Growing up in the country made anywhere with a lot of stores and houses and traffic and noise and air that doesn't smell like a barnyard a city. When I was growing up, Lancaster was my city.
Lancaster was never new to me. Mother took me to movies starting at a very young age, and Lancaster was where the movie theaters were. Three theaters were on the same block: The Capitol, The Grand, and The Colonial (which became The Boyd). A fourth was built several blocks from downtown. The King was built in the early 1950s with CinemaScope and stereo in mind.
North Prince Street, West King Street, East and West Chestnut Street, and North Queen Street were the center of my universe. (This included East Orange Street.) Downtown Lancaster was always both reliable and exciting. There was always a newsboy on the square shouting, "Pay-PERRrrrr." I can't say I envied him his job, but it was a reliable part of every visit, as were hot soft pretzels and the diesel fuel smell of the buses.
My interest in music has been lifelong. Lancaster had two music stores. One was a small one on East Orange Street, near the gorgeous if spooky Episcopalian Church. The other was Troup's Music Store. Composer and jazz musician Bobby Troup was from Harrisburg; his family owned the original store on Market Square in Harrisburg; the one in Lancaster was the branch. (He lived on the West Coast. Julie London was his wife. It was always news when he'd come back for a visit, especially if he visited the Lancaster store.)
I loved Troup's. They had a huge selection of popular sheet music. They also had books of "serious" music. Sometimes they had complete scores of musicals. Instruments were always on view and, under the watchful eye of a clerk, could be touched and even handled. I don't know when I first became aware of Handel's Messiah, but I owned the recording with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Philadelphia Orchestra, Eugene Ormandy conducting, and vocal powerhouses soprano Eileen Farrell and bass William Warfield. I wanted a copy of it so I could follow along. I sent them the right amount of money and a little more so they could send it to me. It didn't come and it didn't come, so next trip downtown, I went to the store to ask about it. They couldn't find the letter or a record of the cash. I was bummed. The clerk walked over to the rack with all kinds of scores, picked up a Messiah, and put it in a bag. "A young man can't be without his copy of Messiah," he said as he handed it to me. I loved Troup's.
Uphill from Troup's (literally) was where the newspapers came from. Lancaster had three...The Intelligencer Journal in the morning, The New Era in the afternoon, and The Sunday News. We got the afternoon paper, the Republican paper, and the Sunday paper. The building had large store windows on the street. They had pictures of events and what we now call flip chart paper with the latest headlines hand-printed on them. I wasn't entirely sure what went on in there, but I knew it was filled with typewriters and people were being paid to write.
Across from that was (to me) the lesser of the two department stores, Hager's. I don't remember it well, but I seem to remember there were different levels on the first floor. It was all right, but it never particularly captured my imagination.
The real department store was Watt & Shand's on the southeast corner of the square. For this gayling, it was fabulous. The store windows showed excellent men's clothes, gorgeous women's dresses and gowns, furniture, candies, toys...windows that put all other stores to shame. I can't say that I felt a gay vibe when I went in there...I wouldn't have known what that meant. I knew, however, that it was an excellent store, beautiful merchandise of all kinds, Plus, it had escalators. And then there was Christmas.
Watt & Shand's and Christmas went hand-in-hand. Watt & Shand's was our Wanamaker's and Macy's. The Saturday after Thanksgiving, a single engine airplane flew over Lancaster County. It's flight path and flyover times were well-known. Santa was the passenger. It landed at Lancaster's airport and Santa arrived downtown at the end of a parade on board a hook and ladder fire truck. The fire truck positioned itself, erected the ladder, and a far braver than I Santa climbed up to the top floor, sack on back, and entered Santa-land through a window.
We always waved at the airplane but never saw the parade. Not live, anyway. WGAL-TV televised it, and watching Santa climb the ladder was a nerve-wracking experience. However, since this was the era before urban flight and countless shopping centers on what was once farmland, we'd go Christmas shopping in downtown Lancaster. I was always awestruck by Watt & Shand's windows. They were worth a trip to the city all by themselves. Lancaster was open Friday evenings, so we'd get to see the windows with lights, not just daylight. Watt & Shand's windows had figures that moved, lots of trains, dolls and stuffed animals and I can't remember what. Lancaster was my city, and Watt & Shand's, especially at Christmas, was paradise.
We had our choice of two record stores. One was Stan's Record Bar on North Prince Street, near the Fulton Opera House. Stan's had albums and 45s everywhere. Something about it gave the illusion of dirty...absurd, I'm sure, but I didn't like going there.
The better was Darmstadter's. Darmstadter's was a dry goods store. It was all right and nice to walk through. I walked through it because the record department was at the rear of the store, and it was magnificent. For one thing, they had somewhat sound-proof listening booths. This was before plastic shrink wrap. All of the people who worked that department seemed incredibly knowledgeable, and I had two favorites, a man and a woman. Apparently I came in often enough and had memorably odd tastes in music, so they knew me. It was there I bought the Goddard Lieberson-produced Porgy and Bess. I bought the D'Oyly Carte recording of HMS Pinafore (and many of the other London G&S recordings). More than likely, Darmstadter's was where I bought the album of Messiah. I bought all my Original Broadway Cast recordings there. And that's where I bought Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? as described in another blog.
No doubt I'll come back to Lancaster again. The theaters deserve to be mentioned, since none of them survived the century. Downtown Lancaster no longer exists, I'm told. The buildings are the same, but they've been re-purposed and the businesses don't sound nearly as interesting. I didn't mention the markets, Woolworth's, the Greist Building, or the dangerous underground bathrooms. Someday, perhaps.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Friday, November 14, 2014
A Kid's Imagination Meets Edward Albee
1963. Night. The parents have gone to bed. Both my brother and sister married and now have families living elsewhere. I am the last chick in the nest. I'm a high school senior in the wilds of eastern Lancaster County, PA. I've tried my wings a couple of times and feel more and more ready to fly. Still, ...
The only light in the living room is the from the control panel of the Grundig-Majestic AM/FM/ Stereo. I've put the records on the spindle; the first record is about to drop onto the turntable.
I'm not a stranger to theater, although I'm a lot more familiar with movies. Still, my drama club has taken me to several productions at Franklin & Marshall College's Green Room Theatre. I was spellbound by All the King's Men. I loved a comedy about talking scales. Lancaster's Kiwanis Club (I think) annually put on a musical. I have acted in several of my high school's productions and stage managed others. I like and am comfortable with the theater.
I'd read about the controversy over this play. Since people were upset about it, I wished I could go to New York to see it...especially since others defended it as one of the best plays of the 20th century. I'd also read that a recording was to be made with the original cast. I was prepared to camp out in front of the record store in Lancaster, not unlike people do now for new Apple products. My favorite clerk at the record store knew I'd want to know the release date. He said he'd make sure there'd be a copy for me.
Original Broadway Cast (OBC) recordings were standard. Traditionally, they were recorded the Sunday after opening night. Even musicals that wound up being flops were recorded and, to try to recoup their money, the records would be released anyway. But these were recordings of the music, not the full show, and they had to fit into the limitations of the 12-inch vinyl disc -- about 25 minutes per side -- so the dance breaks and sometimes entire songs were cut. It was extremely rare that a new play would receive a full recording. And it would be on 4 LPs. I started saving money.
I turn on the turntable. The sound is turned way down...I know the parents probably would not approve. Still, ... I rest my head on a pillow facing the stereo. The dog watches, ready for me to lie down. Thump goes the needle, and my perception of the theater changes within seconds.
A woman's husky laugh. The handle of a door rattles, and as the door (presumably) opens, the woman, still laughing, nearly shouts, "JEE. ZUS. H. kir-REIST!" A man tries to get her to lower her voice. "Sh. Martha. For god's sake, it's 2 o'clock in the morning." "Oh, George," she replies. The two characters are perfectly limned within the first minute of the play. I've memorized the pictures on the cover and in the inside booklet, so I know what they look like and what the set looks like.
I grew up during the tail end of radio as a source of comedy and drama. By the '60s, all of that had become TV's domain. The general public's imagination, I now think, lessened. We no longer had to make up the characters, their movements, the set...it was spoon-fed to us. Obviously, one watched plays and movies, but that was different. That was in public. Radio and television were meant as home entertainment, and as such, imagination became a less-needed power.
Arthur Hill was an actor I somehow knew about. I liked him. I saw Uta Hagen's name in the Times' theatrical ads from time to time, mostly in connection with an acting school. George Grizzard made a few movies. I hadn't a clue who Melinda Dillon was. And yet with the help of the pictures I'd memorized, the effective use of stereo and sound effects, the words, and those voices -- God, those Voices! -- I had an encounter with theater that truly changed everything. By which I mean everything.
Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is one of a few major touchstones in my appreciation of theater, plays, drama, and music. I'd seen plays, although few were professional productions. But this was in a class by itself. It's a 2-1/2 hour roller coaster ride of language (not just the swearing, but the entire script) and surprise and hurt and hate and love. I felt guilty laughing at a line during a fight, but why not? Everything else about this experience was new, why not laughter during a knock-down-drag-out verbal battle?
I had the play pretty well memorized by the time I got to college. As I've said before, it was a small Christian college for small Christians. Nevertheless, there were a few people I played the recording for and they were as stunned as I. Twice, I was part of a reading/performance of it, always for invited friends only and never with the college's blessing or knowledge (although a couple of professors were invited because we liked them). I played George both times, frequently off book, and knew that I was born to play him onstage professionally someday. (Never happened.)
One performance was played as written; the other we dubbed as "Shakespearean casting," meaning 4 guys. Martha was played by a friend who really, truly wanted to play Martha. Frankly, it was more satisfying playing to his Martha than to the co-ed's Martha. Nick was played by a jock who also liked acting and did a damned good job. Honey...
Honey is maybe the toughest role in the play. George, Martha, and Nick are pretty well set, but Honey is kind of out there. The young woman who played it never really understood her, even after hearing the recording. The young man who played her also had trouble connecting. Understand, he was perfectly happy that Nick was his husband, and he knew there was more to Honey than a being an innocent. It finally clicked. He listened to the recording again and realized why Melinda/Honey had two infinitely different readings of the line, "I dance like the wind." It clicked. And he briefly stopped the show in the third act with his "Why would anybody want to wash somebody who's 16 years old?" I always enjoyed acting with him.
Liz Taylor and Richard Burton? Seriously? I couldn't imagine. I was somehow forced to go see the movie version....I really didn't want to go. I hated it. The script had been re-written so it would be palatable for the American public. It was a movie, so it couldn't remain in the house. I saw most of it on TV a few years ago. I was surprised how much better it got. Actually, Miss Taylor was pretty good with the script she was given. George Segal and Sandy Dennis did all right. Burton? Not so much.
I've seen two stage versions of it and tolerated both. In each, the actors (and director) were aware that what they were doing was Controversial and Dramatic. They were actors who were afraid of letting the characters take over. Most disconcerting, no one understood the rhythm of the language. Without understanding that there is a rhythm, a flow, a rare use of English and interaction of each character's words and language, it's just another play, at times not all that interesting.
As with the young actor's revelation about his Honey, I came to understand after the first live performance I saw how different my perception of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was. It wasn't just that my first experience of it was with the original cast; it was that I had to imagine it. And free from being mesmerized or dazzled by the acting, I was exposed to the voices, the rhythms, the delivery, the sentences, the words. It became one of those things that no other production or circumstance could compare, and that's because it was mine to imagine. I never ever felt cheated that I didn't get to see that cast perform live and in person because I had it live and in my imagination forever.
Even actors who are aware of the once-controversial nature of the play and their characters need to understand the language. It IS similar to music. I don't mean Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf: The Musical, but take the 3 acts as 3 movements in an instrumental piece...I don't like comparing it to a symphony or a concerto because they're too big, and a quartet doesn't fit it either. But there are distinct patterns in the speeches of act 1, act 2, and act 3, with act 3 being the most amazing. I don't know that I'd have noticed it if I'd seen it first, but that idea of language being musical is crucial.
Sony has made available a CD reissue. Mine's on order, finally, thanks to money someone gave me on my birthday. I don't know that she'd like what her money was spent on, and I don't think she'd appreciate the significance. Nor can she know how anxiously I anticipate once again hearing a woman's husky laugh, the doorknob twisting, and the woman, still laughing, nearly shouting "JEE. ZUS. H. kir-REIST!" Or to hear the towering masterpiece that is the third act.
I have appreciated many of Edward Albee's plays, but Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is a one-of-a-kind experience. Close your eyes. Imagine.
The only light in the living room is the from the control panel of the Grundig-Majestic AM/FM/ Stereo. I've put the records on the spindle; the first record is about to drop onto the turntable.
I'm not a stranger to theater, although I'm a lot more familiar with movies. Still, my drama club has taken me to several productions at Franklin & Marshall College's Green Room Theatre. I was spellbound by All the King's Men. I loved a comedy about talking scales. Lancaster's Kiwanis Club (I think) annually put on a musical. I have acted in several of my high school's productions and stage managed others. I like and am comfortable with the theater.
I'd read about the controversy over this play. Since people were upset about it, I wished I could go to New York to see it...especially since others defended it as one of the best plays of the 20th century. I'd also read that a recording was to be made with the original cast. I was prepared to camp out in front of the record store in Lancaster, not unlike people do now for new Apple products. My favorite clerk at the record store knew I'd want to know the release date. He said he'd make sure there'd be a copy for me.
Original Broadway Cast (OBC) recordings were standard. Traditionally, they were recorded the Sunday after opening night. Even musicals that wound up being flops were recorded and, to try to recoup their money, the records would be released anyway. But these were recordings of the music, not the full show, and they had to fit into the limitations of the 12-inch vinyl disc -- about 25 minutes per side -- so the dance breaks and sometimes entire songs were cut. It was extremely rare that a new play would receive a full recording. And it would be on 4 LPs. I started saving money.
I turn on the turntable. The sound is turned way down...I know the parents probably would not approve. Still, ... I rest my head on a pillow facing the stereo. The dog watches, ready for me to lie down. Thump goes the needle, and my perception of the theater changes within seconds.
A woman's husky laugh. The handle of a door rattles, and as the door (presumably) opens, the woman, still laughing, nearly shouts, "JEE. ZUS. H. kir-REIST!" A man tries to get her to lower her voice. "Sh. Martha. For god's sake, it's 2 o'clock in the morning." "Oh, George," she replies. The two characters are perfectly limned within the first minute of the play. I've memorized the pictures on the cover and in the inside booklet, so I know what they look like and what the set looks like.
I grew up during the tail end of radio as a source of comedy and drama. By the '60s, all of that had become TV's domain. The general public's imagination, I now think, lessened. We no longer had to make up the characters, their movements, the set...it was spoon-fed to us. Obviously, one watched plays and movies, but that was different. That was in public. Radio and television were meant as home entertainment, and as such, imagination became a less-needed power.
Arthur Hill was an actor I somehow knew about. I liked him. I saw Uta Hagen's name in the Times' theatrical ads from time to time, mostly in connection with an acting school. George Grizzard made a few movies. I hadn't a clue who Melinda Dillon was. And yet with the help of the pictures I'd memorized, the effective use of stereo and sound effects, the words, and those voices -- God, those Voices! -- I had an encounter with theater that truly changed everything. By which I mean everything.
Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is one of a few major touchstones in my appreciation of theater, plays, drama, and music. I'd seen plays, although few were professional productions. But this was in a class by itself. It's a 2-1/2 hour roller coaster ride of language (not just the swearing, but the entire script) and surprise and hurt and hate and love. I felt guilty laughing at a line during a fight, but why not? Everything else about this experience was new, why not laughter during a knock-down-drag-out verbal battle?
I had the play pretty well memorized by the time I got to college. As I've said before, it was a small Christian college for small Christians. Nevertheless, there were a few people I played the recording for and they were as stunned as I. Twice, I was part of a reading/performance of it, always for invited friends only and never with the college's blessing or knowledge (although a couple of professors were invited because we liked them). I played George both times, frequently off book, and knew that I was born to play him onstage professionally someday. (Never happened.)
One performance was played as written; the other we dubbed as "Shakespearean casting," meaning 4 guys. Martha was played by a friend who really, truly wanted to play Martha. Frankly, it was more satisfying playing to his Martha than to the co-ed's Martha. Nick was played by a jock who also liked acting and did a damned good job. Honey...
Honey is maybe the toughest role in the play. George, Martha, and Nick are pretty well set, but Honey is kind of out there. The young woman who played it never really understood her, even after hearing the recording. The young man who played her also had trouble connecting. Understand, he was perfectly happy that Nick was his husband, and he knew there was more to Honey than a being an innocent. It finally clicked. He listened to the recording again and realized why Melinda/Honey had two infinitely different readings of the line, "I dance like the wind." It clicked. And he briefly stopped the show in the third act with his "Why would anybody want to wash somebody who's 16 years old?" I always enjoyed acting with him.
Liz Taylor and Richard Burton? Seriously? I couldn't imagine. I was somehow forced to go see the movie version....I really didn't want to go. I hated it. The script had been re-written so it would be palatable for the American public. It was a movie, so it couldn't remain in the house. I saw most of it on TV a few years ago. I was surprised how much better it got. Actually, Miss Taylor was pretty good with the script she was given. George Segal and Sandy Dennis did all right. Burton? Not so much.
I've seen two stage versions of it and tolerated both. In each, the actors (and director) were aware that what they were doing was Controversial and Dramatic. They were actors who were afraid of letting the characters take over. Most disconcerting, no one understood the rhythm of the language. Without understanding that there is a rhythm, a flow, a rare use of English and interaction of each character's words and language, it's just another play, at times not all that interesting.
As with the young actor's revelation about his Honey, I came to understand after the first live performance I saw how different my perception of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was. It wasn't just that my first experience of it was with the original cast; it was that I had to imagine it. And free from being mesmerized or dazzled by the acting, I was exposed to the voices, the rhythms, the delivery, the sentences, the words. It became one of those things that no other production or circumstance could compare, and that's because it was mine to imagine. I never ever felt cheated that I didn't get to see that cast perform live and in person because I had it live and in my imagination forever.
Even actors who are aware of the once-controversial nature of the play and their characters need to understand the language. It IS similar to music. I don't mean Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf: The Musical, but take the 3 acts as 3 movements in an instrumental piece...I don't like comparing it to a symphony or a concerto because they're too big, and a quartet doesn't fit it either. But there are distinct patterns in the speeches of act 1, act 2, and act 3, with act 3 being the most amazing. I don't know that I'd have noticed it if I'd seen it first, but that idea of language being musical is crucial.
Sony has made available a CD reissue. Mine's on order, finally, thanks to money someone gave me on my birthday. I don't know that she'd like what her money was spent on, and I don't think she'd appreciate the significance. Nor can she know how anxiously I anticipate once again hearing a woman's husky laugh, the doorknob twisting, and the woman, still laughing, nearly shouting "JEE. ZUS. H. kir-REIST!" Or to hear the towering masterpiece that is the third act.
I have appreciated many of Edward Albee's plays, but Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is a one-of-a-kind experience. Close your eyes. Imagine.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Movies, Books, Histories...Our LGBT Center
One of the enjoyable things about being retired is not having to wake up to an alarm clock. Waking up when one's body says it's time to get up has been a luxury I'd long looked forward to. And it is what I hoped it would be.
However, three mornings a week I wake up to the annoying beeps of the clock (and the urging of the cat to turn the damned thing off) so I can volunteer at our LGBT Center. I like to volunteer at the Center. It gives me the sense that I'm doing something not just for the LGBT community but for central Pennsylvania in general. Not-gay people come in to ask questions, advice, or to express concerns. Paid staff is on duty, so if I feel inadequate to answer their questions, I ask a staff person to help. Nothing hostile has happened yet; I'm grateful for that.
Although it's located in Harrisburg, the LGBT Center is designed to serve the region. There are some related activities in Lancaster and Carlisle, but there are many other towns and small cities and acres of countryside that have gay people who should know about us. (It's kind of funny that I'm a volunteer yet talk about the Center in terms of "we" and "our.")
What I find exciting (a word I haven't used in terms of work in decades) is that we're becoming an LGBT resource center. We already had a reasonably good book library of both fiction and non-. We also had a few DVDs of LGBT movies. Not porn, although there is "adult content" in some of them, but gay-genre movies. Almost all of them are independent, not-Hollywood movies. The DVD library has started to grow, thanks to donations by two men and the TV series In the Life. We have most of the episodes from that series and they've proved to be a good resource.
The movies, on the other hand, have generated some interest. We have documentaries and fiction movies. Documentaries include 8: The Mormon Proposition, Bridegroom, Word Is Out, How to Survive a Plague, Small Town Gay Bar, and Stonewall Uprising, to name a few. Regular feature films range from Hollywood efforts like Some Like It Hot, Making Love, and Milk to largely unknown but excellent movies like Cloudburst, Beautiful Thing, Cowboys and Angels, As Luck Would Have It, To Die For, You Are Not Alone, Defying Gravity, Lovebirds, and many more. We also have several DVDs of short films.
Because of my interest in movies, I've been assigned the duty of cataloging the films. Some of that is tiresome (making the borrower's cards) and some of it is excellent (taking the DVDs home to watch so I'll know what they're about when someone asks).
There are problems, of course. We have only two lesbian movies. One was contributed by a staff member and the other because, well, it's Cloudburst. We also have very few movies about people of color. And that brings up a problem the Center is trying to solve.
Harrisburg's majority population is African American and Hispanic. The Center has practically no non-white representation. Obviously, this makes no sense, except that both the black and Hispanic communities tend to be deeply closeted. A black woman from another city, a woman who started that city's LGBT Community Center's African American groups, offered an observation that makes sense. There are clusters of African American gays in Harrisburg but, because of attitudes, they remain isolated. However, there is one person who knows people in most of those groups. We need to find that person and get him/her to advocate for the Center so we can host groups that they want.
Right now, our programs include a women's group, two Aging with Pride groups, an open mic night, an AA meeting, and a youth program that has really caught on. But whatever the gender or age, it's all so white...especially for a city that's primarily African American and Hispanic. What to do?
Another exciting project is our LGBT History Project, a collection of LGBT memorabilia and oral histories that, at some point, will be completely accessible on a website and can be seen in person at Dickinson College in nearby Carlisle. We've all been pretty surprised by some of the objects and stories this project has turned up.
I love my tribe, and I'm delighted I've found a way to serve it...even if it means waking up to the alarm clock (and an irritated cat) three mornings a week.
However, three mornings a week I wake up to the annoying beeps of the clock (and the urging of the cat to turn the damned thing off) so I can volunteer at our LGBT Center. I like to volunteer at the Center. It gives me the sense that I'm doing something not just for the LGBT community but for central Pennsylvania in general. Not-gay people come in to ask questions, advice, or to express concerns. Paid staff is on duty, so if I feel inadequate to answer their questions, I ask a staff person to help. Nothing hostile has happened yet; I'm grateful for that.
Although it's located in Harrisburg, the LGBT Center is designed to serve the region. There are some related activities in Lancaster and Carlisle, but there are many other towns and small cities and acres of countryside that have gay people who should know about us. (It's kind of funny that I'm a volunteer yet talk about the Center in terms of "we" and "our.")
What I find exciting (a word I haven't used in terms of work in decades) is that we're becoming an LGBT resource center. We already had a reasonably good book library of both fiction and non-. We also had a few DVDs of LGBT movies. Not porn, although there is "adult content" in some of them, but gay-genre movies. Almost all of them are independent, not-Hollywood movies. The DVD library has started to grow, thanks to donations by two men and the TV series In the Life. We have most of the episodes from that series and they've proved to be a good resource.
The movies, on the other hand, have generated some interest. We have documentaries and fiction movies. Documentaries include 8: The Mormon Proposition, Bridegroom, Word Is Out, How to Survive a Plague, Small Town Gay Bar, and Stonewall Uprising, to name a few. Regular feature films range from Hollywood efforts like Some Like It Hot, Making Love, and Milk to largely unknown but excellent movies like Cloudburst, Beautiful Thing, Cowboys and Angels, As Luck Would Have It, To Die For, You Are Not Alone, Defying Gravity, Lovebirds, and many more. We also have several DVDs of short films.
Because of my interest in movies, I've been assigned the duty of cataloging the films. Some of that is tiresome (making the borrower's cards) and some of it is excellent (taking the DVDs home to watch so I'll know what they're about when someone asks).
There are problems, of course. We have only two lesbian movies. One was contributed by a staff member and the other because, well, it's Cloudburst. We also have very few movies about people of color. And that brings up a problem the Center is trying to solve.
Harrisburg's majority population is African American and Hispanic. The Center has practically no non-white representation. Obviously, this makes no sense, except that both the black and Hispanic communities tend to be deeply closeted. A black woman from another city, a woman who started that city's LGBT Community Center's African American groups, offered an observation that makes sense. There are clusters of African American gays in Harrisburg but, because of attitudes, they remain isolated. However, there is one person who knows people in most of those groups. We need to find that person and get him/her to advocate for the Center so we can host groups that they want.
Right now, our programs include a women's group, two Aging with Pride groups, an open mic night, an AA meeting, and a youth program that has really caught on. But whatever the gender or age, it's all so white...especially for a city that's primarily African American and Hispanic. What to do?
Another exciting project is our LGBT History Project, a collection of LGBT memorabilia and oral histories that, at some point, will be completely accessible on a website and can be seen in person at Dickinson College in nearby Carlisle. We've all been pretty surprised by some of the objects and stories this project has turned up.
I love my tribe, and I'm delighted I've found a way to serve it...even if it means waking up to the alarm clock (and an irritated cat) three mornings a week.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Of Course I Miss It, Part 2
Music is a vital part of my life. It always has been. I can't imagine life without it. Almost daily I type some of my old arrangements into my PrintMusic program or change an SATB arrangement into a TTBB piece. While the playback on my computer sounds like various forms of flying bugs, I like having the opportunity to listen to what I've done. Sometimes, despite the sound, I feel the music deep within. I need to move; as stupid as it may sound, I need to conduct it.
I listen to CDs incessantly. Sometimes it's the rock and roll from the '50s and '60s, sometimes the more solid rock of the late '60s and '70s, or maybe disco, or maybe folk, or maybe light symphonic or overtures or full symphonies or a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta or some favorite country songs or big choral groups or a Wurlitzer band organ or show tunes or big bands or certain jazz or Sacred Harp hymns or ragtime piano, and sometimes I feel the music deep within. I need to move; as stupid as it may sound, I need to conduct it.
Some people feel the music in their bodies and they dance. I feel the music in my hands and I conduct.
My parents didn't particularly encourage my affinity for music, but they didn't discourage it. I was the youngest of three kids and was largely left to my own devices. I am old enough that I was able to watch Leonard Bernstein's Young People's Concerts. I remember the concert that put it all together for me. He directed Copland's Rodeo Concert Suite. I'd heard them perform other music, but there was something different about this. The epiphany happened toward the end of the first movement, "Buckaroo Holiday." The orchestra was kind of quiet and then started to build. The rhythms seemed to be all over the place, the harmonies, too. And it built and built and the expression on Bernstein's face was a happiness I still can't describe. That section ends with a restatement of the theme, and then I knew. I loved this. The absolute, unalloyed joy on Bernstein's face made me wonder what it must feel like to be in front of so many musicians playing exciting music...conducting it and being the first to hear it.
I went through several decades conducting the finest musicians and orchestras and Broadway musicals, thanks to my stereo. Then, in 1987, I was offered a church choir. I didn't know squat about conducting, but I figured I shouldn't turn down the opportunity. Besides, it was a 6 member choir. 10 people showed up for the first rehearsal. The choir grew to 20, 28, at one time 42 singers. I had no training in any of this, so I made it up as I went along, read everything I could get my hands on, watched concerts on TV to observe the conductors. Fortunately, my accompanist mentored me well. She was a good pianist and excellent teacher.
The church paid my way to music clinics where I could talk to other music directors and meet choral composers and arrangers. I tried to absorb everything I could. Aside from a week's crash course for church choir directors with no training in directing a church choir at Westminster College, Ryder University, I remained a seat-of-my-pants director. Because the church was Unitarian Universalist, the music palette was pretty much open to both religious and secular; the Unisingers, as they were known, sang Sundays plus originated churchy programs sung at other, not necessarily UU churches plus music program fundraising concerts. I wrote arrangements for the Unisingers. Convinced that every community should have a chorus, I also started a community chorus in my town.
Years later, I became Artistic Director of the Harrisburg Gay Men's Chorus. I discovered quickly that while there is a treasure trove of music for choruses with women and men, there is precious little for men's chorus. That was about the time I bought my first PrintMusic program and arranged/re-voiced SATB (mixed) to TTBB (men). It became as much fun as conducting. I was careful to interfere with the arrangement as little as possible. I tried not to change the integrity of the piece...the accompaniment always stayed the same, and voice phrases were adapted...the whole thing might have to be transposed (four keystrokes and done), but it was always my hope that the composer would never be offended by what I did.
Then I realized that I had gone as far as I could go. Self-taught, at least for me, goes only so far. With the Unisingers, I'd developed a "community" chorus with a wide reputation; with the men's chorus, we achieved a sound that one audience member described as "a group of cellos." I'd taken the men's chorus as far as I could, but they could go much further.
My favorite part of choral directing was rehearsal. I don't think I'd be happy about it, but I think I could rehearse a chorus and let someone else direct the concert and be OK with it. The performance was the payoff, of course, but the explorations and discoveries in rehearsal were exciting.
The choruses' favorite part of my directing was an involuntary smile when everything came together, when we got through a particularly rough section well, when a piece was utterly musical, when there was nothing to be said. One time I realized it...that something Bernstein taught all those many years earlier. A smile conveys satisfaction and joy from music denied to words.
I listen to music. It's recorded. I once led music live. I miss it. I miss the rehearsal process. I miss the energy that a live performance puts into you. But I hear music. It gets inside me, inside my hands, and I must conduct it.
I listen to CDs incessantly. Sometimes it's the rock and roll from the '50s and '60s, sometimes the more solid rock of the late '60s and '70s, or maybe disco, or maybe folk, or maybe light symphonic or overtures or full symphonies or a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta or some favorite country songs or big choral groups or a Wurlitzer band organ or show tunes or big bands or certain jazz or Sacred Harp hymns or ragtime piano, and sometimes I feel the music deep within. I need to move; as stupid as it may sound, I need to conduct it.
Some people feel the music in their bodies and they dance. I feel the music in my hands and I conduct.
My parents didn't particularly encourage my affinity for music, but they didn't discourage it. I was the youngest of three kids and was largely left to my own devices. I am old enough that I was able to watch Leonard Bernstein's Young People's Concerts. I remember the concert that put it all together for me. He directed Copland's Rodeo Concert Suite. I'd heard them perform other music, but there was something different about this. The epiphany happened toward the end of the first movement, "Buckaroo Holiday." The orchestra was kind of quiet and then started to build. The rhythms seemed to be all over the place, the harmonies, too. And it built and built and the expression on Bernstein's face was a happiness I still can't describe. That section ends with a restatement of the theme, and then I knew. I loved this. The absolute, unalloyed joy on Bernstein's face made me wonder what it must feel like to be in front of so many musicians playing exciting music...conducting it and being the first to hear it.
I went through several decades conducting the finest musicians and orchestras and Broadway musicals, thanks to my stereo. Then, in 1987, I was offered a church choir. I didn't know squat about conducting, but I figured I shouldn't turn down the opportunity. Besides, it was a 6 member choir. 10 people showed up for the first rehearsal. The choir grew to 20, 28, at one time 42 singers. I had no training in any of this, so I made it up as I went along, read everything I could get my hands on, watched concerts on TV to observe the conductors. Fortunately, my accompanist mentored me well. She was a good pianist and excellent teacher.
The church paid my way to music clinics where I could talk to other music directors and meet choral composers and arrangers. I tried to absorb everything I could. Aside from a week's crash course for church choir directors with no training in directing a church choir at Westminster College, Ryder University, I remained a seat-of-my-pants director. Because the church was Unitarian Universalist, the music palette was pretty much open to both religious and secular; the Unisingers, as they were known, sang Sundays plus originated churchy programs sung at other, not necessarily UU churches plus music program fundraising concerts. I wrote arrangements for the Unisingers. Convinced that every community should have a chorus, I also started a community chorus in my town.
Years later, I became Artistic Director of the Harrisburg Gay Men's Chorus. I discovered quickly that while there is a treasure trove of music for choruses with women and men, there is precious little for men's chorus. That was about the time I bought my first PrintMusic program and arranged/re-voiced SATB (mixed) to TTBB (men). It became as much fun as conducting. I was careful to interfere with the arrangement as little as possible. I tried not to change the integrity of the piece...the accompaniment always stayed the same, and voice phrases were adapted...the whole thing might have to be transposed (four keystrokes and done), but it was always my hope that the composer would never be offended by what I did.
Then I realized that I had gone as far as I could go. Self-taught, at least for me, goes only so far. With the Unisingers, I'd developed a "community" chorus with a wide reputation; with the men's chorus, we achieved a sound that one audience member described as "a group of cellos." I'd taken the men's chorus as far as I could, but they could go much further.
My favorite part of choral directing was rehearsal. I don't think I'd be happy about it, but I think I could rehearse a chorus and let someone else direct the concert and be OK with it. The performance was the payoff, of course, but the explorations and discoveries in rehearsal were exciting.
The choruses' favorite part of my directing was an involuntary smile when everything came together, when we got through a particularly rough section well, when a piece was utterly musical, when there was nothing to be said. One time I realized it...that something Bernstein taught all those many years earlier. A smile conveys satisfaction and joy from music denied to words.
I listen to music. It's recorded. I once led music live. I miss it. I miss the rehearsal process. I miss the energy that a live performance puts into you. But I hear music. It gets inside me, inside my hands, and I must conduct it.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Of Course I Miss It, Part 1
Yes, of course I miss designing sound and working in the theater. I did it for about 12 years and then it felt like it was time to leave. I still believe that, but that doesn't mean I don't miss it. I was in broadcasting for more than 35 years...writing, announcing, producing, crew work...and I don't miss it a bit.
I miss reading a script for the first time, pencil and paper beside me, taking notes on what the playwright suggests for sound cues and writing down my ideas. I miss meeting with the director to go over the cues, to hear what s/he wants, and to propose my ideas. I miss meeting with the whole creative team for paper tech, the meeting in which we talked through what we're doing.
I miss re-reading the script to imagine the sound. Sound is not just dropping in a thunder clap because the script says so; sound matches and enhances what's going on. There's a difference between thunder in a comedy and thunder in a mystery. What would the accompanying rain sound like? I miss deciding if a doorbell should be rung offstage by the actor or a sound effect programmed by me. And again, what kind of doorbell fits the situation? What should the train whistle in the distance sound like? When the actor opens the apartment window, should there be city sounds? And if so, what's the neighborhood sound like?
I miss the time spent in the audio production room working on realizing the sound with the sound engineer. I've worked with three engineers and two of them I miss greatly. The third did his job, but the other two took production to a higher level. What I miss most from those sessions is the collaboration, and I also miss watching those artists in action. I would tell them what I wanted and they played and worked on and finessed the sounds and tended to come up with something more than I imagined. I would start it, then sit back and listen and marvel as they created perfection.
The engineer I worked with over the last years was the most amazing. Fortunately, I had enough sense to let him interpret what I wanted. I'd read some lines before the cue, tell him what the director thought it should be, tell him what I thought it should sound like. There were times when I thought we were spending too much time on a cue, only to hear a sonic work of art. He knew how to be perfect but not upstage the actors. Plus, we were complete opposites in what we liked to do. He hated doing live shows. He was a recording engineer and loved the comfort of having a 7th take. I loved going live, having only one time to get it right.
I miss tech week. Everyone says they wish they could avoid it, but it's a week of watching things come together. I liked having one night that was sound night, in which I could stop the proceedings to go over a cue again. I liked being able to tell the disagreeable actors that they had six or eight weeks to rehearse and that I have one night.. It is sometimes difficult for actors to remember there's more to a show than her or him. I can't say that I particularly liked having the director tell me that, despite him/her having heard the cue before, s/he didn't think it worked now that s/he heard it with actors. Neither the engineer nor I liked having to re-do effects, but the director is in charge. And it gave me another couple hours working with him.
I miss opening night, waiting in the green room with other members of the crew and the actors. I always left at 15 minutes call so I could watch most of the audience come in and also (and I don't know any better way to say this) become one with the board. Also, to keep the curious away from the board and computer. I didn't need to be with the cast; I liked those minutes to review the script, think about things, quietly make sure the actors' mics were on (there was always a vocal warm-up at 10 minutes, so I could see if any mics were not working), and just generally prepare. I miss that first time that everyone does everything without stopping, that first time in front of an audience, the first time everything has to happen.
I miss working on shows I knew before. For example, I always wanted to be in Ain't Misbehavin', the Fats Waller review, but I suspected no one would ever do a white version of it. As the sound designer, I worked every performance and loved it. I'd heard of The Laramie Project but never saw it. To work it was incredibly moving every performance, plus we did it during October, the month Matthew Shepherd was killed, and there were references to specific dates, which made it even more real. My first two shows as board operator were The Music Man, in which I had maybe 3 cues, followed two weeks later by Angels in America: Part Two: Perestroika, which had 87 cues and all of them on audio cassettes. And I was terrified and lived through it and it was the first of many shows I was sorry to see end.
I miss working the run of the show, finding the rhythm of it without getting into a rut, and even though we'd done 20 performances, being prepared for anything to happen. I miss pretending that this world of pretend was where I belonged. I miss the relationships that took place during a run, being ignored by certain actors (usually young who didn't understand the collaborative effort that goes into a performance) and not caring, being acknowledged by and having conversations with veteran actors and crew, swapping stories, sharing news and gossip. I miss having complicated cues and pulling them off without a hitch.
I miss closing night, especially shows I liked doing. I'd find myself thinking "this is the last time I'll do that." While cleaning up, taking down the mics and speakers, and pulling the cable helped me cope with the end and putting the run to rest, it never worked completely and I'd be post-show depressed for a couple of days. But then there'd be the next show to work on.
I miss the smell of the different theaters. I miss breathing the same air as the actors and the audience and the crew. I miss thinking sequences through or inventing bridges from one scene to the next. I like that I went from reel tape to tape cartridge to cassette tape to floppy disc to CD to computer. I like that the engineer loved programming the computer and kept my more limited knowledge in mind so I'd hit the cues clearly. I miss feeling the play, feeling the mood of the moment, nearly the same every performance but not quite. I miss the pressure of a busy, live performance.
"The theater is a temple," says Prologus in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, "and we are here to worship the gods of Comedy and Tragedy." That ran through my mind nearly every time I entered through the stage door. I did my part in that worship and was proud to do so. Yes, I miss it, but when it's time to exit, one exits.
I miss reading a script for the first time, pencil and paper beside me, taking notes on what the playwright suggests for sound cues and writing down my ideas. I miss meeting with the director to go over the cues, to hear what s/he wants, and to propose my ideas. I miss meeting with the whole creative team for paper tech, the meeting in which we talked through what we're doing.
I miss re-reading the script to imagine the sound. Sound is not just dropping in a thunder clap because the script says so; sound matches and enhances what's going on. There's a difference between thunder in a comedy and thunder in a mystery. What would the accompanying rain sound like? I miss deciding if a doorbell should be rung offstage by the actor or a sound effect programmed by me. And again, what kind of doorbell fits the situation? What should the train whistle in the distance sound like? When the actor opens the apartment window, should there be city sounds? And if so, what's the neighborhood sound like?
I miss the time spent in the audio production room working on realizing the sound with the sound engineer. I've worked with three engineers and two of them I miss greatly. The third did his job, but the other two took production to a higher level. What I miss most from those sessions is the collaboration, and I also miss watching those artists in action. I would tell them what I wanted and they played and worked on and finessed the sounds and tended to come up with something more than I imagined. I would start it, then sit back and listen and marvel as they created perfection.
The engineer I worked with over the last years was the most amazing. Fortunately, I had enough sense to let him interpret what I wanted. I'd read some lines before the cue, tell him what the director thought it should be, tell him what I thought it should sound like. There were times when I thought we were spending too much time on a cue, only to hear a sonic work of art. He knew how to be perfect but not upstage the actors. Plus, we were complete opposites in what we liked to do. He hated doing live shows. He was a recording engineer and loved the comfort of having a 7th take. I loved going live, having only one time to get it right.
I miss tech week. Everyone says they wish they could avoid it, but it's a week of watching things come together. I liked having one night that was sound night, in which I could stop the proceedings to go over a cue again. I liked being able to tell the disagreeable actors that they had six or eight weeks to rehearse and that I have one night.. It is sometimes difficult for actors to remember there's more to a show than her or him. I can't say that I particularly liked having the director tell me that, despite him/her having heard the cue before, s/he didn't think it worked now that s/he heard it with actors. Neither the engineer nor I liked having to re-do effects, but the director is in charge. And it gave me another couple hours working with him.
I miss opening night, waiting in the green room with other members of the crew and the actors. I always left at 15 minutes call so I could watch most of the audience come in and also (and I don't know any better way to say this) become one with the board. Also, to keep the curious away from the board and computer. I didn't need to be with the cast; I liked those minutes to review the script, think about things, quietly make sure the actors' mics were on (there was always a vocal warm-up at 10 minutes, so I could see if any mics were not working), and just generally prepare. I miss that first time that everyone does everything without stopping, that first time in front of an audience, the first time everything has to happen.
I miss working on shows I knew before. For example, I always wanted to be in Ain't Misbehavin', the Fats Waller review, but I suspected no one would ever do a white version of it. As the sound designer, I worked every performance and loved it. I'd heard of The Laramie Project but never saw it. To work it was incredibly moving every performance, plus we did it during October, the month Matthew Shepherd was killed, and there were references to specific dates, which made it even more real. My first two shows as board operator were The Music Man, in which I had maybe 3 cues, followed two weeks later by Angels in America: Part Two: Perestroika, which had 87 cues and all of them on audio cassettes. And I was terrified and lived through it and it was the first of many shows I was sorry to see end.
I miss working the run of the show, finding the rhythm of it without getting into a rut, and even though we'd done 20 performances, being prepared for anything to happen. I miss pretending that this world of pretend was where I belonged. I miss the relationships that took place during a run, being ignored by certain actors (usually young who didn't understand the collaborative effort that goes into a performance) and not caring, being acknowledged by and having conversations with veteran actors and crew, swapping stories, sharing news and gossip. I miss having complicated cues and pulling them off without a hitch.
I miss closing night, especially shows I liked doing. I'd find myself thinking "this is the last time I'll do that." While cleaning up, taking down the mics and speakers, and pulling the cable helped me cope with the end and putting the run to rest, it never worked completely and I'd be post-show depressed for a couple of days. But then there'd be the next show to work on.
I miss the smell of the different theaters. I miss breathing the same air as the actors and the audience and the crew. I miss thinking sequences through or inventing bridges from one scene to the next. I like that I went from reel tape to tape cartridge to cassette tape to floppy disc to CD to computer. I like that the engineer loved programming the computer and kept my more limited knowledge in mind so I'd hit the cues clearly. I miss feeling the play, feeling the mood of the moment, nearly the same every performance but not quite. I miss the pressure of a busy, live performance.
"The theater is a temple," says Prologus in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, "and we are here to worship the gods of Comedy and Tragedy." That ran through my mind nearly every time I entered through the stage door. I did my part in that worship and was proud to do so. Yes, I miss it, but when it's time to exit, one exits.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Two Men: The Cautionary Tale
I've been writing some of my memories of growing up in a small town in the 1950s. I think I've posted others (Rocky Springs comes to mind), so here's another:
Gap had two men who served as cautionary tales. One was Stewart Fisher; the other was Jonas
(no last name known). Stewart was slow,
although, happily, the public had had their fill of picking on him and pretty
much tolerated him. He was a large man
who scared me a little. During WWII,
people were asked to record numbers on all railroad cars. (I’m assuming I’m remembering this
correctly.) Stewart couldn’t serve and
instead wrote down every freight car number he could. He continued taking down numbers in tablets
my father gave him. Father hired him to
do odd jobs around the mill. Although he
gave me the creeps, I was assured he was harmless and the Christian thing to do
was to be nice to him.
Whereas Stewart was thought of as slow and harmless, Old
Jonas was the example of everything dire that could happen to you if you
masturbated. A moment of pleasure
equaled a lifetime of whatever it was Jonas was. Jonas was our homeless person. I often wondered if Jonas was Gap’s forgotten
man, as they were called in the 1920s and ’30s.
Jonas wasn’t elderly, but I could easily see how he was barred from
everything. He was the town drunk, the
village idiot, the man nobody wanted. As
far as I could tell, he was beyond Christian Love and Charity. Mother hastened me out of the way when she
saw him on the street. Some people let
him sleep in their old stables or carriage houses when the weather got really
cold. I knew he also lived beside the
spring mechanism inside the Town Clock tower.
Stewart was retarded.
Jonas clearly had a history, a history for a young boy not to know. Jonas was the result of too much
masturbation. Jonas was the result of
too much alcohol. Jonas was the result
of what happens when you catch a sexual disease. Jonas was what it was like to live under the
churches’ highly-placed radars.
The first time I thought I had a handle on Jonas was when I
read Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. I recognized the choir director instantly. Having smugly figured out the choir director,
a notion came to me that maybe being a gay man in Gap would be the same
thing. By the time I’d read Our
Town, I was in junior high, if not senior high, and hadn’t seen him in
ages. No one wanted to talk about
him. And, of course, the only books I
could find in the Lancaster County Library were so clearly anti-gay that even I
could tell I was being lied to. No
Jonas, no discussion, no questions, no answers, no nothing. There were times I wondered if I stayed in
Gap if I’d become the next Jonas.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Not Sean
Yesterday, he stood beside me at the food bank. I was happy to see he's still around; I'm sorry his circumstances are such that has to get help from the food bank.
I think I've written about him before. To me he is Not Sean. Someone on the bus told me his name and it sounded like "Sean." One day at the Chinese restaurant, I introduced him to Jack as Sean. He later corrected me. His voice is so quiet and his accent is one I don't recognize, I don't know what he said his name was. More than one syllable was involved, yet it sounded like "Sean."
The first I noticed him was a few years ago. He was going to Harrisburg Area Community College and almost consistently got to the bus stop just in time. He was astoundingly pretty. I think he would be hard for anyone not to notice. Yet so shy.
Spring, 2013, he was jubilant about being accepted at the college of his choice. He showed me the letter; that surprised me. This past January or February, he came into a bus shelter. I asked if his college was having a long break or if he was on independent study. He said, "College didn't quite turn out the way I wanted." And it was clear I was not to pursue the subject. I later gave him my email eddress and told him to get in touch if he ever wanted to talk.
Not Sean is maybe 20. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he really is one of the most beautiful young guys I've ever seen. "Twink" tends to be a pejorative term implying the young man is a himbo. Not Sean is no himbo, although his appearance might give one that impression.
I would hope that his parents didn't banish him because he's gay. They'd have had to know that by the time he went to HACC. Maybe he left them. I wish he'd trust me enough to talk. Of course, he's maybe 20 and knows about and uses the food bank, so maybe he's getting help -- seeing a therapist or case manager. I care about they boy. I wish I knew how to get him to talk and understand that I'm concerned about him. He may well be suspicious of me. Perhaps he has reason to be wary about gay old farts.
Yesterday, he made no effort to let me know he was standing beside me. Was he embarrassed to be seen at the food bank? Why did he think I was there? I suspect he was truly hoping I wouldn't see him, and that if I did, I would ignore him. How could I ignore Not Sean? I hope he comes to understand that if I see him I will say "hello" to him because I'm glad to see him. He needs to know that people might like him.
I think I've written about him before. To me he is Not Sean. Someone on the bus told me his name and it sounded like "Sean." One day at the Chinese restaurant, I introduced him to Jack as Sean. He later corrected me. His voice is so quiet and his accent is one I don't recognize, I don't know what he said his name was. More than one syllable was involved, yet it sounded like "Sean."
The first I noticed him was a few years ago. He was going to Harrisburg Area Community College and almost consistently got to the bus stop just in time. He was astoundingly pretty. I think he would be hard for anyone not to notice. Yet so shy.
Spring, 2013, he was jubilant about being accepted at the college of his choice. He showed me the letter; that surprised me. This past January or February, he came into a bus shelter. I asked if his college was having a long break or if he was on independent study. He said, "College didn't quite turn out the way I wanted." And it was clear I was not to pursue the subject. I later gave him my email eddress and told him to get in touch if he ever wanted to talk.
Not Sean is maybe 20. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he really is one of the most beautiful young guys I've ever seen. "Twink" tends to be a pejorative term implying the young man is a himbo. Not Sean is no himbo, although his appearance might give one that impression.
I would hope that his parents didn't banish him because he's gay. They'd have had to know that by the time he went to HACC. Maybe he left them. I wish he'd trust me enough to talk. Of course, he's maybe 20 and knows about and uses the food bank, so maybe he's getting help -- seeing a therapist or case manager. I care about they boy. I wish I knew how to get him to talk and understand that I'm concerned about him. He may well be suspicious of me. Perhaps he has reason to be wary about gay old farts.
Yesterday, he made no effort to let me know he was standing beside me. Was he embarrassed to be seen at the food bank? Why did he think I was there? I suspect he was truly hoping I wouldn't see him, and that if I did, I would ignore him. How could I ignore Not Sean? I hope he comes to understand that if I see him I will say "hello" to him because I'm glad to see him. He needs to know that people might like him.
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