Mom and Mubarak

My mother, who died two and a half years ago, probably would have had some sympathy for Hosni Mubarak this week, for no other reason than that she once shook his hand.

Egypt has always been special to my family. While in the Navy in the 1950s, my dad was sent to Cairo to help set up a medical lab as part of Eisenhower's Atoms for Peace program. His pregnant wife and toddler son, Mike, went along; before long, my second brother, Tom, was born there.

Mom spent most of her time dealing with sick babies and mastering the art of haggling in the markets. She also did the tourist thing with her little box camera. And shortly before the young American family finally left Cairo, they learned that a little daughter and sister would be on the way.

After returning home, Mom would often show her Egypt slides, accompanied by histories and creative stories, as our evening entertainment. She honed the narrative to such a perfection that she was often asked to give her Egypt slides at PTA meetings and other public gatherings.

In 1994, Mike, my oldest brother--a Navy man like Dad--was stationed in the Middle East and invited Mom to meet him in Cairo for a special nostalgic trip to her favorite sites, like the temples of Karnac and Luxor. There was also a very splashy (and very cold) outdoor production of Aida, the first grand opera for both Mom and Mike.

It was on the way back from one of these excursions that Mom met Mubarak. From her diary:

We were resting near King Tut's tomb when a motorcade suddenly appeared--out jumped security guards--young, lean, in dark suits with white shirts and ties. In moments they were positioned all round--and President Maburak [sic] appeared. I asked the guard in front of me if I could take pictures--at first he said 'no'--but then the President gave different orders. Before I quite realized what was happening, I was shaking his hand and chatting with him about the opera and my appreciation of all that had been done for that event--and my enjoyment of Egypt. When we got back to the hotel, I discovered that I was an instant (though temporary) celebrity. I was on the 6 o'clock TV news and people started recognizing me everywhere.

Few things pleased my mother as much as being the center of attention; being singled out by the President of Egypt meant a great deal to her. And I'm certain that her unsolicited statements on national television reassuring the president of how safe she, as an American lady, felt in Egypt (at a time when violence against Western tourists was a growing problem) also meant a great deal to Mubarak--or at least to his public image.

Mom was far more interested in the history of Egypt, its ancient beauties and mysteries, than the turmoil of contemporary geopolitics. Shaking the man's hand was enough to charm her. Politics isn't just local; it's personal.

I think about Mom and Mubarak when I look back on how differently I feel about people after I have met them. I was as charmed by Newt Gingrich as by Al Gore when I met them at World Future Society conferences.

But of course I would not want either gentleman running my country for 30 years.

Please click here to read this blog at the World Future Society.

Carpetbagger's Triptych

Back from The Carpetbagger's Children at Ford's Theatre, a Texas based 1930s memory piece by Horton Foote.

Ford's brings back special memories for me and an anniversary of sorts (though not the day exactly). It was a bright, crisp Sunday afternoon in a February far far away that brought me the bright, crisp off-key dancing and braying laugh of Edward Duke in Jeeves Takes Charge, the "one-man, two-act, 12-character, award-winning comedy tour de force," if he does say so himself.

So sitting in the balcony before the beginning of a play I knew nothing about, I was re-imagining my Edward and his many voices and faces, merry costumes and clever scene changes and all, enchanting me for a couple of hours and embodying the storytelling genius of Wodehouse.

So why did the format of Carpetbagger make me so impatient? The scene was static, with three actresses portraying sisters, each in her own panel of the triptych of a Texas cotton farm homestead, each taking a turn telling the story of their family to the audience but almost never interacting with each other. Yet each took on the voice and personality of the characters whose stories they were telling.

Storytelling with impersonations is exactly what Edward did for Jeeves; it is not a particularly original format. But with the Carpetbagger's girls, I was having a few of those "Why are you telling me all this?" moments and shifting in my seat a bit waiting for the plot to begin.

When I relaxed into the format a bit (thanks for reminding me, Edward), I let the power of the personalities on stage persuade me their story was worth the telling, even if I didn't get it at first.

One sister was constantly pressed to sing "The Clanging Bell of Time," or whatever the dashed name of the song was, which became an anthem for the passage of the family members' lives.

And, like Charming Billy over at Round House, the play seemed to say we are surrounded by our memories as we live through them, even if we cannot directly interact with the actors in our dramas.

love, hosaa
Story listening

Staging Billy

It's hard to be a liar and a believer at the same time.

Back from Round House Theatre's production of Charming Billy, adapted and directed by RHT's producing artistic director, Blake Robison, from Alice McDermott's novel. A gathering of family and friends pieces together the life and heartbreak of Billy Lynch (portrayed by David Whalen) during a post-funeral gathering at a New York-Irish bar.

The conversation opens on one end of the long banquet table, the side away from the grieving widow, focusing on how long Billy had been known to drink, each recollection taking us back farther into Billy's life and to the key episode where he first met "the Irish girl."

The flashback scenes glided in from the wings onto the front of the stage, upstaging the party scene but leaving them visible to represent the present. Another flashback begins at the bar behind the party table. In this way, memory surrounds the present, asserting its legitimate place at the table.

Billy was a drunk; should we have helped him? Could we have helped him? Was it a disease, or was he at fault? The answers aren't really there, though I kept hoping for them. It wasn't about Billy, but about our own heartbreaks and guilts.

And so I turn these questions inward. Throughout the play I thought about my charming mother and her battles with depression and alcohol. Unlike Billy, she died sober, because she'd been in rehab those last several months. In the end, she still wanted to die--she'd outlived her life--but at least she no longer wanted to kill herself. At least I don't think so.

Not much of a review, but that's my approach to art. I let it surround me and assert its legitimate place at my table.

Love, hosaa
charmed, but a little haunted