My Bearded Actor Friend,
You were right: a
well-timed exit may be the best way to win over an audience. Your exit from
Rocinante on that fall day left me full of burning questions about you and your
trade.
But I do not write to ask you about those
questions: they will have to wait for the day when we meet again in person,
perhaps by another frozen creek. No; I write because I discovered the craft of
acting in the last place I expected: in front of an elementary school in New
Orleans, Louisiana. I expect you are aware of the ruckus that our country is
making in regards to integration. I decided to go and see the “Cheerleaders,”
as they are being called, for myself. These women are not mothers, as the
newspapers report. The leader, whose name is Nellie, wears no wedding band on
her left ring finger. I was surprised to discover that they had more vitriole
to spit at the white man walking his daughter in than they did to the little
Negro mite who went in first.
The point is its rehearsed. All of it. It’s a performance,
and a damn good one judging by the response. I doubt if Shakespeare himself
ever caused such a controversy with one of his plays. I met some Southerners
who worship the Cheerleaders. One blond fellow I met said Nellie and the rest
were “doing their duty.”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t reconcile this
hideous brand of theater with your esteemed profession. But they do have
something in common: you and the Cheerleaders both make your buck on the
interest of others. I suppose I do as well, as a writer. It forces one to ask:
is that a good livelihood? How can one write or act ethically? What separates a
good actor from a bad one?
I can only hope that the Cheerleaders decide to
make their exit soon.
Your Friend,
John Steinbeck
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