Post by Anja Nieser on Sept 17, 2006 23:04:12 GMT -5
Tough lessons become drama
A few nights ago at a rather unusual theater production, I took note
during intermission of a different sad drama.
At the end of the evening, I left the theater still in suspense, curious
about the rest of the offstage drama, of which I got only a synopsis from
a reluctant audience member.
The scheduled program at the Rose Marine Theatre was actually a series of
skits put on by the Miranda Writes Players, which is made up mostly of
former prisoners and whose motto is "We had the right to remain silent,
but we chose not to."
The production was billed as "Real People ... Real Lives ... Real Hopes
... Real Dreams ... Coming Home."
Presented by Texas Inmate Services, the production was heavy on
criminal-justice issues with an emphasis on bad decisions made by
otherwise good people, the need for individual responsibility and the
power of personal redemption.
In the printed program, rather than standard bios, each actor was
described in 2 categories: "What went wrong" and "Where I am going."
For example, star Mark Herrera's description read: "I found that selling
drugs was an easy way to make money and because I chose not to go to
college I did not have any training or expertise in a career. I did not
stop selling or using drugs until I got busted and went to prison for 12
years."
In the "Where I'm going" section, Herrera says, "Today I only need 2
classes to graduate from college. I never thought I would attend college
until I went to prison. There, I earned most of my credits and became a
teacher's aide in Computer Data Processing. My last 3 years of prison I
studied computers intensely. This helped me land my job working with a
software company in Dallas. I would like to continue my education and
complete my Bachelor's Degree."
I met Mark's mother that night, and, as you might expect, she is extremely
proud of her son, not only because of his skill onstage, but because of
his actions in life now.
At intermission, much of the crowd, many of whom were related to the
actors and are active in programs for ex-offenders, went to the lobby and
to an anteroom where art by prisoners was displayed.
There was much murmuring about the artwork and about what the audience had
seen on stage.
As I talked to one artist who served 14 years in prison, an older man came
up behind us and said, almost in a whisper, "I don't see this the way you
do."
I turned with what I know was a puzzled look as the man walked away with
his head down.
He didn't seem to belong in this crowd, and he appeared to be in pain.
As it turned out, he was.
Finishing my conversation with the artist, I walked over to the man, whom
I will call J.J. (his initials), and asked if I had heard him correctly.
He said I had, and he repeated what he had said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He told me that his daughter was "assaulted" -- about four years ago, as I
recall -- and had been changed forever.
I asked, as calmly and as sensitively I could, "Why are you here?"
J.J. said he had been invited by the parents of his daughter's assailant,
and J.J. had agreed to meet them at the theater.
"But they haven't shown up yet," he said. "I'll give them a few more
minutes."
"Would you know them if you saw them?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "I saw them every day during the trial."
Then, with disappointment in his voice, he said, "He gets out in November.
"My daughter will never be the same. My wife will never be the same."
He said his daughter rarely leaves the house, and she doesn't go out on
dates.
I told him that I would love to tell his daughter's story one day, and he
promised to think about it and talk it over with his family.
As the 2nd act began, without seeing the couple he had come to meet, J.J.
went back to his seat.
During the curtain call, I looked toward his seat, expecting to find it
empty. He had remained for the entire production but immediately moved
toward the exit during the standing ovation.
I rushed to catch J.J.
"They never showed up?" I asked.
"No," he said, with his head bowed.
I gave him my regrets and my phone number, saying again that I would like
to tell the story of his daughter.
Once again, he said he would consider it.
I hope so, seriously.
(source: Bob Ray Sanders, Fort Worth Star-Telegram)
A few nights ago at a rather unusual theater production, I took note
during intermission of a different sad drama.
At the end of the evening, I left the theater still in suspense, curious
about the rest of the offstage drama, of which I got only a synopsis from
a reluctant audience member.
The scheduled program at the Rose Marine Theatre was actually a series of
skits put on by the Miranda Writes Players, which is made up mostly of
former prisoners and whose motto is "We had the right to remain silent,
but we chose not to."
The production was billed as "Real People ... Real Lives ... Real Hopes
... Real Dreams ... Coming Home."
Presented by Texas Inmate Services, the production was heavy on
criminal-justice issues with an emphasis on bad decisions made by
otherwise good people, the need for individual responsibility and the
power of personal redemption.
In the printed program, rather than standard bios, each actor was
described in 2 categories: "What went wrong" and "Where I am going."
For example, star Mark Herrera's description read: "I found that selling
drugs was an easy way to make money and because I chose not to go to
college I did not have any training or expertise in a career. I did not
stop selling or using drugs until I got busted and went to prison for 12
years."
In the "Where I'm going" section, Herrera says, "Today I only need 2
classes to graduate from college. I never thought I would attend college
until I went to prison. There, I earned most of my credits and became a
teacher's aide in Computer Data Processing. My last 3 years of prison I
studied computers intensely. This helped me land my job working with a
software company in Dallas. I would like to continue my education and
complete my Bachelor's Degree."
I met Mark's mother that night, and, as you might expect, she is extremely
proud of her son, not only because of his skill onstage, but because of
his actions in life now.
At intermission, much of the crowd, many of whom were related to the
actors and are active in programs for ex-offenders, went to the lobby and
to an anteroom where art by prisoners was displayed.
There was much murmuring about the artwork and about what the audience had
seen on stage.
As I talked to one artist who served 14 years in prison, an older man came
up behind us and said, almost in a whisper, "I don't see this the way you
do."
I turned with what I know was a puzzled look as the man walked away with
his head down.
He didn't seem to belong in this crowd, and he appeared to be in pain.
As it turned out, he was.
Finishing my conversation with the artist, I walked over to the man, whom
I will call J.J. (his initials), and asked if I had heard him correctly.
He said I had, and he repeated what he had said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He told me that his daughter was "assaulted" -- about four years ago, as I
recall -- and had been changed forever.
I asked, as calmly and as sensitively I could, "Why are you here?"
J.J. said he had been invited by the parents of his daughter's assailant,
and J.J. had agreed to meet them at the theater.
"But they haven't shown up yet," he said. "I'll give them a few more
minutes."
"Would you know them if you saw them?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "I saw them every day during the trial."
Then, with disappointment in his voice, he said, "He gets out in November.
"My daughter will never be the same. My wife will never be the same."
He said his daughter rarely leaves the house, and she doesn't go out on
dates.
I told him that I would love to tell his daughter's story one day, and he
promised to think about it and talk it over with his family.
As the 2nd act began, without seeing the couple he had come to meet, J.J.
went back to his seat.
During the curtain call, I looked toward his seat, expecting to find it
empty. He had remained for the entire production but immediately moved
toward the exit during the standing ovation.
I rushed to catch J.J.
"They never showed up?" I asked.
"No," he said, with his head bowed.
I gave him my regrets and my phone number, saying again that I would like
to tell the story of his daughter.
Once again, he said he would consider it.
I hope so, seriously.
(source: Bob Ray Sanders, Fort Worth Star-Telegram)