PB (Pre-Brownsville, part 1)
Acting to Teach
My plan was to be a professional actor. And I was. For about five years.
In 2001, I received my B.A. in Theater from George Mason University (located in the suburbs of Washington DC) and immediately hit the pavement as a “working actor” in the nation’s capital. Armed with an arsenal of 2-minute monologues, 16-bar song selections, and a “God I hope I get it” attitude, I believed in my art and in the pursuit of it.
I got tired of working day jobs that turned my brain to goo and left me less than thrilled to schlep to auditions where everyone looked like wannabe Eponines from Les Miserables, including me.
I got tired of knowing that I could be so much more than an ensemble member in a yet unnamed modern dance/crime drama in a pseudo-professional production in Towson, Maryland.
I got tired of knowing that my days could be spent doing so many other worthwhile activities than preparing for the Merrily We Roll Along chorus auditions for the fifth time.
I got tired of feeling like a waste; that time was running out to do something with my life.
And so I went back to the only other thing I’ve always been really good at besides acting: bossing people around. Or, in other words, teaching.
Let me back up. From the time I was two years old and addressed a metal coca-cola truck as my pet dog “Bo Pat,” I’ve been excellent at two distinct things 1) pretending to be someone I’m not and 2) giving people orders.
Acting and Teaching. Done and done.
I “acted” with my parents, my aunts and uncles, my brother and cousins. I bossed around neighbors, grandparents, classmates and even strangers. Between the ages of 2 and 12, I lived in a multi-genre world of imagination. Tragedies, Comedies, Musicals, even Soap Operas, all received my “touch” as an actor/director/playwright/producer.
Here, for your pleasure, is a typical scene from one my early “ pertend” creations:
3-year-old Jamie: Mommy, let’s pertend that you stand here and say hello and then I say hello and then we both walk over here and pertend to eat breakfast.
Jamie’s silent, wisely obedient, sandy-haired, 5 foot Momma: Ok.
(Scene continues for a few more moments. And then the dénouement.)
Little Jamie: You pertend you’re eating Cherrios and I’ll pertend I’m eating Rice Krispies.
End Scene.
Chekhov I was not.
But I was prolific. And enduring.
I once spent two solid hours on the basement stairs “smoking” cigarettes made out of black Bic pens and pretending I was an alcoholic who was in danger of losing her kids. (My parents’ experiences as social workers in the child welfare system of West Virginia provided a particularly deep pool of inspiration.)
Alcoholic dramedies aside, my all-time favorite pertend production was school. It was my Cats, if you will. I played it in my room, in the backyard, at even, school. I most often played it, however, on my grandparents’ terrace.
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PB (Pre-Brownsville, part 2)
Do and Pa’s Terrace
From between the ages of six to twelve, my younger brother Zack and I spent our Tuesdays and Thursdays at Do and Pa’s house while our mother worked part-time (Note: I invented the name Do and have no idea how or why I did so. The story is I got it from saying, “Do this and do that.” But I’m pretty sure that’s bogus. I think it was just an early indicator of my odd, yet delightful strangeness. My grandfather was always Pa. Just Pa.)
The greatest evidence, however, of my attempts at building strong (imaginary) student relationships exists in my infamous “notes home.” After going over the day’s spelling list or fraction problem, my teaching day often culminated with one or two letters home that I would write on my grandfather’s note pads. The correspondence usually looked something like this:
Dear Mrs. Smith,
Your daughter Alicia was very bad in class today. I am worried about her behavior. I had to write her name on the blackboard twice.
Please come see me as soon as you can.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Boileau
My grandfather, Pa, whose imagination and sense of empathy was less forgiving than my grandmother’s, would find several of these notes in various locations throughout the house.
Looking back, it’s probably not that surprising that he thought I was a schizophrenic.
Fast-forward twenty years, and my classroom has moved from my grandparents’ terrace in Bluefield, West Virginia to a crumbling, public school building in Brownsville, Brooklyn.
The students have changed from imaginary white 3rd graders to seventeen and eighteen year old African American, Dominican, Jamaican, and Haitian young men and women who desperately need a second chance.
I still act and I’m still bossy.
