“May you live long enough to know why you were born.”
—CHEROKEE BIRTH BLESSING
From ninth grade until I finished high school we lived on Park Street, then Parker Street because we were evicted from the house on Park Street. Parker Street was an attic apartment, tiny, with slanted ceilings and only two bedrooms. My sister Anita had gone to college and got her own apartment. Dianne was long gone. She’d gone to Howard University when we were on Park Street and made her home in Washington, DC. So it was only me, and my sisters Deloris and Danielle, with my mom and dad. My brother, John, was never around.
We were cut off welfare, because they found out that my father was still living with us and he was making a salary. It was not a living wage, but it was a salary. Back in the day, they’d just cut you off. When we were evicted, we got shopping carts, put in everything that fit, and wheeled over to Parker Street to the tiny attic apartment on the third floor. If I had to carry a shopping cart of belongings up three winding flights of stairs now, I’d not make it. It was that abrupt; we had to get out. I was in the tenth grade when we were forced to make that move.
Aside from not paying rent, this is how the eviction happened. My mom and dad got into a brutal, bloody fight with Carlos, the landlord. The fight may have been about the rent. Carlos was Portuguese with a very heavy accent, and it was obvious this was the last straw. He wanted to move a family member into the house and was tired of my parents not paying rent. They would always make promises then get so behind, he was done. My dad was convinced Carlos was racist. When my dad felt any hint of being
seen as less than, he let loose. I understood the man just wanted them to pay the rent.
Carlos came by with his wife demanding their money. My dad began to argue with him after he said we had to get out. The argument escalated. My dad had come home that day with a new toy, a machete. He had it wrapped in a towel, newly sharpened. Carlos saw the machete and started screaming that my dad was planning to attack him. He tried to grab it from my dad who subsequently tried to grab it back. Carlos’s wife freaked out and tried to grab it as well. Add MaMama; not wanting to be left out, she started grabbing too.
It became a game of tug-of-war with screaming, crying, cussing. Everyone yelling different commands in Portuguese and English. “Let go!” “No! You let go!” “You’re trying to kill me!” “No, I wasn’t! I was bringing it in the house, muthafuckah!” It ended with Carlos getting sliced under his arm. My dad’s hand, I think, was also sliced and we were, well, evicted. So relieved was Carlos that we were leaving, it’s probably the reason he never pressed charges.
At this point, I was trying to leave the last vestiges of my bad behavior behind and was überfocused on achieving as much as I could. Once again, I hadn’t made the connection that my behavior matched the chaos at home. I was a powder keg of secrets. I kept them in because it allowed me to get through my day. I couldn’t let what I was feeling out.
Any chance I had to be a part of something where I could make a mark, I joined in. Teachers at Central Falls Jr. Sr. High School and counselors were my lifeline. Mr. Aissis, Mr. Yates, Mr. Perkins, Jeff Kenyon, Mariam Boyajian.
Mr. Aissis, who was a doppelgänger to Gene Wilder, only smaller, was my science teacher in ninth grade. He was also the musical director and Glee Club instructor. I drove him crazy. I was just bad. I talked too much. I was the classic theater kid who needed a creative outlet and couldn’t find one, so I created it for myself, inappropriately, in class. In other words, I acted out. Literally.
He was always screaming at me. In ninth grade, he threw me out of his class and they put me in another science class. There was no one in that science class I knew, so it shut me right the fuck up. I didn’t have anyone to act out with.
A few years later, he came into one of my classes, and said, “Viola, I have something for you.”
“What is it?”
He said, “I went to a dentist appointment today, and as I was in the waiting room, I see this pamphlet, Viola.” And it was a pamphlet for Arts Recognition and Talent Search, a national competition in Miami, Florida, in five disciplines: drama, visual arts, dance, music, and writing. Each had its own format. Thirty kids in each category were to be chosen for an all- expenses-paid trip to Miami. It was only for kids entering their senior year of high school. “You can enter in drama,” he said.
“What do you get?” I asked.
He looked through the pamphlet. “Scholarship money, I think.”
“I can’t do that.” A national competition? The pamphlet was thick and contained a laundry list full of things you had to do simply to apply. As he stood there, I read it out loud, believing with every word I uttered, the utter absurdity of it. I had to put together a tape of a classical monologue and a contemporary monologue. I had to fill out a huge application form with an essay. And then, of course, there was an application fee. “I can’t do that,” I repeated.
“Well, think about it,” he said. “When I looked at it, I thought about you. I thought about you, Viola.”
The throwing me out of class was all because he saw me. He saw what was in me.
I kept staring at the pamphlet. Eventually, I shared the pamphlet and its impossible opportunity with my Upward Bound counselor, Jeff Kenyon. You could call Upward Bound counselors by their first name. You could call Jeff in the middle of the day and say, “Hey Jeff! I’m having an anxiety attack and I’m in the middle of science class. Can you help me out?” and he would be there. He was always there.
He was the first person who took me and my sister Deloris to a political party gathering so that we understood what political campaigning was all about. He was the first person to take us to the Rhode Island Black Heritage Society so we could learn about abolitionist ex-slaves who could read and write and were instrumental in freeing others from bondage. As white as he was, Jeff taught us a lot about Black history. He heard me and my sister talk one day in his car and picked up on our ignorance about our own history. That was it. That was all the impetus he needed to spring into action. He
would pick us up in the middle of the week, take us to get some food, talk to us to see how we were doing.
“What’s going on?” he asked that week.
“Well, my science teacher . . .” and I told him the story, ending with “But I can’t do it.”
He was silent. I could see him suppressing anger. He said, “Let me see the pamphlet.” He looked through it and then asked, “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because, Jeff, I don’t have a VHS tape.” “How much are VHS tapes?”
“Well, I don’t know. But they are probably . . .” “I’ll get you the VHS tape.”
Silence.
“Yeah, thanks, but I don’t have the $15 application fee.”
“Viola, I will get you a $15 waiver for the application fee.” Silence.
“Well, Jeff, I have to film myself doing two monologues. Where am I going to film it?”
“Viola, there’s a TV station on the campus of Rhode Island College. I know the people in the TV station. You can film the monologues in the TV station.”
After a long pause, he said, “You’ve run out of excuses.”
And he was right. It was now time for me to, as I’ve heard Black people say so many times, “shit or get off the pot.” So, I shit.
I got my monologues together. I went up to Rhode Island College where Deloris was a student. She was so excited. I kept changing clothes, most of which belonged to Deloris, in her room, searching for the right look. I went to the TV station. I filmed my classical and contemporary monologues. I filled out my application. I sent it all in. Free from the chains of my excuses, I was handling my business and exercising my agency, instead of sitting around doing nothing. And claiming that agency was a win in and of itself.
Thousands applied in the competition for drama alone, and only thirty would be chosen. I didn’t believe I had a chance, but I was proud that I did it; that I did the hard, arduous work of applying.
I remember walking home from school one day with my friend Kim Hall as we had done on countless occasions. On this particular day, as we neared my home, I looked ahead in the distance and all of the sudden I saw
MaMama running toward us. Not casually jogging, but sprinting top speed, like her life depended on it. Now, you have to understand, MaMama is real country. As she was Olympic-sprinting in our direction, I noticed that she did so wearing my brother’s shoes. I don’t know why she had my brother’s shoes on. Probably, she couldn’t find hers. But as she drew closer and closer to us, we could see clearly that she was going nuts, waving this piece of paper in her hand, sprinting, yelling. It was a Western Union note, something foreign to those younger than Generation Xers like myself. Think of it like a text, but in physical rather than instant, electronic form. MaMama didn’t even take time to catch her breath before revealing the contents of message.
“You have been chosen to come to Miami, Florida, for the Arts Recognition and Talent Search competition.”
I was frozen. Silent. Frozen like I had been as my sisters yelled at me to throw that firecracker out the window. Frozen like when my entire family begged me to jump down from what we thought was our burning apartment. Frozen like when I sat silently all those many times while being lectured by teachers, nurses, and principals about my bad hygiene. But this was a good kind of frozen; a spectacular, glorious kind of frozen. Dumbfounded by the sheer unbelievability of the news my mom was sharing with me. Stupefied by the idea that the work I invested in a crazy dream actually paid off. Astonished that individuals I had never met actually saw me and deemed me worthy to participate in this prestigious competition.
I could not for the life of me see myself as one of the chosen few, but of the twelve hundred applications, I was one of the thirty. I got an all- expenses paid trip to Miami. I was in.
I don’t recall exactly what I said to my mother when I broke out of my stupor, but whatever it was, it was accompanied by a lot of screaming, laughter, and tears. I was such a crybaby.
That summer going into the twelfth grade was the first time I flew on an airplane. I felt really out of place in Miami. That trip was one of the biggest things that had ever happened to me. My two monologues were from Everyman and Runaways, which had a lot of great monologues about feeling abandoned. I forget which particular one I performed. It could have been “Footsteps” or it could have been the last monologue in the play. They were all delicious in the sense that they provided actors a smorgasbord of feelings and emotions to tap into and share with audiences. And now I had
the opportunity to share all those feelings, so many of which came out of my own experiences, with the best of the best gathering in Miami.
That being said, I felt so out of place around the best talent in the country. We stayed at the brand-new Hyatt Regency Hotel in Miami. News outlets were there that week, even Good Morning America. Great actors, dancers, musicians, visual artists from the toniest performing arts school arrived in full regalia. I came with a $30 dress from a store in downtown Pawtucket and a $2 suit from St. Vincent de Paul. I was overwhelmed and utterly not prepared artistically. Neither was I prepared socially. These kids were in their bodies, confident or at least good pretenders, and rowdy. I was none of those things. And on top of that, I was intensely shy. I felt alone. Looking back, I see I had more social anxiety than shyness. I felt that who I really was, was not worthy of a reveal. I was terrified every time she had to come out.
My roommate was a girl from Pennsylvania who talked about winning, who she thought was great, who wasn’t. She wanted it! Whatever “it” was. She would torture herself after every daily audition. I didn’t understand. I was just trying to survive.
I did great with my monologues. Afterward, it seemed that everyone wanted to “know” me. Everyone loves a winner. When I had to do my improvisations, which I loved, I froze. There were five-minute, three- minute, and one-minute improvs. After I froze, there was a collective silence that settled over me and the rest of the group.
It was a week of five-course meals, boat trips, television crews, media attention . . . In spite of the momentary lapse during the improvs, my talent was being recognized. However, my talents and the recognition that came with it were far more evolved than me, Viola. I didn’t feel worthy. All the symbols that could give me status, I never had. Now, one was within reach.
I was named a Promising Young Artist and was lauded at City Hall once I got home. It was a big deal in Central Falls even though I didn’t win any scholarship money.
If I created a fable of my life, a fantasy, I see myself finally meeting God, gushing, crying, thanking the Almighty for the accolades, a fabulous husband, beautiful daughter, my journey from nothing to Hollywood, awards, travel. I can clearly see the Lord’s face, staring at me, taking me in and saying, “You never thanked me for creating you as YOU.”
