End of Semester Wrap-up, and the Cabaret.
I've now officially reached the half-way point of my education at NYU's Graduate Acting Program. It is a milestone for several reasons, the least of them being that it means I only have a year and a half to go at the school.
Last year, around October or so, I burst into Zelda Fichandler's office, my guts twisted into burning knots, my emotions tangled, and my state-of-mind in basic disarray. She took time out of her busy schedule to speak to her ailing student, during which time he expressed his extreme anxiety and confusion as to his presence in NYU's Graduate Acting Program--in his mind, the best actor-training institution in these United States--and his future as an actor...if he had one.
Essentially, after the first week of classes, I had a crisis--which I still feel the pangs of to this day, and will probably continue to for a while--I felt that, in the presence of all these other people who were sincerely passionate about acting and theatre that I was the odd man out. I was the fraud, the one who didn't have any burning desire to create theatre, or participate in it. There was no intense drive, no commitment to spelunking into the depths of the human experience for artistic truth, enlightenment, illumination, what-have-you. I believe I've documented this crisis elsewhere in this blog; I'll not go into detail here. Needless to say, I was pretty miserable.
I left Zelda's office with a deadline:
"Wait until after the first semester of second year," Zelda said, "before you decide."
I also left with a little reassurance:
"I think you'll have a wonderful career in the theatre...I wouldn't let you leave."
Since then, there've been Games Projects, Shakespeare Projects, a gut-wrenching yet enlightening summer at Williamstown, an illuminating and triumphant production of Gem of the Ocean, and my third Cabaret this year. In-between Gem and the Cabaret, there was even more turmoil.
So where do I stand now? I must say, I haven't thought about leaving until just now. There seems to be too much to do. But, because I'm a worrier (one of the things I'm working to release--I tie myself up in so many mental knots that my Alexander teachers are telling me that it may be resulting in physical tightness), just entertaining the thought makes me think "well...do I REALLY want to stay? Do I REALLY want to remain an actor?"
Here's the thing.
Gem of the Ocean seems to have been a watermark, a turning point. During that process, working with Tory, Nyambi, Chivas, Nikeyah, Krystal, and Ben, and under Benny Ambush's direction, I learned some things about myself, I experienced things that were exciting and unexpected.
I learned the value of research, what that work can ignite within you. I learned about developing an interest and curiosity about the people and culture I was inhabiting. I learned about the power of images and music, and spiritual things about what the soul can communicate, despite generational gaps. I learned about acting as an act of generosity, as opposed to egomania--about surrendering oneself to an experience.
I learned a thing or two about self-transformation--the magic of the craft of acting and the theatre, what all that internal and external work can accomplish...there is something indescribable, mysterious, vague, and even uneasy about applying make-up to yourself and, once finished, looking in the mirror and both recognizing and NOT recognizing yourself.
I think the faculty was impressed; even surprised. Zelda effused that "not only are you an actor...you're a character actor," echoing Mr. Ambush's sentiment to me earlier that "I talked about transformation...and you did it. That's rare, and not a lot of people can do that." Jim Calder, the only instructor that I am afraid of, who is at once ruthless and loving, always pushing his students and challenging them to go further, could only say "beautiful work, Clifton."
So yes, it was a triumph. But something was missing--this performance, this play, had moved so many people...why did I feel nothing special about the experience?
Then Calder dropped a bomb during a one-on-one discussion I had with him in a cafe a couple of weeks after the closing. I was going on and on about my troubles, my frustration at being within my company, and talking around my lack of pride in my work, and how I was worried because I didn't feel as though I was "enjoying" it.
All he said was "your body looked like it was enjoying it."
So I think the two of us came to a conclusion about myself--that I DEPRIVE myself of enjoyment. This is a very serious matter, deserving of much observation and examination at a later date, as it extends beyond the realm of acting.
Calder went on to say "you were so free and so strong onstage. You were like a force of nature". Wow. But I already had my problem to chew on.
So, this semester became about examining just WHY I take no pride or joy in my talent. After all, my friend and fellow-rapper, Chris Napper, exclaimed in bewilderment to me sometime ago--"how can you be THAT good at something and NOT enjoy it???" I couldn't answer his question. It doesn't make much sense, does it?
The semester rolled on...the memory of "Gem" faded, very quickly. You see, I was the sole second year student who was cast in a third year production. Everyone else was embroiled in either Bus Stop or Picnic, two plays by William Inge. And so the semester became about those two plays. In fact, from the BEGINNING of the semester it was all about those two plays.
Before rehearsals for the Inge plays began, no one seemed able to remember that one of the their classmates had already been working on a play since a week before classes started. Once rehearsals were in full swing, the collective anxiety took over, and 17 people became solely concerned with their own experiences, understandably so. But "Gem" was rarely a subject of conversation, and when it was, it was all-too-brief. But even the one time where the play was discussed at length, in Bev's class, I sat and listened to a room full of people praise nearly everyone else in the cast, seemingly tacking on compliments at the end for yours truly as an after-thought; as if they realized it may have been inconsiderate NOT to say anything. This was confusing to me, as it seemed the faculty seemed to have way more to say than a group of people who see me 8+ hours a day.
Much of the remainder of the semester was about the work various teachers saw in the Inge plays, how people came together as an ensemble, how great the work was. In one class we even dedicated something like three sessions to Inge and the world that he wrote about. I spent a scant 8 minutes at the end of a class talking about "Gem". Teachers were constantly referencing the Inge plays; friends of classmates sending their congrats to "the whole second year class". I literally felt like Ralph Ellison's nameless protagonist, the true Invisible Man.
These feelings were only fueled by the frustration inherent in spending 50+ hours a week around people from a seemingly narrow cultural persuasion; feeling overwhelmed and buried by their musical tastes, their sense of humor, their comportment, their language. Fueled by a lack of communication among the group which still must be remedied. Fueled by the feeling that nobody was interested in this nigger being himself.
After working on "Gem", it was and is difficult to exist within the confines of what is (and what will continue to be) an essentially Anglo-centric ensemble and curriculum. Yes, 19th Century Russia is endlessly fascinating; yes, Ibsen's battling of the status quo is intriguing; yep, clothes in the era sure were nice, weren't they? Inge was a fine playwright; but so was August Wilson. Why not spend a day talking about HIM? The third years took a field trip to some museum so they could delve into a little Irish history for the other third year production in rehearsal at the time, Sean O'Casey's The Plough and the Stars...why not take a trip to the Schomburg Museum and learn about Black people?
Sure, you can teach me about the whale-bone industry that flourished in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries. That's nice. Do you know what BLACK FOLKS were doing at that time? What they were battling? It's irksome to sit and listen to people melt into puddles at how "gorgeous" all these clothes are; in my mind, clothes pale in comparison to Jim Crow.
But that's a frustration for another time, I suppose.
Anyway, tensions didn't necessarily cease when Cabaret began.
Already feeling frustrated and invisible, rehearsals for Cabaret were like having yet another monkey heaped onto my back. As predicted by many, I was very busy in the cabaret, doing several numbers in addition to a solo. But it's hard operating with a deep shame and resentment within yourself: shame because I excel at singing in a way that most do not, and resentment that I feel that I am viewed merely as a strong singer and not an actor (despite the fact that, even with a couple of musical credits and the word "singer" prominently written on my resume after the word "actor", none of my auditors--Janet Zarish, Victor Pappas, Richard Feldman, or Zelda Fichandler--EVER asked me to sing. I suppose what little acting I did was quite sufficient). Insecurity? Probably. But it seemed very real at the time. Still does.
What made the process even worse was the unexpected and acute onset of illness during the week of the run. I rarely ever get sick. In fact, the only time I've been sick this year was during the week we performed the fucking cabaret. Obviously, I was even more resentful that something I'd been looking forward to doing for over year was hampered by something as unwelcome and wholly RANDOM as a fucking cold. But the physical sickness was augmented by the fact that it seemed that no one, save the director, really seemed to be concerned that I was sick. In fact, it seemed people were running, while doting over others who had fallen ill.
A stupid, sick nigger. I was convinced that these people couldn't have cared less. Fuck them, I thought. I became consumed by, sick with resentment. Feelings of isolation came on even stronger than before. Feelings of insecurity were amplified by the lack of standout accolades from those who came to see the show: "nice Cabaret!" "Great cabaret!" "Nice job in the cabaret." " You were good in the cabaret."
I'm better than that. I'm better than "nice" or "good".
Right?
So what in the end turned out to be a great thing, was marred by internal (and partially external) strife.
So after an entire semester of feeling reviled, pushed to the wayside, misunderstood, ignored, invisible, buried, constricted, and even discriminated against, what happened?
I cried.
I wept.
I sobbed.
It was "Secret Santa" day. My disposition being crotchety already--I didn't want to get gifts for people who clearly didn't think very much of my existence, so fuck them...not to mention I have NO money to spend on anyone--I sat in this circle with my company, watching people give gifts to each other. My gift was two bags of Skittles and a $20 iTunes gift certificate. Anyone who gave a shit about me would've known that I quit eating Skittles in May; on top of that, I neither own an iPod nor a working computer, so what use do I have for the certificate? Watching the thought that obviously went into the gifts for others, ashamed at my inability to provide a gift for the person I was supposed to give to, and overcome with what felt like the onset of nausea (that's how perturbed I was), I left the room.
I eventually wandered into the Shubert theatre, feeling emotions welling up, but not wanting to release themselves.
Julie and Kim found me. By this time I had teared up. They saw me, and I apologized for leaving.
Then the dam burst.
For the next twenty or thirty minutes I sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, emptying out all that had been aching inside me since JANUARY.
And Julie, and Kim, and Lauren, and Chris, and Zoey, and Jon, and Matt, and David, and Jason listened to me. And they offered kindness and understanding. And encouragement.
And love.
The event, which took place nearly a week ago, has left me uneasy, feeling vulnerable, ever since. I nearly come to tears just thinking about what happened.
But what was important, aside from the sheer release, was the fact that I was wrong.
I was wrong about my company. I'd written them off, had been resentful, and yet here they--well, some of them--were, offering their support. And I couldn't stop crying. I just couldn't stop crying.
I've felt so alone for so long--an unsatisfying and stifled love-life; a jarring and unfortunate experience at Williamstown; constantly carrying the military brat's dedication to fast and shallow adaptation; watching families come from North Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, New Orleans, even California to see their loved ones in shows, while my own family is merely six hours south and refuses to even respond to my pleas of their attendance at my shows.
Earlier in the semester I lamented to someone that I know I hold onto a lot of pain, but I have no idea how to access it, or where it lives, and I've begun to catch just how I dodge those inner areas.
It seems the bottle's been opened, at least for now. And there's a LOT in there to be mucked in.
So the question remains:
With a sure craft falling into place; with a great deal of technical prowess becoming apparent; with the prospect of delving even further into Clifton, the man as artist looming; with confidence, pride, and joy beginning to buoy up the experiences;
Am I going to leave school now, and quit being an actor?
Guess.





