To Do: Justice

Not much is known about the prophet Micah. 

To my knowledge, my Church of the Nazarene mother nor Southern Baptist father named me in his honor.  That missing "h" after the "c".  The "e" after the "a".  The "l" before the "h".  

Reborn into the spirit of understanding truth and welcomed questions of adulthood Micah has become my namesake.  I am not St. Michael.  I want to be Micah. I want to live Micah.

"Micah understood his task to be a preacher of truth- to expose injustice and inequity, to offer a word of hope and salvation, and to make known a vision of a new and transformed way of life for his community and his world."  - Harper's Study Bible

It would probably be easier to be Michael.  You know, Archangel and all. Superhero. Movie Deals!

I choose Micah.  He was the first to let me in.  As a freshly abused gay Southern Baptist, I discovered:

"What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God."

I love the "with" part by the way.  Hand in hand. 

Blessed Lenten journey travels, readers.

Don't require of yourselves any more than Micah's Lord.  That will be.  Enough. 

A Prayer

The following is a prayer I offer often.  One I find brings me back, when I lose my way, and in a lonely, quiet place, even when I have lost my faith.  I offer it to you, today, on this day of Thanksgiving, as an option at your table.  Or your couch.  Or your tailgait.  Even at my quiet table with my life partner Tom, I never get through it without tears.... But salty tears makes for incredibly lovely turkey.  Blessed Thanksgiving to you all.

A Prayer attributed to St. Francis, Book of Common Prayer, page 833.

Lord, make us instruments of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let us sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is discord, union;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.

Grant that we may not so much seek to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.  Amen.

I Can Do That

I didn't see the original Broadway production of A Chorus Line.   I was, however, Hello Thirteen enough in 1976 when it won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama and nine Tony Awards. From a distance.

Lonely me-boys bought Original Broadway Cast Albums, back then. Broadway Baby theatre junkies. Misunderstood by others around us who were into 8-tracks of Eagles Greatest Hits.  No tribe, just Cassie, and the dream of a chance to dance.  For you.  When she belted "give me a chance", I sang along, in any narrow mirrow reflection I could find.

I saw this magic for the first time when the first national tour of A Chorus Line came to the Lexington Opera House during the Dick Pardy era. 

Spellbound. 

A few years later, I auditioned and became "Mike" in Lexington Musical Theatre's first regional production on the same stage.  He's the goy who taps his way into a place on the Line, and captures the heart of the audience with his sung-story of his sister's shoes.  Watching sis go pitter pat.  Me.  Are you kidding?  Me.

As the show comes back to the Opera House this week, in a tour based on the recent 2006 revival, there will be many in the audience who will experience it for the first time.  And, you know what, I will be in the audience, too, experiencing it for the first time.  Again.

I've stood on the Line.  I've been part of the 19 main characters who made "the cut". 

I can tell you this:  Being in the cast of A Chorus Line is grueling, satisfying work.  I might even go so far as to use the biblical sense of the word work:  worship.

You know that moment when the Line makes that perfect triangle of brilliance during the singular sensation during "One"?   Have you ever wondered if the cast on stage feels the self-same energy?  I have an answer for you, yes.  And yes, and yes.

The cheers from the audience, who I have now become a member again, come from within.  Yes.  And yes.  Cheers for the performers, but more-so for the heart of A Chorus Line that lives in all of us.

It is challenging, freeing, and celebratory.

God I hope they get it.

Purple.

A poem from my 13 year-old self, to the Man I am today:

When you are an adult, you shall wear purple
with a rainbow heart that matches completely, and suits you grandly.
And you shall spend your tension on Chardonnay and kid gloves
and Yankee Candles, and say you've no money for butter substitutes.
You shall sit down on the futon when you are tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press conservative buttons
and run your stick along public railings
and make up for the prison of your youth.
You shall wear Burberry in the rain
and pick flowers from your Partner's garden
and learn to shout.

You can wear fabulous shirts and grow whole
and eat three slices of bacon at a go
or only brioche and Pop Tarts for a week
and hoard ideas and promises and pistachios and things in bargain.

But now you must have causes that keep you hot
and pay your debts and say fuck in the street often
and set a better example for Their children.
You must have friends to theatre and read the Kindle.
But maybe you ought to perfect a little now?

So people who know you are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly you are golden, and start to share Purple.

1-Click and she was gone

I miss her already, but I know it was all for the best.  I probably should have consulted, at the very least, my Priest, if not my horoscope, but so be it.  She is gone.  I have given my first born over to a happy home, and I know it was the right thing to do.

I know that she is in more-than-capable hands.  And I also think her new Mother, who I'm told is relatively New Media savvy will probably read this, and maybe, just maybe, share it with her one day.  When she's old enough to TRY to understand, I'd like to think.  But that, of course is completely up to fate.  If she ever wants to contact me, when she's say, 13 and wants to know the truth.  I'll be willing to at least meet for a coffee.  I'll find five minutes.  Or so.  So, here it is:

Dear Kindle,

I loved you, and still do, but my circumstances prevented me from giving you the joy, love, and attention you deserve.  It breaks my heart, but I knew at the time that you would be better off in a more loving home.  

I filled you with Pat Conroy's marshy melodies the moment you came to me.  If you have a particular penchant for the low country, that's me.  That's you.  That's us.  I will never forget holding you in my hands and reading our stories.  YOUR stories became mine.  

But the time came for you to go.  For me to let you go.  I hope you understand.  I hope you have a good life with the lady I left you with.  You should have seen her face light up when she first saw you.  I knew then I had made the right decision.  For you.  For us.

And now the hard part:

Kindle:  you have a sister.  She looks so much like you, except, well, graphite.  And smaller.  I know you'll find this troubling and/or confusing, but know this much is true:  You were first.  

I let you go, but I never left you alone.  I pray you are happy.  I understand if you are angry, but should you choose to contact me at some point, well, that's up to you and your new family.  

Michael, your amazonDad.

xxoo

Will I Lose My Dignity?

I performed in the last season of Paul Greene's Wilderness Road at the Indian Fort Theatre in Berea KY in the summer of 1980.  A recent graduate of Estill County High School.  That tender place between high school and college.  Parents still caring and champions for the boy they couldn't believe had a driving license, much less a high school diploma.  Fresh from my World Champion Clogging Titles. Hee Haw and Grand Ol' Opry appearances (thank you, YouTube, for not coming along until years later).

Dad drove me to the audition at the Chapel at Berea College and at first they said, "No."  Dad, my champion, stepped in and said, "Give my boy one more chance."  

I took the stage (chapel) one more time and belted what I'm sure what must have been a Southern Baptist hymn that contradicted the whole notion of musical theatre, but what the closeted theatre liberals at this somewhat conservative production must have found cute and enchanting.  To this day, I don't know what my stage dad did behind the scenes, but it must have been a page from the Lorna Bell Bundy Playbook. (He may have even written that for her:  He's long dead, but he was first.) 

I was cast.

Two weeks later, mom and dad drove me to Berea for my seasonal stint as what still to this day I consider My Summer as a Chorus Girl. 

Last words from Dad, when he dropped me off at the Senior Dorm at Berea (which HE had negotiated--- Really Good Digs), before the Goodbye Hug.  "There are effeminate people in theater. That does not mean they are....he did not complete the sentence.  GAY."

These people took their historic place in Kentucky outdoor drama seriously.  I loved being around the cast that had, in some cases, been cast locally, and more times than not, from mysterious places from the hell of what was then summer casting just so you can put something on your resume.

You would think I would have come out of the closet that summer.  After all, I was the one in the Senior Berea Dorm that had the Evita White Album.  But I was afraid.

I was afraid of me.  I now understand that I was afraid of me.  Not dad, mom, conservative upbringing:  Me.

I did not come out that summer.  At all.  Even with the Evita album.  High Flying, Adored. Too afraid. Weak is different from terrified, to be clear.

As RENT plays this summer, in my own now-proclaimed hometown, I have chosen not to attend.  One could say it is because it is too damn hot to leave the house.  One could say I've seen the brilliant Pulitzer Prize, Tony Winner 9 times. Enough Already.  But there really is no excuse other than this:

It is simply too emotional of a theatrical experience for me to imagine outdoors, amongst the smuggled sangria and blankies and well-intended local theatre supporters.

No doubt, the audience will experience joy, pathos, and sing along (is there a RENT HEAD front row?).

I can't go.  But I sing the body electric for all of you who are there.  The various sponsors, including Ace Weekly, Joe Artz and the SummerFest Team.  The amazing director T. Bonner who I stood on the line with in A Chorus Line years ago in the Lexington Musical Theatre production when I performed the role of Mike.  "I Can Do That".  And truth:  I really couldn't.  But the applause was addicting.

So, I'm not going.  I've written One Last Song.

Remains of the Day

"Everyone tells you the trip to Europe is exhausting," I wrote in my journal on May 30, 1983, "and everything they say is true."

I've been hearing and thinking about "getting rid of" lately.  Trips to literal or figurative garages.  Basements (ew).  Snakes.  Really bad yearbook photos.  Toss.  Look through.  Remember.  Spiders.  Rotten potatoes.  Even, yes, something as fresh as yesterday's Big Fridge Clean Out that my Life Hope Tom does from time to time, in the chance of creating something extraordinary out of the odd swiveled carrot at the bottom of the veggie bin. Stone Soup.

For some unknown reason, I held on to something that may very well be the most succinct, tiny volumn of my early life that changed me for good.  Be careful what you toss, into a salad or otherwise.

I discovered it the other day.  In the attic of my the house Tom and I own. Not mom and dad's house. Ours. Readers younger than I reading this: You, too will some day have an attic.  At least, I grant that you will, because this is what I discovered.  And I feel 22 years old tonight.  Be careful what you purge.

Excerpts from this courdoroy-bound journal.  The spelling and grammar are mine, unedited from the remains of the days:

Battle Gear:  Eurail Youth Pass, International Student ID, International Youth Hostil ID, Personal ID Card

PFANDER:  Second day in Bregenz.  Climbed to the top of Pfander and viewed Alps.  One hour and a half climb. View spectacular!  Exhausting!!

Food I:  The Goldener Hirsch is our daily eating place.  Pork is delicious in barbecue sauce.  "Eis Krem" is delicious stands on Bondensee shore. Vanille and Erdherre.  Wiener Snitzel is a pork fillet served with lemon and was my very first Austrian meal.  Lasagna is good at most cafes and cost about $4.00.  Coup Danemark is a great chocolate ice cream dessert.  Pommes Frites are french fries and are served very often.

Munich:  Saturday night Jim, Anita, Jan and I decided to go somewhere other than the touristee Haufbrauhaus, so we went to what is similar to Times Square, Leopoldstrasse in search of a disco in Frommer's Guide called FLASH, but never found it.

Accomodations:  Haus International.  $10 a person, 5 in a room.  Indoor pool.

There is more to come from this journal.  I may or not post it here, but it sure felt good to write this much.  And you cannot believe how musky from your own attic smells better once you take a deep breath and start to read how young you were.  And are.  Journey on, all of us.