Poem: BLACK ENOUGH ACTOR

BLACK ENOUGH ACTOR

I see others sweat,

see them wait and prepare

almost all of them looking like

a Black Actor

I hear them sing, one by one

voices sounding like Motown

or church —

knowing that's not me

my voice is not like that

I hear them perform, speak,

and recite

each one dramatic,

whether soft or raised voice

each one sounding like

a real, Black Actor

Is that what they want?

Is it better to choose

my favorite Angry Aaron

or stick with the coin flips

and be the only one like me

they'll likely see?

Should I use my time clowning,

geeking up hallowed space

before local theater

decision-making power?

Fear makes safer seem sounder,

stops me spreading my self

and my soul

Sinister, stifling whispers of fear

make safer seem smarter,

sensible,

sounder

stopped me from spreading

my self

and my soul

Almost.

I can't stand up to be counted

if I count myself out,

a different design of triple threat

but am I Black Enough,

or will they be won

by the One And Only Me?

Poem: THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT

THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT

Kids,

you are all right

you are fine

yes, you're doing fine

do not allow yourselves

to be crushed

there are those of us

who will stand for you

who will stand with you

some who want you

to stand up for yourselves

to stand with each other

to get more involved

to get off the couch

are now standing against you

shouting you down 

all from their couch 

in so many ways

they have been crushed

and let things happen

again

and again

they have been crushed

ground down from the grind

and convinced

that there's nothing you can do

but give thoughts and prayers

say thoughts and prayers

and thank American God

it wasn't you

you stand up

and march

and make sure you're heard

because if things never change

it could have been you

who could have

changed them

thoughts and prayers

and thank American God

that right here, right now

yes, it is You

Poem: I BELIEVE IN MAGIC

I BELIEVE IN MAGIC

There is magic, child,

in how people rush

to justify the unjust

how protectors

can kill with impunity

and almost 

every

time

be found guiltless

and go free

There is magic

in how speaking out

is a bigger problem

than injustice itself

There is magic

in how the right act

is an affront to liberty

in how doing better

is slavery

and the expectation to do better

is oppression

There is magic in how

somehow

there is not Enough to go around

but there is always Enough

for more of the same

There is magic

in how racism thrives

but no one is racist

in how sexism lives

as excuses die

and in how They demand

you always say "Please"

to get Them to give you

what you should already have

There is magic around you, child.

Just open your eyes.

Poem: COME TO THE TABLE

COME TO THE TABLE

This work has needed doing

There have already been others doing it

You may be joining just now

but you are welcome here

Come to the table

and see how old it is

See the nicks and scratches,

gouges and splinters,

knots and holes

and chipped off edges

Acknowledge these and remember

that you are welcome here

Look at the smooth places,

the polish, the varnish,

the grain, the stain

the way parts are patched

and joined

and mended

The care with which it was made and maintained

Come here and know:

We will laugh and cry

fuss and fight

teach and learn

speak and listen

struggle and strive 

Come here and know

it will not be easy

people always leave

and some come back

Look, now

See all this

Know all this

Think

Reflect

Make your choice

With all this, know

you are welcome here 

My Kind of Portfolio

Fellow humans, I have been charged with the task of creating a portfolio.

I love doing things. I love writing, improvising, clowning, taking pictures. I am self-critical, but I enjoy sharing as well as being shared with. That usually wins out.

Patches in the road thus far:


WRITING

• a piece for Wanderlust online journal about diversity in yoga

• a piece for Wanderlust online journal about hiking up Mount Fuji

• a blog entry about performing at Mixed Blood Theatre

• a transcription of freewriting from an audition for Sandbox Theater


PHOTOGRAPHY

My Flickr album for Stubborn Photography


VIDEO

While I was in Japan performing on Kinoshita Circus, I helped a friend of mine by filming videos illustrating some physics principles for her high school classes.

• Newton's Second Law

• collisions


PERFORMANCE

• solo improv, Where I Am Now: Loose String

• solo improv, Where I Am Now: Oil Painting

• clowning at Four Humors Theater's Firsty Thursdays: "Passing Through"


SPEAKING

• excerpt from The Pratfalls Podcast: "Buckaroo Banzai"

• excerpt from The Pratfalls Podcast: "Being (sm)arty"

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