An August Passing…
We lost a giant today. August Wilson is dead—well—transitioned. That’s right, transitioned. How could a cat like that ever die? Afrikan people believe that death occurs when your name is no longer remembered. That takes me back to a day several years ago when I found myself, luckily, in the presence of another since-transitioned elder, Dr. John Henrik Clarke.
I was speaking at a conference at The Ohio State University where my brother was attending law and graduate school. Some of the students and presenters were having breakfast with Dr. Clarke, asking him all sorts of philosophical questions, virtually sitting at his esteemed feet and soaking up all the wisdom. One young sister made a statement:
“Dr. Clarke, you’ve been harshly critical of Christianity, Islam, and other religions—what they’ve done to our people. So I have one question: Where do you believe you’re going to go when you die?”
what a QUESTION! I was like…wow…I can’t wait to hear this answer.
Dr. Clarke, who was legally blind even then, sipped a little from his saucer, then he spoke something like this into the deafening, respectful silence:
“Well, young lady, I’m often reminded of a young Malcolm X who used to come and talk to me at my home in Harlem. No one, by and large even knew who he was. It was frustrating to him that many people didn’t want to hear his message. Yet now, many years later, I see movies about Malcolm, and people wearing X hats and X t-shirts and the like. Then I realize that, because of the legacy Malcolm left, he is more alive today than when he was physically walking on the earth. I’d like to think that I may have written a book, or a story, or a poem, or something that may be read or shared after I’ve gone. I’d like to think that I’ve left a legacy through the work that I’ve done. So, in answer to your question of ‘where do I think I’ll go when I die,’ I don’t think I’ll go anywhere. I think I’ll just stay around.”
I believe Dr. Clarke said it best. With a 10-volume cycle of plays in the can, August left himself all over the canvas of the artistic world, and he cannot be erased or ignored, because he’s at the center. He now holds court amongst the greatest writers of both our time and times before. He is the greatest American playwright to date, and he has set the bar high for those of us who call ourselves writers.
There aren’t many people I can say I’ve wanted to meet in life. I’ve just never been the star-struck type. However, there are a few souls that I would’ve loved to cross paths with or work with: Paul Robeson, Zora Neale Hurston, Curtis Mayfield. I missed that chance. Over a year ago, I did get to meet and chat with Ossie Davis, and that was an unforgettable experience. Perhaps God will bless me with the opportunity to meet another icon, Maurice White, before the gray gets one or both of us.
As for August, I thought I’d meet him twice. Out of the 10 plays, I’ve performed in two: “Fences” and “The Piano Lesson.” Each time, something deterred him from attending. This last time, we came to find out, it was the liver cancer that quickly claimed his mortal shell. So I can’t say that I have shaken his hand or been in his home or ridden in the car with him. I have not worked with him.
But I have worked FOR him. And oh, what work it was.
His words have roared, stumbled, and flown from between my lips; they have shaken houses and moved women; they have elevated the souls of those who heard them; and they have made me appreciate the gift I have to recall them and share them with an audience.
So I am thankful to have been employed by the words of God, spoken through the pen of a man who, if he had lived hundreds of years before, would have been the gold standard we judge literature by in the western world. In fitting fashion, we would’ve been saying one unitary remark after completing a read of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets:
“Wow…this Shakespeare cat is pretty good. He’s like…the white August Wilson.”
;-)
joc
