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| (photo courtesy of TonyAwards.com) |
My mother took me to see the wizard when I was 7. The Wiz, that is. The Wiz hit Broadway in 1975. The show was a Black version of the very famous Frank L. Baum story, The Wizard of Oz. In this adaptation Dorothy was played by a young Stephanie Mills; Hinton Battle played the tap-dancing Tin Man; the entire cast was black and beautiful, sanctified on the Great White Way. The singing was joyous. The dancing was ebullient. The costumes were a rainbow of fiery hues that electrified the soft glow of all that brown skin. I was enthralled.
When the show ended, I sat frozen in my seat. Surrounded by the raucous applause of a standing ovation, I was paralyzed. As the house lights came up full, and people started to slither past us, my mother tried to ease me out of my altered state.
“Oh, wasn’t that wonderful? But we should get going. Come on, Sweetie.” I didn’t move. Or respond. She must have thought I was tired. Her tone was gentle, like our morning wake-up routine. “Really. Let’s go. It’s late,” she urged. But I didn’t budge, so she sat back down. Irritability and concern comingled in her plea: “Sweetie, we have to get going. Are you OK?”
Then I answered: “I’m not leaving.”
I meant it. I remember my determination to stay. That theater had filled me up with something unimaginably delicious. I couldn’t name it, for my mother or for myself. But the experience of being in that theater for that show had transformed me. And I was not willing to leave it behind. I couldn’t go back to life the way it had been before, as if that world didn’t exist.
“What do you mean, you’re not leaving?”
“I’m staying. Right here. Forever.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t stay,” she insisted.
We both saw the usher approaching, heading straight for us. We were the only seated patrons left in the theater. His face was soft, middle-aged and pale. But he was friendly, not gruff. He asked if anything was wrong. I was too shy and too dazed to attempt an explanation. My mother tried to defuse his concern. “My daughter is having a hard time leaving. She had such a wonderful time. We just don’t want it to end!” she said nervously. But he saw my state – maybe he’d seen it before. I started to cry. I had no words to offer. The usher stepped in. “Well, ladies. It’s getting late, and the theater is closed. The whole place will go dark in a few minutes… wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.” In his absence, my mother accused me of acting impossible, outrageous, insane. Her patience was lost, and I showed no sign of coming around.
Then the usher returned with a record in his hand. The cast album of The Wiz, shrink-wrapped and brand new. He held it out to me. “Maybe you’d like to have this?” he offered. The album snapped me back to reality. Yes, it would be enough. I knew I couldn’t stay in the theater forever. But I would survive the loss if I could take the show home with me. “Yes, thank you,” I smiled, and took the record from him. My mother thanked him too. “You are an angel and a genius.” She asked him how much she owed him but he wouldn’t take her money. We both thanked him again, gathered our coats, and caught the subway back to the Bronx, each of us in private contemplation of what strange force had snagged us.
Fast forward thirty-some years to a bigger, brighter, more over-populated Broadway. My husband and I took our girls to see Mary Poppins last weekend, in celebration of our little one’s sixth birthday – an outing that easily cost twice as much as a lavish party would have. The show was laced with Broadway magic, and kept our girls’ attention rapt for the full two hours and forty-five minutes. The grand finale was spectacular. Little faces all around us stood agape and wide-eyed. And me? Well, I don’t like musicals much. I prefer live music for music’s sake, without all the theatrics, and theater for drama’s sake, without all the corny lyrics. But I cried at Mary Poppins, just a little. For the thrill in our girls’ eyes; for their sweet innocence;
for the fantasy and the magic.
I don’t know if the girls loved the show as much as we had hoped they would. They have pretty good taste. So I’m holding onto hope that each of them will experience the transformative power of art first-hand, some time, and that the memory stays with them forever.
