If you really want to be President of the United States

"Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber." ~Plato

It was around my sophomore year of college that I gave up my serious political aspirations. In a huff, turned off by too many smear campaigns and political scandals, I decided that someone else could be the first female president. Actually, the reasons I decided to forgo politics were identical to the reasons I decided I could not pursue being a professional actress: a certain thickness of skin and a certain willingness to plunge knives into the skin of others seemed to be pre-requisites for having any prayer at advancing through the ranks. Brains and talent would always be secondary to ruthless ambition. When it came down to it, I had a huge liability, a fatal character flaw: too nice.

So I gave up my politics and pre-law focus and set up camp in the American Studies department, deciding to focus on cultural, environmental, literary and journalistic realms (clearly, all topics far removed from any politics...). I tried to keep out of direct engagement with politics. I did note the irony that in Boston, my social/political views were labeled "moderate," yet when I moved to the Deep South I was slapped with a new label: "flaming liberal." When I went to graduate school in Ann Arbor to get a Master's in Social Work, the paradigm shifted again; relative to some of my classmates, I was no longer a liberal or even a moderate but a "borderline conservative." The funny thing was, over the course of those years, my opinions and stances never really changed. It's like living in an area of increasing urban sprawl, where your area code or zip code gets changed three times while you still live in the same house.

I took one course in the politics department when I was in graduate school. There were plenty of politics in the social work school, and plenty of classes on policy, but not really classes on politics. My politics professor, an intimidatingly brilliant man, shared an anecdote about voting choices of low-wage workers in England, not so many decades ago. Though there was a Labor party candidate, theoretically representing the interests of the working class many of the actual laborers voted for the nobleman opponent, and one worker gave the explanation: "On such things [as politics], I defer to my betters."

"Defer to my betters"? As in, the wealthy and well-bred are more deserving, automatically? A social caste system? In modern England? Difficult to fathom...

... but then again, here in the United States, bastion of democracy, we tend to elect older, privileged, good-family-name, non-minority male Presidents. In fact, it's really all we've ever done. Are we somehow subconsciously deferring to our perceived "betters"?

Rather than vote for "my better," I want to have someone better for whom to vote. Someone who has not only met the requirements of being born in this country, over 35 years ago - but who has also experienced what it's really like to live in this country. Not a career politician, but a hard-working, educated, life-experienced American citizen. I know it's a tall order... but as my genius mother and genius friend and I discussed the other day, real-world on-the-ground experience of what it's like to be an "average American" (whatever that means) is really not such a crazy idea. So, based largely on our conversation a few days ago and then some continued musing, here are the five reasonable basics that I think we should require of our presidential candidates.

PRE-REQUISITES FOR THE PRESIDENCY

1. Spend at least a year living below the poverty line. Go through the process of applying for food stamps and federal assistance, weaving your way through the beurocracy, dealing with the stigma.

2. Have a passionate interest that has zero to do with politics, and pursue it. Get rejected a few times. Fall off the horse. Get back on. (Don't subsequently use the photographs of yourself sailing as proof that you're really a fun person; just be a fun person.) If you have done nothing but work on political campaigns, first for others and then for yourself, you are automatically disqualified; you clearly cannot be president, you can only work on campaigns.

3. Travel overseas, and learn at least one foreign language. Before making decisions that impact other nations, spend some time having to obey their laws and getting to enjoy their flavors. Don't stay at ritzy hotels. Stay at hostels.

4. Be a philanthropist. Even during the period of time when you're living below the poverty line, remember that someone else has it worse, and volunteer for a literacy program, donate a dollar to medical research, spend some time with a kid who needs a mentor, listen to an older person who has stories to share. Philanthropy, after all, means "love of people." Demonstrate that love.

5. Know what it's like to be an outsider. If there is not much diversity within your own family tree, seek out diversity in your circles of friends. Go out on a limb and be "the only" sometimes - the only girl in the pick-up baseball game, the only guy in the yoga class, the only young person at the senior citizen center. You don't have to do this constantly, but you do have to do it, even if it is uncomfortable. How can you run the nation of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free if you have never known breathlessness?

I can think of many other instructive guidelines, but if someone could nail all 5 of these, that's an excellent start. Perhaps if these requirements were in place, I would rethink a bid for the presidency. After all, I'd still be too nice, but I would have taken care of all the prerequisites necessary to enable my candidacy. Which presidential hopeful in 2008 can say the same?

What other requirements would you like your president to complete?

Technically Speaking

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

It's tech week, also affectionately called "hell week" by those who have lived through such a phenomenon before. The last few days before a show opens: everyone who has been learning their own choreography must become part of the larger dance. The actors, the directors, light, sound, props, set - all critical elements. Though I'm involved as an actor this time around, I'm under no illusion that my role is any more important than any other. As I learned when performing at the London Fringe Festival a few years back, without the costume, lighting and sound crew, actors would be nothing more than naked people emoting in the dark.

However, there is a certain pressure that comes with being an actor. You're the one up in front of everyone, all eyes upon you, spotlights making the sweat trickle down your make-up caked cheek. Though I've kept my hand in the theatre world through my writing and some occasional directing or teaching, it's been three years since I've appeared in a full-length production. I've become accustomed to being the name on the page, not the girl on the stage.

Learning lines seems a little more difficult than I remember. Driving home tonight, I kept thinking:

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

I know the lines. I do. They're there. Yet sometimes, when I reach for them, they get away from me. I stumble over a word, get the sentiment right but the words wrong, or start to say something too early and realize I need to transpose my sentence right as it begins to come out of my mouth. I know what I'm supposed to be saying, and more importantly, I know the impact of the words. Not just the abstract impact they might have on the audience, but the concrete impact that they have on my fellow cast members, and our crew. My words are cues. Others will respond verbally, visually, or through the flick of a switch based on the words that I utter. Yes, sometimes a good team will save you when you fumble - but who wants to be the one who drops the ball?

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

When talking us through a difficult stretch where we feel pulled in opposite directions, yoga instructor Jean Powers frequently says, "...and isn't that just like life?" It's tech week. Other people are counting on me, and I'm counting on them. I know what I'm supposed to do, but it still requires some thought and effort, and will not necessarily be easy... but is ultimately so deliciously rewarding.

It's tech week... and isn't that just like life?

Stop. Start. Repeat.

Fondren Theatre Workshop's first-ever Ten Minute Play Project was a tremendous success. The evening was one of those unexpectedly electric nights, where audience, entertainers, crew and writers all share a tingling anticipation for what will unfold. No one knew exactly what they were getting themselves into, but everyone was glad to be along for the ride.

The auditorium was filled with the sort of audience you just want to bottle up and take with you to every one of your future performances -- responsive, respectful, engaged. When they were supposed to chuckle, they laughed; when they were supposed to laugh, they guffawed. You could see playwrights beaming as their words evoked uproarious hooting from the enthusiastic crowd. As one of my favorite directors oft says, the audience is one of the most important, influential elements of a performance. This audience deserved a standing ovation.

The first piece of the evening was Brent Hearn's "The Redneck Bard of Verona Flats." In a unique combination of kitchen sink comedy and Shakespearean tongue (in cheek), Shakespeare's Ghost flitted through the trailer home of Mark and Maylene, a pair of, er, star-cross'd lovers. The most original, oh-my-God-I-just-snorted moments came from Maylene's bumbling inadvertent paraphrasing of classic Shakespeare lines, such as "The worst thing in here is the smell... there's something rottin' in the den, Mark." The audience was rolling in the aisles. The skilled direction of Diana Howell and the animated expressions of actors Brad Bishop, Seth McNeill and Lisa Fenshier made the play as visually entertaining as it was clever. Brent, however, may well have had the easiest prop pieces to incorporate into his piece (see last post for explanation of the guidelines for this ten minute play project) : a telephone, an apron, and a plush platypus.

The third show was Opie Cooper's screwball comedy "Legal Mumbo Jumbo." With a secretary with temporary hearing loss, an overstressed attorney and a client whose wig goes sailing off her head, how can you go wrong? Opie's props were more challenging: a plush elephant wearing a key-charm, a large pink tin rooster, and the aforementioned wig. However, Opie's clever turns of phrase enabled him to wrangle every prop into the script, and the almost-frenzied level of energy displayed by his cast, directed by Bettye Edwards, kept the piece popping from start to finish (or Stop to Start, as the case may be... again, I refer to the rules as outlined in the last post!). Alyssa Silberman, Katrina Byrd and James Anderson were quite the comedic trio.

The show wedged between the two comic successes was my piece, "Baby Steps." I won't comment on my own work, but will say that I was blown away by the take-charge direction of Richard Lawrence. Actors John Howell, Hannah Bryan and Lea Gunter slipped into their characters like second skins. I will also say that I had, I do believe, the most challenging props of all: a belly dancer costume (including headgear!), a concertina, and a watermelon on a leash. Knowing the comedic genius of Brent and Opie, local improv gurus that they are, I scrapped the absurdist comedy I was originally attempting to create and instead alternated humor with emotion in a ten-minute dramedy. Watermelon on a leash and all.

Much as I'm often tempted to write eloquent passages, particularly in reviewing arts performances, it seems a bit inappropriate in this instance. There is no such need for decorative articulation: this weekend of breakneck-speed play creation was just plain fun.

10 Minutes in 24 Hours.

At 6:30 pm tonight, they will gather. Actors, writers, directors, techies: they will assemble in the Fondren neighborhood in Jackson to build a play festival from scratch. No scripts yet exist, no parts yet assigned, no sets yet constructed -- but the windows of local art galleries and cafes boast fliers publicizing a Saturday night showtime. In 48 hours, three as-yet un-conceived ten minute plays will take stage.

Welcome to Fondren Theatre Workshop's new Ten Minute Play Project.

Each of the three writers will be randomly matched with a director, a stage manager, and three actors. The three writers will be assigned three miscellaneous props or costume pieces, which must be incorporated into their ten minute script. Each script must begin with the word "stop," and must conclude with the word "start."

I am one of the three playwrights. Beginning at 6:30, I will have 24 hours to write a 10 minute play, which my director, actors, and stage manager will then have 25 hours to rehearse. I know the two other writers favor the comedic genre, so I have some freedom to perhaps descend into the dramatic. Maybe due to my introspection of late, I have an inexplicably keen awareness of being the sole female voice amidst the writers. I cannot escape this metaphor of nurturing this new script, creating a new life -- conception and delivery, all in one weekend. Although oddly enough, in any sort of baby-metaphor here, I guess all the writers, myself included, are more like the male partner: we contribute some raw material, the performers and stage crew finesse and develop it into something to share with the world. Maybe together we'll produce something wonderful.

The basic point is, we will produce something. I have to write tonight. I've committed. I'm in the playbill. The show goes up in two days, so there damn well better be a script cranked out by tomorrow night. The pressure is on...

... which is such a relief.

Sound counterintuitive? Not really. It's why, at least in theory, the strict setting of military school is often turned to for unruly children: sometimes we need structure to guide us in the right direction. In times tumultuous as these, I often find comfort in writing. Immersing myself in stories and settings of my own creation (or theft), imagined lives I can learn from and impact at my own discretion... these interactions help me feel less lonely. More empowered. What I am afraid to say or realize about my own life, I can delegate to my characters. Aside from my oft-belated posts on this blog, I have done so little writing lately. Perhaps the widening chasm can be halted tonight, as I write with purpose and deadline.

Expect a report on Sunday. I'm striving to meet all writing deadlines this week.

Independence Day

People in coffee shops on holidays surely have stories.

There is a woman sitting a few tables away from me, a large black woman in bright cheerful hospital scrubs, light blue with garish yellow and pink shooting stars. She is cradling a cell phone between her shoulder and her ear, chuckling knowingly, a Dell laptop open in front of her and a large textbook resting on her lap. She is in her fifties. I imagine she is a returning student, possibly pursuing a nursing degree, just finished a shift at the medical center up the way and is preparing for her next examination. The person she is speaking with is maybe her daughter, a freshman at a college several states away, and they are commiserating about having to study on a holiday.

Beside her, one table over, there is a young white man in his twenties, scruffy hair, lazy beard and eyes too jaded for his face. He has a cup of coffee in front of him but has not touched it. Is his heart broken? Could be. Could be that the girl who was, until recently, his fiancee, his high school sweetheart, is out at a cookout with another man, throwing back her head and laughing to reveal huge white teeth with a distinguishing gap between the front two, holding a Bud Light in her hand and letting the other man catch her by the waist. It begins to rain outside the coffeeshop, and the pensive young man's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but a little satisfaction: rain is bad news for people at a cookout. He reaches for the cup but still does not sip the coffee.

Outside on the patio, protected by a black-and-white striped awning, enjoying the sudden shower, sits an elderly man with a middle-aged woman. The elderly man is a librarian, gay and fastidious about topiary and household upkeep. My imagination is not running away with me this time- these facts are true, because I know him; he used to be a neighbor of mine, up until about two years ago, when I left for graduate school. He glances at me occasionally, because something about me is familiar, but he can't quite place me. I don't know the woman he is with. What if she is his daughter? What if he had this whole other life before he was my neurotic shrub-loving neighbor? On this holiday Wednesday, where is his male companion, and who is the woman taking his place?

The two men sitting behind me are loud, brash, both wearing solid gold wedding bands, going over blueprints for a house or an office. One man is clearly the client, one the architect. They are talking about foundations, pouring cement, deadlines for city inspections. This couldn't wait until tomorrow? Where are the wives indicated by the rings, the children each alludes to having? Perhaps one has a wife who recently left him, and he wants no one to know, so he keeps the ring, keeps his mouth shut, and keeps all appointments, in order to get out of his own empty, well-designed home. Perhaps the other is a workaholic, unable to meet during the workweek with an architect for something to be constructed in his personal life. Maybe his family is keeping hot dogs warming on a cooling grill, waiting for him to finally give a little bit of time over to them.

The most interesting table is all the way in the back, a family that looks lost or at some halfway point on a road trip, out of place, painfully stereotypically rural-Southern. They were standing in front of me when I waited to order my coffee. Two older women, one middle-aged woman, one middle aged man, and one little girl, ten at most. They are all dressed in red, white, and blue. The little old women whispered to each other the whole time, and paid jointly for their coffees but not for the younger set, though they are clearly all together. The middle aged couple seem to be married; they stumbled over the pronunciation of the fancy espresso drinks, and when the woman teased the man, he threatened to slap her, evoking more whispering from the little old ladies and a small shudder from the little girl. When they finally finished ordering and headed to their seats, the big comfy chairs in the back that I had been eying for myself, I could see that the little girl was clutching a Jonathan Kellerman novel to her chest, eagerly telling the old ladies about the latest plot twist as they ignored her, continuing to whisper to one another. My heart broke a little and I wanted to ask her to tell me more about what she's reading, ask her if she's read any of Faye Kellerman's books.

I wonder if any of these people are wondering about me - why I am so overdressed, a young woman by herself, sitting at a coffeeshop on Independence Day. I wonder if they can guess the histories I have created for them, the names and traits and stories I have assigned to them. I wonder if they think I am anything like any of them.

The truth is, I am like all of them. I recognize them all, and though I don't know their real stories, I feel as if I do. After all, we do have a few things in common. We all have stories. And we're all the sort of people you could find at a coffee shop on a holiday. Somehow, being here feels a little bit patriotic.... and now it's time for me to leave the cafe. Happy 4th of July.

Worth a thousand words, right?

Due to travel and a hectic Monday schedule, the full Bethweek post will not appear until later tonight or tomorrow morning. For now, enjoy some lovely faces as a temporary substitute.