 |
| Her Majesty, The Queen |
It is a question I am asked routinely; and yet, I never feel able to answer this question fully. For me, Shakespeare is visceral. His words seem as close to me as my own heart beat. But to respond to this question with such excessive sentimentality (in New York, we would employ the Yiddish word: “schmaltz”), or with the reply: “How not Shakespeare?” seems utterly pompous and pretentious, but for me it is utterly true.
Only recently have I come to enjoy the exchanges which follow the inevitable “So, what do you do?” question. When I was but a wee Shakespeare diva, I used to be quite shy in acknowledging my Shakespeare habit. Instead, I would say: “Theatre” or “Literature” or some other vagueness. Over the years, however, like so many a Shakespeare heroine, my “strange love grew bold,” and I have finally found my voice. Now, when people inquire, “So, what do you do?” I beam brightly, and declare: “Shakespeare.”
And, then, of course, I wait for the reaction. Trust me, there is always a reaction. ‘Shakespeare’ is one of those terms that will always prompt a rejoinder. I would argue that few words in the English language inspire or invite such immediate responses as ‘Shakespeare’ does. Like his quartos, these reactions come in good and bad varieties. The reaction may even be ugly, but it is never, ever indifferent.
Everyone has an opinion about Shakespeare - and a desire to share that opinion, too, apparently. I can honestly say that I have never known a single person to respond by merely saying: “Oh, really?” and then press the conversation on, as I once imagined they might do if I held a different occupation, as say, a pediatrician or a botanist. (No offence to pediatricians or botanists intended.)
I did test this theory once, in fact, and came to realise quite swiftly that pretending to be a botanist is not the best idea -- particularly if you are not quite sure what a botanist does, exactly. I think when I replied rather weakly to further questioning with a faint: “Something with plants?” I may have given myself away on that occasion.
Lately, I have started to chronicle the myriad, and often humorous, reactions I have received upon informing a new acquaintance that I “do” Shakespeare. Here is a small sampling:
“Shakespeare? I love that guy! Genius. 'Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow,' Yeah, yeah! But, let me ask you’s somethin’. How that guy get so smart?” – Cabbie from the Bronx
“Oh, I love that line! Y’know. The one about the bumble bees. Y’know, 'To be a bee, or not to be a bee.' I totally get that. I get tired of buzzing around, too.”– Waitress in a diner in Washington, D.C.
“Shakespeare? He’s about life.” – Hip hop artist from Brooklyn
“My daughter absolutely loves all that stuff. She’s dead clever. Always got her head in book. I do encourage her, but I am concerned that some of that Shakespeare can be a little inappropriate for children, I think. Like that one scene, where Frodo is attacked by that giant spider? That was really scary and graphic.”
- Woman on transatlantic flight from Birmingham to Newark, New Jersey
“I think Shakespeare is the greatest writer of my country. Are you Ethiopian, too?” – Taxi driver in Atlanta
The most sublime example of my “Why Shakespeare?” encounters is a moment in April 1990, during the annual Shakespeare Birthday Celebrations, standing atop The Swan Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon.
As I stood overlooking that idyllic river, swans gliding by in the distance, His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales asked me: “Why have you chosen Shakespeare? What has brought you to study Shakespeare here in Stratford-upon-Avon?” I will confess that I was as stunned by the question, as much as I was by the speaker. That was 20 years ago, and I am still searching for the answer.
Shakespeare’s Birthday Celebrations, 23-25 April 2010, Stratford-upon-Avon. Annual Parade and Procession, 11:00 a.m., Saturday 24 April 2010. More information: http://www.shakespeare.org.uk/birthday.html
The Birthday Celebrations for Stratford-upon-Avon’s most famous son are in full swing. Stratford-upon-Avon is heaving with tourists (when is it not?) from around the globe celebrating the life, times, works and hometown of William Shakespeare.
To add to the merry-making, today is also the Feast Day of St. George, patron saint of England. There are lots of festivities for both Will and George planned throughout the county over the coming weekend.
In my little pocket of Warwickshire, on the banks of the Avon, we have marked the day in our own quiet Barfordian way. Morning prayer at St. Peter’s with the vicar reading those famous lines from Henry V – “Cry ‘God for Harry, England and St. George!’” – guess he was sort of killing two birds with one stone, as it were.
This weekend, there’s a special St. George service planned at the church, and our “local,” the Granville, is offering a special “olde English” menu all weekend, in honor of the saint.
As for me, I have spent the day out in the glorious sunshine, writing in the garden. This was a welcome and wonderful reprieve after a stint of “shakespearing” at the Shakespeare Trust this week.
I spent the past two days at the Trust helping to lead a Shakespeare-centered debating project for 14-16 year olds. This workshop is geared toward “middle of the road” students. Not the highest flyers, but the ones who, with the right encouragement could be high flyers.
The students who participated in this workshop were from 4 different schools in the area of the English Midlands called “the Black Country”. Its moniker is derived from the regions heavily industrial past in coal and iron.
As such, it makes sense that the students in our groups were from mostly urban, working class backgrounds. This kind of work can be very demanding, more than a little bit draining, but it always rewarding. And yesterday was no exception.
There is a very funny British comedienne called Catherine Tate. For her sketch comedy series, “The Catherine Tate Show,” she has created a host of hilarious characters.
One of her characters is “Lauren Cooper,” a disaffected teenager known primarily for her now-famous catchphrase: “Am I bovvered?”
Imagine being surrounded by a group of Lauren Coopers, as you stand armed with only your wit, and the sole directive of getting these disgruntled garden gnomes to engage with you, each other and Shakespeare. Words fail to describe fully the very public nightmare this situation can be. Horrid.
There I stood, in a sea of discontented youth, trying desperately to light a spark, and these kids were having none of it. We limped through the first hour, which felt to me like pushing a boulder uphill, while wearing a backpack full of lead bricks. Make no mistake, it was worse than trying to herd a tribe of cats. Blindfolded.
And I have to say, the girls were the worst! Gangly arms folded tightly across uniformed chests, expressions on their faces at once blank and smug. They huddled together in a tight ,little groups, finding strength in their almost photocopy sameness. Wisely, I diffused each gaggle’s group mentality by splitting them up, and making everyone stand next to someone from a different school.
Breaking the groups up helped immensely. The ring leader, the main girl who was “too cool for school” was suddenly floundering at sea without her “back up” surrounding her. Also, not surprisingly, liberated from the ring leader’s sphere, her fellows were free to actually relax, enjoy themselves and excel.
One such girl was Annie, the smallest, shiest member of the “cool girl” gang. I could see immediately that Annie had different spark/spirit about her. My instincts were right, and as the day progressed she went from strength to strength.
The day actually ended in a competitive public debate, and Annie was shocked and elated to hear her name announced as one of the 6 semi-finalists. The finals round was a heated debate on the following motion: “This house believes that Shakespeare is no longer relevant.”
I was responsible for prepping the team opposing this motion, which included Annie and two other bright sparks. We had half an hour to formulate points and decide who was saying what. In this session, Annie took the lead, and then she led the troops into battle.
During the final debate, I sat on the sideline like an anxious stage mother. And, I was absolutely gutted when the judges declared victory for the other team, the Proposition. My heart sunk, as I immediately felt the day had been lost. I had visions of little Annie limping back to her circle of friends, only to be chastised for daring to try.
Thankfully, I was distracted by one of the other teachers. But, in the midst of our conversation, I felt a small tapping on my shoulder. I turned around to see Annie’s little face beaming up at me. “Thank you, Miss. Thank you. I can’t believe I did that. Thank you so much!” she said as she threw her arms around me, and gave me a huge hug.
“You are very welcome. Listen, Shakespeare wrote ‘to those who have been given much, much is expected,’” I said to her, trying not to cry, “I’m expecting great things from you, Annie.” Her smile beamed again, “Thank you, Miss!” And with that she scurried away.
The power of Shakespeare to empower and change lives is something that I have had the good fortune to witness consistently throughout my life. And, It never ceases to amaze, unnerve and humble me that I have the opportunity be a small part of that process. Beyond the parades and the birthday cake, Shakespeare is 400 years old and still going strong!
Where there’s a Will, there’s a way.
His life, however comfortable, has not been easy. Consider this: spending your entire life in stasis, in training, in-waiting for a job that you can only obtain through the tragic loss of a dearly-loved parent. Now that is a double-edged sword if ever there was one. I love the Queen, and I hope that she continues to reign for many, many years to come, but I also hope that one day Charles may be King. Tricky stuff.
Shakespeare explores the dilemmas of kingship beautifully in the Henry IV plays, and he tackles the burden of majesty exquisitely in Henry V. I recall hearing Prince Charles recite one of Henry’s wonderful speeches from H5 (“Upon the King”) many years ago. He read it as part of the lecture he gave for the Shakespeare Birthday celebrations here in Stratford-on-Avon in 1990. That seems a very long time ago now. And here is how it began…
They needed a boy and a girl. Two students were needed to officially represent The Shakespeare Institute at the annual Shakespeare Birthday celebrations. The annual Shakespeare Birthday celebrations are serious business here in Strat-ville. The celebrations for 1990 were no exception. In fact, the Birthday celebrations reached an all time high that year with His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales, giving the official “Shakespeare Birthday Lecture.”
For this special occasion, The Shakespeare Institute wished to show itself modern, progressive and equitable. The then-Director of The Institute, Stanley Wells selected one of his favorite students, a Simon Pegg look-alike, also called Simon, and me. Even though it earned me the ire of more than a few of my fellow students, I was honoured. I did wonder, albeit fleetingly, at Professor Well’s choice of me. Until that point in time, I thought I moved within his sphere virtually unnoticed and undetected. However, upon reflection, I have surmised that of all the young women that inhabited the Institute at that time, I was probably, to his mind, the most effable and certainly one of the better dressed. (Thank you, big pearls and cashmere!)
The Shakespeare Institute at that time was populated by a small gaggle of British women who were on the whole sweet, stoic and silent; a few women from Asia (Japan and China, to be precise) who were less stoic, equally sweet, and even more silent; a handful of Europeans (mostly French) who were blisteringly intelligent, chain-smokingly elegant, and utterly aloof; and a legion of American women who fell into two distinct camps: loud, serious and somewhat dowdy feminists, with bad hair cuts and sensible shoes; and frilly, frothy “Ren Faire” princesses, with lissome limbs, flowing locks, and not-so-secret ambitions of playing Juliet. My guess is, to someone like Stanley, I seemed to fall somewhere in the middle of this spectrum of femininity, a sort of United Nations of academic womanhood.
At any rate, I was chosen as the female ambassador to the most spectacular gathering of the 1990 Shakespeare Birthday celebrations: an invitation-only, morning coffee soiree atop the Swan Theatre, with His Royal Highness, Prince Charles. This was not the sort of event that could be left to chance, or in the hands of a drippy, doe-eyed Ren Faire princess—who might swoon at any moment—nor an anti-disestablishment feminista, with an axe to grind tucked in her Dr Martens. Stanley had entrusted me with this task, and confident though he was that I would represent the Institute well, he insisted that we practice my royal introduction ad nauseam.
“Um, Alycia,” he would call out to me in the courtyard, stressing the last syllable of my name with a long “s,” routinely and incorrectly, with firm and adamant British resolve. “I’ll be the Prince, and you be you.” he directed. Very simple instructions, followed by even more simple stage directions: He beamed. I curtsied.
On one occasion, during one of our numerous rehearsals, the actor within me awoke from her slumber, and grew brave. Perhaps my bile had been raised as a result of overhearing the bad haired feministas gossiping about me in the tearoom: “Who’d want to be Stanley’s trick monkey, anyway?” I’d heard them screech. I needed to assert my humanity, reclaim my dignity. So, in this last rehearsal, I grew bold and brazen. I dared to improvise. Following my deep and graceful curtsy, I lifted my head, my eyes met Stanley’s, and I began to speak: “It is a such honor to meet you, Your Royal Hig...” Abruptly breaking out of his regal character, Stanley balked: “No!! Oh, no, no, my dear! Don’t say a word. You mustn’t speak to him. He will shake your hand, and he will move along. He will not talk to you.”
Smile and curtsey. That was all that was needed. I could do that. And what meant more to me, was that Stanley thought that I could do that, and that I was the best of the scholar-girls who could do it. It was approval. Odd approval, but still, approval nonetheless. Stanley’s approval was a high and heady thing back then, to all of us young and restless, wanna-be Shakespeare scholars. One look, one nod of his could place you at the summit of academic bliss, or so we believed. I recall a day – before the Prince of Wales event – as I scampered into the building, the Head librarian, came out of her office as I was checking my post box, “Stanley’s been looking for you,” she said. My heart stopped. I had recently given Stanley a copy of my undergraduate honor’s thesis (on Juliet and Cleopatra) to read as part of my application for the Institute’s Ph.D. program. Had he read it? Did he think I was a genius? Was he staggered by my brilliance? Was I in, or was I out? I crept up the dark, creaking staircase, his office was of course at very the top of the stairs. I meekly knocked on his door. Time stood still as I opened it slowly, after being commanded to “Enter.”
Clemency. It means: “Disposition to forgive and spare offenders; mercy. An act or instance of mercy or leniency,” and “Mildness, especially of weather.” But in this instance, “Clemency” was Professor Well’s daughter. He needed me to babysit her for the afternoon. She was, and probably even now as a young adult still is, quite adorable, and there are of course worse ways to spend a mild, sunny English afternoon. Skipping out to the garden, with delighted four year-old and her plastic clod-hoppers in hand, I took comfort in the fact that while I had yet to earn Stanley’s respect as a scholar, he clearly had no doubt of my abilities to amuse a precocious toddler.
Stanley’s clemency, with a small “c,” would soon be put to the test, however. Fast forward to the “big event” with HRH, and another darkened stairway. Following Prince Charles’ brilliant lecture, those of us who had been selected to meet and have coffee with him (myself, my fellow student, the actor Michael Maloney who was playing Prince Hal at the RSC at the time, the Lord and Lady Mayor of Stratford, & etc.) were ushered up the back stairs of The Swan Theatre, to the rehearsal room, which led to the balcony where coffee would be served. As I made my way up the stairs, I heard someone whispering my name. It was my buddy, “Proud American Princess.” “Sneak us in,” she hissed from the corridor. The “us” she referred to turned out to be herself and (I could not believe my eyes) Sam Wanamaker. Yes, the incredible ‘I’m-going-to-rebuild-Shakespeare’s-Globe’ Sam Wanamaker. I froze, did a double take and thought I was dreaming, but before I could contemplate the gravity of my actions, I motioned to the two them to fall in behind me. And the three of us marched across The Swan rehearsal room, and out onto the sunlit balcony overlooking the River Avon.
It gets better. (Or worse, depending on where you stand on decorum and protocol.) Stanley Well’s plan for an orderly procession of regal handshaking and curtsying was utterly obliterated, as Sam Wanamaker made a swift beeline to Prince Charles. And why not? Wonderful Sam should have been invited anyway! At least that’s what I thought as I snuck him through the door…
Following Sam’s cavalier lead, my sassy friend, “Proud American Princess” sashayed over to H.R.H., took his arm and threw me her camera. Although this is considered a huge, major, major and unforgivable faux pas—I did detect a faint gasp from someone across the room—Prince Charles was completely undaunted, and smiled broadly as “Proud American Princess” giggled on his arm. What could I do but take their picture, even though I knew it prove the last nail in my coffin.
As this royal Coffee Morning had now gone to hell in a hand basket, and as I was dead meat already, I went ahead and switched places with “Proud American Princess” when she urged me to do so. Though I did not take hold of Prince Charles’ arm, nor giggle by his side. (Just doing my bit for decorum, folks.) Then, after our photograph, the “impossible” happened. Prince Charles turned, and spoke to me. He wanted to know what had brought me to Stratford-upon-Avon, why I had chosen to come here from America to study Shakespeare. Ultimately, his asked, “Why Shakespeare?” I was stunned -- and not just because I had been programmed to say nothing. I came up with some sort of witty reply that sufficed in the moment, but I have never really come up with what I feel is a truly satisfying answer to that question. It has become a life pursuit.
Charles, if I may, was in fact very keen to know what we thought, and what mattered to us. And his own thoughts about Shakespeare and education were quite inspired and inspiring. I don’t think Stanley Wells has ever, ever, e-v-e-r forgiven me for that day. To be sure, it was not most responsible thing I have ever done, but I have to say, if I could live that moment again, I would make exactly the same choices.
Happy 60th Birthday, HRH!
(and, God rest ye, Sam Wanamaker.)
