Excerpt from Odyssey Towards the Light - ENGLAND

MS. EVER’S BOYZ – THE ENGLAND TRIP

The Ms. Evers Boyz production, left for England at the end of September of 1998. When we arrived at Heathrow Airport, I was immediately taken by London. It reminded me of New York, or I should say, New York reminded me of London since London is a lot older. There was a certain feeling of the familiar that I couldn’t explain. It was face paced and energetic like NY, but I couldn’t get use to the cars driving on the wrong side of the street, or road as they would say. I almost got killed three times that first day. Our hotel was directly across the street from the Barbican Theatre, which was obviously convenient for us. We were performing in the Royal Shakespeare Company space since their company was performing at Lincoln Center in NY. It was a tradeoff between the Barbican and Lincoln Center, called BITE 98, which was the Barbican’s international program that brought artist from around the world to the Barbican. In 1998 they hosted The Inventing America program celebrating American culture and art. Ms. Ever’s Boys was part of that program.

The people at the Barbican were amazingly nice. The entire staff greed us with strawberries, cream and tea. They gave us a tour and introduction to the Barbican. Our play would be performed in the PIT which was the home theatre of the Royal Shakespeare Company. The assistant company manager was a lovely woman by the name of Griselda Yorke, who was tall, very attractive and very, very English. We got to know each other pretty quickly.

Opening night and the spinal tap scene got them again. This time the main reviewer for Time Out Magazine, London, passed out. I got teased by my cast mates about being responsible for us not getting a review from Time Out Magazine, which was a pretty big deal. We did get great reviews from the overall London press which I heard could be very harsh, but they loved the play. We didn’t get one bad review, in fact they were all raves. We were performing nine performances a week of a three and half hour energetic play. We had two matinees during the week and one Saturday. Sunday was our day off, not like American Theater where Monday is dark. I was tired after the first week. One day off to recoup from a grueling schedule and it was not enough. And, I thought, they are not paying me enough money for this. That was a running issue with me. Unless you were a bonafided celebrity theatre artists were paid like crap.

Anyway, every morning I’d get up and go down stairs to the Italian bakery which was right next door to the hotel. It was a Mom and Pop spot that had hot pastries and great expresso. There were also five very beautiful women working there, between the ages of 20 and 35, which I found out after too long were the daughters of Mom and Pop. The mother was a short very round lady with long Black hair which she kept in a bun. Pop was a huge man, maybe 6’6 but he never said a word. I’d just see him hauling boxes in and out. He looked like life had beaten down, for real. I imagine life could have been difficult with a domineering wife and five daughters. At least that’s the way it appeared. The place was always packed but when I would stand on line, I’d get a long glaring look from Momma, who was always behind the counter. She stared at me so hard it made me uncomfortable. I never felt that those looks were racial because as I said before, I have a 6th sense about that. So I stayed on line because the pastries and espresso were delicious. But it became clear one day when I was having my expresso and talking to one of her daughters that she was not happy about me being around her girls. None of them could stay and talk to me longer than a minute before she’d call to them in Italian. They would laugh, giggle, but they would leave right away.

Things went on that way for the first couple of weeks until my good friend Kate came to visit me from DC. I hadn’t seen Kate in some time and it would be great to hang out with her in London. When Kate arrived, I told her about the situation at the coffee shop. The next morning we went down to get our morning staple. When I got on line, Mom was right there glaring at me. That look was scary. She was definitely playing momma bear. She didn’t even notice that I was with Kate. When we finally got to the counter, Kate proceeded to order in fluent Italian. Kate is like that, she speaks like five languages or something crazy like that. Kate and Mom conversed for rather long time, with the line building up behind us. I had no idea what they were saying but Mom was smiling. Finally, Kate turned to me, and introduced us. Mom burst out into a huge smile, wiped her hands on apron, and shook my hand vigorously. We got our order and sat down.

“What did you say to her?”

“Well, first I let her know that my mother is Italian. Second, I said I was from the states and visiting my dear friend who is in a play at the Barbican, and that I’ve known you for years and what I nice guy you are or why would I come all the way across the water to visit you.”

“That’s all it took?”

“And, I think she believes that we’re lovers.”

“Ohhhh! Well let her believe it then.”

“So, her daughters are safe, and you won’t steal them away to America.”

I didn’t even consider that would be a fear of hers.

“Of course it would be.”

She was right because two of them had already told me, in their thick Italian accents that they dreamed of coming to America. Wow.

The run at the Barbican was going well enough with the exception that we were not getting Black audiences, again. This was a trend that quite frankly all of us were getting tired of but Tab Baker who was not nearly as vocal as me, was complained to the executives at the Barbican, and threatened to leave the show. But before he could do that they promised that they would make the effort to get us Black audiences. Thanks to Griselda York’s efforts, we appeared on a radio shows and talk shows to promote the play.

In the meantime, Kate and I hung out during the day and during the night while she was in London. It was exhausting but what else was I going to do. I remembered having a crush on Kate at one point but I was glad that it never happened because we’d really become good friends. We went to the British Museum, the Tower of London, The Royal Palace, during the day, and partied in Leister Square at night. I was loving my time in England. Time flew by and it was time for her to go back to DC. I teased Kate telling her that she came all the way to London, just to make my life easier with the Italian Momma.

A friend of mine Gordon had given me a contact for a woman that he’d met in the states who was living in London. Her name was Sophia, so I called her, not knowing what to expect. She told me to meet her at one of the Saturday Street Markets in London. I set out to meet her, on Monday, my only day off. The market was crowded but maybe I might find my English boots, I thought. As I made my way through the market enjoying the new experience, I finally got to Sophia’s booth. She was standing there making a sale, when she turned and looked at me.

“Lee!”

She knew who I was right away, but how?

“How are you? I’m Sophia. So, nice to meet you. Gordon speaks very highly of you and described you to a T.”

And it was nice to meet her. Sophia was lovely. It seems that all Sophia’s are lovely, physically speaking.

“Give me a minute. I’m going to close it down for the day.”

Sophia had a booth selling women’s lingerie.

“Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat.”

Sophia and I talked all day. She was actually from Australia and had a combination English and Australian accent. I loved it. I have a thing about voices, if you haven’t noticed. She was a classic beauty. The conversation that day was mostly about her unhappiness with her boyfriend, who she was about to break up with. I was a good listener so I listened. She had also spent some time in the states, in the Bronx hanging out with Fat Joe, Big Pun and the DeJa Vue crew. She had a long distance thing going on with Lord Tariq or Peter Gunz, one of them. The next night Sophia came to see the play then spent the night in my hotel room.

As expected and was always the case it seemed, the last week at the Barbican Black audiences were lining up to see Ms. Evers Boyz. Before leaving for Bristol we were told that a large population of Black people lived in Bristol, second only to Liverpool. Apparently, the African Slave Trade started in Bristol and Liverpool, something I did not know but was about to discover more about, much more.

Bristol, England is about 2 hours south of London. The Bristol Old Vic Theatre is the longest running continuous theatre in the world, 1766, nonstop. Every famous English actor since that time has worked at the Old Vic including, Sir Laurence Olivier, Ian McKellen, Helen Mirren, Maggie Smith, Anthony Hopkins, Ben Kingsley, Kenneth Branaugh, and many, many more. Now our names could go on that list, what an honor. It was November when we arrived in Bristol excited that we’d finally get that Black audience we wanted. But when I walked out onto the streets of Bristol there were no black people to be seen. We opened the show to an all white audience that first week. Finally, after asking around, we were told that the Black population lived on the other side of town. Really? There was a Black side of town in Bristol? I mean they had a hood in Bristol? We couldn’t wait to go. The first chance we had, we got direction and made our way to the Black side of Bristol. We’d been given a name of a Black theare company there call Jumma. It was weird because we literally had to cross the train track to get to the Black side of town. Some things don’t change, not even in England. We got the theatre which was a broke down community center. It looked like any project in the states and was very disappointing. The people seemed happy to see us but they also appeared a bit intimidated by our presence to be honest. We spent that day talking to them about theatre and invited them to see our play.

Bristol was a very interesting place. The University of Bristol, one of the largest universities in England was there. And students were everywhere. I noticed that on the weekend they liked to drink and drink they did. You had to avoid the puke on the street. It was that bad. Bristol had some interesting street names too. Most of the streets were named after one person, it was something like Peachtree Street in Atlanta. That person was Edward Colston, who was one the number one Slave Traders of his time. The African Slave Trade which in Bristol from the Bristol Waterway, was responsible for shipping over a million Black people to America to be slaves. Colston's name permeates the city in such landmarks as Colston Tower, Colston Hall, Colston Avenue, Colston Street, Colston's Girls' School, Colston's School, Colston's Primary School and Temple Colston School.

I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. Why would these places be named after someone who was a deviant to humanity? It was beyond me but it would get even worse. Cast member Craig Wroe came into the dressing room one night, very excited about his visit to the John Pinney Museum. Craig was always our tourist scout and so far he’d done real well. He told us that he museum had some incredible history. So, of course I wanted to check out.

I planned my visit to the museum around the time that Sophia was coming in from London to visit. We were staying at a very nice hotel with tiny rooms. The rooms were the size of a closet. I was still trying to stay in touch with Cindy. We were in that strange place in relationships when I left. It was nondescript but I still had feelings for her. Most times my calls went straight to her machine but on this particular night, she answered.

“Hi.”

Hmm. She seemed glad to hear from me and eager to talk. We were having a catch up conversation, I was telling her about the show and she was telling me about her new job when subtly I heard what I thought was running water. But it sounded more, more like someone peeing.

“Are you in the bathroom,” I asked.”

“No.” She said.

“I hear water … is that someone peeing?”

“Oh that just John.”

“Just who.”

Suddenly everything went blurry. It was after 11PM in Columbus. Who would be peeing in her bathroom at 11PM where I could hear it.

“Do you have the door, open?”

“Oh.”

I heard the door close.

“Who’s John?”

“He just my friend. He lives down the block. There’s nothing going on if that’s what you are thinking.”

I wasn’t thinking. My mind was blank, on then off again.

“Lee? Are you there? Come on, don’t make this into a thing.”

“John? You never mentioned John before.”

“No, there’s a lot of people that I don’t mention. It doesn’t mean anything.”

I was silently fuming.

“Lee?, are you OK?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s OK. I’m good. I’ll talk to you another time.”

“Lee! Come on Lee. Lee!!!!”

‘I gotta go.”

And I hung up. I was done. I couldn’t take it. My heart was crushed. I mean she was five thousand miles away and some dude is pissing in her bathroom at 11PM, and I can hear it, so the door had to be open and she had to be close enough to see him pee, maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t know, but I knew it was too much for me. I couldn’t go on any longer. My process to stop seeing Cindy began in that moment though it would take much longer for the process to be complete.

Sophia arrived. Yes, I know, how can I be angry with Cindy when I was seeing other women. I was convinced that Cindy was seeing someone and I didn’t want to be completely played. I’d been there before and it as not a good feeling. After loving on each other that first night, Sophia and I went to visit the Georgian House Museum. Well, first of all, it wasn’t really a museum, it was a mansion, which had been preserved. It was originally built in 1790, and was owned by a slave trader by the name of John Pinney. John Pinney was a major player in the trade, one of the primary slave traders and owners, second to Colston. He owned sugar plantations in the Caribbean and the owner of several hundred slaves. We walked in the front entrance after the guides gave us pamphlets describing the locations in the mansion. I couldn’t believe that I was standing in the home of a slave trader. I walked in through the front door no less, a place no Black person could have walked through when John Pinney was alive. The place was immaculate, splendid in décor, thick rugs in places, hard wood in others. Oil paintings, crystal chandeliers, ebony and mahogany wood, gold and silver, opulence everywhere. Sophia and I walked up the second and third floors, same thing. But, there was one more floor, the addict or what was called the slave quarters. There was a large room with about six beds, on a hard wood floor. It was clean but stark and empty of all the wealth and decor, of the other three floors. I was breathing heavy and not from walking up the stairs. There as an adjoining room that had some oil paintings on the wall. The paintings to my surprise were of African people working the fields in the Jamaica. But they weren’t just working, they were depicted as being happy. One painting showed them singing and dancing.

In the caption, next to the painting the story lauds John Pinney as being a benevolent slave owner because he gave his slaves 361 lashes of the whip instead of the customary 400. When slaves became too old or sick, he freed them. He only sold children to good owners. Also on the wall was a decree that stated, Africans were being blessed by God to have Europeans enter their land and free them from heathenism. I wanted to puke. I wanted to tear the painting off the wall. I wanted to … I had to do something, but first I needed to get out of there. I looked at Sophia and tears were running down her face. Her sensitivity amazed me for a white woman. But it seemed to me, that European white women were just a little more sensitive anyway. I thought of Sif, in that moment.

“I’ve got to do something.”

I said to her before walking out. Tears were running down my face now. How could they? How they continue to perpetrate those lies. Slavery ended in England in 1833, some 32 years earlier than America but here they were in 1998, saying that it was OK and there was some benevolence to the entire thing. I was out of there and onto the street with Sophia. That night in the dressing room I told the other cast members about my experience. Craig Wroe apologized profusely.

“How were you to know Craig, I said. You don’t walk our shoes.”

I let him off the hook because it was not his intention to lead us into that besides Craig was such a nice guy I didn’t want him to blame himself.

“But the next time you’ll know right.”

“You bet I will, Lee.”

The other cast members agreed to go see the exhibit the next day. When they came into the dressing room, Charles Dumas, in particular was on fire.

“What the hell was that shit?”

“I know, I said.”

“That’s no different from what we are saying in this play,” Gustave said.

“So what do you want to do, Mr. Playwright?”

Allie Woods pronounced somewhat sarcastically. They all looked at me.

“I know you are cooking up something in that head of yours.” Allie continued.

“I have an idea.” And I did but I needed time before letting everyone know what it was.

In the meantime, for the next two days, Sophia I took day trips to Bath and Stone Henge. I needed time to clear my head and think. Back at the hotel at night, and with Sophia in the room, I wrote a ten minute protest play, “If the Georgian House Could Speak.” I took it to the other cast members. Charles Dumas loved it, as did, Gustave. I could tell that Allie Woods and Tab were not as taken mainly because they knew me well enough to know I had something else up my sleeve.

“Let’s do the play in the museum.”

Allie Woods looked at me like I was crazy.

“Do what?”

“Yeah, They have an re-enactment every Sunday at 11AM. Let’s go and do our own play right there.”

“I think you taking this a bit too far now.’ Allie Woods said.

“I love it.” Charles Dumas retorted.

“Wait a minute. We are in a foreign country. Don’t forget that. We cannot come over here and tell them what to do in their country.” Allie again.

“Allie’s got a point, Lee.” Tab chimed in.

“I don’t know about y’all but I’m a citizen of the world. And they are depicting Black people, of which I am one, as happy to have been slaves. Listen, I know there may have been one or two that didn’t know any better but my sources tell me, that was not the norm! Happy slaves, please give me a break with that nonsense.”

“Don’t forget, we got a show to do,” Allie continued.

“Well, I’ll go talk to Andy Hay, and let him know what we are going to do .”

“What we are going to do?” Tab asked

“Yes, what we are going to do.” Charles said, backing me up.

“Oh ya’ll just going to do it? What if ya’ll get fired? Then what. We all be out of a job.”

“That’s why we got to stick together? Dumas said. “I’m with Lee. Who else is with Lee?”

“You can count me in.” Gustave said.

“I have to think about it,” said Tab.

“I’m not doing it.” Allie remained defiant.

The next morning, Charles Dumas, Gustave Johnson and myself went to Andy Hays office and told him of our plight. Andy in turn told us that he was aware of all the atrocities and racism in Bristol and that it was about time somebody stood up.

“I’m behind you one hundred percent. I’d join you if I didn’t have an engagement at my daughter’s school. I would. Is there anything I can do. Anything that you need?”

I asked if I could look through the prop shop. Of course, I didn’t want anything that would promote or suggest violence. I did however discover some heavy chains, the kind they would have put people in. So, we took those. Andy also suggested that we go over to the Black community and see if they’d like to join in. We did, and they didn’t. Enough said about that.

The morning that were going to perform the protest play, we gathered in the lobby of the Clifton Hotel around 10:30am. It as a cold day in Bristol, so we all wore jackets covering the heavy chains around our necks. The Georgian House Museum was in walking distance from the hotel, so at 11 in the morning, we began our march over. Allie Woods decided to join us but he didn’t want to participate in the play, he would document to event by taking pictures, and I actually preferred that he do that. He saved face in the process. Also with us was our stage manager Jennifer Marrow, Craig Wroe and of course Sophia who came along for support. We didn’t know what to expect. We could have been arrested, detained, kicked out of the country, or we could have missed the play that afternoon. After a heated argument with Tab the night before, who I called out as a punk, he reluctantly decided to join us at the last minute but boy was he pissed at me. Who wants to be a punk, especially when you are called one to your face. I played on my brotherly competitive relationship with Tab, which at times could get very heated. I knew exactly what I was doing and it worked. He was angry, but he had to save face. Also, at the last minute, Big Jeremy McNeil, one of the stage hands at the Old Vic, and a well known Guerilla theatre actor in Bristol, asked to join us. Jeremy was a huge Englishman who’d said he’d witnessed the racism in Bristol for years and was tired of it, and would be proud to join us if we allowed him to. Of course, we would. So, the five of us marched into the museum. The place was a packed, and their reenactment of life in the 1800s had started. As we walked up the stairs I wondered how many lives had been lost and how many tears had been shed to pay for all of John Pinney’s wealth, that was still being celebrated in 1998. Once in the room we threw are jackets off revealing the heavy chains around our necks and began the protest play, in the slave quarters. People in the area didn’t know what to do. Some people runaway, while others ran to see what was going on. Some bumped into each other and fell. There’s always comedy in every situation it seems. Who were those Black men from America? It was mini pandemonium. It didn’t take long before security arrived. They were stunned, and I could tell they didn’t know what to do at first. Finally, one of them attempted to grab me but I was so filled with rage that I moved his hand away with a sweeping swish. He looked into my eyes, with his steely blues ones. We stared at each other for what seemed like a long moment. I was seething.

“You can ask me to leave and I’ll leave but if you try and touch me again I’m not going to be responsible for what happens to you.”

I could feel my ancestral blood boil and I could hear their voices in the air. I’d never felt more powerful than in that moment. I know he felt it too because he backed away and politely but nervously said,

“Would you leave, sir, I’m asking you, kindly?”

I looked out of the window, and I could see police cars pulling up. As we started out, Charles Dumas began chanting, “Stop telling lies! Stop telling lies!” We all joined in until we got out of the museum. We got out of there before the police had the opportunity to come in, but we didn’t rush out because of the police. I didn’t care. We finished the play in front to the museum, before a crowd of people. Craig Wroe and Jennifer Marrow who was an emotional mess, were talking to the police, and told them what we were doing, and why. They just stood and watched, along with the crowd. The press arrived just as we ended the play. We’d done it. I felt a sense of accomplishment but I also felt that nothing would come of it. Boy, was I wrong.

The backlash from the protest would last for the rest of our time in Bristol. The next day, Charles Dumas. and I were interviewed by the Bristol Evening Post. I explained to the interviewer that we did not come to Bristol with the intent to do any kind of political action, but as of African descent we had a responsibility to confront blatant racism no matter where it raised its head in the world, and what the Georgian House represented was a celebration of blatant racism. And though we weren’t from Bristol our ancestors very well could have come to America on a ship from Bristol. Our main objective was to perform our wonderful play at the Bristol Old Vic, not cause problems. What was done, was done. I didn’t feel joyous or happy. It wasn’t that kind of occasion. Why did I have to demonstrate against racism anywhere in the world in 1998? It was sadly satisfying.

The next day in the Bristol Post, the headline read, HAUGHTY AMERICANS TAKE OVER THE GEORGIAN HOUSE MUSEUM. According to the article, the British Historical Society did not know why we were so upset. They left out our position in the article and painted us as just being arrogant Black Americans. The nerve. Upset at the article, Charles, Sophia and I sat down in Browns restaurant on White Lady Road, and wrote an editorial response. In the rebuttal, we wanted to be clear that the protest was against the celebration of a slave owner, and the lies that were prominent on the walls. All we wanted was the truth, that’s all. We didn’t feel that was too much to ask. To our surprise, in a city which still had monuments and schools, named after slave traders like Colston and Pinney, and streets named, “White Lady Road, and Black Boy Hill, they printed our rebuttal. Now that was a victory and worth being proud of.

So, now that it was over, we could start to turn our attention back to our show, so we thought. Apparently, there was a world-wide conference on medical ethics happening at the University of Bristol, and we were on their schedule. Five hundred doctors from around the world were coming to see us in Ms. Evers Boys. There would be a talk back, or talk around as they would say in England, after the performance that night. The show went very well that night. I think we were all relieved to be doing what we were there to do and as a result the show was electric show as I recall, very high energy. Afterwards about hundred and fifty people or more stayed for the talk around. Andy Hay introduced the major attraction for the conference, Dr. Franklin Inglis who was considered an expert in the field of medical ethics. He opened it up to the floor after stating how much he was moved by the play and that we’d done a wonderful job. It began innocently enough. Most of them congratulated us on our performances and asked the typical questions such as, “How did you start acting?” and, “Do you know Denzel?” questions like that. Then Dr. Inglis segued into questions about medical ethics in regards to The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment. I sat back and listened because it was very interested to hear the doctors debate the issue. Some of those doctors actually suggested that they saw the value in the experiment and though it was wrong one could not deny the benefits. Wow. Someone else made it clear that medical advancement in medicine couldn’t happen without research even if it infringed on the rights of the individual or animals for that matter. My mouth as on the floor.

During the talk around, in a theatre filled with Europeans, I couldn’t help but notice a very distinguished Black man sitting in the back row. He wore a very nice suit, white shirt and tie. I guessed he had to be in his mid 60s. He raised his hand and stood up. The place became quiet and I could sense tension in the air.

“I want to compliment the cast from America on bringing us this fabulous play and on their wonderful performances. But that’s their job afterall. That’s why they are here because they are professionals and they are doing their job. Anything less would have been a disappointment. What I am most impressed by and what I want to address is the Georgian House Museum incident instigated by this wonderful cast. That’s what I’d like to address.”

Silence. Something was in the air. I didn’t know what it was at first but I was about to find out. The energy shifted. The attention was no longer on the doctors but on the towns people that stayed. Someone raised his hand and stated vehemently that we had no right to stage the protest, and that we weren’t from Bristol, and needed to mind our business. Well, his comment led to more comments pros and con about our protest of the Georgian House Museum, and before you knew it, there was a 2 hour town meeting going in session. By the time it was over, no agreement had been reached and people left heated, on both sides. We never got back to the medical ethics question which I thought also deserved a good debate. But it was over. Andy Hay looked at me and said with a smile,

“See what you started Lee.”

Afterwards, I met the man in the suit who had actually started it all, that night anyway. His name was Paul Stephenson, and unknown to me, he was a well known figure in Bristol. Mr. Stephenson was a political activist and was instrumental in integrating the Bristol bus system back in the 60s. He was actually called, the MLK of Bristol. He’d left Bristol some fifteen years early to live in Ghana because he was disappointed by the apathy of the Blacks in Bristol. Something we experienced in our short stay. He was only back because his granddaughter was getting married. He read about us in the paper and wanted to meet us, and I was honored to meet him. He shared that Bristol needed a lot of help because the racism was never confronted and was just accepted. He said it was a general problem all over England since Blacks in England never suffered slavery in the way American Blacks had. So the second class citizenship and the mind set of Blacks in England were different from those in America. Black Brits seem to accept and take more, but were generally not treated with the vicious racism that America is known for. So, it resulted in a different type of racism but it’s racist none the less.

Before leaving Bristol, there would be one more adventure that made my England trip one of the most eventful times in my life. I’d become friends with Griselda York, the marketing and publicity person at the Barbican. Griselda was tall and stoutest, full bodied beauty of about 30. She told me that her family had property in the English countryside and wanted to take me there to see it. The property was about an hour or so, outside of Bristol. Griselda came to get me and we drove out to her place. On the ride, I couldn’t help but notice how much the English country side reminded me of the Midwest. There were lots of cornfields, alfalfa fields, tobacco fields, horse and cattle farms. The cows were freaking huge. I’ never seen cows that big. We turned off on the road and entered a tree tunnel. I was kinda freaky because I’d never been through one of those. It was about a mile long. When we emerged on the other side there was wide open spaces and nothing but luscious rolling hills that went on for miles. It was absolutely beautiful. In the distance I could see a couple of huge houses, more like castle, or chateaus.

“That’s my parent’s Chateau over there. And the one beyond that, belongs to my uncle.”

Again, my mouth was on the floor because in that instant I realized that I was in the presence of royalty. Griselda was a York!!!! I had not put it together before that moment. I mean it didn’t change anything. She was still Griselda to me but now I didn’t know what to expect. We drove up to her Chateau and was greeted at the front door by a very good looking woman who I thought was her sister but turned out to be her mom. She greeted me warmly, and I immediately felt right at home. We entered the huge kitchen area because her Mom wanted to know if I was hungry and I was. She asked me what I’d like for breakfast and offered up eggs and toast, pancakes, and sausages, etc. I sat at the table talking and conversing mostly with Griselda’s mother who was delightful and funny but I noticed that she really didn’t know what she was doing in the kitchen. I politely offered to cook the breakfast since I do like my eggs a certain way. She politely allowed me to take over in the kitchen.

While we were eating, Griselda’s father entered and greeted me like I was his long lost best friend. He was a tall lanky guy with a huge smile, and think British accent. He let me know that his wife never uses the kitchen just wanted to show off for me, and that he was the cook in the family. I could see that since he was the only male in the house, with three daughters.

That afternoon, Griselda took me on a tour of her parent’s land. We had to wear big rubber boots because of the mud. We walked all over the hills where pheasants were abundant. She told me that her father’s father past time was pheasant hunting. That night other family members came to meet the actor from the states who also happened to be from Harlem. We had a feast. I’d never tasted pheasant before, delicious. The conversation was lively and genuine. Of course they had questions about growing up in Harlem and her father let me know that he’d read the Autobiography of Malcolm X. He was proud of that, and rightfully so, because I was surprised he had. It was a good time to be remembered.

The show ended but we still had a month left on our Visa’s before having to come back to the states. Everyone decided to stay in Europe and sight see other places. I was the only one that needed to come back immediately because while I was in Europe, Mary Beth and Mark were in rehearsal for a second production of God, the Crackhouse and the Devil, at the infamous LaMaMa Theatre on the Lower East Side, co-produced by The Circle LAB and the Ellen Stuart’s LaMama. I had to get back for opening night which was literally three days away. Sophia was coming to New York at that time as well, but not to see me, but her rapper lover, though she claimed she wasn’t involved with him. Why do people lie? Anyway, I was on a plane back home.