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Vol. XIX No. 6 March 2004 |
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Finding Soul Where the Soulless Dwell Thirteen Juilliard students were escorted to Rikers Island prison by Clara Jackson, assistant director of student affairs, on January 25, to perform for about 100 female inmates. As a program assistant in the Student Affairs Office, I came up with the idea for the event (which was co-sponsored by that office and ArtReach, a student organization founded and spearheaded by Mauricio Salgado and Cindy Welik that is dedicated to crossing barriers and using art to reach people and lift them from their circumstances). The idea was inspired by my brother, who has been in prison for the past two years. He said to me, "When you are locked up, you feel unloved because the world forgets about you." I haven't forgotten about my brother; however, I haven't exactly shown him that I've remembered him, either. I thought to myself, is this the general consensus of America's incarcerated? That Sunday, we all mounted the bus feeling a bit like cowboys with guns loaded, ready to ride out into the wild, uncharted beyond and give our time to the less fortunate, the captives of the Big House. This was community service unlike any at Juilliard; we were galloping to criminals, menaces, and misfits to give them the gift of Shakespeare, Bach, and fusion dance. But we were met by something extraordinary and unexpected. Growing up, we learned the felonious are the lowest denominator of society; the lawless, villainous, and delinquent are manacled to prisons, where the reckless and soulless dwell. Yet the gift that they gave us was their soul.We were ushered into a large gymnasium equipped with bleachers and fluorescent lights, which reflected off the floor and gave the room a yellow haze, somewhat reminiscent of high school. Clara Jackson started going over the details of the set-up and mike usage; I was asking the guards to do this and move that, all while designating the program order. Dancers Cindy, Davon, and Robert were on the floor stretching and laughing; singers Ronnita, LaFredrick, and Leona cut the air with operatic, vocal warm-ups with the concentration and seriousness of a sergeant at work. Actors François, Bobbi, and Jasmin walked around reciting lines to themselves, and from afar, looked insane. Nicole seemed anxious and nervous as Ulysses set up his drums; jazz musicians James and Jumaane whispered among themselves.Then the women were herded in like cattle, in groups of 15 or so at a time. From all walks of life and conditions—black, white, Latina, Asian, pregnant, sickly. Some looked as if they hadn't yet graduated from middle school; some looked like they'd lived eight lives already. Some resembled death walking and talking. Some looked content, some sad and dejected, some hopeful and dreamy. We watched with rising anxiety, and a fear of not knowing how they would respond. I wasn't exactly fearful—but I realized that I was in their house, and how I governed myself would be determined by a cue I got from them, largely because I didn't want to do or say anything that would disrespect them in their house. What was so phenomenal about their arrival was how they waited till we started: wide-eyed, staring at us and whispering, completely open to receive whatever we were willing to give. I had never performed for an audience sitting at the edge of their seats before I even took the floor.After Bobbi Baker finished a monologue from For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf by Ntozake Shange, fused with Maya Angelou's Phenomenal Women, the women were on their feet chanting "Phenomenal Women!" as if proclaiming to love themselves. "For an hour," said Bobbi, "we led the women of Rikers Island away from the misfortunes of their past and the consequences their futures hold, into the joy of the present. Rejuvenation, freedom, and the uplifting of spirits were what we planned to give—unaware of the magnitude with which they would be returned right back to us. On Sunday, art once again proved itself the most rare gift. What we receive from all we give is the substance by which our craft survives."Another beautiful moment was when a pregnant inmate stood up, belly sticking out of her white T-shirt, hands raised to heaven, singing with LaFredrick's rendition of "Eye on the Sparrow." As she sang "I know he's watching me," I felt overtaken by her soul. It was as if they were teaching us how to perform with need, passion, love, power, and humanity."The women at Rikers were the best audience I've ever had the pleasure of entertaining," said Jasmin Tavarez. "They were in the moment with you, as opposed to just watching. They were all extremely supportive and gave us standing ovations. I forgot they were inmates and saw them as beautiful women. They gave us all enough warmth to last us the rest of the cold winter weather."Cindy Welik and Davon Rainey danced a duet like two leaves locked in twirling wind, to Stevie Wonder's "All Is Fair in Love." The audience response was thunderous—yelling, stomping, screaming, and clapping—yet the dance seemed undisturbed. On their way out, many of the women blew kisses to the dancers and said "I love you." It was as if they had been dancing vicariously.Jasmin also performed a monologue from For Colored Girls, and it was so amazing to see her perform in somewhat of a call-and-response way, so seamlessly. The women talked back at her character and she responded in the moment using the author's text, and commanded the auditorium; it was brilliant.Then François took the stage, and everything went to another level, to the point where the women were chanting his name. He dished them Shakespeare in a way that they understood and responded to appropriately.From opera to jazz, from Shakespeare to poetry to gospel, they accepted all and gave us mountains more. I remembered why I fell in love with acting—why I couldn't resist sauntering in front of people to bare my soul; why I'd rather be in the arena with the lions and tigers, battling out scenes before the masses, rather than a critic in the stands. Because, in giving my soul, I get something back—different every time, dependent upon the audience, but always fulfilling.
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