Grade Seven. Easter play auditions. I thought I had the role of Jesus locked up. I actually didn’t show up for the cold readings; that’s how confident I was. I was like Mariah Carey thirteen months ago; I was that kind of foggy-headed diva. And so “Jesus” went to someone else.
A greater indignity: My role almost didn’t have lines. It was almost a non-speaking cameo. I was to appear right before Jesus was nailed to the cross; I was to importune the crazed masses. As a small child, I was to say, “Please! Please! He made larks for us out of clay!” (All these years later, I remember the words. I remember them because I think that that sentence is exceptionally strong writing. Can’t you imagine Jesus at Golgotha--or wherever the hell he was--and the children are surrounding him and begging him not to die? And one of the kids says, “Please, mob! He made larks for us out of clay!” And a clay-lark! What the fuck is a lark? Can’t you see the children two thousand years ago, animating their little lumps of clay, making chirping noises? I had studied acting--extensively! I knew to do research. I knew to go through my script and mark my character’s varying motivations--motivations that might be at odds, at times, with the literal truth of the words on the page. This shit fascinated me. I knew that, when your scene partner says, “I’ve suddenly transformed into a chimp!” you do not say, “That’s ridiculous. You’re not a chimp.” I knew to say: “Yes! You’re a chimp! And--look out--your jailer is right behind you!”)
The church had two warring songstresses. One was Old School; she seemed still fresh off the boat from Poland. She gave the impression of being constantly overwhelmed: She’d drop her music, she’d hit one wrong note per line, she’d sing in a kind of throaty whisper/warble. (“Let us build a city of God!” My brother and I would editorialize: “Let us build a city that’s not so shitty! We’ll build a city of God!!!!”) In the opposite corner was a younger hippie lady with a glassy-eyed look; she was maybe on heavy anti-depressants. She wouldn’t opt for the organ; she’d strum an acoustic guitar and sing, over and over, “His Banner over Me Is Love.” (What could that even mean? Jesus’s love is like a World Series pennant, and he’s flying it over my head at all times. At age twelve, I took the hippie’s relentless strumming of this “love” song to be a political statement: She was saying there wasn’t enough love in our parish. And that was correct. Years later, I would admire the waspish semi-closeted gay man who led the choir at my boys’ Catholic high school. He would have the boys sing--over and over--“All are welcome! All are welcome in this place!” It was stinging--because, of course, all were *not* welcome in my dreadful high school. There was an aura of intolerance and thuggishness, as there is in many Catholic institutions.)
I was frequently charmed and amused by turns of phrase within my Catholic upbringing. There was the line about “larks out of clay,” but then there was also this promise, having to do with the Second Coming: “The lame shall leap up like the stag!” So archaic, and the simile of the leaping stag--who invented this looniness? At the start of each high-school class, we’d say, “Saint John Baptist de La Salle, pray for us. Live, Jesus, in our hearts, forever.” But the commas would sort of run together, so it sounded as if “live” had become a transitive verb, with “Jesus” as its direct object. So Saint John was going to take Jesus and live him. Live him in our hearts. Whatever that means.
Anyway, back to the Passion Play. I sat, briefly embittered, while lesser talents tried to puff life into the trial of Jesus. Pontus Pilate--washing his hands of the situation. The mysterious role of Barabbas. The crowds screaming, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” I had started reading “Cloudsplitter,” by Russell Banks, so during breaks I would think about what it would feel like to be castrated, and how you might feel driven to murder others in an act of anti-slavery righteousness. And the bitterness didn’t last. I was resilient; I didn’t need to dwell, and dwell, on my missed “Jesus” opportunity. These were exciting times.
A greater indignity: My role almost didn’t have lines. It was almost a non-speaking cameo. I was to appear right before Jesus was nailed to the cross; I was to importune the crazed masses. As a small child, I was to say, “Please! Please! He made larks for us out of clay!” (All these years later, I remember the words. I remember them because I think that that sentence is exceptionally strong writing. Can’t you imagine Jesus at Golgotha--or wherever the hell he was--and the children are surrounding him and begging him not to die? And one of the kids says, “Please, mob! He made larks for us out of clay!” And a clay-lark! What the fuck is a lark? Can’t you see the children two thousand years ago, animating their little lumps of clay, making chirping noises? I had studied acting--extensively! I knew to do research. I knew to go through my script and mark my character’s varying motivations--motivations that might be at odds, at times, with the literal truth of the words on the page. This shit fascinated me. I knew that, when your scene partner says, “I’ve suddenly transformed into a chimp!” you do not say, “That’s ridiculous. You’re not a chimp.” I knew to say: “Yes! You’re a chimp! And--look out--your jailer is right behind you!”)
The church had two warring songstresses. One was Old School; she seemed still fresh off the boat from Poland. She gave the impression of being constantly overwhelmed: She’d drop her music, she’d hit one wrong note per line, she’d sing in a kind of throaty whisper/warble. (“Let us build a city of God!” My brother and I would editorialize: “Let us build a city that’s not so shitty! We’ll build a city of God!!!!”) In the opposite corner was a younger hippie lady with a glassy-eyed look; she was maybe on heavy anti-depressants. She wouldn’t opt for the organ; she’d strum an acoustic guitar and sing, over and over, “His Banner over Me Is Love.” (What could that even mean? Jesus’s love is like a World Series pennant, and he’s flying it over my head at all times. At age twelve, I took the hippie’s relentless strumming of this “love” song to be a political statement: She was saying there wasn’t enough love in our parish. And that was correct. Years later, I would admire the waspish semi-closeted gay man who led the choir at my boys’ Catholic high school. He would have the boys sing--over and over--“All are welcome! All are welcome in this place!” It was stinging--because, of course, all were *not* welcome in my dreadful high school. There was an aura of intolerance and thuggishness, as there is in many Catholic institutions.)
I was frequently charmed and amused by turns of phrase within my Catholic upbringing. There was the line about “larks out of clay,” but then there was also this promise, having to do with the Second Coming: “The lame shall leap up like the stag!” So archaic, and the simile of the leaping stag--who invented this looniness? At the start of each high-school class, we’d say, “Saint John Baptist de La Salle, pray for us. Live, Jesus, in our hearts, forever.” But the commas would sort of run together, so it sounded as if “live” had become a transitive verb, with “Jesus” as its direct object. So Saint John was going to take Jesus and live him. Live him in our hearts. Whatever that means.
Anyway, back to the Passion Play. I sat, briefly embittered, while lesser talents tried to puff life into the trial of Jesus. Pontus Pilate--washing his hands of the situation. The mysterious role of Barabbas. The crowds screaming, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” I had started reading “Cloudsplitter,” by Russell Banks, so during breaks I would think about what it would feel like to be castrated, and how you might feel driven to murder others in an act of anti-slavery righteousness. And the bitterness didn’t last. I was resilient; I didn’t need to dwell, and dwell, on my missed “Jesus” opportunity. These were exciting times.
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