In 1971 I had just finished a week-long international conference on drama in England, a week filled with tensions between me and the leader, an upper-class Englishman who didn’t bother to hide his racism and misogyny, as well as spending a day taking care of a psychotic woman. One of the participants suggested we visit Stratford-on-Avon as a way to relax after the intense week. We decided to go and see whatever was being performed at the theatre. Sounded like a good idea and we made arrangements. At the last minute, he had to change plans. I decided to go by myself.
As part of a 3-day conference on drama, I was in a community center gym, welcoming a group of junior and senior high school English teachers to my workshop, ‘Exploring Imagination and Creativity Through Drama.’ I was more than a little nervous because a group of internationally known drama leaders were watching me conduct the session from the bleachers. Suddenly, a group of kids burst into the gym, bouncing a ball between them, playing some kind of game, laughing and shouting to one another.
I returned from being hospitalized in London in mid-February 1985. My mother, her sisters, and my sister kept calling me to say I needed to visit my mother. Her cancer, first diagnosed in 1983, had returned and she was now paralyzed from the waist down. By mid-March, although my illness was still undiagnosed, I felt well enough to visit and asked a friend who my mother adored, to drive me. A few days before I was scheduled to leave, my mother’s youngest sister called to reassure me that my mother would be alive when I visited.
Life tales from a woman different living in The City Different.