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.

Holes, and Waking Up Ready

When people you care about die, they seem to leave holes in you somehow. The holes don't really ever go away, either, I've found. You just become more and more like swiss cheese as the years go by and the griefs pile up.

By the same token, when incredible things happen, it's like being adorned with some extraordinary power-granting gem (okay, yes, I made a Green Lantern reference), or breathing the freshest air or drinking the purest juice imaginable, or waking up invigorated and ready. That last one is something that I think has happened to me maybe six times in my life, so to me it feels like a pretty incredible event. Not a morning person over here.

One of my favorite students abruptly left this world a little over a week ago. Today was his memorial service. My administrators graciously let students and teachers attend, even though it was in the middle of the day. That's the right thing to do, and that seems to be what motivates them, in my opinion. Hence, I tend to like working for them. I've been around for students dying in the five or so years I've been working in public schools. This was the first time I knew the student so well... well, the first time since a classmate died in high school.

There's ready-made cliches for these occasions, and the fact that they're cliches makes them feel a bit wrong, even though they are actually wholly accurate. They are too young to die at this age. It isn't supposed to be like this. No parents should have to go through that.

Maybe part of why it hit me so hard is because Alexis and I are expecting a child at the end of August. We've already been through a miscarriage, so the whole event, while exciting and beautiful beyond measure, is also fraught with fear and a quiet sort of terror. I'm a little nervous about trying to be a good dad, but mainly I am just afraid of the random darkness of this fallen world sneaking up and snatching them away before this child really gets a chance to live it out.

It may be that, partly, but probably it's more to do with the fact that I knew this kid. I knew the intelligence that hid behind a quiet facade. I knew the soft heart that hid behind hard armor. I knew much more than a name and some grades and some anecdotal evidence. I cared. Once you're caring, you're already, on some level in this life, digging into yourself and building a nice comfortable hole in yourself, somewhere for them to live cozily. Then, when they're gone, you're left with that hole.

What a capricious, malevolent, cold world. What a wonderland of delights, too. When weighing the two extremes together, the highs and the lows of life, it's hard for me to regard it with anything but a strange blend of both wonder and terror.

Today I tried to mourn one of my favorite students. Tomorrow I find out if we're having a boy or a girl. And that, my friends, is death and life, sitting together in about as overwhelming a yin and yang as I've encountered.

I like art and literature because they strive to explain these great mysteries of life, and they usually do so (when they're doing it well) in non-dogmatic ways, ways that retain room for the mystery itself to still captivate and flourish.

I keep hearing a song a friend of mine wrote when I think about this new hole I'll be carrying around. "Death / He looked me straight in the eye / He said you're never too young to die / His words / They rang true in my heart / And that was the worst part / Oh, Death..."

Family is forever

I gave some serious thought to the idea of deleting that last post. I felt like I was lashing out at Penn State, and I love Penn State. Penn State is like a part of my family. Faults don't have to kill the love.

But what happened can never be undone, so I might as well own up to the anger of my reaction. I hope if anyone was hurt by what I said there that you might forgive my bitterness. I'm not generally the kind of person who lets bitterness linger and last forever. At least, I don't think of myself that way. If it makes any difference, I'm trying to forgive myself for that bitterness and anger, whether it was justified or not.

When Paterno died, I was deeply upset. It did have such a ring of tragedy to it. I admired the way his family chose to honor him, and I feel he deserved that honor. I finally went to the statue of him by Beaver Stadium with a lump in my throat.

When he died, story after story came up in my friends' facebook feeds and in news stories that told of an incredible number of anonymous acts of gracious kindness and remarkable generosity he did for people, routinely and over the course of many decades.

One key thing that changed my perspective on Paterno's role in this horrible Sandusky story was a short op ed piece written by a child abuse attorney. This attorney calmly pointed out a few factors about mandated reporter laws. First, Paterno was a mandated reporter. This has been acknowledged. Secondly, the people he reported to were exactly the people he was supposed to report to, by law. Had he violated the chain of communications, he could have jeopardized the credibility of his potential testimony. This was something I didn't know because no one was saying it in the media. Hearing this, I was able to finally see that Paterno actually did exactly what he was supposed to do. He trusted the men above him to do the right thing, and they hadn't given him any indication that he shouldn't. That broke my heart a bit, realizing this, in light of my initially buying into some of the vilification that had come towards him. I can now still think of him as a hero. He was not perfect, or a saint, but I can see goodness in him again the way I used to. Doing so makes me honestly a bit ashamed that I doubted the guy. It was so hard, when this horrible story exploded, to see anything clearly.

I am too emotionally tied to Penn State to let anger fuel my feeling for the place. If others feel that way, though, I can't blame them. And if still others feel more loyal to the place than ever, I can see their position too. I feel stuck in the middle now. Others have picked up the banner for accountability and change and are willing to shout and fight. Many of them have far more power and influence than I ever will.

What a hard end for Joe... scandal... doubt... public rage... lung cancer... betrayal... yet the man was calm and even happy because his family surrounded him. His son said he died with a clear conscience. I think that's amazing.

The black Nikes swish through the perfect grass; the khaki cuffs slap lightly after; the clash is over, the quiet re-settles, and the feet meander home through the cold, grey Pennsylvania twilight. The scoreboard is meaningless; the game was all.

I wrote this for Joe. He walked home after every game. To me, this is more about the grey misty walk into the mysterious afterlife. I hope the man gets to keep peace with himself, with his soul. He loved poetry. I hope he got to see it. It may not be a great poem, but it's from the heart.