH KNUCKLES, EARTH, PRESSURE, TIME
You hate the struggle — resent it. You learn to curse your tenacity and loathe your ambition. But you are so focused on the goal.
     "Keep your eyes on the prize."
     "Follow the drinking gourd," the ancestors say.
Why do you do this to yourself? Not cool, Robert Frost. "Road less traveled" my stubborn, Black ass. But if I quit, there's no way to succeed

Whatever Helps You Sleep At Night

Fresh off of arguing the inaccuracies of "the best actor for the role" and another in a never-ending chain of discussions about representation and questioning the idea of "default" and all of the entitlement that comes with it, Creatively Independent posted this essay on meritocracy and bias, merely by coincidence. Afterward, I reflected on a recent experience in which the veil was lifted on the notion of acting being nothing other than a meritocracy.

I recently auditioned for a commercial for an amusement park in the greater Twin Cities area that featured a father and a son. Maybe I was too animated for a television commercial. I'm more of a clown and physical actor, and without direction, sometimes I can play a bit too big for the camera, so that is a possible factor. Maybe I'm not fatherly enough or don't look old enough for people to buy that I was a father and I can buy that. Maybe my shoulder-length dreads would have made it too much of a problem-solving issue for hair and makeup to make it look like I was stuck upside down. It could have easily been for any one of those reasons I almost didn't get the callback in the first place. That happens all the time, but this audition was different. My agent clearly explained the client wanted to schedule a callback, but it might not happen because they didn't have any Black kids.

While not getting a callback or not getting a job is typical in the business, sometimes the reasons behind the outcome can also be more frustratingly, disturbingly typical than we want to accept. Even if I had not been the "best actor", I was nearly denied the chance to prove it on the field of battle as an equal, even after passing the first test. I also might have been the best actor and didn't get the job, but I won't ever know. I can always improve, but when the issue became the color of my skin and the existing reasons in society why I wouldn't have worked out, that's notably bigger than a one-man job.

By extension, it was also a statement on the composition of families in the United States of America. I almost didn't get a callback because mixed families apparently aren't a thing or obviously blended families due to remarriage isn't a thing or adoption isn't a thing. Having a kid that didn't obviously spring from the loins of this man wasn't a leap they wanted to make and because it's a business, was likely not a leap they were willing risk trusting or expecting their intended audience to make. You have to match because at least in matching, you don't have to ask the more conservative members of your audience to consider the idea of a "nontraditional" family as being valid and worthy of consideration. Remember: we live in a country where a Cheerios commercial depicting an interracial family was considered groundbreaking and controversial — in the second decade of the 21st Century.

If the world of theater truly were a meritocracy, colorblind casting might not be as much of a thing, and representation might not be as much of an issue. If acting were truly a meritocracy, one might have to look at how representation repeatedly shakes out on stages across the country and then admit that when one says "the best actor" one usually just means a white actor, and is at peace with all of the messiness holding and supporting such ideas might contain. Or maybe we just need to be more forthcoming about admitting the cultural factors that add up to the need to cling to the idea of a meritocracy to make us feel better.

New Blood

I am in rehearsal and I am sitting in a chair in the main house of Mixed Blood. The theater is an old firehouse built in the late 19th Century.

There is remodeling and upgrading being done during the rehearsal period. There is another rehearsal happening upstairs. Today, more than the other days of this last week-and-a-half, it smells old in here.  I am not smelling paint fumes or the recently cut wood of the set and stage. I am smelling and looking at old wood. It is a scent that is comforting and grounding.

They say that the bell tower on the northeast corner is being restored and a bell will live there again. That is one of the coolest things I have heard all week and the thought excites me. I can see US Bank Stadium on the other side of the freeway to the west. I steal glances at the progress each time I go to the bathroom. It doesn't look completely horrible, but its existence is complicated and problematic.

The subject of this play — race, representation, and portrayal — is complicated and problematic.

An Octoroon is a play about race, but not in the comfortable way that is accepted in the current state of theater. It is not the sort of play that will have people nodding their heads congratulating themselves about How Far We Have Come. It has a wicked sense of humor that is tied to a storied history of laughing through examination of pain and airing of grievances. After laying this show in the laps of audiences night after night, there will be talkbacks. I have never heard of a show or a theater having talkbacks after every performance. This is an exciting idea to me.

The play we are rehearsing is based on a "tragic mulatto" melodrama from the late 19th Century. It is as much an adaptation as it is a sendup. Its point might be lost on some people. The audience may miss some of the points or come up with their own. It may very well escape them that a character that is known for being mischievous and lighthearted is being silent and still, calculating and focused, contemplative and evaluating and for very good reason. It often escapes people — even some "clowns" at times — that a clown is a real person and that real person has real reactions. Sometimes that person has had enough and drops the antics because the audience and the situation need it.

I did not think as a clown and improviser that I would be on this stage in this theater, let alone any such notable stage in the Twin Cities. But one day a friend called an audition post to my attention. My eyes glazed over in disbelief and I signed up for an audition slot. Three months later, I sit here in this old building among new people, having a new experience.

I still have trouble believing this is happening. And yet here I am: in this building with a history, doing a play with a history but mutated by the present, in a medium whose problematic and complicated history we challenge simply by continuing to engage in it. It's been frustrating to pass on project after project, a role here and a role there because of this show, but this feels great. It feels big, like something I should do right now. This is a new adventure.

You Still Have Much To Learn

YOU STILL HAVE MUCH TO LEARN

If your belief

your memory

is dependent on a symbol

for its strength

then your memory

your belief

is a weak one indeed.

Followers of Christ

did without crosses

Tribes of Judea

did without stars

People on whose backs this country 

was built

the people whose lands

were stripped

(so we would eventually
have strip malls)

did without

a place for ceremony

a place to call home

and without the dignity

of being recognized

as equal humans

And if only you would look

(beyond maintaining

your own reflection)

you would notice

they still do

Your comfort then

commanded as much priority

over being decent people

as you demand it does now

This country

is not just yours.

This Past First Year

One year and a week ago, I returned to the United States of America after touring Japan for two years with Kinoshita Circus. I was nervous and anxious. During the months leading up to my departure I was agonizing over numerous issues: I must be crazy to turn my back on such good pay. What if nobody remembers me? What if I have to start all over in acting and improv? What if I never clown again after this? I don't want to be a has-been or a never-was. What will I do for work? Will opportunities even materialize?

I had one extremely part-time job to return to, a website to scour for auditions, and a pair of friends who offered their spare room as lodging. Oh yes — and I also had a car to buy. Ten days before I returned stateside, I received a panicked call and email from my younger sister: a tree branch fell on my car and totaled it. I had been on the verge of owning it outright — one [big] payment shy for which I had the money in my account. I had been waiting strictly on ceremony.  In spite of these fears and that last big financial bump in the road, I had a list of goals to pursue upon my return.

This last year has yielded more than I can imagine.

I should rephrase that, for as Han Solo said: ". . . I can imagine quite a bit."

This last year, more of my goals were realized or set on track than I had expected.

I was in a show in the MN Fringe Festival. I got to participate in something clown related with my girlfriend for the first time. I attended a couple of general auditions for the first time. I auditioned for and was in a show produced by Live Action Set. After many years, there was a remounting of "A Klingon Christmas Carol" and I auditioned for and was cast in it. I had my first leading role in a show. I performed solo improvisation again. I taught some workshops, including one for current Ringling clowns. I took workshops. I started freelance writing on an occasional basis. I started feeling like I actually knew what I was doing, that I knew what I was talking about, and that people would listen to me. I had people approach me to include me in projects. I started delving into improv coaching. I returned to the Science Museum of MN. I was accepted into two improvisation festivals.

There were plenty of bonus features to boot. I was cast in an episode of a locally produced show (that has yet to air — on cable!). I got to sit in a makeup chair and be worked on by a professional effects makeup artist (I'm still wetting my pants over that one). I performed in the Chicago Avenue Theater Project. I attended my first comic convention. I was in a show at a major theater in the Twin Cities. I had the chance to audition for The Tortuga Twins and made it. I got to work with Sandbox Theater company. I got to hear people say that they had heard about me from other people. I became part of another show for this summer's MN Fringe. I was part of Dangerous Productions's parkour project. I became involved with coaching and judging high school speech individual events.

I learned a new level of how I cannot do all of the things and did my best to hold fast while I was riding the edge of burnout. I started re-learning to say no because I was so busy, but I also became better at taking the good kind of risks. Along the way I missed friends' birthdays and shows. I missed so many concerts. I missed an entire season of roller derby for which I was supposed to be a favorite team's mascot (That particular eventual "no" hurt a lot.) I felt crummy because of it. I spent February through now juggling rehearsals and shows and work, with every show's rehearsal process having to sacrifice space and time to another (or another show) at one time or another, with at least two people in charge weathering increased hypertension as a result.

I connected with a fellow cast member so much that we have a sort of nerd media/nerd representation salon/panel/collective idea in development. I connected with people in improv who —in startlingly typical improviser fashion — I thought wouldn't give me the time of day. I've had project and show ideas. I've been included in project ideas. I've had ideas to apply to clowning and I have an ever-clarifying vision of where I want to go in my effort to bring all-too-absent clowning and physical comedy to the local scene of the neo-burlesque wave that's sweeping the nation. I have grown in my ability to discuss matters of race and representation and have started to think I might even want to turn that into something.

In this last year, I have relied on the generosity of many people. I don't like doing that. I was able to help out some friends and family monetarily and that made me feel good, but I'm better at helping than I am at accepting help (while still feeling good about myself). I learned that through all of the years of loathing the idea of networking and how slimy the concept felt, I'd been doing it the whole time. I learned that real networking isn't trading favors or having a slick pitch for yourself. I learned that it was more about actual connection and fostering those connections honestly.

I say all this not to brag, but to share and to give thanks. I've had a lot happen this year and my plate was full, even when my bank account wasn't. Success is more than monetary (although money is marvelous) and love and respect are solid currencies. No one is an island and I have countless people to thank not only for the past year, but for a great many things that led up to it. I intend to keep working, keep building, and keep thanking.

NaPoWriMo: 29 April 2015

Even when doing something you enjoy,

No matter how fulfilling it is,

Or how you're living out your dream,

Sometimes

you still don't want to get out of bed.

NaPoWriMo: 28 April 2015

I saw the coat
and wanted to try it on
I was going to be
that version of a man
that tells his woman what he's going to do.

Instead,
I offered
that I would like to try it on
if she and my friends would please wait.

I was ordered to do it.

I was that version of a man
that did as I was told
as she beamed
and swooned in advance.

NaPoWriMo: 27 April 2015

DEFEND THE STATUS QUO

Ladies and gentlemen,

start your engines!

Sharpen your tongues,

engage your ignorance,

and make sure your privilege is packed up and stowed

for its own protection

and yours.

Batten the hatches

and defend your right

not to be uncomfortable.

Questioning is treason.

Challenge is attack.

Rise and defend the status quo

for it is on the ropes

and needs brave soldiers

like you

to do something —

or better yet, nothing —

to insure long life.

NaPoWriMo: 26 April 2015

Are you kidding me?

Padiddle!

Cyclops!

My car has one light —

A week after it was in the shop.

NaPoWriMo: 25 April 2015

CON: FOUND IT!

My mind was just blown.

I had some help, though:

A broken ankle,

help needed,

and a festival

that put me in the right place

at the right time.

A fast walker's nightmare,

but a geek/nerd dream.

Thank my stars,

at last I have been to a con.

NaPoWriMo: 24 April 2015

UNUSED INTRO

On a chilly Midwestern Friday

very much like today — 

in fact it was today — 

one man rode down to Chicago from the Twin Cities

to face his latest performer challenge: performing his solo improv

at an honest-to-God improv festival.

NaPoWriMo: 23 April 2015

IT'S ALL RELATIVE

I keep amassing this list:

Moving seems like standing still.

Progress seems like regression.
Sticking with it seems like giving up.

Success feels like failure.

The punchline is

that dualism seems to be

the only way.

NaPoWriMo: 22 April 2015

I'm not exactly Imelda Marcos,
but I own four pairs of clown shoes.
That would be even more strange
if I weren't a clown.

I have almost double that amount
in pants.

NaPoWriMo: 21 April 2015

ASK AGAIN LATER

I don't know when or why,
but one day
years ago
I gained the tendency
to occasionally stop
and ask
(into the ether,
the universe,
the wherever)
about my life.
Not in the normal, human way,
but as if it all —
every little thing —
could be unraveled and answered
like a Magic 8-Ball.

It's not real,
so why?
The doubt,
uncertainty,
the questions of
"What will happen if I choose this?"
or "Will this go right?"
are normal,
typical,
unavoidably universal
and human
(and even moreso with an active mind).

It does no good.
There are better ways to create a life,
right?

("All signs point to yes".)

NaPoWriMo: 20 April 2015

DEFERRED REPLACEMENT

I don't think I've procrastinated like this before.
To be clear:
Two week contacts?
I use them for a month,
and even then, only when I'm performing.
If I'm not in a show
a box of six lasts for months.

Shaving cartridges?
I normally change them out
every two to three weeks.

The current cartridge
no longer has the aloe strip.
No more lubricating strip.
And it's been going for about three months.

Just because
I haven't yet done
the Dollar Shave or Henry's thing
and I now refuse to pay
fifteen dollars for a pack.

I'll just use extra gel
and more time with a hot cloth.

NaPoWriMo: 19 April 2015

PUBERTY'S REVENGE

Think you're an adult?
Adore someone, newly met —
Awkwardness returns

NaPoWriMo: 18 April 2015

DON' WANNA

More and more these days I realize
that I don't really want to get out of bed.
Not yet anyway.

My body wants to wake at 7
or 7:30
or any other time
at least ten minutes before the alarm.

Most days I'm busy
doing work I sought out
in a field I love
but I still relish the thought
of days spent
having nothing on a to-do list.

NaPoWriMo: 17 April 2015

THAT DAY SOMETHING CLICKED

Today, something >clicked<.

I don't know what it was
or what it was linked to —

maybe a small part
that touches a big part
or a few not-so-small
but it >clicked<.

I felt it.

I think it's supposed to be good,
(Relief was my first instinct)
but it honestly freaked me out
(Fear was the second).

What was it?
Where was it?

What
the hell
>clicked

NaPoWriMo: 16 April 2015

THE OTHER TWIN IS VELMA

The longer I live in Minneapolis,
the less I like
hearing people
deride Saint Paul.

Minneapolis is flashier.
It is more popular.
It is the sibling to whom all others are compared.
It is Blossom
(from the Powerpuff Girls),
it is Zooey Deschanel,
or maybe Natalie Portman
(in Garden State).

But loving Minneapolis
over Saint Paul
and grinding it under your heel
is no more challenging
than having your favorite X-Man
be Wolverine.

That's work for amateurs.
That doesn't take depth.

Saint Paul is Strong Guy.
It is Shelley (who was
the most interesting one
on all of "Hemlock Grove").

It is perhaps Kaylee Frye,
or more likely Velma:
bookish and curvy,
intelligent and hidden
behind often-lost glasses,
with rewards for those
who to take a look
and stop a while.

NaPoWriMo: 14 April 2015

I'm so scattered right now.
Focus seems difficult
unless it's for sleep
or pixels moving across a screen.

Meanwhile,
words that were written
for people like me to say
in front of many other people
fall to the floor
(and could get stepped on)
because they have a hard time
sticking.

NaPoWriMo: 15 April 2015

At last I have taken my car in.
The recall repairs will finally get done.
I just have to wait four hours
so I'll catch up on writing.
Typing,
thinking,
thinking that life right now
isn't quite what I'd thought.
I would be fine with a smaller car
except that I'm tall
and smaller cars
are so low to the ground
and could get bogged down in the snow.

NaPoWriMo: 5 April 2015

Sometimes I think
I'd rather be the Tin Woodsman,
except soon I remember
that he actually didn't
NOT have a heart.

I think he felt so hollow
because he COULD feel.

NaPoWriMo: 13 April 2015

Sometimes I don't handle mystery well.
I slow my breath,
quiet my mind,
and let errant thoughts pass like falling leaves.
I open myself up
and talk to the universe
like a Magic 8-Ball.

I sigh
and go back to squirming
beneath the weight of mystery.

NaPoWriMo: 12 April 2015

I am stretched thin.

There is so much to do
so much of interest
so much to love.
There are enough hours in the day
and so many days to seize.
There are enough ideas in the ether,

but there is not enough Me.

NaPoWriMo: 11 April 2015

FALSE THREATS, PAPER PATRIOTS

With my words and my ideas,
books and discussions,
questions and challenges —
not a gun to my name —
I am a threat.
People who look different
carry arms in the open,
make threats,
vomit ignorance,
beat their bloated chests
and they are patriots.

NaPoWriMo: 6 April 2015

WORDS ARE MORE

Words are more
than just lettery things
you throw together
just to say stuff.

NaPoWriMo: 7 April 2015

PANTS PERPLEXION

I am still confused
by the animosity
people have for pants.

If it's irony
it escapes me.
If it's a joke
I don't get it.

Why not just buy
and why not just wear
a more comfortable pair of pants?

NaPoWriMo: 8 April 2015

THIS GROWN MAN

This grown man
has no wife, no kids,
and does not own a house
or a box of well-worn tools.

This grown man
has tailored suits
and polished dress shoes,
and ties he can tie
without the help of a mirror.

This grown man
can follow a recipe,
cook without burning,
and do his own laundry
without turning white things red.

This grown man
likes his Legos
and movies
and video games,

his comic book soap operas
and his cartoon voices,
his big shoes
and baggy pants,
his books
and his toys,
playing the fool,
or playing on stage
with the seriousness of a daily commute,
but with much less dread.

Home Depot is for props
and ideas are for sharing
and feelings are fuel
for this grown man.

NaPoWriMo: 9 April 2015

ABOUT JOE BOZIC

When Joe Bozic writes,
I am reminded of Billy Collins
with extra helpings
of funny
and/or charm
on the side.

NaPoWriMo: 10 April 2015

APRIL SNOW, TWIN CITIES

I find I can't be angry
about the April snow.
April is doing what it does.
I live here; I know the risks.
I wear the boots.
I dance the dance.

NaPoWriMo: 4 April 2015

SIZES TOO BIG

My heart is bigger than it used to be.

Over time I have grown phantom chambers —
atria and ventricles pumping blood,
giving long life
to a hundred hands holding torches.

NaPoWriMo: 3 April 2015

SHADOW BOXING

In the ring of self esteem we both lose:

beaten, battered,

badly bruised.

Bleeding from the beatings

we repeatedly gave,

we meekly accepted each abuse

we delivered on ourselves—

corrosive gifts with tattered bows

— taking them as Truth.

If the blows came from another

we would resist more

fight more

rage more

rise more,

but we know best

how to knock ourselves down

until the count reaches ten

and once again we count ourselves

out.

Please be my cut man

and I'll be yours—

always patching,
always healing

as we go round after round with ourselves.

NaPoWriMo: 2 April 2015

I know why I could not be happy.

I could count

take stock

tally

enumerate

qualify and quantify

calculate and justify

and create a list

at least as long

as my arm and your arm and his arm and his arm and her arm and her arm.

A trail of trials laid end to end —

longer than some, 

but not longer than most

I know many ways 

that I could not be happy,

but they have not yet buried

the reasons I could.

NaPoWriMo 1 April 2015

I don't know where to start.

"Start" or "restart"?

I'm not sure of that either.

The line between start and finish,

between beginning and end,

between start and restart

is not so much a line

as a zone—

Not so much one moment

as it is one cloud of moments

that points to one idea:

that I have already started

Or started again