The Boy from Virginia Auditions

I bet that if I could have seen my reflection in the mirror of Studio 7 at Pineapple Dance Studios, I would’ve laughed at how ridiculous I must’ve looked. I mean, there I was, a skinny black American boy standing among a collection of around  30 or more black Brits, trying to keep a hold of my smile (or else I’d faint from Hairspray dance exhaustion). My royal blue stretch cotton T-shirt was drenched with sweat and about 2 pounds heavier than when I put it on at the start of the dance routine. Surprisingly, my feet were fine, considering I danced the whole routine in Converses. But the thing I couldn’t get off my mind was my face; ‘Do I look like a wet dog right now, or a runaway slave?’ I thought.  And when I was sure no one else was thinking about the sweat on their faces, I heard a female voice murmur:

“What kind of make-up are these girls wearing? Sweat proof? My face is melting!”

Well it was reassuring to know I wasn’t the only one concerned with how I looked post-dance call. The group of  us (guys and girls) were waiting to hear whether or not we’d be called back to sing for the casting director and his panel which included the Dance Captain (who’d pointed me out a couple times earlier that day for landing in a lunge instead of second position and for not “listening to my crotch”). The energy was fizzing in the room. We were all smiling for our lives…and secretly hoping that our names would be on the list in the casting director’s hand, if not the tip of his tongue.

“Well…I must say to you all,” he began, “this was the best dance call we’ve ever done! (I figured ‘that’s because black people know how to let loose, when we need to’…but I kept that thought to myself) “But, that being said…some of you are not right for our show. And it’s at this time that we are going to call the names of those who are. If your name isn’t called, you may gather you things and take your leave for the day. Those who are called back, we ask you to stay behind and sing for us.”

Talk about a Top Model moment. I half expected him to hold out our headshots and hand them to us so that we’d know we’d made it to the next round.

Thought it only took about three or four minutes to call my name, I felt like I’d been smiling for twenty five. (Actually, I’d been smiling like a My Buddy doll since I started learning the damn routine.)

“…Tommy Coleman…” and I didn’t hear anything else he had to say because MY name was the goal that day (though hearing my name with a posh London accent was quite jarring) and it was achieved! The world did slow down for a second or two once I registered that it was my name he called, but I didn’t have too much time to process it. I needed to think about what was next: the singing. I couldn’t believe it;  after all that hard work, dancing to such high energy music, and feeling like my heart would leap out of my chest, I realized I had done something right! But what exactly?

Was it all about wearing the right dance clothes or having the right headshot and resume (C.V. to you U.K.-ers)? Was it the fact that I shaved my face so I would look prepubescent? Was it the fact that I had continued smiling my happy, yet reserved smile even though I wanted to call up all my homies back in the U.S. and get a little hood? I’m quite sure that all of those things played a part. But the sure-fire answer was the following: I’d begun to take control of my life, and began surrounding myself with people who believed in me and my potential.

A week before, I didn’t even have an agent…and now here I was, being seen by a major casting director… all because I decided to sign with someone? How did I get here?

The Week Before

            It was supposed to be a business trip and it was for the most part. I’d planned 5 outfits, for 4 days, to meet with 3 interested agents, who I’d wow with one of my  2 pairs of suspenders (braces to you UK people) and all so I could eventually find the 1 person fit to manage my career. The search was on!

            I’d arrived in London on Monday evening, very happy that the only traffic I had to endure was that of the city. And after having a lovely ride down, I ended up at a classmate’s flat. (It’s funny how not seeing someone for four weeks makes a big difference) Well, because I’m secretly a fat boy, I was hungry and decided to try out this restaurant that so many people were raving about: Nando’s. During the MOBO award time here in Glasgow, the new boy-band group JLS ate at the UK chain, so I figured, if they eat there, why not me? When I tasted the infamous Nando’s “Hot” sauce…I knew why.

            I had a tough time figuring out whether or not my mouth was on fire, but once I realized that it actually was, it became apparent that a glass of Sprite wouldn’t be enough to douse the inferno blazing on my tongue. All eating habits aside though, it was an experience I’ll never forget and one I’m sure my friends will continue to find hilarious.

            The next day started later than I’d wanted it to, so of course that meant I’d have a late day. I was supposed to wake up at 9, get some breakfast and then leave for my 12:30 meeting at 11:30 so I wouldn’t get lost. I woke up at 11 instead, threw on a pair of gray pants, a long-sleeved, ribbed, navy blue shirt and finished everything off in red (red suspenders, red belt, and red Converses). I chucked on a hat as I raced out the door with my headshot and CV in tow. Dammit…I didn’t know where I was headed.

            In a nutshell, I got off at the right stop luckily…10 minutes after my meeting was supposed to begin. Panicked, I called the interested party to explain that I was on some crowded corner looking for a landmark. She giggled at my confusion, but directed me to her office and in 5 minutes I was sitting across from her, sweat collecting under my hat.

            We introduced ourselves. I apologized. She asked me what I was looking for in an agent. I actually didn’t know the answer to that question. I apologized again. I searched deep for questions and answers that sounded feasible and honest and I managed to successfully fumble my way through my very first agent interview. The woman was great (though she asked me to perform a monologue and of course…I froze…and apologized once again) and made me feel comfortable, but at the day’s end. Something just didn’t spark. And it was all me, not her. I couldn’t help but feel inadequate and unprofessional. I mean…I’d arrived late, didn’t have any questions to ask, didn’t know what I wanted, and I felt completely lost.

            Then I went home, complained about how awful my day was to my friend, checked my e-mail….and found that I had an offer! Well, I guess befuddlement was still an endearing quality to have.

            The next day, was a day I was happy to see come. I’d be meeting with the woman who tracked me down after my showcase (a good sign with me. It meant that she was truly interested and wasn’t afraid to show it). So I threw on a new concoction of colors (gray jeans, red shirt, turquoise suspenders, and my red Converses) and headed into London-town.

            Arriving on time, I was happy to see a familiar face. We’d chatted, got to know one another, talked over some items….and then we started talking about my grandmother. And during that topic, she confessed to me that she read my blogs (which is when my heart said “JUST CHOOSE HER NOW!!!”) She’d gone the extra step to find out who I was before taking me on? That’s a woman I wanted on my team. At the end of our meeting I’d agreed to a trial contract and she was submitting my details to Hairspray and Wicked (two shows I would kill to be a part of).

            Thursday was a simple day. I toured the city of London and caught up with a friend from Glasgow, a friend from high school, and some friends from this past schoolyear.

            Friday came. It was my final day to meet with an agent (another woman) and again…I was late…this time 20 minutes late. (I should’ve seen that as a sign) Traffic was atrocious during midday and the Tube was moving at the speed of snail. I was appalled at myself for getting into this mess a second time. Lateness? When did that become what I was famous for?

            I was to meet this woman at a Starbucks and when I got there, she wasn’t. But my phone was vibrating and when I answered it was her telling me that she hadn’t received my messages until that very minute was was on her way back to meet with me.

            She came in, bought me a coffee, we talked. She was very pretty. Nice, even. She was very smart and knew all the right things to say….but my mind was made up. Yes, she did see one of my shows from this summer, but would she ever know me? (Basically, would she ever read my blog?) I felt like it was a no go. She was brilliant, but just not for me. No spark.

            But something else was igniting. My phone once I had returned to my friend’s house. It was the Wednesday agent calling to say that the casting director for Hairspray was interested in seeing me for an audition the next week! All I could think was ‘not only did she believe in me enough to read my blog, but she is already willing to put me out there. She’s the bomb-dot-com.’

The Next Week

            And so, I ended up at Pineapple Studios in Studio 7 preparing myself to sing for the Hairspray panel. After the others were dismissed, the remaining people were told that we needed to sing the part of our song that had the “money notes.” Well, there went my first song option. I was going to sing a cute Sam Cooke song that was a personality piece. Time to pull out the Stevie Wonder! I hurriedly thought of a new way to cut and paste “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing” and quietly rehearsed. The lobby of the area was swarming with dancers: people for Hairspray auditions, people for dance classes, and the sweaty remainders from my session. I’d changed from my wet clothes to my gray skinny jeans, my red button-down with white sweater overtop, a navy blue tie, and of course my red Converses. I also took in my newly shaved baby-face. I wanted to make sure I looked relatively 60s. They called my name Lucky for me, I was already standing by the door, trying to control my perspiration, and ready to sing.

            I ran to the piano, went over the song-cut with the pianist, and I trumpeted Stevie’s lyrics and melody from my mouth. I was happy to have gotten this far and I know it showed. (Besides, I can hit an A flat now…when only last year I was not singin above E flat) I watched as the choreographer’s eyes widened in surprise. (I bet she was surprised I could actually carry a tune), and I watched the other panel members smile, and relax a bit. Good sign! Once the song was over, I gathered my music, smiled a polite exit and jogged out of the door (literally, I had to jog because they were needing to see people rapidly)

            This was only the beginning, but it was what I’d hoped for: a chance to be seen, to prove my worth, and to show people that I am a fighter. Now I’m just waiting to have the chance to fight some more whether it’s for a role on the West End of London, a role in a Broadway show, or even a role on television. But, I feel, fighting is what gives a person clout in this industry. And I can tell you now…I WILL have clout! I will have to do some waiting, but boy-oh-boy when the time comes to fight, I will rock’em and sock’em. Until then, however, I ain’t gonna worry ‘bout a thing…

 

The Boy From Virginia Begins Anew

Yesterday was my grandmother’s birthday (I know, I know. I am still bloggin’ about her).  It was also the day I awoke from a very disturbing dream, in which a girl (who looked very much like someone I fancied in high school) told me, “I would like to be your friend, but my mother said that if I am friend’s with you, I’m going to hell.” Hmm. Now, I can choose to remember yesterday as the day I had the bad dream….or I can remember yesterday as the day I did my trial run at LUSH! (I think it’s obvious the choice I’m going to make) If you are unfamiliar with this store, here is a link to their website: www.lush.com .

Yesterday wasn’t as overwhelming as I anticipated, but I did anticipate something (which is why I was awake at 4am believe it or not). Could it have been that I was worried about the Visa Application I was filling out? Or the fact that next week, I will be venturing down to London to meet with agents so I can further my career in this field in which so many people think they can “make it?” Was I thinking about the show I’m going to be doing at the end of the month or the fact that I have not made any money this month to pay my rent? The answer to all of the inqueries above is a resounding “yes!” My thoughts have been focused on survival lately. Were they not focused before? Well, yes, and no. But the weight of the “yes” is heavier than that of the” no.”

            Before I walked into LUSH yesterday with my black and white (the required) ensemble, ready to fill customers heads with new ideas about why they should purchase soaps made from natural products as opposed to Dial or Zest,  I’d been spending a lot of time just thinking about my next step. Granted, many people know that during that “thinking” period (which lasted about 2 weeks) I was lucky enough to be a dancing extra on the British MOBO Awards (after which I attended one of the best after-party events I’ve ever gone to in my life thus far) and I worked behind the scenes for the Royal Scottish Variety show as an “Artist Liason” (…basically I chaperoned the artists and made sure they had their tea or whiskey, or –insert random request here-  if they asked). The opportunities were great ones for resumes and other things you put on paper. But the truth of the matter was I wasn’t making any paper myself. No, instead, I was trying to figure out ways to get my life in order.

I finally (after years of not having one) made a work CV. (My Theatre CV is already done and up-to-date) I stayed up until 4am creating the CV as well as a letterhead to match it and now I have something I think is worth sending out. Some of my readers will be receiving samples of it in the mail soon enough. So the questions that many of you have is…well what were you doing before you ended up doing paperwork? I was finishing my school work…for the last time ever!

I finished the Musical Theatre Performance Course here at the RSAMD on the 17^th of September with a showcase that, I feel, showed me off quite well. Singing “Azure Te” (sung formerly by Nat King Cole) and performing a scene from “Rabbit Hole” (written by Milton Academy alumni David Linsday-Abaire), I couldn’t go wrong. From what I’m feeling in my gut, I know that I haven’t. I just say to those of you who have been waiting to hear from me…the fact that I am finally finished with academia still hasn’t hit me yet. (Maybe because our graduation isn’t until November)  All in all, however, I have my Master’s now. What’s even better is that I have a Master’s in an area of study that I chose and did not have forced upon me. I was supported by a myriad of different people and so many people kept in touch along the way. This isn’t the end of my journey, by no means. Instead, it begins after next week’s meetings with Agents 1, 2, 3, and 4.  (I am not naming anyone right now as I would rather notify everyone once the final decision has been made.) But what else is to begin after next week? The answer to that question is still in the running to be Tommy Coleman’s Next Top Answer!

            For a second time in my life, I am going to be forced to just ride the wave and see where it takes me (for those of you who aren’t artists, I must inform you, this is what we artists do;  ride waves of hope). This is going to mean that I will be broke for long period of time (to my family, this is not me being facetious. This is just a fact, I want you all to know. Sponsorship would be greatly appreciated), and it also means that LUSH (if I am successful) may be my only job for a while, until I can start teaching hip-hop classes or teaching drama classes even. I’ll be riding down a  bumpy road until…somewhere along the way, I make a right turn and end up on a freshly paved street. Luckily, I’ve been hurt in more ways than one (so I can check “pain” off on my list), I’ve lost some loved ones and friends already (can check off “resilience”), and I’ve survived with help from the woman who loves me most (my mother, of course) and my family.

Only a year ago I started this journey to Scotland and I’m at the end of it….triumphant. I didn’t fail and most importantly, I did what I intended to do…I followed through! So why not follow through with the rest of my life? Therefore, I’m gonna take this ride of uncertainty. Am I scared of what’s next? Well….certainly!

 

The Boy Virginia Made Follows Through (Conclusion)

The Edinburgh Fringe Festival started on August 4^th for me. Ever since then, my life has been waking up, catching a bus (where the seats don’t recline) for an hour and twenty minutes to Edinburgh, strategically maneuvering myself through people who lack walking etiquette up to the Royal Mile (a place as busy as Times Square), flyering and promoting my shows with classmates (who are either enthusiastic about doing so or negative about doing so) and then of course, performing in the shows I just advertised. Once the show is over and I’ve returned my costume to its hanger, I return to my routine of walking back to the bus station before it gets too late and I sleep or read on the way home. I’ve done this almost every day now for the past 2 and a half weeks.  Yes, the trip is consistent, but I notice every day, how much the people aren’t.

            When I’m at the bus station, I tend to either just get on a bus, or I have to wait for one, but regardless, there is always a bus to catch. The people who get on that bus are different, however. The types of people who board and later leave a bus are innumerable. They all have histories and baggage which I’m sure would fill that space under the bus a million times over. But that’s not what I initially see when I board the bus with them. No. Instead I see a person who can’t move out of my way quick enough for me to get to the seat I want near the front. Or I see a person who I’m praying will sit next to me instead of the old woman who I’m quite sure might try to spark a conversation with me. Sometimes, I don’t see them at all because I’m looking out of a window thinking about how afraid I am that I will not be a successful actor one day as I’m sure many of my classmates will be.

Regardless of what I see, again, all of us have in common the fact that we are passengers with stories. Before we get on that bus, we live a story and we will continue to live our stories after we get off the bus. Do we affect each other while we ride? Sometimes we do. On a bus ride earlier this week, a man kept going to the bathroom to smoke a cigarette. He made me short of breath and angry. But I was also sitting near the bathroom. The people in the front of the bus may not have felt his affect at all. Occasionally, on a journey, I am affected. I expect to be affected in some way…to make my journey memorable. Who knows…I might actually affect someone else. This all being said, I am reminded of something my grandmother said to me a while ago. She used to tell me that life was like a bus. People get on and people get off, but we all take a journey. The only thing that will eventually stop us is when we reach our destination. But even then, we start another journey. I think of those words and realize how much I miss her, and how right she was. Her journey ended, but I’m sure she’s begun a new life in Heaven as an angel. And then I think of all the children and grandchildren she left behind and I think if she finished her journey, maybe us, the children, are actually the ones who continue it. That is what I will do. I will push myself to continue on this bus ride that is my life, while remembering the work of  my grandmother who rode with me for a lot of my life and affected change in me all the time. Today I finish my memories of her, knowing I have a ton more to share, but feeling it is time to go on. Below you will read my Eulogy to her. I’d written it while on the plan back to America the day before her funeral. I never got a chance to read it to my family or anyone else, but the words have been on paper since March 6^th 2009. Have a gander…and to my readers….keep riding!

 

 

The Final Say

            “To die loved is to have lived.” I’d come across this quote a while ago and was so intrigued by it that I was compelled to write it down. At the time I’d come across it, though I knew the word to be true, the concept was so out of reach for me that I never grasped it’s meaning…until today. “To die loved is to have lived!” Well all of you here loved my Grandmomma so much that it confirms the truth that she definitely lived. And contrary to popular belief, she is still living! Don’t let that body fool you. Nellie Jones’ spirit is free of that broken vessel and she has a new home and a perfect body waiting for her upstairs.

            To be completely honest with you, I’m a little envious of Miss Jones. I mean, she gets to go to this perfect kingdom, convene with all of the ancestors who came before, AND she’s about to be the close proximity to the miracle man himself: Jesus Christ! All I can say is, “I see you shining grandmomma. Shining like new money!”

            But I’m also a little jealous because she has the luxury of escaping all the negative things about this life: sadness, war, pain, the lying, the deceitful, and those who try to take advantage of her or hurt her pride. I’ll tell you this; she won’t have to worry about things or people like that anymore. She has the advantage now. And knowing her, I know she’s in heaven this very minute talking to one of the Saints saying, “Please keep an eye out for every seed I planted. Help them grow and be bountiful.”

            Planting seeds and living the best way she knew how. This, to me, describes the woman I know as my grandmother. The fact that all of you are sitting here today to pay and show your respect to her proves that she planted something in all of you, as she did me.

            Allow me to share something with you. It is one of the best stories I think I was ever told. My grandmother was present for every minute of my birth. Thought it was my mom who actually had me, my Grandmother still says it was the hardest she ever pushed in her entire life. But when she was done “pushing,” she held me (was the first to hold me to be honest) and our connection has never been broken to this day. I don’t think it ever will be.

            You see, she didn’t just help push me into this world at that moment. Upon witnessing new life being brought into this world, she pushed me to be greater by believing in what I could potentially give the world. She pushed her children to be better than herself because she didn’t want them to struggle. That’s what I call a mother! Some of us are still on that journey to being the best we can be. If it weren’t for the love, hope, and faith that my Grandmomma had in me from the beginning, I know I would not be where I am right now. I know many of you can say the same thing. See, Nellie planted seeds inside all of us and when a seed grows it produces more seeds resulting in exponential growth. We are products of that growth.

            I am hopeful, because of her. I am constantly driven because of her. I am overjoyed at the happiness and peace she is experiencing right now! My grandmother is more than grand. She’s angelic! I will miss her physical presence and think of her all the time, but I will not be sad. Instead, I will  “Snatch Joy” (to borrow a phrase from an author friend of mine)! I will snatch joy in the name of Nellie May Gilliam Wilkerson Jones because she planted a seed of hope in me and loved me enough so that when I die, I will have lived!

So to Grandmmomma I say: have a safe trip, have fun living, and as always, I love you!

 

 

The Boy Virginia Made Follows Through (Part 4)

(Beware…if you are a faithful reader, this is a somewhat long entry. Please forgive me! Had a lot on my mind…)

As many of you are aware, I have been in Scotland since September 29^th of 2008 working towards getting my Masters degree in Musical Theatre this upcoming November. What that means, of course is that I am pursuing a career as an actor (which means I will have definite highs and lows, and financial hardship until I am considered “the bomb-dot-com.”) As an actor, it is my duty to bring a character to life in order to tell a playwright or screenwriters story. I must employ every tool I’ve come across to make that happen. But of all the skills that I use the most, it is my ability to observe things very closely and in detail. As an actor, the more I can listen while in a scene, the more honest my reaction will be. Honest in this sense refers to how truthful I can be to the character I’m portraying while he is in a scripted moment. Therefore if someone does something to please my character, he might respond by singing a song, or throwing his arms around the love of his life. If someone or something angers my character, he plots revenge, or pulls out a weapon and handles his business, or defends his reputation. These are all the things we expect actors to do: tell a story, be in the moment, and react to situations honestly. To fail at all of these means an actor isn’t doing his job

For the past couple weeks, I have been juggling with the idea of reacting honestly to situations. You see, in real life, it seems as if people are criticized for reacting honestly to everyday situations. Example: I came to Europe because I was quite sure that doors would open for me and that I would be able to play a variety of roles once I got over here. However, just as in America, I have been told that more than likely I would be up for race specific roles. Not that I am against playing black characters. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. I yearn, however, to play a role that has a universal appeal. Why should Will Smith or Denzel Washington or Morgan Freeman be the only major crossover black men? And why do I have European men -who mean well- pushing me into the direction of The Lion King or (insert name of black musical here)? I have so much more inside of me. My mission statement for my life, as some know, is to redefine the image of what it means to be a black man in this world. I know that I am doing that with each passing day. But I digress.

Once it was suggested to me that I look into shows like Lion King and things more soulful, I got angry (an appropriate emotion, if I must say so). Here I was being labeled without someone actually labeling me. Soulful has just as many connotations as other names I have been called in my life. Why shouldn’t I be defensive? And why shouldn’t I fight to do something that isn’t so limiting? I know there is so much more to me than meets the eye, and yet…it remains that I will always be judged by what I look like, and outward everythings until someone takes the time to get to know me. But this is something we all know and have heard thousands of times before, right?

Then there are small-scale moments when you react honestly to something and get a stigma attached to you. Example: I have been to a lot of parties with friends of mine. But back in January there was a party I attended where I was displease with a lot of my friends behavior when they were drunk. They did not seem like themselves and instead of confronting them (since I have abstained from confrontations these days) I got pissed about it. My anger manifested itself through under-the-breath commentary and some snappy comments made to people’s faces. In the moment, I was responding appropriately. However, I would be known as the party-pooper who unnecessarily made people uncomfortable. My logic was, “if you saw that I was angry or felt uncomfortable, then don’t come near me.” 9 times out of 10, if you give me a good 30 minutes to an hour of me time, I can get back in the swing of things. However, most people try to diagnose me, fail miserably, and then hold it against me for the rest of my life. And all because I reacted honestly.

After my grandmother passed, I decided that being angry may not have been the way to live my life. Cool. I accept that. However, if I felt something, I wasn’t going to suppress it by keeping it inside either. Why should I suppress anything? I’ve heard too many stories of people who have heart attacks or turn to alternative methods (i.e. drugs) to help them show emotion. That cannot and will not be me. Unfortunately, for someone who set out to write about reacting honestly, I’m not doing a good job of being articulate about it. Therefore, it requires a bit of discussion as some people will still be unclear as to what I’m talking about, while some people, I’m sure are bound to disagree with me entirely (which I’m finding out gradually is becoming the case).

However, there are some moments in life when reacting honestly is appropriate and not the blurry line that I’ve drawn above.

The Funeral

            That morning, I awoke knowing it would be the day we buried my grandmother. March 7^th 2009. I also knew when I awoke that my sister would be forever haunted by this day as it was her birthday. I showered, and put on my 3 piece suit from Pri-Mark (a store almost like Target but with better clothes). I made sure to wear a version of pink and blue (two of the colors optioned for my grandmothers casket). I wished my sister a Happy Birthday and I watched as my family got everything together to leave the house. The next couple moments were a blur to me. I real leaving Suffolk, Virginia to head to Norfolk, my hometown (and the town that has changed considerably since I last lived there). I ended up at the barbers shop to make sure I looked fresh at the funeral. Grandmomma would’ve wanted me to look presentable regardless! And never the one to look like a slouch, I shaved everything off. When I was done, I headed over to the funeral home. I’d missed the wake, but I would still get the chance to have a private moment with my grandmother before she was interred.

            I saw her and I smiled. Yes, she was at peace and she was beautiful in her blue casket and her baby blue shawl. I touched her hands (making her the first dead person I’ve ever placed my hands on) and I understood for the first time why most people associate death with cold. For a woman who gave me nothing but warmth, she was glacial in temperature. But I only felt heat.

The heat began to sting my eyes first and then dripped down in two parallel lines. The tears caught in the upturned corners of my lips. I was crying like crazy but smiling. My cousins and my mother came over to me and kept saying “Tom, it’s alright. See, she’s at peace now. Look at her.”

I was looking. And I saw that she was at peace, but I had a war going on inside of me about what emotion to let out first. I was happy that she was in heaven. That was a given. But then I wondered if my being happy for her was me convincing myself of that truth. Then I immediately thought back to the way she died and was pissed. I kept thinking, this beautiful strong woman did not deserved to die alone on the fucking floor of her house. Where is the justice in that?!? My oldest uncle (one of the incarcerated ones who was allowed to come see her at the funeral home) was also livid. He soon caved, however, and his bawling outdid mine (as I was trying to figure out what emotion was appropriate to have). In the end, we all wiped our tears and headed to my grandmother’s house.

A reunion. That is the only way to describe what happened my family and I reached my grandmother’s house. I saw family I hadn’t seen in a while, friends of family who were always in attendance at cookouts and family functions, and I saw family who could probably care less about me (the latter being a group that talked so negatively about me but were so surprised that I grew up to be such a smart, well-spoken, attractive example of progress). We departed the house together, the bulk of the family dispersed between 3 black stretch limousines.

I remember thinking, as we drove to the church, how beautiful the day was. The sun was shining brighter than I’d ever remembered it. It was a big difference from a lot of the rainy funerals I’d been used to attending. I did the “catch-up” conversation with my cousins while on the way to the church and awaited our arrival at Second Calvary Baptist Church, the only church I knew from birth until I was 18.

Stepping out of the limo was like being a celebrity, but there was no paparazzi. Only the glimmering eyes of the mourners who were sad for all of us, but mostly sad (I could see) for my mother who walked with grace and carried herself like a true matron. We all entered the church, and it happened. I saw my father. The last time I saw him was when I left for Scotland. If my Grandmomma could bring him out of the dark and into the light, then she was truly a woman who had an effect! I embraced him and the funeral commenced.

I could go into detail about the service and about the song I sang and about the underlying feeling of betrayal that occurred midway through the service, but that would make this entry longer than necessary. And it might cause a lot of anger among a lot of my family who may read this. So I will give some highlights:

• I sang a musical theatre song from “Parade”, for which I re-wrote the words. I tagged another song called “Don’t Cry for me” to the end of that because it was my grandmother’s message to her family. My voice cracked a bit, but I didn’t break into tears.
• The Pastor made it clear that we’d only have time for 2 or 3 people to share memories of my grandmother (ex-squeeze me?). And these memories were to be limited to no more than 2 minutes.
• The Pastor chose to focus on “how much my grandfather did to take care of my grandmother” when it was more than apparent to outsiders that my mother and my grandfather shared the task of caring for her.
• The Pastor did not reference my mother at all or acknowledge her presence during the service, nor did he acknowledge mine as we were members of his church for the bulk of my life.
• My grandfather did not shed one tear.
• I zoned out of the eulogy when I realized that my Pastor had no clue who my grandmother was, and was only spitting out bullshit rhetoric which ended up sounding nice, but to those of us who knew better…we knew that the encouraging words he spoke could’ve been said by a character on sesame street and had more sincerity.

At the end of the day, the Pastor got one thing right. My grandmother was prepared to leave this world. Getting her funeral together was the quickest and smoothest thing I’ve ever seen happen. She got everything she wanted, right down to the color of her casket and she ended up in a mausoleum. Apparently, there were 5 levels in her mausoleum, the topmost level being called “Heaven.” Nellie Jones always had a spot reserved there when making her funeral plans, and knew she was destined for that place. So not only is she in “Heaven” in the figurative sense, she made it there in the literal sense as well.

I keep trying to figure out why I’ve written this blog, which is not the greatest when it comes to being articulate. Maybe I was just reacting honestly in the situation.

 

The Boy from Virginia Follows Through (Part 3)

When I last wrote, I had every intention on completing this series of “following through”. However, since I’ve started it, I have been either too busy to dedicate time to this, or have been too lazy to sit in front of the computer. Either way, I haven’t followed through and completed one of the only things I possibly care about, which is writing, and communicating what’s going on with me while I’m living in Scotland. So today, I begin again…

            Since the last time I wrote, which was in April, I have done the following things:

• Planned and performed my one man cabaret, which I names after my blog “The Boy Virginia Made.”
• Finished my classes.
• Started rehearsals for Jerry Springer the Opera to be performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
• Also started rehearsals for Rocket Science, a new musical for the Edinburgh Fringe festival.
• Performed in Elgin, Scotland with my classmates.
• Filmed a short student film called “Slag”
• Been approached by an outside venue here to do my cabaret again in October (Yay!)
• Made some new friends outside of my college.
• Heard about Michael Jackson’s death.
• Saw Thriller Live, a musical tribute show that included ALL of MJ’s hits.
• Celebrated July 4^th (again…no fireworks)
• Been broke.
• Watched Michael Jackson’s memorial service.

 

So as one can see, the past couple months have been a blur of activity. However, it took Michael Jackson’s memorial service to bring me into focus. I actually cried yesterday when they sang “We Are the World”, and “Heal the World.” And Stevie Wonder singing “I Never Dreamed You’d Leave in Summer” will always bring a tear to my eye. I never thought I would see MJ’s pass before I turned 25. But then, seeing his coffin yesterday, as well as the thousands of mourners who were at his home-going, I knew it was the end of an era. This man, who despite his flaws (and everybody who criticizes him, needs to stop acting as if they don’t have any. One’s personal opinions of that man have nothing to do with the music he made and the impact he made on this Earth. Not a lot of people can say that they affected people around the world), still found a way to give his heart to those in need of love. He got me to thinking about myself and the field I’m in. I have now asked myself, in this career, where performances are being forgotten with every new movie, song, or music video, how does one remain relevant? My first answer would’ve been: make a comeback! But after the memorial service, I’ve realized, you will always remain relevant if you live how God wants you to live. By staying true to yourself, and acting with God’s love, you’ll never go out of style.

I have feared, lately, that I might be going out of season. The people who I once used to be friends with are scattered across the US or the globe. I’m disconnected from people I used to talk to all the time. It may seem to many that I’ve forgotten them, but I haven’t. I’ve been working my butt off to ensure that my future will be a secure one and that I will soon –hopefully- change lives through the medium of theater and cinema. In many ways, writing this blog is my comeback and I have every intention of sticking around! And in an effort to stick around, I will finish what I started so long ago… (There are about 2, if not 3 entries left of it and I NEED you all to know what happened…so I can finally put it to rest.)

 

Friday’s Flight Home

 

      Everything was in order for me to come home that Friday. I’d packed enough clothes for 10 days (including extra shoes just in case I went somewhere special.) I made sure to wear the boots my grandmother said she liked when I was home 2 weeks prior…when she was still alive. I was going to arrive in Norfolk, Virginia in style, because not only would my grandmother have wanted it that way, but it would also shock the many family members who hadn’t seen me since I left Virginia at 14 years old.

God had a different plan for me, however.

I’d left my house that morning (around 7 am) realizing that I didn’t have taxi fare and I had to get the cabbie to pull over at a gas station so I could pull out the past 30 pounds I had. Whatever, I thought; at least I’ll make it to the airport on time for my flight. I ate breakfast at Starbucks, boarded my plane…and arrived in London where I had to wait until noon to depart. We left London late…2 hours late meaning when we’d pull into the Philadelphia airport my flight would either be boarding or taking off. I hadn’t made any contingency plan for something like this happening and I was panicked.

Back-story: I was supposed to arrive home at around 7 or 8pm. Once I got home, I was going to be zoomed to the funeral home, where my grandmother’s body was on display and I would also see my family who had been convening together at the funeral home and my grandmother’s house all week. But get this: the funeral parlor was to stay open late that evening because everyone knew I’d be arriving a little late. Of course…someone upstairs was having a laugh.

As soon as the plane touched down in Philadelphia, I knew that this city would burn me as it did when I was living there. It was quite warm for a march evening, but I couldn’t relish in the weather. I had running to do. I hurried off my flight and zipped in and out of people to hurry to customs and grab my luggage which I’d have to recheck anyway. Everything was checked…immigrations knew I was American…cool. Keep running. I get to baggage check and I ask quickly, “Has the flight to Norfolk left yet?”

“It’s boarding now sir. There’s no way you’re going to make it.”

But my grandmother just passed away and I’m supposed to be at her wake. (and I’m wearing the shoes she liked I wanted to say.)

“Well…at least you’ll make the funeral.” (Side note: this bitch didn’t hafta say that!)

“WHAT?” I had two choices. I could’ve acted a fucking fool…or calmly figured out an alternative. Unfortunately, I dejectedly chose the latter. (Had to. I was wearing dress clothes and suspenders. “Acting a fool” clashed heavily with that ensemble.) “Um…ok…so where’s the terminal and how do I get there?”

I was directed to where I could catch a bus to the terminal. A looong bus ride later….I knew I’d missed my flight, but something in me still hoped! I prayed hard and then looked at my cell phone for the time. According to my phone, I still had 10 minutes until the flight would take off, which meant that they could still be boarding.

I raced from the bus, past the food court, and rushed….to an empty gate. I knew the surly, young chick at the counter wouldn’t be at all helpful, but I had to ask.

“Did the flight to Norfolk just leave?” It was a stupid question and I was pissed I’d even asked it.

“Yeah,” she didn’t make eye contact with me…nor did she try to calm me down. She nonchalantly gathered boarding passes and prepared to leave the gate.

“Is there another flight I can get on, then?”

“Go down there.” She turned her head in the direction of a very long line. I would’ve loved to tell her that customer service means greeting people with a smile or trying to keep customers feeling secure, but I decided not to bestow any wisdom upon her as it was evident she didn’t want anyone’s help, nor did she want to be truly helpful. A head turn was as much help as I was gonna get.

I got in line and asked the woman behind the desk what my next step was. She and the woman from the gate must’ve gone through the exact same job training because she pursed her lips and looked at me like missing my plane was my fault. She gave an exasperated sigh. “I can book you for another flight that leaves at 8. (Yes, I thought), but since that flight is overbooked (Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck you), you might not get a seat. But I will also book you on a later flight that leaves at 10.”

I didn’t say anything. I accepted my overbooked tickets and went to Sbarros. Pizza, one of my favorite foods, couldn’t even comfort me in my time of need. I was so close to my family, yet so far away. And there wasn’t a word for how I felt. I called Treasure and she was pissed to know what I had gone through. Then I called Rena, my homegirl from Philly.

“Well, you know how Philly is, Tommy,” she said, being a real as ever.

“I know which is why I promise to never book a flight that has a layover here again!” She laughed. I was feeling a little better. My new gate was being announced and I rushed over to the overbooked flight.

After waiting in that damn line…someone else who booked their overbooked ticket after me got a spot on the damn plane…I’d have to wait another 2 hours until 10pm.

I questioned God again…I wanted to know what his purpose was in making me wait to see my grandmother. Why was I being punished? Why Philly!!!! Was Philly taking its revenge on me for leaving and not saying goodbye? I didn’t get it. I called my homie, J, to chat with him. He calmed me down as I headed to another terminal. While I chatted with him, I noticed there were a lot of people waiting her, including some intimidating athletics brothers. Turned out, they were part of a college basketball team from South Carolina. Their plane was supposed to leave at 9. When I looked at the board again, their plane was delayed until 9:45 and five minutes after I saw that change…I noticed that their flight had been cancelled. They were pissed…I was finally happy that my plane was not cancelled in any sense of the word. 10pm came; I briskly walked onto my flight.

Arriving home at 11pm was not what I had in mind for that Friday.  But seeing the smiles of my little brother, and my sister and my mother brightened my heart. I was home with family at least and even if I didn’t see the others until the next day, my core family was all I needed to be happy. I could now join the grievers and not have to do so from afar. We had some familial banter as we went down to the baggage claim and once downstairs, we realized…my baggage hadn’t arrived. None of the clothes I packed were there. But because Momma and Grandmomma didn’t raise no fool, I had to thank God for remembering to pack my funeral suit into my carry-on luggage. I may not have had all my cool clothes (and I ain’t gonna lie, I was kinda salty about it), but at least my grandmother would see me decked out in my best as I paid tribute to her the next day.

 

The Boy from Virginia Follows Through (Part 2)

The day after I turned 24, I was big on making To-Do lists. For some reason, I felt like I was being more productive than just sitting around all day, and it focused me. For example, I planned to go to Urban Male Retreat to get my haircut, my face shaved, and my body massaged. I followed through and did everything I set out to do. I’d even made sure I set aside some money to go to The Corinthian later on that evening. Each day after that, I would make a list of things that needed to get done each day and I had a pretty good system going…until school started again. And now, I sit here unfocused, unkempt (still waiting on my loan check so I can pay my rent and get another great haircut at Urban Male Retreat), and unimpressed with myself.

            Since school has begun, I find myself doing the one thing that I hate: not following through. With the amount of free time on my hands, and trust me, it’s a LOT of free time lately, I should have been able to produce a couple blogs, learn the 2-3 monologues that I set out to learn, as well as come up with a witty, yet totally Tommy-fied concept for my cabaret which I will be performing next month. Instead, I’ve started things and upon returning to finish them, I realize that I can’t be bothered. Why am I so motivated to be ultimately unproductive?

 

Life After Death

           

I think back to the day after I received the news. I woke up and found something black to wear. I figured I would mourn as early as possible, just in case I wasn’t able to return home for the funeral. My heart was heavy and I didn’t feel too hungry. But for someone whose soul felt so utterly aimless, I was on a mission. I needed to inform all of my teachers about what had just occurred. It would seem abrupt, considering I’d been in America two weeks prior to visit my grandmother before she died, but I didn’t care. Life was happening to me and I could only deal with it as best as I knew how: to find a way to get home without drawing too much attention to myself. Yes, for me, my grandmother’s passing was a huge issue, but I didn’t want to inform my classmates who would feel compelled to pummel me with embraces or awkward words of condolences. (I swear if I heard anyone say, “I’m sorry” I would’ve ripped out someone’s voice box. Why be sorry if you didn’t cause the death?)

I sought out the head of the Musical Theatre department and told him what had happened. I also told him not to tell anyone else except those who mattered (other professors). I was also quick to ask how I was to make up for the things I would learn. (For some reason, I had made a terrific to-do list that week. Funny how when bad things occur, the reactionary impulses guide you to be insanely rational…) My mind had never been so clear, and I had never been so adamant about getting through the week without unnecessarily cursing someone out. Thankfully, after inarticulately explaining myself to the head of the department, he seemed to understand where I was coming from.

Next, I needed to call my mother to see if and when I could possible come back to the states. There was no way I was going to miss the funeral!

“I’d kill myself before I’d let that happen,” I said to my mother, matter-of-factly. I wanted to her to know I wasn’t playing games.

            “Don’t talk stupidly, Tom!”

            “It just wouldn’t make sense to me if I missed her funeral. She is the only other woman besides you who believed in me as much as you!” Tears were coming up and my words were coming out garbled.

            “Tom, it’s okay. Let it out.” I hated when she got all Oprah on me. But I couldn’t make a coherent sentence at the time without gasping in between sobs.

            “I’m not sad-gasp-I’m just-gasp-so mad that she died-gasp-on the floor-gasp-alone” My hands were like windshield wipers. Suddenly a rush of anger swept over me as I realized the injustice. It’s just so messed up. She didn’t deserve to go out like that!”  (I was unexpectedly articulate).

            “Well…no…Tom. She’s at peace now. You should’ve seen her face. She was fine. She knew she was leaving and she made peace with God and said, ‘Alright y’all. I’m outta here. I just wish she would’ve told me she was leaving. She caught me off guard too, Tom.”

            Off guard. That’s how life catches us the most. Yes, it makes for some very interesting moments to deal with, but sometime, I swear God is just trying to test and see how much grace one can muster up during the tough times. I cloaked myself with grace, when I really wanted to say a big huge “FUCK YOU” to the world. Here I am in Scotland, I thought, with no one to talk to except my roommate, and no family. (That’s what I get for not being the most open person sociably in my class) But my mask of grace would pay off and eventually become my face, if I wore it long enough. But there were still things to do before the week ended…like book a flight home.

            Luckily, my mom was able to book a flight for me to come home on Friday. It would feel like a year getting from Tuesday to Friday, but I could do it (might have been easier if I had the assistance of a mind-altering substance or two). So I smiled through the pain, danced what I could, learned what I could, sang a very depressing song for my singing teacher (who also understood my low-key mourning) and prayed each night that I could just make it to Friday. I also prayed for protection. Not for me, but for others, because at this point, I would not tolerate inconsiderate babblings. (P.S. when someone really important to you dies, you suddenly realize that complaining about every little thing makes one seem very unappreciative of the life he/she already has)

            I spent the next couple days listening to people spew aimless talk about how badly their bodies were hurting from dancing (puh-leeze, try living with less limbs that you’re supposed to, or having cancer or something legitimate. When you dance, you fucking hurt!), or not getting sufficient rest the night before among other irrelevant items. I now think about the things I have control over and the things I don’t. A deteriorating body, I can’t fix. A good night’s sleep? I’ll use Nyquil or Tylenol PM.

            But that week, I used the salt of my tears to get me to sleep. The more I wept, the more exhausted I was. Eventually, a couple friends noticed the change and I had to tell them what happened. I had to tell my scene partner I would be gone for a week. I had to tell my classmate and new good friend that I would be leaving soon, but “thanks for not being overly dramatic” (He’d noticed a facebook status of mine). Lastly, I told my friend, the beautiful pianist, that I was leaving and she generously helped me prepare the song that I would eventually sing at my grandmother’s funeral that coming Saturday.

I’d done everything I’d set out to do that week, talked to the appropriate people, avoided the ones who didn’t matter, cried and questioned God (the thing you’re not supposed to do). Yes, I’d done everything except go home. Then Friday came….

 

The Boy from Virginia Follows Through (Part 1)

Without the appropriate words. That is the state I’ve been in for the past couple weeks. But an author friend of mine told me that all I had to do was start writing and the right words would just come. I trust that as I type this tonight, that the words I’ve been unable to think of will manifest themselves…so here goes:

Today is my birthday and the only thing on my mind is my grandmother’s death. A month ago (today), she decided to leave this earth and leave her family in emotional turmoil. I can’t believe that I have survived this month without her being in my life, but I have no choice. I have the rest of my life to live without her as well. Why did her death hit me so damn hard? This is the question I’ve asked myself multiple times until I realized the answer. The reason I no longer feel the same is because I lost someone I truly loved.  I get it now. It also makes sense to me why my soul feels like it’s been sucked away. It makes sense to me that I feel alone sometimes with no one to talk to. But it also makes sense why at times I feel like I don’t want to do anything. A lot of what I did in my life was to make my mother and my grandmother proud of me. If I were to become successful, I wanted both of them to be present to say “Tom, you made the family name something special.” Now, Nellie May Jones will never be able to say those words to me…and I will grieve forever.

 

The News

 

I was rushing to catch the 75 (the bus I normally take to and from school) and trying to dial my mother’s number at the same time. There was some important news I needed to relay to her about my best friend from high school, Whitney. You see, after having been so busy with school this term, I’ve not had much time to talk to any of my friends and I discovered (through the lovely medium of Facebook) that Whitney’s mother had suffered a stroke. Aghast, I hurriedly called my mother to tell her to put her mom in prayer. But as soon as my mother picked up the phone, I never got a chance to tell her the news.

“Ma,” I greeted as I stepped onto the bus fishing for my bus pass. “I just wanted to know if…”

“Tom, I got some bad news.” My mother’s voice sounded serious. (But then again, why wouldn’t she sound that way if she had bad news to tell me?) I thought that she was going to say Sprint had cut off my phone (which actually would’ve been great news) but what she did say taught me to never have expectations: “You’re grandmother is dead.”

There was a slight pause as I put my bus pass away and climbed the steps to the upper level. Keeping my voice to a minimum, I exhaled, not really knowing what to say. As I opened my mouth to ask ‘What?’ (as if I didn’t hear the news the first time), my mother gave me even more disturbing news.

“She died this morning. They found her in her room on the floor.”

“The floor?” I was baffled (and strangely pissed off). “Was anybody there with her?” Deep in my heart, I already knew that the answer would be no, because had someone been home, she would’ve died in a hospital or in her bed, not the fucking floor.

“No,” my mother confirmed. I was fuming. My grandfather (the 2^nd husband), who had a history of leaving my grandmother alone, knowing how ill she was, was not there when she died. How could he not be there to help out his wife? The woman who he was married to all these years? I didn’t understand. “For better or worse,” right? That’s what you pledge when you get married. For better or worse….not for better or when-you’re-not-too-much-of-a-burden-to-me.

“Why wasn’t he there?” I asked, still flummoxed that my grandmama was gone, and yet trying to stay as calm as possible.

“I DON’T KNOW, TOM,” my mother screamed. She breathed and then told me that she was on her way to view the body, which was still on the floor. Alone. That’s not how my grandmother deserved to die. Especially not on the floor of her home. I would’ve been more at peace if she’d slipped away in her sleep, but to have died crumpled and in ruins was unfair.

I thought this as I hung up with my mother and called my homegirl, Kia. I informed her of what had happened and told her how surprised I was that I wasn’t crying. The bus stopped, but my mind kept running. I got off the bus, and proceeded to walk home. If memory serves me correctly, I called my mother a second time. She didn’t answer the phone. So I did something crazy: I dialed my grandmother’s number. I guess I figured I call the house one last time. Maybe I half expected to hear her voice. The last time I spoke to her was two days before that and she was so out of breath that I hurried her off the phone just so she wouldn’t expell too much energy.

My grandfather answered the phone. I listened for sadness in his voice, some sort of sorrowful tone. Nothing. He answered the phone as if nothing had happened…as if my grandmother wasn’t lying dead on the floor of her bedroom. Suspicious? Hell yes, I was. (and I’m still waiting on the tears, to be honest.)

 He eventually passed the phone to my mother (who, I discovered later, had fainted upon seeing her mother’s body). She informed me that the undertakers (who were close with our family) would be there to pick up her body soon.

“She’s at peace, baby. It’s all over her face.” My mom sounded eerily calm. It almost sounded as if she was smiling through the phone. Either she was smiling or convicing herself that everything would be alright. Whatever it was, it wasn’t working for me.  I felt like someone had sucked something away from me and I couldn’t breathe. (It was at this time I thanked God for giving me the skills to act and perform because I was doing a damn good job pretending I had my shit together).

“Alright, Ma.” I could feel my lower lip start quivering, which meant that blurry vision would soon follow.  “Give me a call when everything is worked out over there. Or I’ll call you.”

“Alright, baby.” I listened to the noise going on behind her. It seemed like a lot of people were at my grandmother’s house. No one sounded like they were crying. But I knew if I didn’t hang up soon…

“It’s gonna be alright, baby. She’s fine.”

“Ok.” I hung up. I still had another block to go and I didn’t think my tears would wait until I got in the door. So I tried to hurry along the street, but they came and I sniffled and I fought the tears as much as I could. Once I got in the door, and began untying my shoes, I cried every tear I hadn’t cried before. I was crumpled on the floor with one shoe off, my head in my hands and my heart in ruins. I couldn’t believe it…the floor is what my grandmother and I had in common.

The rest of the night, I sat in front of the TV. I didn’t move…I couldn’t. But my stomach began to growl and so I peeled my weary body off the leather couch (it was my first day of choreography project at my school which meant I’d just danced for 4 straight hours), and sulked into the kitchen to make something to eat then it was off to bed.

There was one final call to my mother, but I’m not sure what the conversation was about. I think I asked her if I needed to do anything, to which she told me I’d done enough already. Apparently, I‘d forgotten that when I was 16, I typed my grandmother’s obituary, as well as what she wanted for her funeral (casket color, songs sung, etc.). Once my mother reminded me, I remembered, as plain as day, everything she wanted. My mother hung up and began the process of preparing for her mother’s funeral.

That night, as I said a tear-filled prayer, I began to wonder if my grandmother was sitting next to God. I wondered if she could see her family in their various emotional states. But of most of all I wondered (now that she was with the All-Knowing) if she knew everything that was about to unfold. Would she know my future? Would she be an angel? Would she know how much she affected the lives of others around her?

 

As I turn 24 today, I still wonder these things. But I wonder if she’s mad at me for not finishing her chronicles. Many would say “no”, but I feel I didn’t follow through. So I have a lot of catching up to do. Stay tuned…a lot of people wanted to know what I’ve been up to this past month…trust me, you’re going to find out!

 

The Boy from Virginia Remembers (Part 2)

I find that since I’ve begun this New Year, I’ve done way more reflecting than I’ve ever done. Maybe it has to do with the promise I made to my grandmother, or maybe it has to do with the fact that since I’ve been in Scotland, I’m around nothing that s truly familiar to me. Yes, they have fast food chains galore (McDonalds, Subway, KFC and Pizza Hut) and even an H&M, but recipes and fashion sense don’t transfer as well as one would imagine. What I’ve concluded, however, is that experiences and emotions can never be lost in translation. Therefore, I will continue to pay tribute to the woman who has influenced me her whole life: Nellie Jones, my grandmother.

Last week, I started at the beginning of my grandmother’s life. Now I want to share with you the moment she helped to bring another person into this world: me.

            It was April of 1985 and I guess I’d fooled my mother the day before, making her think I was ready to show my face to the world. But it wasn’t until the second of April that I decided to make my debut.

            “It was a hard birth, “ my mother recalls. “I was in labor for 18 hours with you. I’d expected you to come in March, but you just didn’t want to leave” (Maybe I was just waiting for the right time. What if March just wasn’t my month? Or can babies be fashionably one week late?) But my mother told me an interesting tale of a significant someone who did want to leave…during my birth: “Your father told me that he needed to go home and put the lights on.”

            In his absence, fear, and lack of concern for his wife, my grandmother (a nurse at the time) dutifully rushed to her daughter’s side. She got off work at five o’clock and waited for me to take the stage in the delivery room and scream my very first note of life. She didn’t wait patiently, but instead was an active participant in the delivery. My mother says, “You were a hard birth, Tom. And your grandmama kept telling me to “push push push push push” and I was like ‘YOU PUSH!!! This mess hurts!’”

I remember my grandmother saying to me, “Baby, I never pushed so hard in my life. I kept telling your Momma to ‘PUSH Push push push push!’ (She still gets winded when she tells this story) I was sweating and ooooo I was tired. I needed a drink after that. Shoot…I never pushed so much in my life. ”

            I arrived at 10:29pm. No sooner was I born did my grandmother take me into her arms and cradle me, making her the very first family member to touch me at all. Our bond has been tight ever since. (My mom had to ask her mother, “Um…can I hold my child please?”) My grandmother left to go home not too long after, but it wasn’t until 2 am in the morning that my father decided to return to the hospital. I guess turning the lights on was difficult. (Turns out he was actually turning on someone else, which eventually turned my mother’s love off of him)

            The story goes that for 19 days after, my mother was parylyzed in the hospital due to the epidural she took while giving birth. This meant that I spent my first 19 days getting to know my grandmother. I apparently would cry from the moment she left for work until the moment she came home. And when I was able to walk, I knew what time she would be home because I was at the door (in my walker, mind you) waiting for her.

            There was a time when waiting for her was scary for me though. When I was six, she took my cousin and I on a trip to Disney World. Talk about first times! I’d never been south of Virginia before and to do so, with one of the coolest women in the world, was more than I could’ve asked for! The waiting occurred when we’d decided to get on a sensible ride that promoted aviation (I think we were in Tomorrowland, or something). Once we’d gone through the long line to actually get on the ride, I noticed that the floor was moving. So basically the gist was that we had to run and climb into our seat in this moving aero-car vehicle before it went through a door leading to the land of flying.

My cousin and I hurried into the car, but it took my grandmother a little longer to get to us. It was then that I became aware of my grandmother’s age. Getting older, from then on, would mean not being able to move as fast as you once could. My grandmother made it into the moving car seconds before we went through the door to whereevers-ville. That moment would be forever etched in my mind as “Grandmama’s Indiana Jones moment.”

Miss Jones (as every family member so lovingly calls her), had other moments of bravery as well. She was courageous enough to teeter about every Sunday in 3-5 inch heels. Her suits were always dignified and her hats were some of the most beautiful architecture pieces anyone would wear. She was very stately and the epitome of strength and beauty. It made me proud to see her on Sunday’s because she looked rich, aristocratic, and queenly. Those images of my grandmother in her Sunday best are the best memories. But none of them make me laugh as much as the following instant:

“ Once,” she told me, as she was talking about the return of bellbottoms to the fashion scene, “I decided I was going to put on a pair of my old bellbottoms. I thought I was hot shit. I mean, I had on my platforms and my favorite bellbottoms and so I went for a walk. Well, I was heading across the street. I forgot where I was going, but there was no need to remember it because I never made it there. While I was walking, my platform heel got caught in my bellbottoms and I tripped and fell right in the middle of the street. Talk about embarassin’! Babay, I skinned my knee and my elbow. Once I got up, I trotted right back home and put those clothes away. I’m too old for those young girl looks.”

Truth is, she never looked like she aged to me. How could I think she was old when her favorite song was “My Baby Daddy?” When it came on, she sometimes danced as much as me. I once taught her how to do the Bankhead Bounce (back when that was the dance of choice) and she picked it up easy. What wasn’t easy for her, I’m sure, was being at her father’s funeral.

It was August of 1990. It was hot outside, but the emotions inside the church were in the negative degrees. All I remember was constantly looking to my grandmother and her siblings to see if they were crying. (I figured that every funeral was going to have people falling to their knees, losing their minds, like in the TV shows and movies I’d seen) I was waiting for the wailing to begin, but it never happened. That’s because the look on my grandmother’s face was terse. Her jaw looked as if it were clinched so hard she could’ve drawn blood. The only tear that escaped her eye trickled down her right cheek and seemed to hang there (as if falling completely from her face would give my great-grandfather too much power). He was dead, and though I’m sure all the children were sad about it, they kept it all inside, with the rest of their pent-up anger. I on the other hand, thought the man deserved some sort of proper sympathy, so once the funeral was over, I wailed (which made my grandmother and my mother say, “Aww…bless his heart”). They were the first smiles I’d seen that day.

I remember a lot of my grandmother’s smiling moments. One of her best moments was when I spent a summer living with her. I was working as a Librarian’s assistant for the Norfolk Public Library and keeping my grandmother company as well. It was during this time that my grandmother would make me lunch (usually a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a soda). She’d put it in a brown bag and have it waiting in the fridge for me to grab before I left in the morning. There was a morning, however, when my grab bag had been seized by another..

“Baby,” my grandmother started. I heard the smile in her voice though I knew she was not really pleased. “Your cousin came in here last night and must’ve gotten the idea that your food was his. (He had the munchies…that was the truth of the matter)     He ate your lunch. That’s why I’m up making you a new one.” It was a situation that would only happen in my grandmother’s house. I laughed at it’s absurdity, and realized that no matter what, my grandmother was still taking care of me. At 7 am, here she was spreading mayo on white bread and putting a Sprite in my bag. She had never given up her duty of grandmotherhood, nor of being a complete matriarch for the entire family. One year we honored her with a surprise.

It was either Christmas of 1997 or 1998, but my grandmother decided to have a Christmas program for the family. It was a night of singing, eating, and children reciting Christmas poems. We’d never done it before so it took a lot of planning and my grandmother asked me to help her. A project? Where I could be creative? Hell yeah, I was on board! Little did she know that my mother and my uncles were planning to give my grandmother a plaque that would celebrate her as a key figure in our family. The program went off with no problems, it was a pure success, and so was the surprise. My grandmother teared up and so did my mother (who presented the mauve plaque to her). The moment was more than Kodak…it was priceless.

 

As I finish this particular instalment in the Chronicles of Nellie, I’ve received news that she is back in the hospital making me realize that I best get cracking on part 3 of her life story. Her blood count is low and she’s going to continue fighting with the strength she has left. Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the last of my special memories…

 

The Boy Virginia Made Remembers (Part 1)

I entered into 2009 without any slogans or little mantras (where the last word rhymed with the number nine). Instead, I was asking the question, how dare any of us think our problems are more important than anyone else’s? I skimmed the many statuses written by my facebooking peers upon crossing the threshold into the new year and realized that everyone was trying to forget the “bad things” that happened to them. In a world full of homeless people, children born into unfortunate situations, and a dwindling economy, no one’s problems, including my own, seem that bad.

At different points in our lives, things will go wrong, and the best thing to do is accept that they’re happening. The solution: lift yourself out of the pit, and find some lighted area, even if there’s only a sliver of sunshine twinkling through a sky of clouds. You see, while many people are choosing to forget their past, I choose to remember as much of it as I can because everything that influenced who I am right now, came from my experiences pre-January 1, 2009. So I will share one of my recent remembrances with you now.

            For some years now, I have been wondering what my response would be to the “bad” news that was sure to come. Would I drop my phone and stare blankly into space, while clutching my chest as if the oxygen had left my lungs? Would my tears begin immediately, prompting my classmates (who I often tell never to touch me) to try and come comfort me? Would I be so dramatic as to fall to my knees and start wailing uncontrollably? Or… would I be as calm as I had been when my mother called me on New Year’s Eve to say, “Tom, you’re grandmother is dying. The doctors told gave us the news on Monday.”

“Well,” I told my mom, “that explains the reason I was unable to sleep on Monday and Tuesday of last week.” I guess even over here, my spirit is still connected to my family. “I figured something was wrong. (I sighed.) So I guess I’d better get started on the assignment Grandmamma gave me so many years ago.”

My mother was curious. “And what project was that, baby?”

I told her how so many years ago, my grandmother told me that she loved the way I write, and requested that before she died I’d pen a literary piece about her. Having been to a lot of funerals in her lifetime, my grandmother told me “I’d rather hear the good things people have to say about me now as opposed to when I’m dead, because when I’m dead I won’t be able to appreciate it.” Though it’s been years since she said that to me, I finally think I’m ready to begin the task she gave me. Besides, according to the doctors, her time is limited, so I must start now. She just went home two days ago after having congestive heart failure on Christmas Day. “If she has another one, the doctors have been told not to resuscitate her.”

Shit! Information like that should’ve been enough to make me crumple to the floor in ruins, but for the first time, I understand why she wants it that way. Having been on dialysis for a number of years and having been recently diagnosed with bone cancer (which has only succeeded in making her lose her beauty, her health, and her ability to be independent), she is choosing to stop the suffering. I get it. Finally! At least I don’t have to worry about feeling as if I never told her how much I love her. Growing up, I was probably her only grandson to hug and kiss her, without fail, every time I saw her. To this day I still do. The only difference is I’m not little anymore; she is. And she continues to waste away as the cancer consumes her body. But my philosophy is that she won’t be forgotten if I remember her now, flaws and all. If you would like to, I want you all to meet the woman I have known as my grandmother, Nellie Jones…as I remember her:

The story I remember (in it’s fragmented pieces) goes like this: My grandmother was born Nellie Mae Gilliam on October 16 1943. I remembered that year because it was after World War II was ended. She was instantly interesting to me because she lived through the things I studied in school. But the most intriguing part of her story begins at 14, when she ran away from home, thus catapulting her into a tough world where being a black woman was neither easy nor desirable.

            “My father was a mean man, and he was an alcoholic. But he was a good father.” I’ll always remember my grandmother saying that to me. I’d known my great grandfather for 5 years before he died in 1990 and I could understand the alcoholic part (as he slurred his speech constantly), but mean? That was new information to me. Apparently, he used to physically abuse my great grandmother (the bullshit women put up with back in the day was appalling) and when she wasn’t enough of a punching bag, he started on the children, 5 in all.

            At 14, my grandmother and her older sister, my Aunt Martha, left home to start a life for themselves, leaving their youngest sister behind. I don’t know much about her 3 brothers and where they were at the time, but it’s quite clear that these women were clearly the more ambitious of the Gilliam bunch. Not too long after, my grandmother met my grandfather and had her first child (my uncle), then her second (my mother-the next year) and then her third (my uncle-the year after that). I’m unsure as to how long she stayed with my grandfather, as well as the reason they decided to divorce, but I’m sure it had something to do with being too young.

            Alone, my grandmother had to find ways to survive, if not for herself, for her three children. I recall a story she told me about being in Chicago.

            “Baby, it was cold. The snow seemed like it wasn’t gonna stop no time soon. And the first time I ever saw a rat was in Chicago. Those things were so big, they looked like cats. But Chicago was the first time I ever caught the subway. I remember one time I was on the subway and I had my babies with me and all I wanted was enough money to get my babies some milk. So I’m on the subway, cold and shivering and this man across from me sees me sitting there trying to keep my babies warm and he gave me a dollar and some change (a big deal back in the 50s) and I just had to say ‘Thank You, sir.’ I must’ve looked pitiful sitting there like that, but my babies were gonna eat that night, at least.”

            Knowing that my grandmother lived through my favorite time period, the Civil Rights years, I’d asked her multiple times if she ever marched or did sit-ins or if anyone in our family was a Black Panther. She told me that she never marched and that back then the people were kinda scared of the Black Panthers because they carried guns. I was disspointed. This would mean that no one in my family was bold enough to try and make a difference. Were they complacent? Did they not want change? What the hell? Then I discovered that not all forms of change are broadcast in black and white.

One day, when my mother was cleaning my grandmother’s kitchen floor on her hands and knees, my grandmother needed to know: “Why don’t you use the mop? Even I don’t get on my hands and knees to scrub my floor.” I giggled and she went on to tell me one of the best stories I’ve ever heard from her lips.

            “When I was younger, I used to go in and clean people’s houses. I was basically a maid. Well one of the white lady’s houses I cleaned was big. So I started cleaning it and when I got to the kitchen, I found her mop and I used it to clean the floor. When she got home, she was hot with me. Talking about ‘why is my mop wet?’ I told her I used it to mop the floor. Then she said ‘In my house, you get down on your hands and knees and scrub my floors.’ I looked at her and the wet mop she was holding, and said ‘well then I suggest you do it yourself or find someone else that will get on their hands and knees, because I don’t even do that in my own house. And I went home. And I never worked for her again.”

            Sometimes, smaller, unrecorded moments of rebellion like that mean a lot more to me than marches on Washington or Freedom Rides. And that’s only a snippet of the fire my grandmother had inside of her….

 

My Journey To Happiness

Friday will end my first term here at the academy. My second one will begin January 12^th. I am not returning to America during the interval, but instead looking for work and a reason to rest because, dammit, a brother is tired!

I am typing right now with the most mucous throat I’ve ever had while singing. Deep in my heart I feel that someone should at least say, “Oh Tommy, your voice sounds a mess; let’s allow you rest for a while.” Instead, I have been plowing away and been given slight remedies to rectify the gravel-type sound that ha plagued my voice for the past week. At the present moment I am uncomfortable. I cannot believe that I went onstage last night, sang “This Christmas” and then segued into Stevie Wonder’s “I Wish” (a song that is in no shape way or form made for me to sing). I’m having mini melt-downs every single morning when I wake up because I have to figure out if my voice is going to  come back clear, or if I’ll continue sounding like someone is crushing rocks in my larynx. Yes, I understand that your worst day should always be your best day, but this has never happened to me before and I’m not sure if I’m handling the situation properly. I feel awful and I really wish I didn’t have to perform while awful. But a former boss of mine said it best: smile through the pain! So I will.

My classmates and I get along very well. This week, though I love many of them, they are stressing me out with their constant check-ups. I understand that we all want to care about and for one another, but sometimes, alone time (along with QUIET time) is more valuable than any other time one would need. Most people are simply afraid to be alone with themselves for too long, and I notice that in many of my classmates. It’s as if many of us do not want to just sit mull over who we are and how to make ourselves better. I hope we al find ways to “get better” for our next term Why is getting to know ourselves such a big fear? Is it that we are afraid to try and conquer ourselves, or have we given up on progress?

I have been doing a lot of thinking about home lately and the things that are happening there (that I’m not apart of). My family is still dysfunctional (as most REAL families are). My grandmother is now in a nursing home, and her sanity is going. There is a discussion concerning my oldest uncle right now where they are considering amputating his leg because of his diabetes. A younger uncle who has been recently released from prison is not doing a good job at reinstating himself in the family. Lastly, my mother (the rock of a woman she is) still manages to support me while I’m here, keep me updated on the family, and raise my little brother and sister in the best way she knows how. And then there’s the whole Obama brilliance going on right now which, to be honest, doesn’t have much of an effect on me over here. I kind of wish I was home to participate in a lot of the goings-on, but that would be stress on top of stress and here, I am totally happy; frustrated at times with myself and sometimes others, but mostly happy.

And here is the crux of what has been going on with me today. I have been thinking about my happiness too much since I’ve been here. What constitutes happiness? How do I maintain it? Am I lying to myself when I say that I’ve found it? Or am I just not willing to accept the truth: that I have actually found it?

All my life I feel as if I’ve worked hard, (yes, I’ve had my lazy moments but who hasn’t?), but when I was at home, I was slowly beginning to condition myself to the fact that excelling too much was a bad thing. So I would only push myself to an extent that wasn’t intimidating to others. I reflect on moments from middle school when I would get an A on an assignment, but to be cool and accepted, I would “help” someone with their math quiz or something. That was my way of giving back to the community because it would keep people from calling me names or looking down on me. Then I got older and realized that people still have negative shit to say about you regardless of your intellect or lack of it. So I began to thrust myself into my work even more. And it was then that I realized my race to discover happiness was more about me than anybody else. Therefore I needed to take the thought of others out of the equation and push myself. But of course self, motivation only goes so far. So I turned to the women in my life who have always gotten me through. And they have been more than supportive. But what of the men in my life? How were they helping me, if even?

Well, my father was the example of a life wasted (in my eyes he had the potential to be so much more than he became) therefore I used him as an example of what not to be. But I did take away certain aspects from him, like his voice, his looks, and his loveable outgoing spirit. My uncles, though encouraging, weren’t the greatest of role models either, and at a young age, I realized I didn’t want to be like them, so I didn’t try. My maternal grandfather, though far away always showed me love and I took that idea with me everywhere I traveled. But the most effective men in my life were those who believed in me and weren’t afraid of helping me go further.

In high school, I was sent to a guidance counsellor when I had thoughts of suicide and he and I forged a friendship that I still value to this day. He was more of a father to me than anyone had ever been in my life and he pushed me to be myself in all aspects of my life. To this day that’s what I’ve worked hard to do. The next person I met was an accidental friend who ended up becoming almost a brother/ almost a soul mate. I’ve never had a male friend who wasn’t afraid of saying “Go for it!” and he did so without the negative, contradictory, behind-the-back commentary for which many are known. I haven’t allowed that friendship to die. Lastly, I was introduced to a professor in my last year who exemplified triumph to me. His wisdom about life was (and still is) a treasure that I appreciate. And if anyone is responsible for getting me to this place I’m in (in my life), it is him (combined with the efforts of the women, of course).

After looking back on these people, who I miss and love and appreciate, I evaluate my happiness. It wasn’t my own initially. The funny thing is…in a way, my happiness doesn’t belong to me. It kinda belongs to everyone who helped me get to where I am. And I don’t mind sharing it with the ones who’ve always believed in me and helped me. Most of them know exactly who they are because I always tell them that I love them. For those who don’t know…trust me…when I want you to know, you will.