"You do you, man" (or, Mi CASA es su CASA)

It's been a wild couple of days!

Some backstory:

I'd always admired Anne Alsedek's onstage work, but getting to see her work as an arts educator has been a privilege and a treat. I got my M.Ed in '08, and not long after returning to Harrisburg, Anne took a chance on me and gave me the opportunity to teach theatre classes at Open Stage.

She gave me a chance to explore every idea I had, supported me terrifically, and gave me amazing advice constantly from years of accumulated teaching wisdom. She actively mentored me and truly influenced me as a teacher. Anne had me teaching adults, kids, teens, and 'tweens. She gave me hope, confidence, and faith that I might one day teach theatre full time, despite the odds. I still get excited every time I see former students Aaron Bomar or Sushma Saha do terrific work in local theatre, and those two and others I taught there do that regularly.

Clark and Melissa Nicholson had given me similar opportunities and support at Gamut Theatre before I returned to school for teaching, and they've given me opportunities since numerous times. I'm excited to return to GTSA this summer as an Acting teacher, for one thing. I owe Amy Alleman and Jeff Luttermoser a huge debt of thanks for involving me in that, too. To see kids I (and many others) taught at Gamut now fully on their way into professional careers of their own, working in LA and New York and DC and Philly, fills me with wonder.

For the first four years of my full-time teaching career, while I spent my days and nights and weekends working at being the best English teacher I could be, the chances I had to be a theatre teacher (mainly at Gamut and Open Stage) were my lifeblood to a dream.

In 2012, I took a leap of faith and followed that dream to Susquehanna Township, and helped them start a School of the Arts, a school-within-a-school arts program with strands in Fashion Design, Visual Arts, and Performing Arts/Theatre.

I quickly realized I had a lot of work here if I wanted it, and I dove in. Our students were soon mounting four productions a year and an audition portfolio showcase. Each marking period we focused on a different performing arts genre and mounted a production from within that genre. We did David Ives' All in the Timing (modern comedy), Frankenstein, Little Women, and Flaherty & Ahrens' Lucky Stiff. We produced an original student-written children's show and adapted a full-length film version of A Midsummer Night's Dream with student-written screenplays. The actors performed their roles in one scene, shot the next, directed the next, produced the next one, and edited the one after that. We paid homage to our school district's amazing Jewish community with a Holocaust memorial drama presentation of an ensemble-driven I Never Saw Another Butterfly. We mounted The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee with nothing paid for but the rights and our music director's stipend. This year we put on four shows with no budgetary support whatsoever; I don't know how we did it, but we did! (Please note: every public school district in Pennsylvania had a tight year for funding this year while our state legislature and governor refused to finalize a budget and state aid was essentially cut off for the better part of a full year, so our tight times were justified, nor were we alone in dealing with them.) One was Aristophanes' The Frogs. Another was a tribute to our school district's incredible African American community called Struggle & Triumph; I've never been prouder to be a part of a show in my life than that purpose-driven, heartfelt work. I dove in and got our Drama Club producing a fall play again, started an improv troupe, and this year that club put on an additional four one act plays. I dove in and got to start a spring cabaret with our Musical Club, and last year was honored to direct our Apollo-nominated production of Aida. Four years went by in a blink, partly because I was jumping from show to show pretty much the entire time. It was an amazing ride. I learned a lot. It was, without a doubt, my dream gig, even if it wasn't easy.

I met Lisa Weitzman years ago when she and I (and many other good friends and colleagues) helped Clark start the TMI improv troupe at Gamut. She was the theatre teacher at CASA, a program Anne had helped found years ago as the Harrisburg Arts Magnet School.

In 2014 I lucked into a marvelous opportunity and was hired to replace the director of Theatre Harrisburg's Last of the Red Hot Lovers (the original director had to drop the project due to valid conflicts and life events--they weren't mad, but they needed somebody and the auditions were happening relatively soon). Lisa came to audition--I was thrilled, and she read well for literally every role. She was fantastic in the show. A couple nights after rehearsal, pretty much whenever it was raining, she would give me a lift home. I walked to those rehearsals because our house is only a few blocks from Theatre Harrisburg. Every time Lisa drove me home we would get to talk shop and swap notes. They were some of the best teacher to teacher conversations I've ever had. We both had this sense of shared giddy glee; "Oh man, I can't believe we each get to do this for our job!" We also had a realistic sense of how challenging the work actually is, and could share those struggles openly and honestly without naming names or throwing anyone under the bus. It meant the world to me at the time; I needed it! I was running too fast, doing too much, and feeling like I was spinning out of control.

CASA posted Lisa's job a bit ago, and I thought about Anne and Lisa and what they'd built there and I just had to see what I could do. Would I get an interview? Would I get an offer? Could I even consider it if I did get an offer?

Well, I did, I did, and I could.

So, this August, I should be starting at the Capital Area School for the Arts as a new theatre teacher, and I could not be more excited about this new adventure!

One wonderful addition to the adventure will be the chance to try to support my friend Stuart Landon (Open Stage's Associate Artistic Director) as he builds a bold artistic musical theatre experience there for the students. Stuart is one of my favorite directors to watch work, and he gets young actors to dig deep and reach high for their dreams. He helped me acclimate to STSD when I started here four years ago, and he's been a great colleague and support to me. He also is a remarkable team builder, and theatre is a team sport.

As far as I know, at this point I believe Susquehanna Township plans to hand the reins of the SoPA to my good friend and valued colleague Stephanie Ungerer. Mrs. Ungerer has a BFA in Acting from NYU; these kids are in great hands with her, and I know better than anyone that she is going to love working with them and they with her. Her shift allows another great colleague of mine, Bill Burns, to return to teaching Drama and 11th grade American Lit, which he is as well-versed in as any person I have ever met. The STHS SoPA is ambitiously tackling Arsenic and Old Lace and Little Shop of Horrors next year, fundraising on their own and bravely venturing ahead like the motivated young artists they are. I hope they will still let me come improv with them on a Tuesday here and there if I can... and I hope they don't mind if I cry and cheer when I come to their shows, because I am really going to miss them. I've taught kids, but I've also met families, been hugged by proud grandparents, met uncles who traveled from Georgia to see their brother's kid in a musical, had parents chip in their time and energy just straight up volunteering to help these kids build and paint and sew and raise money. The night Aida opened, my wife held my hand as I tried to breathe, and the kids were amazing, and the dad in front of me who looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world for the first twenty minutes of Act One turned around after the curtain call, recognized me as the guy who'd made a little speech before the show, and asked me: "Did you direct this?" "Yeah, I did," I said, kinda sheepishly. The dude grabbed me up in a bear hug, lifted me off the ground, and bellowed loudly, "You did a great f---ing job, man!!" I don't know if my directing has ever been paid such a glorious compliment. There are countless priceless memories from my short four years here (and believe me, it went by in a blink). I will forever entwine my time at Susquehanna Township with the birth and first four years of my daughter's life. This place is heart and home to me now, and I love it.

I'm going to miss the toughest faculty I've ever seen. The people I worked with in Susquehanna Township have been through it, folks! And they've held their heads up and kept hard charging for the kids. The students and families of this community are in my heart permanently. We love living here.

So, before I dive in on this one, I need to thank every person who ever had a kind thought or comment for me in the past four years, because I needed every single one of those. Thank you. Every student who was a part of SoPA or Drama Club or Musical Club, every parent of every one of those students, every colleague who encouraged us, every administrator that got a kick out of what we did, I have love for all of you.

Told my students today. I was dreading it, and they handled it like champs. Every year some kids leave our program, and others join it anew. They've grown used to seeing collaborators come and go. They smiled, kept their composure, wished me well... They continue to amaze me and make me proud. "You do you, man," said my little buddy Ari D. I will miss ALL of them. They are great, great kids. I told them I wasn't going to strong-arm any of them into joining me at CASA, because that kind of decision is best left to students and parents to make together as a team in my opinion and because "you all have a good thing here, and I know that."

But I am super excited, too, for this new opportunity. Every new gig is a new adventure, and in the theatre world a good career is spent bouncing through all sorts of new adventures along the way. Every new adventure is a new opportunity; to meet new people, to absorb new ideas, to learn and to grow.

I'm looking forward to mine, and grateful for where I've been.

This is why I don't blog much. Worth it!

Discarded Facebook Post

It hurts my heart and my soul to see people discriminating, hurting, and hating in the name of Jesus. Forgive us, Lord, and guide us that we may find a better way forward, a way that looks more like the love you showed us and called us to show others.

I rarely speak in the voice of my own faith on here because this is such a wonderfully diverse community (the social media and internet community, I mean), but the lamentations of my heart cried out this morning.

I am a public sector employee, and I can do this and have such personal speech be constitutionally protected. I cannot, however, deny an education to my gay or Muslim or atheist students (just three examples) or demand they conform to Christian doctrine and expect to keep my job. Frankly, I don't believe I could do that and also expect to keep any shred of Christian dignity, either.

We live in a complex and wonderfully diverse web, and we have to live and work together genuinely and joyfully, hand in hand and heart in heart. We have to reach out to one another. We are all Americans. Our nation needs to heal.

It's just science

An heroic retirement...

When I was fourteen I was cast in a neat little supporting role in the second-ever production of a then-new musical, Quilt. It tells the story, as a patchwork musical of scene and song vignettes, of just a handful of the many incredible stories in the AIDS Memorial Quilt. Our director was a man named Cary Libkin.

We'd just moved to State College the summer before, and while it has always been a magical place to me, I was fourteen and had just been made to move away from my girlfriend, who was, in my view, of course, incredibly awesome. I was adjusting from the capacious kind of openness one takes for granted in the country to the hustle and polish of life in a small but successful college town, a place brimming with energy and intelligence and draped in the joy (and angst) of youthful energy. My initial adjustment was something like stunned shock. I was enjoying the place, meeting incredible people briefly, then getting lost again in the swirl of newness and strangeness. One of the things my parents had said to me to sell me on the move was how I'd have more chances to be involved in theatre productions. We moved after the notices for apprentices and auditions had been posted from the local Barn-housed community theatre (don't knock it 'til you've tried it, and they are an incredible community theatre, I might add), so my summer was spent drawing all the time and wandering off to buy comics and CDs with my allowance money, earned mainly in yard work then. Had I known, I'd have summered with some of the greatest apprentices that Barn has ever seen (I'm biased, clearly), the pals I'd soon come to know and love in my high school theatre club. But alas, I spent the summer chumless and sad, a mopey teen. I made one friend that summer: Chris Sheridan. I met Chris at a comic book drawing camp I attended for about a week. Chris was friendly and an incredibly talented illustrator, something he now does professionally and for a cool company who makes a video game I love whose name rhymes with Splants Versus Mombies. But other than Chris, and my of course wonderful family, I was a bit lonely.

Some time shortly before summer ended and school was to begin, my mother brought to me an audition notice for Quilt, which was being produced by Penn State's URTC (University Resident Theatre Company), the producing arm of what was then PSU's Theatre Department (now School of Theatre). I auditioned and was cast. I felt lucky and delighted to be meeting and working with such a diverse, talented cast. Cary had found a gem of a group and made a patchwork wonder of it. He cast majors and non-majors alike from the student body, graduates and undergraduates, professors and retired community members, and me and a couple other scrappy local kids (well, I wasn't local, I was new, but you know) in the show, too. From rural, rural Pennsylvania I'm suddenly working with all ages, races, backgrounds, etc. on a play about a quilt to honor victims of AIDS. It was the experience of a lifetime, friends. I was continually blown away by the talent, friendliness, and joie d'vivre of my castmates, nearly all older, and all much more theatrically experienced than I. I loved the artistic parallels in the play about the beautiful nature of patchwork in art and craft and human relationships and communities, and I loved the way Cary cast the show to reflect that truth. Diversity is a crucible of sorts, but one that can lead to extraordinary greatness in those who embrace it. This cast did, in my opinion, and we had one of those show moments as a group that ends often in hugs and tears and life altering, soul building moments. You know, show biz.

Cary was our plucky and fearless leader, always energetic and cajoling. He had the biggest smile I had ever seen, and he wore it with joy, even in moments deeply challenging.

Soon after Quilt, I fell into a long and love-fueled working relationship with State High Thespians, my theatre home for the next four years, a place that has nurtured scores of theatre lifers before and since. Before I graduated, Cary was the director of a brand new program, Penn State's BFA in Music Theatre.

I auditioned for Cary's program because applying to Penn State wasn't really optional in my family. Penn State's also a terrific school in a terrific town with a strong theatre program. I wanted a BFA in Acting, but PSU didn't offer one (and they still don't, to my ever loving wistfulness). I could sing (I was an all state tenor, I'll have y'all know, and it am not ashamed to brag about it, because I loved that sangin' stuff, and I still do, and I worked real hard at it, pardners). I could not dance, really, no matter how many classes my wonderful friend Eamonn coerced me into taking. I also auditioned with a sinus infection the size of Atlanta. Through my haze of illness and cold medicine, I apologized ever so profusely to my auditors, who laughed at my candor and told me to not apologize in auditions, and that I'd done fine. They then offered me admission to the BA program, which I was hurt about, but unsurprised. For me, my college options were not a difficult choice: I could either go to a BFA program in Acting at a terrific school that cost a small fortune, or I could go get a BA in Theatre at Penn State for about one-twentieth of the cost, once my scholarships and such kicked in. I loved PSU's Theatre program. I'd been in it, briefly, as a young kid from the community. I'd watched their shows for years, and their devotion to hard-working professionalism and onstage excellence had more than won me over. It was a no brainer. "No debt," my dad mentioned more than once.  He was right, and I knew he was right.

I've never once regretted my choice. Penn State prepared me to work in the theatre, and I did and I have, in many different arenas and in many different roles, onstage, behind the scenes, and in the classroom. Additionally, I've seen more folks from the program go on to astonishing professional successes of their own than I can count. Penn State's Music Theatre program is rightly lauded as one of the best in the country. Cary, and a cohort of brilliant collaborators, built it, and chose kids they knew could go out and get it for themselves with talent, determination, professionalism, and drive. I flirted with musical theatre the whole time I was at Penn State. I've always preferred plays and films to musicals, but musical theatre is a grand American institution, and an astonishing and thrilling thing to be a part of, truly. The best musicals are as good as any fine art in the world. No one needs me to point out this fact, right? I bugged them to let me take dance classes, and you know what? They did, in spite of my eternal leftfootedness. Bless Spence and Kevin, my dance teachers, Lord, for I was slow of study to their art. It did not come to me naturally, let's just say. The BAs, MFAs, and BFA designers all have great successes of their own to which they may point. Our school as a whole is a success, and we are proud.

I am so proud to have known Cary as a young kid at a critical phase of my life. His mentorship and nurturing of my young theatrical aspirations was precisely the kind of professional, safe, heartfelt, and inspiring teaching Penn State is known for. Jerry Sandusky is not the Penn State story; he's one manipulator who managed to destroy children and betray a large community of good people. People like Cary Libkin are Penn State; that's what the "we are" means. We are united. We are all in this together. We are stronger as a team than as individuals. I saw Cary embody that in the way he directed and in the way he ran the PSU Music Theatre program. In spite of my lead-lined dancin'  shoes, Cary always gave me a shot at musical auditions, as did his colleagues, and I'm grateful, because I had some wonderful experiences, learned a ton, and worked with a bunch of Broadway-bound talent.

Now I teach theatre, and I hope I can see even a fraction of the success in my students as they move forward that Cary has seen his students achieve. He'd probably say he's proud, but he'd probably also say something pragmatically wise, too, like "I hope they're happy." He announced his retirement today, and a flood of memories came pouring back, which then became this post. I realize that I have been subconsciously trying to emulate him (and many others who've inspired me) in numerous ways as a teacher my whole teaching career. I dress like Cary sometimes. He always looked professorial, professional, and comfortable, dapper and precise. It suited him. Some of my best moments as a director have been Cary moments, moments when, even when it wasn't easy, I kept my cool and tried to keep the team together, and we all got a chance to come back together and show our audiences and each other what we could do as a team. I think he taught me that lesson quite admirably. Others have shown me that selfless path of leadership, but Cary, man, he mastered that, in my opinion, in a way few folks can.

I just had a crazy four day long stomach virus, so I can't (I literally physically cannot) raise a glass of anything alcoholic in his honor, but I lift my ginger ale in his honor anyway and toast a great man, a great teacher, and a great leader, and one of the folks who absolutely lit a fire under me for this great art I love. I will always cherish him for that. I'll also always cherish him for continuing to push me to excel, to believe in myself, and to go for a life in the arts. I remember having meetings in his office as an undergrad where he'd encourage me with pragmatic honesty, comradeship and camaraderie, and good cheer. I wasn't in his program, keep in mind. He did this anyway. That should say something about the man as a teacher. I have so much to thank the man for, I barely know where to begin.

I'm thrilled for him that he's getting to bring this chapter to a close and move on to new adventures. I think he nailed it, y'all. 

Teachers are something, aren't they? They absolutely mold us.

Santa Died.

My friend Jay Miffoluf died.

I started this as a Facebook post, but it got too long. It's a blog post, I guess. Too much to say... The man leaves too big a void.

Jay was the mayor of my theatre community. We all have big shoes to fill. I hope we can honor his legacy by drawing even closer together. I'm inspired by seeing things in the newspaper from artistic directors in Harrisburg talking about how when one of us succeeds, we all do. That good will truly does bond this community of artists together. Jay Miffoluf was an enormous part of that; the linchpin, really. We've lost not one (community theatre stalwart Mark Arner), not two (Jay), but three (I can't believe I had to go back and rewrite this sentence, but Jim Woland, one of our area's finest scenic designers, and a teacher, artist, advocate, and all around great man, is also gone today) of our most devoted, dedicated, passionate theatre people this week. I just want to get all the theatre folks in central PA together in one big room so we can just sort of be together and share hugs and stories. And tears.

I am so sad he is gone, but I am also filled with awe at the way he lived. He was one of a kind.

The first time I was in a show with Jay (OSH Christmas Carol '04) he drove me nuts all through rehearsal. He was sarcastic and griping. Those who knew him all knew that side, too. Once the show opened, this cantankerous guy suddenly mellowed and was constantly bringing us gifts, notes, cookies, kugel, food, pick-me-ups, aphorisms, silly songs, stories, a genuine ear, and an open heart. I thought maybe the sharper side of Jay was actually some kind of stage fright, or stage awe, perhaps. He always held the stage in high esteem, and he never, ever, in all the time I knew him, acted like acting was easy. Silly sometimes, it sure is, but never something to be taken for granted. For him it remained daunting, sacred. He respected the stage with total sincerity. I always admired that about him and aspire to be that devoted.

I've been teaching all day and should be grading finals now, but I can't. I think it's weird that I have this need to eulogize people when they pass on, but I think it's simply that I am my mother's son, and I process much of my feelings in writing. It's what she taught me to do. It's what she does, too. I share things like this because every one of the people in my Facebook "friends list" is a real person who's meant something real to me. My god, we are all going to be gone one day. It's a lot of grief. It always sucks.

Jay was one of those people who'd be the first to champion everyone else's success, and the last to ever really accept praise directed his own way. He marketed the shows he was in, too, but I would bet it came more from a desire to share the work of his castmates. I imagined him looking at all of us down here, all of us sad we couldn't say our goodbye, him mumbling something about how he wouldn't have wanted all that fuss and attention anyway. Shambling off. 

My mother in law said to me today that sudden death is easiest for the person who dies, but worse for all of us left here. I hope it was easy for my friend. He'd been through many struggles with his physical health. He was Philly tough about it, though, and just kept on working, kept on commuting hours a day just to do another show in another theatre or see someone he knew on a stage.

I tried to buck myself up all day for my students. Then they'd leave the room and I'd think about Jay and Lori and get choked up.

I kept having songs in my head all day, too. "Anatevka" from Fiddler on the Roof. That's the song when the ensemble of that show basically wanders away into the void. I know that show was a favorite of Jay's. "Oh, Death" by my friend Joe Gualtier as Lost Companion, which has become a loop in my mind every time someone I know dies. Also, weirdly, Steve Martin's banjo riff about how no one on the banjo ever sings, "Oh death, and grief, and sorrow, and murder." That one felt morbid to me, and may just be some inner emotional backlash against too many folks dear to those of us who make theatre in this little part of the world passing on lately, but... I felt a little better realizing that Jay might have loved that routine, even if a "young whippersnapper" like Steve Martin made it up. It has a vaudevillian's zest about it, and so did Jay. Jay was fond of the "old man" quips. He was in his fifties going on his nineties sometimes, and he liked it that way. He was somehow out of his era and somehow also ahead of us all.

Some close friends came over tonight basically so we could talk about Jay and be together. We all agreed that a favorite memory was his wholly rescripted (he had directorial permission to do so), wildly invented classic radio DJ character "The Big Whopper" for our Classic Rock Cabaret. He went to Theatre Harrisburg and got a crazy costume (colorful jacket, wild bow tie, the works) just for the show, if I remember correctly. He was a hoot and a half in the show, and he had just as much fun bopping around quietly backstage thinking up new material.

He was my neighbor.

He was my daughter's first Santa.

He was a curmudgeonly teddy bear. He even played one of those, too, in a Popcorn Hat show, I kid you not.

He could be huge. He could be quiet. He was Whitmanesque.

He was a guy who'd call you up if he thought some offhand comment he'd made had hurt your feelings. He'd take you out to lunch and he'd just talk to you about life and stuff. There was no agenda other than enjoying being human.

I had to keep Hamlet (albeit an edited Hamlet) in my wheelhouse for two years straight. Having that unfortunate young man romping around in my heart and head for that long involved spending far too much time staring the silent, sad monster we call death square in the face. Part of Hamlet's madness (feigned or no) stems from being too close to death. When people close to me die, I feel like death has come back for more, more loss, more gut punches. At those moments, I feel a kinship with Troy in Fences, ready to fight the monster if need be, looking for my baseball bat. I thought of my friend Ian today, too. Jay played King Hamlet to his Prince Hamlet in a full length production a few years back. Both were astonishing, as was the whole show. So many lines from that seem appropriate. Ian nailed it on his Facebook. "He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again." Accompanying the quote was a picture of the two of them, the young prince haunted, scared, and in awe of his father's noble ghost. Perfect. And again, for the umpteenth time today, the tears welled and choked me.

Jay leaves behind him a wife who he adored with every fiber of his being. Lori is one of my favorite people in the world. I just want to give this dear person, someone I admire and am proud to call a friend, a hug.

Hmm. Sometimes the words still aren't adequate. I'll just have to keep grieving. At least I won't be alone. Jay leaves behind him a village he helped build, brick by brick. We will miss him more dearly than words can say.

A Painting for Her Nursery

I haven't done a painting in years, but a new friend reminded me what fun painting can be.  I'm realizing, too, that my preferred artistic outlet (theatre), is going to be less and less available to me as a new dad, so I am hoping to write more and to create more visual art as a coping strategy.  Film projects are more manageable, too, especially the shorter film projects.

Anyhow, this is for our baby girl's nursery.  It's not finished... I ran out of white paint partway through the sky, so I am eager to add another layer of highlights, then perhaps a few more detailing layers, but I have a feeling it may be hanging in there unfinished for a while.  My friend Bill has a blog about being a dad (and being a dad-to-be right now) and he put it eloquently when he spoke of the mistakes in their nursery mural: 

"Throughout the drafting, chalk-lining, taping and painting, we reminded ourselves that we were creating the mural 'out of love, not perfection.'

Becoming parents, after all, requires coming to terms with our imperfections."

Here it is, my imperfect painting for our baby girl... an abstracted view up the Susquehanna River Valley, looking north... sunrise, midday, sunset, and night (24"x48").  I'll add a photo whenever I can get it to a more finished state:

... and a little slideshow, too.