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Community Performance Inc.

May 19, 2008

Sunday night, the end of the week, the beginning. We open in two weeks and two days. Seems impossible. Got so much to pull together.

Thursday I had an extended lunch with Vivian and found a soul sister. She is an amazing paradox, though it's probably just my prejudice that makes her life choices so exceptional in my mind. She is a mill hill person and grew up speaking in the white dialect of the common people. AND she has a subscription to Rolling Stone and a laundry list of accomplishments that don't agree with her dialect. All of her life people have judged her "less than," because of her dialect. And she has chosen to keep that dialect. It's been a conscious choice. I know, I asked her. And I know from the acuity of her ear that she could speak any dialect at will. I guessed that Vivian has paid a huge price in lost money and opportunity for preserving her place in her speech. She agreed. I love her way of talking. In her speech the words of the play sound just right. She refuses to sound "EDgy-cat-ed. Vivian understands the purpose of this project has little to do with theater as entertainment. It has everything to do with the coming of a time when we can create with brothers and sisters from everywhere. Where freedom of every kind will ring.

I went back to New Light Baptist Church for the 11:30 service. I was just a bit nervous when I pulled up, it was 11:25 and there were only six vehicles present. I parked facing the cemetery and got out. The day was fresh scrubbed, as if the light breeze had scoured the dust from everything. The graveyard was spangled with golden field flowers, bright yellow and small, built like a daisies. Among these gorgeous tributes, were the artificial kind favored on southern graves. Ugly by comparison to Nature's remembrance.

I walked up to the door. There was no one about, and I went in. Inside were a handful of people. An old solemn woman with a hat that looked liked she'd crocheted it over a flower pot. She was dressed in a white jacket and skirt and wore brown sandals. She shook my hand and bid me welcome. Her nose clearly proclaimed Native American ancestors as did the redder hue of her skin. She didn't just shake my hand, yet she did no more than that, but were present to one another, and her welcome was real. Others followed her, and each handshake carried off another piece of my newcomer anxiety. Wilma came down from the choir and greeted me. Then a great tall man swept into the room from the stage right side of the altar area where a sign read "MEN." Handsome and powerful, in his prime, Deacon Mack. He shook my hand as did the men around him. I apologized for my humble clothes, all these men were in nice suits and shoes of glowing leather, dressed like my grandpa used to dress to go to church. In my church we're less formal, but I loved to see them. I felt utterly comfortable after Deacon Mack assured me that my clothes didn't matter. Neither did the color of my skin. Each person there wrapped me in the color of their welcome and I was one with them. It was easy.

I sat alone one the third center pew until 72 year-old Edward Galliard saw me and came over from his first row corner. "Are you an elder in your church back home?" He asked. I stumbled over a word or two, because I'm not, and because in my church, I'm actually still sort of finding my new church, but we don't have elders, anyway. He said, "You're welcome to sit with me." So I accompanied him to the first row and sat beside him, my jeans and golf shirt, his gorgeous forest green suit. When we stood to read St. John 17, 20-22 he held his bible out to me and I took hold of the other side of it. We were very close, and it felt very good. His hands belonged to the worker. After a major project, like installing my hot tub this spring, my hands have some of that quality. My father, the college professor, was the handyman who taught me handymanning. He used to boast of the sideshow palm reader who took his hand and guessed he was a construction worker.

I don't know the order of eldership and honor in this church, but two men flanked the small table that would later hold the offerings down front, facing us. The one on my left began to sing "This Light of Mine." As a call and response. He would sing a line, and the congregation would follow. We sang several songs this way, each begun by a different man, a cappella. The second fellow, a handsome man with few teeth, rich black hair, sang Come By Hear My Lord. I knew it as Kum By Ya. We sang many verses. And I marveled that while rhythms were perfect, pitch didn't seem to matter. We started a cappella, then the piano found us, and then we floated in an sea of pitch. I'm a rhythmic incompetent so I was trying to clap the backbeat with everyone else and hear through to the original pitch. But it didn't seem to matter. And clearly it wasn't wrong. It's not like they couldn't match pitch.

I was the only visitor that day and I was asked to stand and say a few words. I did, and told them how peaceful and welcome they made me feel. I thanked their choir for agreeing to be in the play. I stood and took in the room. Then I let my words come forth into the place of welcome that we had made between us. It was easy, and I spoke well. As in other black churches I'd attended they were serious as a heart attack about the offering. They had my side rise first and we filed by one at a time under the gaze of three elders and deposited our money. I saved more money to be ready for the next round of giving, but that didn't happen in this church. After another choir piece or two, there were only about six choir members present, we got to the sermon.

I've got a litmus test for a good church and good preacher. If he speaks to my experience and need that Sunday, then I'm in the right place. Otherwise, I'm not impressed by the church. I expect that synchronicity. The pastor, the Rev. Robert Johnson, a light skinned, roundish man of medium height, with a glowing shaved pate. There is nothing remarkable in his features until he speaks. Then he shows the great bloodlines of black oratory. With him we again read the passage from John and we got around to what for me was the center of his sermon. I was amening with the rest. And also "Well..." or "Yes," and short phrases indicating affirmation.

"Every person is a visionary," Rev. Johnson said. "You are a visionary as you create in your imagination, a new thing, and then bring yourself and others to touch your imagination." what a beautiful definition. I hope I can do that. Help others touch the imagination of Judy and Genny. It is my vision, Jules', Joes', Brackley's, Heather's, Steve's, Vivian's.

After the service Wilma, the choir leader whose name I didn't earlier know, came up and said. "We won't be at every rehearsal, now, but we're committed." I had thought to say, "We'll see you Thursday at 7:30." But it sounded insulting, so I just hugged her and said thank you.

The day sparkled even brighter as I walked out. The breeze fairly snapped. The temperature and humidity were wonderful. The service lasted a shade less than two hours. The time had flown. I told them I'd be back.

I went to four hours of rehearsal. I could write about every actor. I'll just say that fourteen year old Sierra is kicking butt in a big, strong role that ought to belong to someone ten years older. And young Sarah Mitchell is ready for anything. This is, she says, her second home...well maybe third, after grandmas'.

   

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