Last week’s post described how I came to create a fellowship named after my grandmother, and the wonderful effect, after forty years gone, it’s been to have her name and spirit evoked as a regular part of my life.
Louise Eustace, my grandmother, had a profound impact on me and others, with her patience, warmth, and genuine love for humanity. Qualities that I believe best enable returning citizens—and the rest of us—to flourish.
In this post I am proud to introduce the 2025 Louise Eustace Fellows:
Justice Ainooson earned a Bachelor’s degree in Media, Literature and Culture through the Emerson Prison Initiative. He lives with extended family in the Boston area until he and his fiancé find a place of their own. Justice has a part-time gig as a product research analyst while he develops his financial services firm.
Hamza Berrios currently works as a circle keeper for Transformational Prison Project and legislative liaison for UTEC Lowell. He recently moved out of Brook House to his own place in Cambridge. Hamza graduated from Boston University and will start a graduate program at Harvard Divinity School this fall.
Aaron Morin recently moved to his own apartment in The Fenway and works as a Youth Coordinator at UTEC Lowell. Aaron is working towards a BA in Business from Boston College and is keen to capitalize on his years as a dog trainer within the prison system to open his own dog walking/grooming business. Meanwhile, he’ll be developing a parallel, non-profit business through BC’s Project Entrepreneur Program this fall that will employ returning citizens to train service dogs for victims of gun and community violence.
After several monthly dinners with these men, and other informal interactions, I am so honored to get to know them. Although I’m sure the money they receive is useful in their daily life, their connection when we come together is also important. For more than fifteen years these guys were each other’s family. They provided the mutual support necessary to successfully navigate prison, redirect their purpose, finish high school, attend college, and eventually earn parole into the community. In the name of community safety, the parole system requires parolees to remain apart. Because I got special permission for them to ‘associate’ as part of the fellowship, they have an invaluable opportunity to continue their mutual support.
When we get together, it’s my privilege to see these guys unwind, share stories of where they’ve been, where they’re at, and where they want to go. They literally build each other up. For my part, I get an unvarnished view of our carceral system from men who’ve successfully navigated it, and the immense satisfaction in having a hand in seeing these guys thrive.
I’ve always been a fan of the notion that we keep the spirit of those we love alive when we keep them fresh in your memory.
Geography can be a trigger. Since I’ve lived in the same place for going on fifty years, the spirit of so many friends loiter in the streets and parks I traverse every day. Habit as well. Every time I feel like having an aimless chat, I think of my mom, my go-to person for passing time on the phone. Of course, the calendar is a predictable reminder. Mine is littered with birthdates, death dates, and memorable events in between that I’ve flagged with the intent of resurrecting memory.
Still, some people drift so far beyond our scope that they don’t rise in our mind as often as we’d like. We kind of forget how important they were to us; how important their spirit still can be.
I embarked on a new project this year, a different slant on my concern for folks in the carceral system. My endeavor brought the unexpected delight of reviving the spirit of my beloved grandmother. Since this Sunday, September 7, is Grandparent’s Day, it seems a good time to share how this came about.
I didn’t have a large grandparent pool. Never met my father’s folks, who were estranged for reasons never explained. My mother’s dad died when I was nine, so he’s little more than a genial shadow.
After he died, my grandmother, Louise Eustace, moved to a retirement village only ten miles away; an easy trek for a boy on his bike ever eager for escape. Through my adolescence, college years, and early adulthood, my grandmother’s apartment was my sanctuary. Though she would never claim favorites, I felt special status sitting on her jalousied porch, overlooking the picturesque artificial lake, sipping a root beer float, listening to stories of Grandma’s girlhood. Or her long and happy marriage. Or tales of her son the priest, her daughter the nun, her son died in World War II, and her youngest, the beauty who married a rascally man. Sometimes we’d simply sit in the quietude while she mouthed the rosary while fingering her beads, or softly breathed some jewel from the American songbook.
My grandmother wasn’t a hero or an activist or an influencer, or even particularly assertive. She was simply the most contented person I’ve ever known. She bore the burdens of life stoically, and always praised the goodness that fell upon her. I cannot recall her making a single complaint. Given my penchant to be an angry young man, my grandmother proved a saving grace. When she died, at peace, asleep, in her own bed, I inhaled as much of her spirit as my lungs could hold.
But nearly forty years gone, her spirit in me had dwindled. Until..
This was the idea. Give a monthly stipend for a year or two to returning citizens (the currently preferred term for people just out of prison) to help them get on their feet. No strings attached. Finding a job, a place to live, setting up house can be much more difficult for returning citizens than the rest of us because: though they’ve paid their ‘debt to society,’ society too often holds a grudge.
I shopped the idea to some fellow advocates in carceral circles, and eventually met Larry Gennari who runs Project Entrepreneur at Boston College, a kind of Shark Tank for felons. “No, no. You’ve got this all wrong.” Larry doesn’t mince words. “Sure, returning citizens need money, but they also need support, and they need responsibilities.” Larry spun my idea into a fellowship, with an application process and signed contracts that clarify what fellows are expected to do, and what I will do in return. “Give it a name. That adds caché, prestige.”
A few mornings later I woke to the perfect title. “Louise Eustace Fellowship.” What my grandmother offered me: the wisdom of calm patience in the face of impetuous youth, is exactly what so many men coming out of prison need. (Really, it’s what all of us need.)
Within a few months of gestating, I had a dozen applications from returning citizens; all of whom had committed violent crimes in their youth, used their prison time to redirect their lives, and are hellbent on successfully reintegrating into society. I selected three, and since May we’ve developed a bond of financial and mutual support that aligns with my expectations.
What’s transpired beyond my expectations is how much more alive my grandmother is in my life. Every time I describe the fellowship, whenever we reference our guiding principle of calm, unwavering support, my grandmother comes alive for me, fresh as ever. And that is wonderful.
I realize it is commonplace, maybe even expected, to decry how much everything costs. Inflation is a necessary byproduct of an economic system predicated on the wonders of compound interest. But just as often I am amazed—nay, astounded—by just how cheap stuff is.
The day it hit 102 degrees in Boston, our ice maker stopped working. Of course, we were having folks over for a birthday celebration. And of course, we ran completely out of ice. (Though not until the end of the party—thank the summer party gods.)
A residential ice maker is a completely expendable frill. The amount of ice two people need can easily be accommodated with a few ice cube trays. Even if we had to purchase a bag of ice for the occasional 100+-degree party, we’d use far less energy than running the ice maker 24/7. Yet, having an ice maker is one of my favorite indulgences. Makes me feel like I live in a permanent hotel.
The next day, when it was merely ninety, we realized the fridge’s water filter needed to be replaced. After we changed that out, ice should start spitting at us again. Only it didn’t. The ice bin remained empty, forlorn. Perhaps the problem was worse, in which case we’d have to wait for our appliance repairman; an excellent chap though prone to long lead times.
Maybe I could just buy a few old school ice cube trays. We hadn’t had those in years, but how much could they cost?
I go to Target.com. $3 for two trays. Okay, I’ll get four. I select the quantity, the color and click, ‘pick up in two hours.’ The computer tabulates my bill. I expect $6 plus a contribution to the governor. But no, I get a $5 coupon, plus my customary 5% off for using my Red Card, and my total bill is…$1.43.
Next morning I go to Target and the cheery customer service rep hands me four very serviceable ice cube trays. On the walk home I decipher the economics.
Somewhere in the Middle East, or Russia, or Alaska, or Venezuela, some oil is pumped out of the ground it. It gets tankered to China, flowed through some pipelines, or into a truck, and delivered to a factory. In the factory, the oil is mixed with various emulsifiers, solidifiers, and dyes, souped into a slurry that’s injected into molds. Once cooled, two trays are stacked as a pair, adhesived together to form a single unit, loaded on a freight container, railed back to port, put on another tanker, and shipped to the good old US of A. Most likely Los Angeles or Long Beach, our nation’s premier container ports. Containers in Long Beach are craned directly from ship to rail car, and sent East. Most likely my ice cube trays go to Target’s East Coast Distribution Center in Bergen, NJ.
Once my trays reach the Garden State, things get dicey because, up until now, I’m pretty sure no human hands have touched these useful objects. They’ve travelled over 10,000 miles, but still have 220 to go. At the Bergan warehouse, they are differentiated from the thousands of other items loaded into a trailer headed to my Watertown store. There’s a good chance at least some parts of that transfer require people, though you’d be a fool to bet they are white people.
Once my trays arrive in Watertown, there are definitely people involved. The guys offloading the truck, stocking the shelf, collecting the items for my two-hour pick-up, and then smiling at me when they hand over the goods.
All of that effort makes $1.43 seem like a very good price, but don’t forget there’s a whole other component to this transaction: the web side. Someone had to photograph my ice cube trays, write up the description, note what aisle they occupy in my store and include them in the computer inventory when made ready for sale. Another part of the web noted when the store staff retrieved my trays and modified quantities available for the next ice querier. The web also calculated my price: I guess I need to thank those folks who, for reasons unknown to me, decided that $6.43 was entirely too much to pay for four ice cubes trays, and so they gave me a $5 coupon.
Thank you, Thank you, Oh ye Gods of Capitalism.
By the way, shortly after I returned with my quartet of well-travelled ice cubes trays, the ice maker kicked in of its own accord. I guess it had just needed a rest. So now I have motel ice once again, and ready backup trays, should I ever have the need. They will survive in my basement for decades, well beyond my own expiration date.
A female science fiction writer from Japan? Being no kind of science fiction fan, I figured I’d pass on Elif Batuman’s profile of author Sayaka Murata (The New Yorker April 7, 2025). But as a faithful New Yorker reader, I give every article a chance to grab my attention. Three paragraphs in, I was hooked.
Sayaka Murata is a unique person by any standard. Quirky at the very least. Likely bizarre. Certainly diagnosable in our label-infatuated era. A Woman on the Spectrum. Ms. Murata is one of Japan’s most celebrated authors, yet continues to work part-time in a convenience store, as she’s done since college, as does the heroine of her most famous novel, Convenience Store Woman.
How can a convenience store be a setting for science fiction? The genre is premised on creating alternative worlds, while convenience stores are firmly rooted in this one. Actually, they’re so much a part of our world as to be almost invisible. Convenience stores are ubiquitous. Neither landmark nor eyesore, we drive by them without seeing them. Until we need gas or a soda or a chili dog, in which case we avail ourselves of their service. But we don’t engage with them. We don’t credit notable experiences to them. They are functional components of lives that we live in other places, at other times. Convenience stores are so of-the-moment that our moments in them don’t even register.
According to Ms. Batuman, Sayaka Murata’s writing is science fiction because she creates other worlds out of the one we actually inhabit. How? By subverting the assumed priorities of our society. By questioning the things that we do not question. Children. Career. Love. Honor. What are humans like who do not (pretend to) esteem these things?
Keiko knows from an early age that she’s odd. Vignettes of her youth, sprinkled through the narrative, illustrate a child without empathy—at least not as conventionally defined. When she and classmates come upon a struggling bird, that dies, she does not understand why they go through a ritual burial. Why not eat the bird? Her father likes quail! Time and again she is told that she’s strange, but the root cause of her problem eludes her. Her world is internally consistent to her, so she does not understand the faults others cannot overlook.
Thus, Convenience Store Woman is a much more frightening science fiction than the conventional kind. The alternative world is embedded in our own, and the alien is the daughter, the sister, the coworker among us, chortling a corporately scripted greeting with far too much enthusiasm than entering a convenience store deserves.
When Kieko, as a college student, first takes a part-tome job in a convenience store, her family and acquaintances (it would be a stretch to report she has any real friends) applaud her initiative. Eighteen years later, long-ago graduated, still single, still working part-time in the convenience store, she is considered an utter failure. Keiko lives for the convenience store. The rhythm of the register, the ebb and flow of daily customers, the critical importance of every display, every special, every sales goal met and exceeded. Fellow workers are her teammates; she molds herself however necessary for ultimate convenience success. Life beyond her always-open sanctuary…falls flat.
Since this is a novel, change must occur. A true loser enters her world. A convenience store failure, who cannot muster the necessary enthusiasm to greet and clean and stock and submit himself to the dreary customers. Shiraha falls through life’s cracks, and eventually winds up sharing Kieko’s tiny apartment, hiding from the world.
The specifics of their cohabitation, quirky and humorous to the reader, are exciting to the outer world. Keiko’s finally has a man! She’s moving on! She’ll get married! She can leave the convenience store, get a real job, raise a family!
Sayaka Murata. Photo courtesy of New York Times.
I will offer no spoiler. You’ll have to read Convenience Store Woman yourself to find out what happens. What I will say is that, this simple, 2-3 hour read, is one of the most provocative books I’ve read. But I will offer this: how often in science fiction does the human world supersede the alien one? Never. Which begs the question of which world is more real. The ever bright, predictable, neatly packaged convenience store. Or the detritus beyond
Last Sunday afternoon I attended a reading of Frederick Douglass’ epic speech, “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July.”
“This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn. To drag a man in fetters into the grand illuminated temple of liberty, and call upon him to join you in joyous anthems, were inhuman mockery and sacrilegious irony. Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak to-day?”
Frederick Douglass gave his oration at Corinthian Hall in Rochester, New York on July 5, 1852, upon the invitation of the Rochester Ladies Anti-Slavery Society; 76 years after the United States declared its independence, eight years before the outbreak of the Civil War, and two years after Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act. For those of us with creaky history, the Fugitive Slave Act enabled slaves who had escaped north of the Mason-Dixon line to be apprehended and returned to slavery in the South. Details of this, our nation’s first law that cast the shadow of slavery over the entire country, include the fact that testimony of two people could send a Black person south to slavery, while the accused person was not allowed to testify. Meanwhile, Judges who ruled for the Black person received five dollars for their effort; ten dollars if they determined in favor of slavery.
“There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.”
Frederick Douglass’ speech is a glorifying salute to our nation’s noble intent, and a chilling recitation of how far we have still yet to come 173 years on. Though it’s true that slavery is illegal, (at the cost of 600,000 American Civil War deaths), we are still a nation mired in the paradox of proclaiming equality while practicing discrimination at an institutional scale. His words speak directly to our here and now.
“{We have created] a religion which favors the rich against the poor; which exalts the proud above the humble; which divides mankind into two classes, tyrants and slaves.”
The event was held under a big tent on the front lawn of the First Baptist Church in Jamaica Plain. My friend Jackie Scott offered the introduction and was the first of nine readers, each of whom read an abridged version of the speech (which still ran to forty minutes). Ah, the attention span of nineteenth century audiences! The event was offered by Mass Humanities, which is sponsoring over fifty readings of this disquieting yet inspiring speech throughout the Commonwealth this summer. Although there is value in reading these important words, there’s magic in sitting still and hearing them delivered with the conviction initially intended. Find a reading near you and go hear the words of a great man who wanted nothing more for himself and his people than all of us want for our own.
WARNING: This blog posts includes spoiler alerts about the 2024 film, Babygirl plus comments about sexuality that some may find inappropriate in a general interest blog. That being said, I’m confident that everyone will keep reading…
Nicole Kidman and Harris Dickinson in Babygirl. Photo courtesy of Hollywood Reporter.
I hold two related truths. First, that it is high time for white guys to stop running the world. Second, that whoever takes over won’t do any better job than we have. Why? Because regardless of race, gender, or creed: power corrupts.
The first of my twin truths is unpopular among white guys. The second is unpopular among everyone else because, well, when their turn comes everyone else thinks they’ll do a better job.
One of the most convincing explorations of my truth pair is the 2024 erotic thriller, Babygirl, written, directed, and produced by Halina Reijn and starring the amazing Nicole Kidman. It’s easy to frame this picture as a tale of female empowerment. Kidman plays Romy Mathis, a self-made tech CEO who mimes the language of collaboration and corporate compassion while remaining utterly, excruciatingly in control. Romy has everything she could want: money, status, two affecting daughters, and a devoted husband who plays second fiddle to her career yet, after nineteen years of marriage, stills wants to make love to her every night. And… he looks like Antonio Banderas to boot. Not too shabby. Still, our heroine wants more, even if she’s unaware what that might be, until a brazen intern, Samuel, intuits her submissive side and introduces the thrill of yielding control.
As a man who knows a thing or two about the gratification of submission, I can attest that the first 110 minutes of Babygirl are pitch perfect. Harris Dickenson’s Samuel is not obviously dominant. Rather, he’s keen to the clues Romy scarcely knows she’s transmitting. He nourishes a morsel of her sexual hunger, then withholds. Thus increasing her hunger. As the stakes of their verboten liaison rise, his power over her is no longer merely symbolic. In our Harvey Weinstein world, this young man could take his boss down. But of course he doesn’t because, his power over her is only as strong as he power she holds in the rest of her life. Among the sexual dominance films of our era, 9-1/2 Weeks; Secretary; Babygirl gets dominance right.
One hallmark of a great movie is realizing several possible, satisfying endings, and rooting for one that is both unexpected yet logical. An hour into Babygirl, intriguing endings unspool. Will Romy get the same pass that male CEO’s traditionally enjoy? Will Samuel proclaim #MeToo? Will Romy’s family life shatter while she maintains the veneer of corporate success? Will her deeper understanding of the nature of power and submission actually make her a compassionate person?
There’s one truly moral character in the film, Romy’s capable, long suffering assistant Esme. Esme figures out what’s going on, though her reaction is one of grief. “I genuinely believed that women with power would behave differently.” Poor naïve girl. Esme is fated to a life of moral comfort without great material success.
The good news is that Babygirl doesn’t end in any of the ways I anticipated. (I hate it when I actually figure that out). The bad news is: the ending is absolutely terrible. Romy gets away with her dalliance, even her husband forgives her; proving that people in power get away with shit, regardless their sex.
Samuel moves on, proving that men get second chances that women often don’t (i.e. Monica Lewinsky). Esme never gets her promotion, proving that nice guys, of any sex or race, are chumps who finish last. But the absolute worst thing about the ending is final scene, where Antonio Banderas, in yet another attempt to satisfy his eternally hungry wife, goes through a set of sexually domineering motions.
I know, I know, the movie is a female fantasy about having so much power and control that Romy can explore the widest possible range of expression by submitting to others. But after spending an entire film illustrating how deeply Halina Reijn understands dominant/submissive relations, she wipes it all away with the illusion that Romy’s dutiful husband can be taught how to go through motions that simulate domination. Not for a moment would play-acting dominance satisfy a truly submissive person. Domination is a game of the mind, not a maneuver of the fingers. It’s impossible for Romy, or anyone with an accommodating husband of nineteen years, to suddenly be dominated by him in the comfort of the marital bedroom. It simply doesn’t work that way.
And so, in the end, Babygirl fails. On the promise of exploring a sexual underside that is completely different from a person’s surface. On the pretense that if the world were run by anyone other than white men, things would be any different.
Calderwood Pavilion and Boston Center for the Arts
June 26-29, 2025
Boston is coming off a terrific 2024-2025 season that featured many excellent productions and expanding audiences. For local theater cognoscenti, there’s a great way to celebrate those successes, and look forward to new delights. Attend Moonbox’s 4th Annual New Works Festival!
Since New Works’ inception, I’ve spent the last weekend in June to hanging out around the Calderwood and BCA, where Moonbox commandeers all the performance spaces for a rotating performance schedule. This year, they will produce four staged readings and three full productions, all new works, all with a local hook.
The New Play Festival is a great opportunity for our theater community. Last year, over 100 actors, directors, and technicians got paid to lend their hand to this collaboration.
But it’s an even better deal for theater-goers.
If you’ve never been to a staged reading, it’s a memorable experience. Engaging theater relies on the audience’s imagination to embellish what’s merely implied on stage. In a reading, that faculty is amplified. When we sit among a group of actors in a semi-circle with ‘only’ scripts on music stands, our minds fill in the rest. The magic of a reading is, with a strong script and sharp actors, the compelling scenes we create in our minds.
The full productions at New Works are just that – completely staged plays with costumes, lights, sets, music, and often wonderful acting. I marvel at how polished they are for a mere four performances.
The festival is Moonbox’s generous gift to our theater community. Ticket prices are modest: $20 per reading, $25 per full performance, and there’s also a pay-what-you-can option for people of limited means. Of course, the invaluable benefit of assembling so many plays in one area at one time is the energy that flows among and between performances. Plan to spend entire day—even two—and between curtain times, chat up folks who make these shows real.
I hope to see many of you there!
The Juke from New Works 2. Photo Courtesy of Moonbox Productions
Selected playwrights and plays for the 2025 Boston New Works Festival include:
Main Stage Plays
Luna Abréu-Santana – Fan Girl – Directed by Alexis Elisa Macedo
Roberts Studio Theatre
Friday, June 27th – 8pm
Saturday, June 28th – 3pm & 8pm
Sunday, June 29th – 3pm
Jackie Gonzalez is obsessed with Star Thieves, a hit musical TV show about the trials and tribulations of band life. While considered a “loser” at school, Jackie is lovingly embraced by her online fandom community: the “Thieves.” In an attempt to publicly humiliate Jackie, high school bully, Quinn, devises a catfishing scheme where she poses as “Willow,” a new stan on the block. As Quinn becomes emotionally invested in the fictional world of Star Thieves, Willow and Jackie’s relationship progresses and they plan to meet at the fandom event of the year: Comic Con. What will happen when Jackie realizes that her online bestie is actually the bully from her everyday life?
Rachel Greene – Guts – Directed by Shalee Cole Mauleon
Black Box Theatre
Thursday, June 26th – 7:30pm
Saturday, June 28th – 3pm & 8pm
Sunday, June 29th – 2pm
The hit reality weight-loss competition show GUTS is back with its BIGGEST! SEASON! EVER! There will be grueling challenges, verbal abuses, and – of course – the fan-favorite weekly weigh-ins. But behind the camera rivalries are forming, romances are blossoming, and friendships are being found in the most unlikely of places. Can these six contestants find self-love, communal healing, and liberation in a place designed to make them hate themselves and their bodies? Do they have the guts?
Patrick Gabridge – Mox Nox – Directed by Alexandra Smith
The Plaza Theatre
Thursday, June 26th – 7:30pm
Saturday, June 28th – 2pm & 6pm
Sunday, June 29th – 5pm
In a world of rising water, two sisters reunite at their family home. Mira, the caretaker sister, had to weather her mother’s death alone, and holds every childhood slight so close that she is literally burning from the inside out. Sister Deedee has returned to bring her fiancé, Pike, to higher ground, even as her memory vanishes. A play of lyrical magic and visual surprise, with characters who desperately need love and dry land.
In 1973 Boston, Teresa grapples with the realities of gay life: how to support her best friends Eric and Christopher in their union ceremony, how to deal with a homophobic straight friend who doesn’t understand her, and what to do when violence permeates her community. Inspired by stories from Gay Community News and the real queer people who lived in 1973 Boston.
Micah Pflaum – Creature Feature – Directed by Hazel J. Peters
Deane Hall
Friday, June 27th – 7pm
Saturday, June 28th – 5:30pm
Sunday, June 29th – 6pm
Creature Feature is a deconstruction of John Milton’s court masque “A Masque Performed at Ludlow Castle,” (commonly known as “Comus.”). The Shepherds of the Citadel warn their charges never to venture into the nearby woods. They tell the story of a sorcerer who dwells there, corrupting travelers into monsters. But for an acolyte hiding his own transformation, braving those woods could be his path to answers. He discovers a realm of wild magic and revelry, but when his faithful friends pursue him into apparent danger, he must confront his fear that he will bring disaster to all he loves.
James McLindon – Hitch – Directed by Donovan Holt
Martin Hall
Friday, June 27th – 8pm
Saturday, June 28th – 7:30pm
Sunday, June 29th – 2pm
Lane, a 36-year-old white man, picks up a young biracial hitchhiker in upstate New York on a summer’s morning. Dee is wary, thinking he’s hoping for a casual hook-up, but she also desperately needs a ride; he says he stopped because she looks scared, an impression that is soon borne out. As they drive on, the lies they tell each other about who they are, where they’ve been and where they’re going, slowly begin to unravel as they learn from each other about missing fathers and missing daughters and families. In the end, both realize they need to face their demons … and decide whether to turn back or keep going.
Mireya Sánchez-Maes – How to Kill a Goat – Directed by Daniela Luz Sánchez
Deane Hall
Saturday, June 28th – 2pm & 8pm
Sunday, June 29th – 3pm
“The best way to get to know New Mexico is through its music!” In How to Kill a Goat, Mariana takes the audience on a wild ride through her life as a bilingual Chicana in the borderlands. Packed with humor, music, and vivid characters, Mariana shares stories of slaughtering goats, fitting bras, falling in love, and facing loss. With each vignette, the play asks: Why do we tell stories? And how do we keep our culture alive?
Ever since we elected a President whose governing ethos is creating chaos and deflecting responsibility, a persistent uneasiness has settled among many in our land. When I find myself unmoored by the weird world we’ve created, I conjure the three axions that guide my life to provide guidance and ballast. Perhaps they will offer some solace to others who feel adrift.
The moral arc of the universe is long, but it bends towards justice.
There’s ample evidence that, if we take a very, very long view, Martin Luther King Jr.’s vision is true. Compared to ancient ancestors, humans today are less violent and more tolerant. More people lead healthy, equitable lives than ever in recorded history. It’s nice to believe that human progress always moves forward. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Time and again, the steady crawl toward equity and justice is halted, even reversed.
Kinks in the moral arc are almost always attributable to rises in religious fervor and subsequent stifling of education and reason. Back in the 1950’s Afghanistan was comparable to other Middle Eastern nations in its parallel increase in secular freedoms and living standards. Today, it is the poorest nation in Asia, thanks to the Taliban’s cultural clamp. Similarly, the social liberality that the US exhibited from the end of World War II through the 1970’s led to unprecedented civil advances, which are being chiseled away in large part due to repressive doctrines. Still, as anyone with a Charlie Horse can attest, one can also massage away a kink. Simply apply firm and consistent pressure against the knot. We are living in a kink in the arc of justice, but if we stay true to our purpose, we can smooth it out in time.
Be the Change You Want to See
Ghandi’s message is the one that guides my daily life. It’s why I ride a bicycle and take the T; why I work with prisoners and immigrants; why I rachet down the thermostat and put on a sweater; why I’m civically engaged; why I don’t buy meat; why I give money away; why I hang my laundry on the line to dry. At the same time I live mighty comfortably. I don’t live off-grid or prep for some disaster-envisioned future. The change I want to see is a world where everyone is comfortable, yet responsible; sustainable, yet connected in society.
I don’t for a moment believe that my actions influence anyone else’s. One of my housemates cranks up his furnace; the other cooks lots of meat; my children each drive gas-powered trucks. They see how I live, and it doesn’t affect their behavior. I can’t let it bother me. At the end of the day, or the end of my life, I believe the ease with which I leave this world will be directly related to the ease in which I lived in it. I plan to go out calm.
Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway
Susan Jeffers pop-psych book title may not seem appropriate company for the lofty axioms quoted above, but in any given moment, it’s my go-to motto. Fear is a great motivator, but also a great inhibitor. It’s a convenient way for the powers-that-be to immobilize us. I am riddled with fears. (Anyone living in 21st century America who isn’t, is simply not paying attention.) But I refuse to let my fears paralyze me. I am not foolhardy when I cycle through unknown streets or take on fresh projects or embark on new protests. I remain aware of my surroundings and vulnerability. But I don’t let my fears hold me back.
To feel the fear and do it anyway is to be aware, yet courageous still. It empowers me to move beyond comfort. To act in ways I know are right.
Aimee Doherty and the cast of Hello, Dolly! All photos by Mark S. Howard
I have been attending Lyric Stage for over thirty years and am still confounded—amazed!—at the blockbusters they produce on their intimate thrust stage. Lyric always ends the season with a major musical, but when I saw that they were producing Hello, Dolly! this year I thought: no way. Like so many gay men of my age, I’ve seen plenty of Dolly Levi’s, including the indomitable Bette Midler on Broadway in 2017. Bette is the Dolly for our times, and I wasn’t keen to see a minor imitation.
Happily, I was wrong, wrong, wrong. The Lyric’s Hello, Dolly! is among the best Dolly’s ever produced, in large part because, once again, they turned the challenges of their quirky space into assets. The cast is everywhere, and we are right along with them, rooting for every illogical love pairing in this truly wonderful show.
The ridiculous plot of Hello, Dolly! is integral to the show’s wonder. Except for a brief denouement, the entire play takes place in one glorious day, starting in the hinterlands of 1900’s Yonkers and working our way downtown to Harmonia Gardens, the most exclusive (and expensive) entertainment emporium in New York. Along the way Chief Hay & Feed Clerk Cornelius Hackl falls in love with milliner Irene Malloy, Assistant Barnaby Tucker swoons over shopgirl Minnie Fay, niece Ermengarde shrieks for artist Ambrose, while head honcho Horace Vandergelder, half-a-millionaire owner of Hay & Feed, has hired matchmaker and general meddler Dolly Levi to find him a second wife. Dolly has set her own sights on Horace, and following a series of hysterical mismatches, reels him in for herself.
At the Lyric, which hasn’t got the space to play these antics out on discrete sets, one half of the audience sits beneath the YONKERS train station sign, the other half, GRAND CENTRAL. The action unfurls upon a huge map of Gilded Age New York. It’s simple. It’s genius.
There are certain requirements for an actor to play Dolly Levi. She must be charming, funny, and a good belter. She must also have snap comic timing. Beyond that, there’s limited room for stamping the part your own, Carol Channing was daffy, Barbara Streisand busy-bodied, Bette Midler simply outrageous. Aimee Doherty, the reigning queen of Boston’s local theater community, brings an intuitive warmth to the role that I’ve never seen. Her audience repartee brings us all under her spell.
Aimee Doherty and cast
Besides having a knock-out Dolly (and a curmudgeonly Horace) a great production of Hello, Dolly! requires two other essentials: a satisfying Cornelius/Irene/Barnaby/Minnie quartet and a waitstaff full of great male dancers. Again, the Lyric delivers.
I’ve always found the subplot among the clerks and hatmakers more charming than the main Dolly/Horace event. I love the backstory’s ballads (“Ribbons Down My Back,” “Elegance,” “It Only Takes a Moment”). Michael Jennings Mahoney (Cornelius) and Kristian Espiritu (Irene) make an unexpectedly lovely couple, whose voices align in an atypical yet lavish way.
As for dancers, the troupe is fantastic. Local choreographer Ilyse Robbins creates her best work ever: jaw-dropping moves on the tiny stage. Jackson Jirard and Sean Keim, barely five feet tall each, are phenomenon of whirling, spinning, head-over-heals motion. The second act scene of dancing waiters is one of the most famous in musical theater. The audience expects certain stances, certain sequences that we relish from Dollys’ past. Choreographer Robbins delivers them all, yet manages to add her own flourishes, making the scene simultaneously familiar and fresh.
Director Maurice Emmanuel Parent deserves a special shout-out. Mr. Parent is an actor, playwright, director, teacher, and co-founder of the Front Porch Arts Collaborative, a Black theater company that works with many area theaters to produce plays that highlight Black experience. He is a Herculean talent and a great asset to our community. What’s so welcome, to me, in his direction of Hello, Dolly! is the broad vision he brings to a play that’s unburdened by labels of ‘Black,’ ‘underrepresented,’ ‘gay,’ or whatever. If we’re going to successfully navigate to a post-DEI world, it’s imperative that talents like Maurice Emmanuel are not pigeon-holed into plays that bear labels. And his gift to us is a Dolly for everyone. Horace is played by a Black man; Barnaby is Asian; Irene Philipinx; one of the dancing couples is gay. Not one of the casting or directorial decisions feels forced, each only elevates the spirit of the show. Kudos to the Lyric for hiring Mr. Parent. Kudos to Mr. Parent for making all the right moves with such a light and facile hand.
The Lyric’s Hello, Dolly! is a terrific finale to a great theater season. Go see it!
The Awkward Pose 