Every Wednesday I hop in my car and make the 30-minute drive to a city named after the more famous version of its namesake nestled somewhere between New York and Ohio.
And though the towns are separated by nearly 3,000 miles with a topography between them as nuanced as the food and politics both places bear a striking resemblance when it comes to their values. Hard work and grit are the currency in these parts and don’t you forget it.
About two months ago I landed an opportunity to teach a subject I knew a great deal about or at least thought I did. I had after all spent a third of my life trying to make my living as a modern day storyteller before my aunt’s failing health and the dream itself started to feel less deferred and more unattainable.
The truth is, I’d felt a gradual shift within myself long before but kept plowing along out of fear of losing what semblance of identity I was clinging to. In some perverse way, life stepped in and forced me to confront the heart I”d been trying to dupe for quite some time.
It always knows, I later discovered.
On the first day of class I stood before nearly 50 students accompanied by heavy gaits and blank stares waiting for me to prove I knew a little something about something.
I stumbled through the first class using the dated lesson plan of a colleague that seemed as old as the theater itself. By the time I reached the end of my less than brilliant lecture I’d piqued the interest of only a few.
I made the drive home that evening with slumped shoulders as I tossed my bag into the backseat of my “teachermobile.”
The weather seemed fitting as a light rain became a not so light rain and the view out my windshield as hazy as the future. The windshield wipers danced a frenzied two-step like the self-doubt in my mind. All that seemed to be missing was some wistful jazz tune playing faintly in the background.
Next week has to be different, I thought to myself.
For the next 6 days I worked tirelessly to craft a lesson that was engaging, poignant, and somehow relevant to the lives of each student. But mostly, I made a promise to show how much I cared about such things.
I needed to create a space, a haven of sorts, where emotional agility, flexibility in thought, and free speech could all thrive without ridicule or exile. I wanted everyone to know that whatever they were going through someone somewhere understood.
A week later the class felt more like a campfire with friends huddled around a glow of community and possibility. We shared stories, doubts, our frailties, and in the process cultivated the early seeds of trust.
I thought back on how the Greeks once believed their words held up the pillars of the universe and if they weren’t spoken with enough passion or vigor mankind would cease to exist.
I thought about how ancient tribes in Africa passed on tradition without writing down a single word, which meant a failure to listen with a reverence for one’s past meant one would forget it forever.
I recalled how just a few short years before I’d lost the hope that a playwright, an actor, or an artist could change the world with a sentence, monologue, or splash of paint; things I once clung to fiercely with the belief they were as vital as breath itself.
Now here I was moping about on the corner of 8th and Broadway one muggy New York night complaining about how I’d poured my soul into a play only 4 people deemed worthy of silencing their phones for.
Nobody cares, I thought. So why should I?
By the time the third class rolled around I’d gotten a glimpse of the responsibilities and demands that tugged at the lives of my young and not so young students.
“I have work right after this class,” one student told me.
“I take organic chemistry and biology all day before,” another chimed in.
Upon further investigation I discovered other students had children, were navigating through school with poor health, and often had to commute up to two hours after work. I mentally tipped my cap to all of them taking solace I’d stumbled upon my new heroes.
So when I screened August Wilson’s Fences I thought for certain it would be seen as an excuse to amble out of class early, or use the time as a brief respite from their hurried lives, or maybe even take the time to tuck in the little ones before the cycle all repeated itself.
How wrong I turned out to be.
Just a week before the class was introduced to the life of August Wilson. We delved into what made the man tick and what compelled him to bleed on every page; how a little community in Pittsburgh known as “The Hill” shaped his take on the world and subsequently his writing.
When the clock struck 6:20 pm I stood up as the film played and said, “Class is over and I know some of you need to go. You’re welcome to stay and finish it,” I told them before stepping outside to answer questions.
As I paced up and down the corridor I could see night had fallen without warning. A long day for everyone, I thought.
I waited and waited for students to file out in droves now that they were officially free to go. But to my great surprise, I saw only 3 people make their way through the glass doors before Wilson’s last words had been spoken.
Nearly the entire room of 30 had decided to stay.
They had invested, however briefly, a bit of their own selves into this story; one that likely resonated with them more than they dared to admit. In some small way they saw themselves on that screen; the dreams, the heartache, the hope.
By the time the credits danced on the screen I noticed those once heavy gaits now had a bounce in them. They’d left the room changed, which is to say a little better off than before meddling in the lives of Troy, Rose, and Cory Maxson.
“Such a good movie,” I heard one say.
I headed to my car that night as if I could toss a forklift over my shoulder. I was walking on clouds convinced STORIES DO MATTER.
They matter because they illuminate our humanity and celebrate the human condition. Two truths that would never budge.
That night, I finally had my reminder that young New York actor had so desperately been hoping to find.
Better late than never, I thought.
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