I grew up in theatre. Mama designed sets for Baldwin
Burroughs at Spelman College. I appeared on stage for the first time when I was six or seven as one of the children in his production of The King and I and Mama's best friend was and actress. Still I
hesitated. I’d already spent the money allocation for vacation this summer—went
to New Orleans for the last week of JazzFest, spent ten days in New York and
another ten in Vermont. Spent most of the money I’d made from the consultant
job I’d finally gotten after an almost five year hiatus. But new work possibilities
are on the horizon. Go on Cynthia, I
told myself, defy your home training,
raid your savings account for something that’s non-essential.
Plane tickets
to London were expensive. I would be going during high season and wasn’t
booking 30 days in advance. I needed all my girl friends egging me on,
you
deserve it … you can’t refuse a gift like this … girl you could die tomorrow,
long life ain’t promised,
to get me to hit buy on Ovitz and purchase the
non-refundable ticket.
This would be a new experience. I’d passed through London
once my work with Cassandra took us there to launch her Blue Note Til Dawn album at the Jazz Café. Hadn’t gone to the
theatre while I was there. Theatre was a staple of my New York life but I’d
never done a blitz, never packed eight plays into 13 days.
And this came with bonuses. My oldest friend, the one who
had provided shelter following Hurricane Katrina, a home after I fled the
storm, ten days after purchasing my house in New Orleans. I stayed with her in
Atlanta until she left to for her new job in London. We hadn’t seen each other
in almost nine years. Plus a newer
friend, who’d left San Miguel and moved back to the States, was attending the
class.
I wasn’t the least bit New York blasé, gawked out the window
like the tourist I was when my car drove through Central London past 18th
century stone buildings, ornate ironwork, public squares. We were staying in
the hub of things, in Bloomsbury, around the corner from the British Museum. Chuckled
at the serendipity of staying next door to RADA. Our residence was next door to
the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts.
Staying up all day was the best way to get my body clock into
this time zone. Around 11:00, Karen, my friend from San Miguel, another woman
in the program and I took the tube to South Bank. We walked along the Thames,
looked across the river at Big Ben, explored inside the National, one of the UK’s most
prominent publicly funded theatres, lunched outside Somerset House and visited
their Return
of the Rude Boy exhibit before returning to College Hall.
The 40+ people attending Inside
the London Theatre this year—predominately left leaning Californians,
mostly seniors, only one other non-white participant—had dinner together that
night. Many had been coming to the program for years. I couldn’t wait to begin
experiencing this program that brought people back year after year.
