Happy Birthday, H.R.H.!

Friday, 14 November 2008

I adore Prince Charles. I always have. And I don’t really care what anyone else thinks, or has to say about it, him, Diana, Camilla or whatever. I respect and admire him. And have had a crush on him as long as I can remember.

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 60^th Birthday, HRH!

(and, God rest ye, Sam Wanamaker.)

Big pearls and cashmere

I think job interviews are possibly the only experience worse than the British Driver’s Test (which I failed twice). Notably, I failed my first Driver’s Test before we even left the Testing Centre. I will never forget it. My Driving instructor, “The Saint,” drove me to the Testing Centre, gave me a hug and said, “You’ll be fine.” I failed that test so quickly, he hadn’t even sat down properly with his cup of coffee, before the Examiner, “Satan,” and I had returned into the Testing Centre. At best, I had failed that test in under 5 minutes. I stalled the car in the Testing Centre parking area. We didn’t even make it to the road. I was crestfallen. But, my instructor assured me I would have my day.

On Attempt No. 2, I actually made it out of the Testing Centre Parking Lot, a miracle, and felt that the only way was up. Up and down, all around the traffic nightmare that is Stratford-upon-Avon. I managed the “Up hill start,” the “Down hill start” and (my personal favourites) the Three-point turn and the Reverse parking between two vehicles. (I can do these maneuvers now, blindfolded in my sleep!) Just when I thought “Success!” I panicked during my “Emergency Stop” maneuver on the Clopton Bridge. I had failed the test at the painful, bitter end.

My friend, Catherine, will be taking her Driver’s Test Attempt No. 3 in two weeks time, and she is sure of success. I have assured her, too. There is something to the “Third Time Lucky” phenomenon when it comes to the British Driving Test, and even romance, but job interviews? No, you only get one shot at those to Pass or Fail.

Wouldn’t it be helpful if job interviews were more like the Driver’s Test? You have a go, have a chance to get some critical feedback from your examiners, then you go away, have a think and a cry, practice, practice, practice, and then come and try again. And again, until you get it right. To be sure, this would hardly be the most cost-effective or time sensitive way of screening applicants, but how much more humane then the “Act now!” shot-in-the-dark approach we all have come to accept and endure.

To their credit, the English are at least very efficient in their interviewing processes.  I recall an interview I had for a Drama Lecturer post in Chichester several years ago. I was still a lowly Ph.D. student, and considered myself quite lucky to even get the interview. The letter I received informing me of my selection, also informed me that I was one of three candidates being invited along to interview. I was even informed of their names. (!!!!) Imagine that, I thought. (Alas, that this happened in those heady days before Google, so I was unable to ‘google’ my competition, as one could now.) What I could never have imagined was the shock I encountered when I arrived in Chichester at my designated interview time, only to find the other two candidates arriving as well. Yes, the three of us were in fact being interviewed together. And believe me, it was as much the nightmare scenario as you imagine. A situation I would not wish upon anyone. Any-one.

The significance of three keen seekers being forced to cat-fight for the golden egg was not lost on me, Shakespearean that I am, I knew immediately that I had been woefully miscast as "Cordelia" in a low-budget production of King Lear. And like the ill-fated Cordelia, I had hoped that my grace, charm, (and my big pearls and cashmere) would see me through, and win the day, whilst my competitors “Goneril” and “Regan” clawed out each other’s eyes. 

Chichester is 102 miles/165 kilometres from Stratford-upon-Avon.  That’s over 5 hours, 37 minutes, and four changes/transfers via train on British Rail. Anyone who has taken British Rail anywhere in this country will agree that train journeys, however enjoyable, are quite often a saga in themselves. One finds one’s self waiting (and waiting and waiting…) on cold, windy platforms, for trains that are inevitably and often indefinitely delayed, and then endlessly transferring from one train to the next, and the next, because getting wherever it is you want to be can’t be accomplished by traveling in a straight line.

Eventually, bone tired, battle-weary, and emotionally drained, I ambled home from the Stratford-upon-Avon train station. As I walked through the door, I noticed my answering machine’s angry red light blinking in the darkness. With my last ounce of energy, I dashed across the room and pressed the button. From the machine came the sonorous tones of the Chichester Department Head who had (gleefully) enjoyed the role of King Lear all day. Efficient to the last, his message was short and direct. No “Hello,” “Thank you,” or any other customary niceties, just simply: “We’ve given the job to Jessica.” Keys and Gucci briefcase still in my hand, wet raincoat still hanging about me, I just sank and wilted onto my settee (couch), and didn’t bother to turn on the lights.

By contrast, my experience of American academic job interviews has been the opposite extreme. Once, I interviewed for a post in a small town in Michigan, and I was there on site for nearly a week! And it was five days too long. I mean, of course after five days you would indeed have a “real sense” of a place, and its people, but really, oy vey! I mean, five days? That’s long enough to meet people, get to know them, fall out with them, and draw battle lines.

Of course, that’s an extreme example, but it does seem to me that American academic job interviews go on (and on, and on, and on…) in a tiresome parade of meetings, handshaking, and endless meals wherein the job candidate is the beggar at the banquet, or the fool at the feast, forced to talk and entertain, whilst everyone else digs in and chows down. It’s almost as if American academic interviewing committees have developed some strange strategy wherein, the thinking goes, that the longer they keep you smiling and tap-dancing in one place, depriving you of food and sleep, the more likely you are to reveal yourself to be a raving lunatic, homicidal maniac, or both.  Given the choice, I think might prefer the more brutal, English “King Lear” approach. Sure, it’s lacerating, but at least it’s swift.

Thankfully, my interview yesterday at The Shakespeare Institute, another big pearls and cashmere day, was neither a “King Lear experience,” nor a “Five Day Sojourn.” I would say it was more like facing a friendly Firing Squad. It was an utterly surreal experience for me, having been a graduate student there years ago. I kept hearing that Janis Joplin quote in my head: “You can never go home.”  And a homecoming it was in many ways, but I tried not to focus on the metaphysical, full circle-ness of the moment, but rather deal with the task at hand as best I could.  The Institute has changed significantly since my days there as a student. And perhaps, for all my youthful exuberance, I may indeed to be too much of a harbinger of the past, too “old guard” to meet their present and future needs. The Shakespeare game has changed a lot since I was a grad student, and The Shakespeare Institute now has far more competition than ever before. Notably up the road in Warwick. Everyone is striving to have “the edge,” the upper-hand. 

The other “sticky wicket” in all this is my own indifference. On one hand it is everything I have ever hoped for, trained for, prayed for, dreamt of; while at the same time, I am terrified of losing the new found and hard-won freedom I now possess. I fear that I am only erecting yet another obstacle to fulfilling my dreams of writing. Perhaps, I don’t even believe I can cut it as a writer. So, I faced yesterday very torn. I wanted to do well, of course. But I’m not sure this is something I really want. I mean, of course it is! But, it also isn’t... Not the best state of mind to be in when one is trying to make a good showing at an interview. The way I see it, let the fates decide. It will be a “win, win” for me either way.

The D.E.B. is as loving and supportive as ever. He just wants me to be happy, and wants me to do whatever will, in his words, “fulfill” me. I just don’t know what that is anymore.  Some days, I relish the idea of being just another “country wife,” as it were, here in Barford: doing laundry, quilting, gardening, etc. I went to my first Barford “Coffee Morning” at the Machado Gallery last Friday. And there I met two lovely women from the village, and we started hatching a plan to create a Barford writers group. I don’t want to miss these organic, spontaneous life opportunities, opportunities that may in fact lead nowhere, professionally, but offer moments of connection. Moments that don’t require big pearls and cashmere, but would be all the more enjoyable in them.

 

Soaring...

Friday, 24 October 2008

There are moments in each person's life that on the surface appear ordinary and mundane to others, but for them hold the significance of finding the Holy Grail, or like Frodo finally being able to let go of that blasted ring! The D.E.B.’s wise, sage older brother, “The Guru,” refers to such moments as “passing through a doorway.”  Yesterday, I passed through just such a doorway.

I delivered the “Thursday Seminar” lecture at The Shakespeare Institute. This was the most significant lecture of my life.  More than any snarky conference, or snarly gathering of surly scholars in New York City, this lecture at the Institute meant everything to me.  I was a student at The Shakespeare Institute some 12 years ago. And I as said to the assembled scholars and students, back all those years ago I never ever imagined that I would ever even finish my Ph.D. successfully, let alone become a “Shakespeare scholar”, nor could I have dreamt that I would have my Ph.D. research published, and certainly never fathomed the possibility of returning to my alma mater, and being invited to give a guest lecture there.

The big day came and went, and not without much trepidation. I procrastinated for weeks, uncertain as to what I should speak on. My goals were quite simple: I wanted to impress, and, I didn’t want to be publicly humiliated. My NYC chums: “Boy Genius Playwright” and “She Who Must be Obeyed” emailed me routinely to remind me of the importance of my recent experience with Shakespeare in Alaska, and how I should speak on that. They were of course absolutely right.

Last April, I went to Alaska in search of Shakespeare. (A recurring theme in my life.) I was teaching an undergraduate seminar on Shakespeare in America, when I came across details about a provocative, touring production of Othello in Alaska, wherein the play was being re-visioned with Othello as a Native Alaskan. Before I knew it, I had written the theatre company a letter, and booked a round-trip (return) ticket to Yakutat, Alaska.

In Yakutat, I re-discovered Shakespeare. But not only this, I was adopted by the Eagle clan of the Tlingit tribe; and met the most amazing people on the planet, who I am proud to call much beloved friends. How could I not talk about this? How I could not share this with the Shakespeare community here in Stratford-upon-Avon? How could I doubt this? Quite easily, actually.

I panicked. I doubted the “scholarly worthiness” of what I had to say, then, two days before my lecture, I had a rather unfortunately conversation with a leading Shakespearean who off-handedly dismissed the Alaska production I’d intended to speak about as, “absurd.” More panic.

I fretted, I sweated, I cried. It was too late to switch, and develop another topic. I considered my options, I could feign illness and cancel, or, I could feign illness and cancel. There was no way I could cancel, so I resigned myself to the fact that it was too late, I had see this through as I had planned, come what may. I sent out frantic SOS messages to my friends in NYC and to my friend/mentor/hero, Cicely Berry.

On Wednesday evening, the D.E.B. rushed home from work to cheerlead me through the eleventh hour. After the lovely dinner he prepared, we sat at the table, and I read my lecture aloud to him. Darling English Boy that he is, after I struggled through and finished reading, we both fell silent. He took a deep breath, gathered me into his arms, and said softly: "Darling Girl, I don't know whose voice that is, but it's not yours. Just talk to them. Tell them what you saw." I, of course, reacted just as one might expect: I flipped out, burst into tears, and went to bed.

The wee hours of the next morning found me laying on the bathroom floor and dry heaving into the toilet. And I wasn't hung over. I have never, ever been dizzy like that, even when I have been hung over! It is completely ridiculous that I had gotten myself into such a state over this lecture. On the bright side, I thought, I did now have a somewhat plausible excuse for canceling…

The D.E.B. helped me back to bed, and I did sleep for a short while. He woke me before he left for work, and left a card for me on my bedside table that said: "I am always so proud of you. Just be yourself.”

I slept for a few more hours and was then awakened by the phone. It was Cicely Berry urging me to remember that Shakespeare can and does change lives, regardless of what some scholarly-types would like to think. Then, I checked my email, more messages of support...and then, BANG! The clouds broke, and with new zeal and fresh resolve I shouted, well, swore, actually, very loudly. I grabbed my laptop and started lacerating my lecture. I cut pages and pages of academic crap. I re-typed the entire thing. I was still re-typing my lecture up to the moment that the D.E.B. came back home to drive me into Stratford-upon-Avon for the lecture.

With guns a'blazing I walked right into The Shakespeare Institute, and yes ... I ROCKED, THEIR, WORLD!

I finally realized I had nothing lose. So, I went for it. And the response was overwhelming positive. I had to, in the words of Polonius, be true to myself, and to my friends in Alaska (who are getting quite a beating in the world press just recently, due to their controversial Governor).

In many ways, my talk was just an open love letter to them, and to Alaska. Amazingly, after a night on the town to celebrate my success at surviving my lecture (which included a dinner of Fish’n’chips from my favo(u)rite “chippy” in Stratford), when the D.E.B. and I made it home, we discovered that a parcel had arrived for me earlier in the day. It was from Alaska. A care package from Yakutat.  My dear, dear, cheeky friend, Kris, had filled a box full of (would you believe it?) Tylenol!!! Benadryl and…Nyquil (oooooohhhh!!!!). God, bless her! There were Snickers bars, granola bars, assorted other American goodies, and a freshly canned jar of Nagoon berry preserves. (That smells and tastes of Alaska.) I could not help but see this precious gift as a great reward for holding faith with the remarkable work that I had had the good fortunate to experience in Alaska.

I spent the rest of that blissful, victorious night, strung-out on Nyquil and chocolate, and high on a post-traumatic-stress adrenalin rush. Before bed, I checked my email, and found another incredible reward. An email from my Tlingit Eagle clan sister—who had had no foreknowledge of my intended talk, nor the angst I’d experienced around giving it. She wrote:

“Hello my dear friend. It is so cold out. As I was walking home, I looked up in the sky and saw a young, graceful eagle soaring in the sky, so lovely and free. It reminded me of you.”

(Cue soundtrack: "Theme from the film 'The Magnificent Seven'")

Chaos theory

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine (who adamantly opposed my leaving New York/moving to England) left a poignant message on my Facebook page:

"Don't forget, lovie: wherever you go, there you are. Watch and listen closely for any repetitive speech or behaviour or situation to make sure that all the frustrations you left behind (and behind and behind) are truly location-specific detritus and not stuff you're carrying around with you."

On days like today, I wonder if he’s right. I am just shy of the “2 months in” point, and I have fallen into chaos. I've mentioned the broken tooth – while eating popcorn of all things! – and “the cold,” and the resulting desire for Tylenol. Well, now, all hell has broken loose! 

The cold, turned into a cough, and last night the cough triggered what felt like the onset of an asthma attack – I've had one of these before, not something I’d like to repeat – the D.E.B. dutifully rushed me to Warwick Hospital, where I was seen—within half an hour I might add—by the “Out of Hours G.P. (General Practitioner)” at the Extended Hours Service Centre. No camping out in a messy, noisy, germ-riddled Emergency Room here, thank you very much.  The doctor was very helpful, patient, and cute. But I digress.

It turns out that:

a.) my allergies have gone hay-wire, triggering my asthma, which has been relatively dormant while I was living in New York; 

b.) the “ringing in my ears” is the result of a ruptured ear drum (!?!), caused by an ear infection I didn’t realize I'd had,

and,

c.) I have a cold. 

Dare I ask the heavens, “What else?”

So, here I lie, on a beautiful, Thursday morning, in bed. When I could/should be up and out in my new world: morning prayer at St. Peter’s, walking Lucy across the Barford playing field, taking my body for my 5K loop to Sherbourne and back, &etc.

And of course, our bodies pick the worse possible timing when it comes to being ill. I have a long week ahead. Tonight, the D.E.B. and I have tickets to see David Tennant (the current Dr. Who) in Love’s Labours Lost at the RSC. These tickets are GOLD DUST! We have fabulous seats—thanks to my connections at the Shakespeare Trust—and there I shall be, hacking away, trying not to bring up a lung in the front row. Brilliant.

Today is also the day when I should be making an appearance at The Shakespeare Institute, at the weekly “Thursday Seminar,” a.k.a. weekly “Shakespeare Schmooze Fest.” Tomorrow night, the D.E.B. and I are carousing with friends at a culinary event, “Claridge’s Night,” at Stratford College. What a joy my fellow diners will have with me sputtering over their foie gras.

Festivities continue through the weekend. Sunday, D.E.B. is performing at a charity event in Warwick (He is a darling, truly.) and in the evening we are going to see American folk diva, Diane Ponzio in concert in Stratford.

I am grateful to have such an active and full social life. And I am even more grateful that the D.E.B. has friends that are actually, really wonderful, and whom I actually, really, honestly like and enjoy!

My stress and angst are down to my own poor planning. I am scheduled to give two, separate, Shakespeare lectures in Stratford next week on Tuesday and Thursday. I have known about both of them for quite some time. Am I prepared? Am I ready?       

I think the word Gordon Ramsay uses is “shambolic.” If “procrastination” were a country, I would be its Queen. My upcoming lecture at The Shakespeare Institute next week is only the most significant lecture of my academic career. Why not wait until the week before to flip out, and panic about it? Oh, yeah. And then, get sick.

Perhaps, some things don’t change, no matter where you are.

 

 

Autumn rain

1st of October. Autumn pitching down on my nearly-dried laundry. The day started so sunnily. What happened? And so, too, I feel my confidence waver and wane. 

I am scheduled to give a lecture at The Shakespeare Institute in 3 weeks time. This is not just any lecture for me. This is a "Thursday Seminar" at The Shakespeare Institute. "Thursday Seminars" were a huge part of my life not so long ago, when I was graduate student there. I can't believe I received my Ph.D. 10 years ago this year. Has it really been 10 years? And here I am, back again. Here is the thing, you know those old sayings, like the one Janis Joplin is said to have coined: "You can never go home." And, another in the same vein: "Never return to the scene of the crime."  That's how I feel about giving this lecture. I'm not ready. I don't feel "old" enough or "grown up" enough to do it.

I still feel like that hopeful student I once was, longing for acceptance and approval. Wanting to prove my worth, my smarts. When I was a student, Thursday Seminars were a pleasure and a pain. If we were lucky, our director, Stanley Wells,  had roped some Shakespeare hot-shot to come and talk to us. I will never forget how on one occasion he'd invited Harriet Hawkins to speak. Harriet Hawkins was--and probably still is--this sassy, American scholar-diva. She was tall, blonde, and gutsy, with what I think was a broad Texan accent.  The title of her lecture was "Classics & Trash." Awesome. So American. The kind of woman that makes an Englishmen swoon.

I admired her. And wish I could find that kind of courage now. I mean, I've had it before, I used to teach at NYU, for goodness sake! If that doesn't take balls, I don't know what does! But this is different. Like presenting a lecture before your family--and I have a highly critical family.

I want most of all to make a good showing. To confirm my status and place as a Shakespeare scholar and performance historian. I am torn between talking about my experience seeing an amazing production of Othello in Alaska last April, or pulling together some thoughts that I've had about the final moments of Hamlet, inspired by two recent productions I have seen both here in Stratford (with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart) and at Shakespeare in the Park in  NYC. Either would be fine, but I want to be better than fine. I want to be excellent. 

So, instead of knuckling down and pinning down exactly what I am going to talk about, I am focussing my energy on worrying about what to wear (Oh, how I miss J. Crew); unpacking the countless boxes that have just arrived from New York; and watching the rain...