To get ready for my upcoming trip to France, I've been watching a great series of instructional language videos produced by the BBC. They are exactly the right level for me, and are entertaining and interesting. Before we got the news last week that Gerry's cancer is back, more malevolent than ever, I'd watched a unit on wine-making. The vigneron being interviewed is also a doctor, and he is asked, "Does wine help you live longer?" He answers, "Nothing makes you live longer, because we all die" - which made me laugh because it was such a French response. He went on to say that anything in moderation could make the quality of one's life better, but the essence of his response was "We all die."
It is a terrible, heartbreaking, ghastly thing to sit waiting with your husband in a doctor's office, expecting to be told that he only has a few more months to live. That was not exactly the news we heard, but we understand now that we are looking only at treatment possibilities - no longer for a cure. Gerry's cancer has not behaved in any kind of typical way, and whether it's atypical enough to interest them at Dana Farber we've yet to learn. There will be more chemo and we'll pray and cross our fingers and hope for the most time we can get. We all die, but O sweet blessed Jesus, not yet.
We have, neither of us, gone to the "it's not fair" place. I've always thought that was an emotional and theological dead end that doesn't offer much consolation. The news is full of terrible things: planes fall out of the sky, a young orthodpedic surgeon, triathlete, golden boy with small children, has a fatal heart attack on a ski lift, a child is hit by a school bus crossing the street, a vital, art loving woman is struck suddenly blind. We are mortal and we all go down to the dust.
When we went through this before, I had to learn to let people help me. That's really hard right now, because I don't know what we need yet. Sometimes what I need is just space - emotional and physical space - I am emotionally incontinent - likely to start weeping at any moment, and sometimes I want to roll into a little prickly hedgehog ball so that no one can come near me.
Gerry still looks well and strong, except for his terrible cough. We hope the chemo will at least control and contain whatever's going on. We had feared two years ago he might never see Andy and Mary graduate - now our new goal is our 25th wedding anniversay in June 2010. I knew I married a smart, thoughtful, funny man - I never knew I'd married a hero. Gerry is the bravest person I know - he was ready for the worst news this week, and didn't flinch.
All we go down to the dust, yet even at the grave we make our song: "Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia."
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Ghosts of Christmas Past
My family was never much into making home movies. My father isn't a big gadget guy, and my mother always preferred still photography. And she didn't really get interested in that until my sister and I had left home. But my Uncle Pete, my mother's oldest younger brother, loved his Super 8 and filmed miles of his four children, their neighborhood and occasionally - my family.
The 6 of us - my four cousins, my sister and me - spent a lot of time together when we were kids. My aunt and uncle lived about an hour away; we spent Christmas at each others' houses and often vacationed together. My cousins - especially Pam and Pat, the two oldest (who sort of bracketed me in age) - were creative and crazy, with vivid imaginations and no fear. We played vast, complex games loosely based on Walt Disney movies - "Mooncussers" and "Scarecrow" were very popular - - made gallons of peach ice cream in the summer and Pam and I scribbled historical novels that we took very seriously indeed.
We haven't retained that closeness as adults, but I've been re-establishing contact with the two youngest cousins, Jeff and Julie, because they live in the west, and Andy is heading off to the University of San Francisco in the fall. Somehow I thought it might be nice if there was some family contact around for him.
And Jeff sent me some of those old home movies that he'd copied onto a DVD. I opened it up and suddenly there was my childhood in front of me. Their old house on Sunnyside Drive, assorted dogs, multiple Christmases (presented mostly as an orgy of greed), and shots of a shockingly undeveloped Outer Banks (which we had discovered decades before it became a big time vacation destination). And a few minutes of film that must have been shot in the 1960s, when we had just moved into our new house in Clifton Forge (where my parents would live for the next 30 years).
Lots of the footage is really blurry and overexposed, but these few minutes - recording what was probably our first Christmas in that house - is sharp and clear. My father, with his buzz cut - my mother, VERY thin - in their 30s - preside at the laden Christmas table. There are our pets from that era - Coco the black poodle and Calico, the eponymous cat - my cousins and I come bounding down the stairs, so excited we bounce in and out of the frame - and then, down the stairs more slowly, comes my father's mother, Anne.
She died last year at 105, and I had completely forgotten what she had been like before her long decline into fragile health and confusion. She is slender and elegant; it is evident immediately that she looks different from everyone else - she's my German grandmother and her well-tailored, elegant wool dress is quite distinct from what everyone else is wearing. I can practically smell her signature Chanel 19. She moves quickly, gesturing as she speaks to someone before she moves out of the frame (Uncle Pete wasn't much of a cinematographer).
It's all such a quick glimpse of that now vanished life. It made me suddenly sad - our lives are so fragile and brief. I miss the closeness I had with my cousins - Uncle Pete went out to work for Aramco in Saudi Arabia in the 1970s, and we all scattered. And of course, like most adolescents, I didn't appreciate what I had, and could never have imagined that decades later, I would think a little wistfully of those days.
And of course, children never imagine their parents as separate entities. As my children get ready to leave home for good - off to college and the beginning of their own adult lives - I wonder what artifacts they'll discover that will give them a glimpse, however brief, of the life we're living now. I miss the formidable women who are part of my inheritance - Granny, Nanny (the cousins' other grandmother) and Grandmother Anne - who each gave me something of value. For just a few minutes, on that old bit of film, they flicker to life again - strong and stubborn, smart and independent, opinionated and impatient. They were very different from each other, but all alike in those sometimes less than admirable qualities. There is no doubt that my mother, my sister, myself and Mary are their direct descendants.
The 6 of us - my four cousins, my sister and me - spent a lot of time together when we were kids. My aunt and uncle lived about an hour away; we spent Christmas at each others' houses and often vacationed together. My cousins - especially Pam and Pat, the two oldest (who sort of bracketed me in age) - were creative and crazy, with vivid imaginations and no fear. We played vast, complex games loosely based on Walt Disney movies - "Mooncussers" and "Scarecrow" were very popular - - made gallons of peach ice cream in the summer and Pam and I scribbled historical novels that we took very seriously indeed.
We haven't retained that closeness as adults, but I've been re-establishing contact with the two youngest cousins, Jeff and Julie, because they live in the west, and Andy is heading off to the University of San Francisco in the fall. Somehow I thought it might be nice if there was some family contact around for him.
And Jeff sent me some of those old home movies that he'd copied onto a DVD. I opened it up and suddenly there was my childhood in front of me. Their old house on Sunnyside Drive, assorted dogs, multiple Christmases (presented mostly as an orgy of greed), and shots of a shockingly undeveloped Outer Banks (which we had discovered decades before it became a big time vacation destination). And a few minutes of film that must have been shot in the 1960s, when we had just moved into our new house in Clifton Forge (where my parents would live for the next 30 years).
Lots of the footage is really blurry and overexposed, but these few minutes - recording what was probably our first Christmas in that house - is sharp and clear. My father, with his buzz cut - my mother, VERY thin - in their 30s - preside at the laden Christmas table. There are our pets from that era - Coco the black poodle and Calico, the eponymous cat - my cousins and I come bounding down the stairs, so excited we bounce in and out of the frame - and then, down the stairs more slowly, comes my father's mother, Anne.
She died last year at 105, and I had completely forgotten what she had been like before her long decline into fragile health and confusion. She is slender and elegant; it is evident immediately that she looks different from everyone else - she's my German grandmother and her well-tailored, elegant wool dress is quite distinct from what everyone else is wearing. I can practically smell her signature Chanel 19. She moves quickly, gesturing as she speaks to someone before she moves out of the frame (Uncle Pete wasn't much of a cinematographer).
It's all such a quick glimpse of that now vanished life. It made me suddenly sad - our lives are so fragile and brief. I miss the closeness I had with my cousins - Uncle Pete went out to work for Aramco in Saudi Arabia in the 1970s, and we all scattered. And of course, like most adolescents, I didn't appreciate what I had, and could never have imagined that decades later, I would think a little wistfully of those days.
And of course, children never imagine their parents as separate entities. As my children get ready to leave home for good - off to college and the beginning of their own adult lives - I wonder what artifacts they'll discover that will give them a glimpse, however brief, of the life we're living now. I miss the formidable women who are part of my inheritance - Granny, Nanny (the cousins' other grandmother) and Grandmother Anne - who each gave me something of value. For just a few minutes, on that old bit of film, they flicker to life again - strong and stubborn, smart and independent, opinionated and impatient. They were very different from each other, but all alike in those sometimes less than admirable qualities. There is no doubt that my mother, my sister, myself and Mary are their direct descendants.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
The Tudors
Showtime's series The Tudors, now in its third season, makes some historians gnash their teeth in rage. It has received barrages of criticism about its inaccuracies, perhaps most sharply focused on how little John Rhys-Myers resembles Henry VIII. Indeed, the slim, dark haired actor doesn't have anything to do visually with the Tudor king immortalized in the portrait by Hans Holbein. And critics of the costume design are correct that most of the costumes seem to belong in a different era, and that some of the women's costumes especially bear no resemblance at all to what an early 16th century princess would have worn.
But I am fascinated by what they get right. Thomas Tallis turned up early in the first century. His name might only be known by Anglican reformation music junkies, and I never did figure out what the ghost was all about - but I was amazed that someone thought him important enough to include as a character. The long drawn out process that led ultimately to Henry declaring himself head of the Church in England is rendered with (at least as much as I can tell) accuracy and attention to detail. The back and forth between Henry's representatives and the papal legate, the internal court battles in England, the constant jockeying for power feels authentic and accurate.
I'm especially intrigued by the interplay between political and religious authorities. Who is manipulating and using who? Just how passionate is Cromwell for reform? Is the Boleyn family simply trying to back the winning horse, or do they have some religious scruples? How much does Henry really believe that his marriage to Katherine is invalid, and how much does he just want out?
The scramble for power becomes a scramble for survival. In the next to the last episode of Season 2, Ann Boleyn is swept away by Cromwell's dislike of her, her repeated miscarriages, Henry's desire to make a treaty with the Emperor of Spain against France, and her own misjudgment. Her own father abandons her and his son (according to this version, the accusation of incest between brother and sister is false) to save his own skin. It's some of the most brutal, intense, powerful television I've ever seen.
And it makes me think about what it means to be part of a church that has its origins in such an unholy mess. Henry really isn't the "father" of Anglicanism; his heart was never in reform. It would be up to his daughter Elizabeth to broker the settlement that would establish relative ecclesiastical peace. She was a canny and pragmatic sovereign - perhaps it's just as well we don't have a window into her soul, either.
I actually like the fact that any origin myth we come up for ourselves has to be tempered by the historical record. I like the complexity of motives, the fact that there really aren't any heroes in the story, and the fact that all these people are driven by the same motives that drive us - the quest for power, lust, greed, fear. The axis of power tilts and retilts around Henry - his courtiers and advisors scramble to keep their footing - the pope is as worldly, manipulative and dangerous as the king - and still somehow, the Church of England is born.
But I am fascinated by what they get right. Thomas Tallis turned up early in the first century. His name might only be known by Anglican reformation music junkies, and I never did figure out what the ghost was all about - but I was amazed that someone thought him important enough to include as a character. The long drawn out process that led ultimately to Henry declaring himself head of the Church in England is rendered with (at least as much as I can tell) accuracy and attention to detail. The back and forth between Henry's representatives and the papal legate, the internal court battles in England, the constant jockeying for power feels authentic and accurate.
I'm especially intrigued by the interplay between political and religious authorities. Who is manipulating and using who? Just how passionate is Cromwell for reform? Is the Boleyn family simply trying to back the winning horse, or do they have some religious scruples? How much does Henry really believe that his marriage to Katherine is invalid, and how much does he just want out?
The scramble for power becomes a scramble for survival. In the next to the last episode of Season 2, Ann Boleyn is swept away by Cromwell's dislike of her, her repeated miscarriages, Henry's desire to make a treaty with the Emperor of Spain against France, and her own misjudgment. Her own father abandons her and his son (according to this version, the accusation of incest between brother and sister is false) to save his own skin. It's some of the most brutal, intense, powerful television I've ever seen.
And it makes me think about what it means to be part of a church that has its origins in such an unholy mess. Henry really isn't the "father" of Anglicanism; his heart was never in reform. It would be up to his daughter Elizabeth to broker the settlement that would establish relative ecclesiastical peace. She was a canny and pragmatic sovereign - perhaps it's just as well we don't have a window into her soul, either.
I actually like the fact that any origin myth we come up for ourselves has to be tempered by the historical record. I like the complexity of motives, the fact that there really aren't any heroes in the story, and the fact that all these people are driven by the same motives that drive us - the quest for power, lust, greed, fear. The axis of power tilts and retilts around Henry - his courtiers and advisors scramble to keep their footing - the pope is as worldly, manipulative and dangerous as the king - and still somehow, the Church of England is born.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Holy Puttering
One of the big differences between Gerry and me is that he likes to putter and I don't. Gerry can easily and happily spend a whole Saturday slowly wandering from one small chore to another - sometimes he gets sucked into the black hole of a big project, especially down in his wood shop - but he's happy to while away the hours chipping away at the little things that need to be done.
I hate puttering. All those little things that need to be done hang around my neck like a millstone, and I never like spending time on them. I am capable of enjoying the feeling of a task accomplished, but the inertia that prevents me from getting started on those tasks is bigger than the prospective enjoyment. I get no pleasure out of household tasks - probably because I'm not a very competent housekeeper. On Fridays, my usual day off, I have to get out of the house - for a long walk with the dog, or a movie - because otherwise all those looming household tasks hover accusingly around me.
But over the last few years, especially since I came to St. Martin's, I've started to enjoy puttering around the church. Maybe that's because this beautiful building is made for puttering. It's a pleasure wandering up and down the aisles, enjoying the scrumptious stained glass and the gleaming wood, the polished tile and the gorgeous gilded reredos. I straighten hymnals, reorganize newcomer info in the back of the church, check the tract rack and otherwise get great satisfaction out of keeping things in order.
I just came back into the office from some Holy Week puttering. Everything is ready - we have had tremendous help from people planning and executing the liturgies for this week. The bulletins are done, and the Great Hall is beautifully set up for our Maundy Thursday worship tonight. So I'm doing little things - setting out some devotional material for the all night Gethsemane Vigil, clearing up the upper sacristy - which has a tendency to become a dumping ground, putting votive candles in their holders for the Easter Vigil, practicing the Exsultet and my homily for Saturday.
It all feels tremendously satisfying. It makes me grateful for my priesthood, for this parish, and for the privilege of leading a congregation in a Holy Week journey. All these little bits come together to make a well planned and well executed whole - calm and spacious enough to make moments of grace and revelation possible.
I hate puttering. All those little things that need to be done hang around my neck like a millstone, and I never like spending time on them. I am capable of enjoying the feeling of a task accomplished, but the inertia that prevents me from getting started on those tasks is bigger than the prospective enjoyment. I get no pleasure out of household tasks - probably because I'm not a very competent housekeeper. On Fridays, my usual day off, I have to get out of the house - for a long walk with the dog, or a movie - because otherwise all those looming household tasks hover accusingly around me.
But over the last few years, especially since I came to St. Martin's, I've started to enjoy puttering around the church. Maybe that's because this beautiful building is made for puttering. It's a pleasure wandering up and down the aisles, enjoying the scrumptious stained glass and the gleaming wood, the polished tile and the gorgeous gilded reredos. I straighten hymnals, reorganize newcomer info in the back of the church, check the tract rack and otherwise get great satisfaction out of keeping things in order.
I just came back into the office from some Holy Week puttering. Everything is ready - we have had tremendous help from people planning and executing the liturgies for this week. The bulletins are done, and the Great Hall is beautifully set up for our Maundy Thursday worship tonight. So I'm doing little things - setting out some devotional material for the all night Gethsemane Vigil, clearing up the upper sacristy - which has a tendency to become a dumping ground, putting votive candles in their holders for the Easter Vigil, practicing the Exsultet and my homily for Saturday.
It all feels tremendously satisfying. It makes me grateful for my priesthood, for this parish, and for the privilege of leading a congregation in a Holy Week journey. All these little bits come together to make a well planned and well executed whole - calm and spacious enough to make moments of grace and revelation possible.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Classical Gas
Classical High School in Providence - where Andy and Mary are both seniors - is unlike any school I've ever experienced. It serves as a magnet school for Providence; students have to take a test to be admitted, and it is truly a most diverse, quirky, energetic and sweet school struggling to serve its students under a crushing load of budget deficits, arcane Providence bureaucracy, social problems and (some) teacher apathy.
Blacksburg High School hits all the marks for a high-achieving school, and the kids would have gotten an excellent education there, but the curriculum was pretty rigid, and it was driven by a hierarchy of cliques that one could see forming as early as elementary school. Classical won our hearts early on by allowing Mary, after her one miserable month in 8th grade, to take the entrance test and start CHS in October. They've continued to be flexible, making it possible for her to blast through the math curriculum so that she completed Calculus BC her junior year and did a distance learning linear algebra couse this fall. They've been great (mostly) about working around both kids' desire to spend time abroad with AFS.
But it's the social environment of Classical, its "feel" that really wins my heart. Both of my kids are square peg kids - neither one is an athlete (the kiss of death at Blacksburg High School), they have deep interests in odd subjects, and they don't pay a lot of attention to popular teen culture. Classical is full of - not just square peg kids - but hexagonal, dodecahedron, trapazoidal kids - and they all rub shoulders together pretty happily. It is an incredible cultural and ethnic stew - white, latino, asian and every possible combination of those drawn from the city's various neighborhoods - the kids' friends are Irish Catholic, Cambodian, Ecuadoran, Syrian, Dominican, Jewish, Vietnamese - the list keeps going.
Last night I went to the "third annual" CHS talent show. I went for the most bizarre of reasons - Andy was dancing with the Irish Dance club. Yes, that Andy - the shy one with no interest in being a performer, who isn't much of a risk taker, who hasn't had a lot of confidence in his physical abilities.
The auditorium was packed with a noisy, enthusiastic, mostly student crowd. At intermission, one of the principals scolded them for talking through the acts, but really for the most part, they were pretty good. There was just a lot of energy in the room and it sort of spilled over into the acts themselves. They tried hard to contain themselves - quieting down for a couple of American Idol syle vocal solos, a couple of acoustic numbers, and even a sweet little freshman girl picking her way slowly through "Turkey in the Straw" on the banjo.
And they went wild for everyody - whooping and cheering the banjo, the metal band, the solos, the fashion show, the step dance routine (and that was my introduction to a whole new dance form - very cool) and yes - the Irish dancers. And Andy just blew me away.
There were five dancers - two very experienced and three beginners. After some very impressive footwork by the two experienced dancers, the three newbies came on and did a quite respectable, solid routine. Then all five danced together for the big finale. All the training and choreography came from a student - the three beginners had clearly worked hard to master a completely new skill - and they dared to put it out there in front of their peers. And Andy had a great time.
And that's what I love about Classical. It simply doesn't keep kids in boxes - either academically or socially - the boundaries stay fluid and at least my kids felt encouraged to try different things, step outside their comfort zones and take risks. I'm not sure the city values the school enough, realizes what a gem they have. Classical makes it possible for a lot of kids, who would never have thought it possible, to go to college. It works with kids from some of the toughest parts of the city, and opens up a whole new world for them. And it mixes together those kids and kids like mine from the privileged East Side and who knows what else, into a funky, rich, sparkling stew of energy and enthusiasm.
Blacksburg High School hits all the marks for a high-achieving school, and the kids would have gotten an excellent education there, but the curriculum was pretty rigid, and it was driven by a hierarchy of cliques that one could see forming as early as elementary school. Classical won our hearts early on by allowing Mary, after her one miserable month in 8th grade, to take the entrance test and start CHS in October. They've continued to be flexible, making it possible for her to blast through the math curriculum so that she completed Calculus BC her junior year and did a distance learning linear algebra couse this fall. They've been great (mostly) about working around both kids' desire to spend time abroad with AFS.
But it's the social environment of Classical, its "feel" that really wins my heart. Both of my kids are square peg kids - neither one is an athlete (the kiss of death at Blacksburg High School), they have deep interests in odd subjects, and they don't pay a lot of attention to popular teen culture. Classical is full of - not just square peg kids - but hexagonal, dodecahedron, trapazoidal kids - and they all rub shoulders together pretty happily. It is an incredible cultural and ethnic stew - white, latino, asian and every possible combination of those drawn from the city's various neighborhoods - the kids' friends are Irish Catholic, Cambodian, Ecuadoran, Syrian, Dominican, Jewish, Vietnamese - the list keeps going.
Last night I went to the "third annual" CHS talent show. I went for the most bizarre of reasons - Andy was dancing with the Irish Dance club. Yes, that Andy - the shy one with no interest in being a performer, who isn't much of a risk taker, who hasn't had a lot of confidence in his physical abilities.
The auditorium was packed with a noisy, enthusiastic, mostly student crowd. At intermission, one of the principals scolded them for talking through the acts, but really for the most part, they were pretty good. There was just a lot of energy in the room and it sort of spilled over into the acts themselves. They tried hard to contain themselves - quieting down for a couple of American Idol syle vocal solos, a couple of acoustic numbers, and even a sweet little freshman girl picking her way slowly through "Turkey in the Straw" on the banjo.
And they went wild for everyody - whooping and cheering the banjo, the metal band, the solos, the fashion show, the step dance routine (and that was my introduction to a whole new dance form - very cool) and yes - the Irish dancers. And Andy just blew me away.
There were five dancers - two very experienced and three beginners. After some very impressive footwork by the two experienced dancers, the three newbies came on and did a quite respectable, solid routine. Then all five danced together for the big finale. All the training and choreography came from a student - the three beginners had clearly worked hard to master a completely new skill - and they dared to put it out there in front of their peers. And Andy had a great time.
And that's what I love about Classical. It simply doesn't keep kids in boxes - either academically or socially - the boundaries stay fluid and at least my kids felt encouraged to try different things, step outside their comfort zones and take risks. I'm not sure the city values the school enough, realizes what a gem they have. Classical makes it possible for a lot of kids, who would never have thought it possible, to go to college. It works with kids from some of the toughest parts of the city, and opens up a whole new world for them. And it mixes together those kids and kids like mine from the privileged East Side and who knows what else, into a funky, rich, sparkling stew of energy and enthusiasm.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Ourselves, our souls and bodies
A few weeks ago, I saw the touring production of "Fiddler on the Roof" as it came through Providence. Tevye was played by Topol, the Israeli actor who is best known for performing the role in the 1971 Norman Jewison film. His association with Fiddler began all the way back in 1967, so who knows how many times he's sung "If I were a rich man" over these past four decades.
I probably wouldn't have gone to see it; I've played Golde in two productions and seen several others, and thought Fiddler was one of those shows I just didn't need to see again. But, I found out that a friend of mine was playing Yente, and that made me call up PPAC and reserve myself a seat.
Topol is 73, but he is lean and vigorous and looked like a spry, hard working middle aged man on stage. His performance was a revelation - very different from the big, Zero Mostel-sized portrayals of Tevye I usually see. Topol made Tevye very human - his performance was small (in a good way), intimate and deeply personal. For the first time, I saw Tevye as just an ordinary person - a human being living his life like anyone else's, full of joys and sorrows, challenges, celebrations and changes. There was nothing special about him at all; it was his very ordinariness that made the show so meaningful.
It made me think that anyone of us could have a musical written about our lives - if we were lucky enough to be characters in a Sholom Aleichem short story, and then set to music by Jerry Bock. All of us are the main characters in narratives very similar to Tevye's - lives defined by relationships, work and the events in the wider world. We see our children grow away from us and we wrestle with changes. We dream of better lives and we settle for what we have. Sometimes the changes that come to us are just part of the ordinary evolution of things, and sometimes those changes are catastrophic. We love our homes, and sometimes we have to leave them. Tevye lives his whole life as a offering to God - soul, body, heart and mind - and when we are at our best, that's how we live, too.
This production of Fiddler was worthwhile for many reasons - it was wonderful to hear a real orchestra in the pit, and not just a few instruments filled out with a synthesizer. It was wonderful to hear people really sing with good technique, and not just trust the mike to do the job. It was great to see a klezmer band on stage for the wedding scene. It was great to see my friend Mary Stout walk away with all her scenes.
But most of all, it was beautiful to see an actor like Topol, who wears this role like a glove, and who could get away with phoning it in, fully inhabit Tevye and make him - not a gigantic center stage behemoth who diminishes everyone else on stage, but a gentle, good humored, faithful man who fits right in with everyone else in the village of Anatevka. That's really the whole point of Fiddler - and it took me about as many decades as Topol as been performing to get it.
I probably wouldn't have gone to see it; I've played Golde in two productions and seen several others, and thought Fiddler was one of those shows I just didn't need to see again. But, I found out that a friend of mine was playing Yente, and that made me call up PPAC and reserve myself a seat.
Topol is 73, but he is lean and vigorous and looked like a spry, hard working middle aged man on stage. His performance was a revelation - very different from the big, Zero Mostel-sized portrayals of Tevye I usually see. Topol made Tevye very human - his performance was small (in a good way), intimate and deeply personal. For the first time, I saw Tevye as just an ordinary person - a human being living his life like anyone else's, full of joys and sorrows, challenges, celebrations and changes. There was nothing special about him at all; it was his very ordinariness that made the show so meaningful.
It made me think that anyone of us could have a musical written about our lives - if we were lucky enough to be characters in a Sholom Aleichem short story, and then set to music by Jerry Bock. All of us are the main characters in narratives very similar to Tevye's - lives defined by relationships, work and the events in the wider world. We see our children grow away from us and we wrestle with changes. We dream of better lives and we settle for what we have. Sometimes the changes that come to us are just part of the ordinary evolution of things, and sometimes those changes are catastrophic. We love our homes, and sometimes we have to leave them. Tevye lives his whole life as a offering to God - soul, body, heart and mind - and when we are at our best, that's how we live, too.
This production of Fiddler was worthwhile for many reasons - it was wonderful to hear a real orchestra in the pit, and not just a few instruments filled out with a synthesizer. It was wonderful to hear people really sing with good technique, and not just trust the mike to do the job. It was great to see a klezmer band on stage for the wedding scene. It was great to see my friend Mary Stout walk away with all her scenes.
But most of all, it was beautiful to see an actor like Topol, who wears this role like a glove, and who could get away with phoning it in, fully inhabit Tevye and make him - not a gigantic center stage behemoth who diminishes everyone else on stage, but a gentle, good humored, faithful man who fits right in with everyone else in the village of Anatevka. That's really the whole point of Fiddler - and it took me about as many decades as Topol as been performing to get it.
Monday, January 19, 2009
New Beginnings
If you've had trouble finding it, here is the text of Gene's prayer at the pre-inauguration event on Sunday afternoon. Apparently, HBO - who had broadcast rights - didn't begin their coverage until 2:30 - and Gene spoke a little before that. Of course, most people were just interested in Beyonce after all...
This is really Gene's voice - he has a gift for expressing deep truth with clear and simple (not simplistic) language. And his personal faith always shines through everything he says. He never lets rhetoric get in the way of content.
By The Rt. Rev. V. Gene Robinson, Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire
Opening Inaugural Event
Lincoln Memorial, Washington, DC
January 18, 2009
Welcome to Washington! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God’s blessing upon our nation and our next president.
O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…
Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.
Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.
Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic “answers” we’ve preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.
Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be “fixed” anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.
Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.
Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.
Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion’s God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.
And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.
Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln’s reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy’s ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King’s dream of a nation for ALL the people.
Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.
Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.
Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.
Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.
Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters’ childhoods.
And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we’re asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.
AMEN.
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