Weekend in Savannah

In the season of barren trees, coming from snow laden New York City to a land filled with pockets of greenery in manicured squares, streets lined with palm trees and dripping with Spanish moss was a January delight.  That’s what we found over MLK weekend when my friend Jermaine and I decided to visit The Coastal Empire, the Garden City: Savannah, Georgia.

She was founded in the 1700s, out of the marsh and wilderness of rural Georgia by a British General (James Oglethorpe) and an Indian Chief (Tomochichi, leader of the Yamacraw tribe) – a diamond in the rough.  The Downtown Landmark Historic District is made up of twenty two squares, each named for historical figures and contributors to the development of Georgia and Savannah. We decided to take them in the day after our arrival, when the temperature reached fifty three degrees, a vacation in itself.

One attraction of interest to Jermaine was The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, so we turned our steps in that direction.  Along the way, we came across Colonial park, Savannah’s original cemetery, containing markers dating from 1750 to 1853, when it closed as a cemetery due to overcrowding.

In later years, the city would remove most of the walls surrounding the cemetery and convert it into a park commemorating those buried there – Savannah’s original citizens. I found the tombstones that were attached to remaining wall interesting.  I learned that these orphan stones were displaced during renovations and now, to me, seemed to hold a special place in the park. We continued on down walkways with sea shells mixed into the concrete like nuts into brownies and eventually reached our destination.

The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, the oldest Roman Catholic Church in Georgia, was established in the late 1700s by Catholic French settlers and has been built and rebuilt over the centuries into the wonderfully ornate landmark it is today. I was particularly drawn to the elaborate statues depicting the Stations of the Cross, beginning with the condemnation of Jesus Christ at the hands of Pontius Pilate, and ending with his being laid to rest in a tomb.  Here, Jermaine discovered the panoramic feature of his camera, which allowed him to better capture the scope of the church’s majesty.  Was it divine intervention? Perhaps.

Cathedral photograph by Jermaine Evans

We continued our exploration of the historic district, pausing in this square or that to listen to the chatter of squirrels, and the occasional wail of a Jazz musician on saxophone.

“What are you folks trying to find?” a helpful native stopped to ask.  “A little of everything,” I answered.  “Well,” he said, “Don’t miss Forsyth Park. Go up one more square and make a left.  Careful, if you go too far up, you’ll miss it.  Have a good day!”

The people there were as charming as the architecture.  There was something deeply genuine about their helpfulness and concern that extended far beyond the hospitality of people like Jennifer at the hotel front desk. You could argue that she was paid to be courteous.  But everyone else seemed to also say, “Welcome to my town. Let me show it off for you.”

Jermaine and I separated for a while, and I headed toward the Park. When I veered away from my path into an even more residential area, I was struck by the serenity. Where were the people who lived in these beautiful homes? Where was the bustle? From far away, I could hear the tinkling of wind chimes and, what could only be, the steady up and down creaking of a seesaw. Although the buildings became less ornate, there was still neatness to the structures and their relationship to one another that made them belong.

Under the warmth of the sun, the cold melted into what seemed like a beautiful spring day in January as I reached the park. In a city devoted to memorial parks, Forsyth Park is Savannah’s Grand Dame, spreading from the Victorian District all the way to the Historic District.  Forsyth Park was originally named Forsyth Place for former Governor John Forsyth, the 33^rd Governor of Georgia in the 1840s. 

I entered at the north entrance, and was greeted by the popular Forsyth Fountain.  People and pets peppered the great lawn of the park. I came across a wedding party, taking post nuptial photographs around the fountain.  They’d chosen a perfect day. The sunlight played in the folds of the bridesmaid’s bright canary wraps. They were abuzz with excitement.  I wanted to get close enough to snap photos of my own, but I wasn’t brave enough to intrude. Instead, I took shots of the fountain itself, and my other surroundings.

While I am a loyal subject of New York City’s much larger Central Park, I am respectful of Forsyth’s place in the city’s history.  Many of the areas that make up the park were once military training grounds. It is one of the more popular attractions for Savannah tourists.  I was very grateful to that native for sharing with me his pride and joy.  After a few more photographs of the beautiful surroundings, I retired to the hotel while Jermaine attended evening Mass at St. John’s.

We were blessed with a glorious view overlooking the Savannah River. We had arrived the evening before and, after checking in, headed down the rough cobblestone walkways to nearby River Street.

Our main objective was to catch the show at Club One, famous for its regular performer, and star of the film Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, the Lady Chablis. Although we were aware that she wouldn’t be performing this weekend, we were sure the cabaret show would be top notch.  We had time to kill, and we made a brief stop at Wet Willies, before we came across Chuck’s Bar, partially tucked into an alley on River Street.

The crowd was a mix of different ages and races, straight and gay alike.  It was divey in that good way a place can be divey –comfortable, neighborly and lived-in, without pretension. 

The bartender was lively and talkative. “Honey, that show is tired,” she confided to us when asked what time the cabaret at Club One started. She dished about the decline in local nightlife entertainment, and shared that she didn’t understand the fuss over “that falling down coke whore” that was the main attraction. Priceless. Furthermore, she’d had an altercation at the door years ago, and refused to go back.  She said we were welcome to waste our time if we wanted to.  Show time was at Midnight. Once again, we made our way over the cobblestone and up the very steep stone stairs to find our way to Jefferson Street and Club One. 

I was with Kitty LeClaw’s Road Kill Tour the last time I visited Savannah.  We performed at Club One during that visit to a crowd eager for outside entertainment. When we arrived this time, it was suspiciously quiet for a Friday night.  What was even more disappointing was that it stayed that way.

True to the earlier review, the show was a bit lackluster.  It offered nothing new in drag entertainment.  Those were the same routines I’d been seeing for years.  In the Kitty Le Claw show, years before, one of the drag queens would strip off most of her costume while lip syncing to “Man I Feel Like a Woman.”  By the end of the number, she looked like something from mythology – a man/drag amalgamation. So, it didn’t impress me when one of the drag queens in Friday night’s show did the exact same thing to a different country song.  Had she caught our act all those years ago?

The show ended just as we decided to check out the dance floor.  Downstairs, two tragic go-go boys were slung atop boxes, grinding for all their worth in their disco Underoos.  Bless their hearts. The crowd was so sparse; they were trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.  We didn’t stay long. 

Saturday night was different.  Jermaine and I ran into friends of his from Charlotte, NC and we ducked into Venus de Milo’s, where they were having their Trailer Trash Party. We passed boys in mullet wigs and girls in plaid as we headed to the upstairs lounge area.  Being a New Yorker during a bed bug epidemic, I was a bit wary of the comfy sofas that awaited us in the dimly lit area. But, I relaxed and remembered that I wasn’t in New York, and I settled in to converse with two graphic artists, a couple, visiting from Florida.  He’d once lived in Williamsburg, and she’d once lived in Atlanta, so we made an instant connection. Later, we returned to River Street to say our good-byes to Chuck’s Bar before retiring to rest up for the long journey home.

They say that when General Sherman destroyed Georgia during the Civil War, he spared Savannah for her intoxicating beauty. Others say it’s simply because the city surrendered.  Whatever the answer to the debate, the city has been able to maintain so much of its historical beauty and structure. It was a charming place to visit, and a much needed respite from my snowy everyday life.  Next time, I’ll have to take in a tour of the haunted places and mansions.

Oh! Did I mention there are no open container laws on River Street?  I’ll come back y’all, ya hear?

Cheers!

-Ceddy

Remembering Dr. King

When I was a boy, my mother told me that my Junior High School was once called Eastside High School. Eastside High had been the all black high school in Bennettsville, South Carolina during the days of racial segregation. 

I couldn't imagine being subjected to such a practice! I attended school with my friend Billy, who was white. Who would I have lunch with?  One day, while learning about the Civil Rights Movement in class, it dawned on me that it had only been twenty two years since segregation had ended.  A generation ago, Billy and I would probably have not been friends.  Life would have been quite different.

Today, we celebrate the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., a driving force in the American Civil Rights Movement.  Using civil disobedience and his brilliant oratory skills, he became a leading figure in the nation’s struggle for equality. His iconic “I Have a Dream” address was delivered to 250,000 gatherers and is a lasting inspiration. He remains the youngest male recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, granted in 1964, and is a role model to countless individuals who strive to make the world a better place.

He was one of the leaders whose efforts inspired the passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which was designed to bring an end to discrimination in the United States, and protect the rights of all Americans.  Jim Crow’s segregation policies were abolished. In the years to come, black children (like me) would receive the same education in the same classrooms as white children.

My friend Jermaine says he gets to live Dr. King’s dream each day. He is a highly educated teacher and department chair in a racially diverse school district where he is respected for his professionalism and talent. He also happens to be African American.    Things certainly have come a long way since Eastside High School.

Yet, almost fifty years later, our society still has wounds to heal and behaviors to unlearn.  We are almost free, at last.

The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee on April 4, 1968.  He left behind a legacy of hope.

Thank you, Dr. King, for working so tirelessly toward equality in a world that couldn’t see past black and white. May your legacy live on. Because of people like you, I am able to be the man that I am.

I am judged by the content of my character, not the color of my skin.

Cheers!

-Ceddy
Image appears courtesy of the Open Clip Art Library (www.openclipart.org)

The Fuerza Bruta Experience



Last night, I had the fortune of being invited to experience Fuerza Bruta: Look Up, the energetic performance art piece by Argentinean creator Diqui James.

The event took place in a large space in the downstairs area of the Daryl Roth Theatre on East 15^th Street.  Thick, steamy fog rolled across the floor to greet us, filling the space like a night club. Lighting fixtures loomed above, and an open tech booth jutted from a side wall for all to see before darkness engulfed the room. 

It began with instructions: “Touch set pieces gently with the palm of your hand.” From the darkness, the lone figure of a man in white appeared.  He walked, slowly at first, the music keeping pace with his pulsing stroll.  He moved faster and faster, before bolting into a frantic run.  With him, we raced forward into a circus of movement and imagination that segued from one spectacle to another.  Aerial acrobats raced like Atalanta and Hippomenes against a billowy silver backdrop.  Dancers attempted to resist the seduction of dance before succumbing to its pleasure. Party goers literally tear the room off the place while celebrating.

At one point, the troupe entered the audience for a Carnivale communion of sorts, ceremoniously charging the crowd with the spirit of dance, engulfing us in a swirl of white confetti and movement inducing dance beats. A DJ in a powdered wig and ruffled shirt delivered intoxicating rhythms from a high, distant booth. The music demanded attention, and the crowd gave it, jumping and dancing with the performers.

For me, the highlight of the experience was the aquatic ballet that began in a tank suspended high above the audience. One, then two, and finally four figures appeared in the shallow pool of water in the sky.  Like underwear clad school girls at a mermaid slumber party, they alternated between sliding and wildly slamming into the water, simulating graceful swimming and then fiercely crashing waves.



Slowly, the pool descended to a position inches above our heads.  The mermaid closest to us made eye contact with the man to my left.  She smiled and pressed her hand against the transparent bottom of the tank.  Slowly, the man reached up and pressed his hand to hers.  She smiled again, and “swam” away.  Throughout the room, this special moment was shared as the mermaids glided silently above the awestruck observers.  

Fuerza Bruta means Brute Force.   The kinetic energy of choreographed dance, the forceful wash of white light and the demanding blasts of air from the fans high above gave way to the tenderness of the water dance.  It was the calm before the storm of music and excitement filled the space once again.

Finally, three figures emerged, and seemed to race against, from, and to life, time and space itself, before being faced with a tall foreboding staircase.  Their frenzy gained momentum as they climbed up…up…up to be confronted by a daunting drop on the other side of a door.  As expected, they jumped …and continued to run!

Appropriately, the evening ended in revelry as the performers once again joined their audience to dance in an indoor rain storm.

I never knew such an amazing experience was tucked away on 15^th Street, far away from the bright lights of the theatre district - shining brightly on its own. If art stimulates, and amazes, encourages and inspires, then Fuerza Bruta is definitely art.

Actor/comedian Jim Carey, in town to tape Saturday Night Live, was also in attendance, and seemed to enjoy the show as well.  His smile was a broad as my own.

Sincerely,

-Ceddy

Up, Up and Away!

When I’m on my way to work in the morning, I pass the line of people waiting to purchase tickets to see Spiderman, Turn off the Night.  When I’m on my way home, I see the “Sold Out” notice outside the theatre.  The show is apparently doing something right, despite reports that it is a production nightmare.

In 1966, when It’s a Bird… It’s a Plane…It’s Superman! opened on Broadway, it closed a little over three months later. It’s risky to attempt such an epic project as a live performance.  Special effects are such an integral part of the storytelling.  Maybe superheroes just don’t belong on stage.

I love my superheroes, but do I really want them flying around above my head on unstable trick wires? I don’t know.  My Ceddy Senses are tingling. I think I feel safer when they’re saving the day on the big screen, larger than life or swinging through the pages of a colorful comic book.  There is a time and a place for everything…even a hero, and that includes the heroes in our every day lives.

Mom and Dad may have been your heroes for teaching you values and other important life skills and quite possibly from saving you from financial ruin – just in the nick of time.

Your best friend may have been your hero because of her fabulous ability to accessorize faster than a speeding bullet. 

However, while your high school coach was your hero on the playing field, he or she probably doesn’t have any business acting as your champion in the arena of personal relationships.  Actually, if you’re still calling him for advice after all these years you don’t need a hero, you need to make some friends.

We sometimes expect too much of our relationships.  Sometimes, we shouldn’t expect anything at all.  After a while, Mommy and Daddy need to hang up their capes, and you need to find the means to pay your own rent.  We need to view our relationships in realistic terms and assign them proper roles in our lives. We cannot expect everything from anyone.  If we do, we set ourselves up for disappointment and failure.

To become more self reliant, we should move away from hero worship and cast our attention to solid, dynamic role models.  They are not the larger than life heroes of our youth, but they are people whose accomplishments and character we can appreciate and realistically strive to achieve.    They set a good example for us.  They do not, however, promise to swoop in and save the day. We become our own heroes.

Saving the world is Spiderman’s job, and he seems to be doing so besides a number of setbacks and technical difficulties.  Maybe next we’ll be lucky enough to see The Man of Steel: Return to Broadway.  Until then, I should probably go and stand in line before Spidey sells out. 

Cheers,

Ceddy

(Simon Kirby's Major Triumph appears courtesy of Public Domain Superheroes at www.pdsh.wikia.com)

Happy New Year!

The other night, my friend Kim and I met for cocktails and our conversation turned to  the exciting things that we’d been able to do and learn over the course of the year.  As we shared with each other our triumphs and experiences, we realized that we had each had a pretty damned good 2010.  Anything we’d set out to do, we had either accomplished, or learned from. 

While the two of us actually had few regrets about the previous year, there were others I had spoken to that didn’t quite fare the same.  The year couldn’t end fast enough for them.  We realized that most people’s regrets at the close of a year had to do with …well… not doing.  The best laid plans just lay there, unless you pick them up and actually do something with them.  Too many people shuffle through life allowing things to happen to them instead of taking an active role in making things happen for themselves.

As I plan to make 2011 even more active and fruitful than the previous year, I fully realize that I need to sidestep that age old enemy of the New Year …the Resolution.  The New Year’s resolution has become an empty promise.  It is not an action.  It’s not even a plan of action.  Why do today what you can put off for the rest of the year, right?  The problem with resolutions, is that we’re not truly held accountable.  We make them, and then push them aside like that half eaten plate of nachos we resolved we were never going to touch again. Too often, this wishful thinking leads to disappointment and frustration.  So, what good are they?  I say, to hell with resolutions.  Make choices instead.  Then, make solid plans based on those choices. 

Stop trying to change yourself.  You are already a great person.  Once you appreciate who you are at the core, you’ll be able to do more of the things in life that will make you happy.  Take a look at the world around you and what it has to offer.  If you choose to become part of it, the world can illuminate you and you can illuminate the world. It’s the confidence of being that allows you to make things happen, not empty promises.  Learn to love who you are, and then you’ll be able to make plans to do, not be.

Kim didn’t make a resolution to change her career path.  She found the confidence to quit her job and put the wheels in motion to start her own company this year.  I didn’t make a resolution to alter my creative ambitions. I decided to walk away from a situation that made me unhappy and accepted an invitation to join an established theatre company instead.  They have since made me chair of the new Literary Committee.  I am also writing at a more productive pace and I will have my West Coast premiere as a playwright within six months.

We didn’t make resolutions, we made choices.  Because we did, we’re able to think back on what made 2010 such a great year.  We should all strive to be more active in our own lives.  You’re not going to wake up on that dream vacation if you don’t book it to begin with, and you’re going to be stuck in that bad relationship until you find the confidence to tell her to pack her junk and get out.

Make choices ladies and gentlemen, not resolutions. Even if they end up being bad choices, it’s your life and they were your bad choices to make.

Happy 2011.  It’s going to be an amazing year.

-Ceddy