Let's be real here: making it to five years is an accomplishment.
If you can also score $10,000 on your fifth anniversary, there's even more reason to celebrate. No, no, I'm not talking about relationships here (though I could) but about the little music organization that could. And did.
After a delightful day in the warmer environs of Norfolk, I got home with barely enough time to shower and make it to the Hof in time to score a ticket for Classical Revolution's Birthday Bash with Beethoven's 5th.
The first people I spotted were Beckham and Beauty, but since I hadn't known I was coming, they hadn't saved me a seat in the front row with them. And by front row, I'm guessing they could have seen the fillings in the cellists' teeth if they'd yawned, they were that close.
I found a seat two rows behind them and chatted them up from there - given our shared affection for South Africa, they were the ideal friends to share the Post write-up about Stellenbosch Vineyards Four Secrets Sparkling Shiraz I was reading - as the crowd wandered in and the room began to fill up with music lovers and the 40 musicians who were about to dazzle us.
Surprisingly, I only spotted a few people I knew: the museum director, the Man About Town, the former neighbor and his main squeeze. While I read the rest of my newspaper (Roy Moore is clearly the serial pedophile from Liarsville), DJ Rattan played his always excellent music choices, nailing Latin gems, obscure foreign pop music and the random Steely Dan song, in that way he does so well.
Once the room was standing room only, Classical Revolution's director Ellen took center stage to talk about the non-profit's original mission to get classical music out of concert halls and into everyday life, where they've succeed at playing in bars and bookstores, cideries and galleries, breweries and theaters, even a pedestrian bridge.
I'm truly sorry I missed that last one. Sounds right up my alley.
She went on to issue thank yous to sponsors, the musicians volunteering their time and talent, supporters and, especially, those who'd showed their love with cash. A local couple had issued a challenge that if CR could raise $5,000 during the week of their anniversary celebration, they'd match the amount.
Today, she said, they'd surpassed their goal, so she turned toward the couple, also in the front row, and joked, "I'm going to take you up on that!" as the man extended what looked like a folded check. Real or not, the crowd went crazy hootin' and hollerin' about the good news.
After reminding the crowd that this was a raw performance - everyone was sight-reading music and there'd been no rehearsal - she introduced conductor Daniel Myssyk. He took up his wand, looked at the orchestra and turned back to us. "The beginning is very tricky, so I need to have this very brief conversation with the orchestra musicians."
Take as long as you need, Daniel. In what seemed like no time, he whirled around and said, "Easy!" and the performance began.
The beginning of Beethoven's Fifth is so instantly recognizable (come on, even cartoon fans know it) that right away, people began reacting.
More than a few closed their eyes, several with their heads back. The Hat followed the music's movement with his entire head. A redheaded woman smiled broadly as she watched. A young girl sat folded on her chair like a pretzel, busy reading a paperback rather than watching the orchestra.
Everyone experiences Beethoven in their own way. I vacillated, sometimes closing my eyes to let it wash over me and other times, focusing on a musician, section or Myssyk, who, by the way, gave good conductor face. No guitarist could have done better at guitar face.
Unlike at a more staid Richmond Symphony concert at CenterStage, this crowd, diverse with Baby Boomers, Millennials and everything in between, wasn't shy about clapping in between movements. The first time, the conductor looked surprised, but he adjusted.
You can't very well play in a bar and not expect some spontaneous reactions. The standing ovation at the end felt as much about the pleasure of hearing the music as a celebration of what Classical Revolution has accomplished in five short years.
Walking out with Beckham and Beauty, we encountered a distraught-looking woman who said in an accusatory tone, "They towed my car!" Without a word, we nodded together in sympathy and kept walking, with Beckham murmuring our thoughts, "The way to prevent that is to park legally."
We'd barely turned the corner when we saw an older couple standing in a business lot and he was testily identifying his missing car to the person on the other end of the line. "It was a Ford FAIRLANE!" No need to shout, sir.
No doubt it was a hell of a buzz kill after that fabulous performance to come out and find your car gone, but like Beckham said, there's ways to prevent that.
Kind of like there's ways to celebrate having made it five years. As a man once told me, "Five years with you will never be enough. I'll need at least 25!"
I say we raise a glass of Sparkling Shiraz to Classical Revolution's next 25 years.
Showing posts with label hoffheimer building. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hoffheimer building. Show all posts
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Keep On Pushing
I have many talents, but being on camera is not one of them.
That's a cold, hard fact I first learned back in college when a friend tapped me to star in his film project to wooden results.
Oh, sure, I can talk to a brick wall or any complete stranger, but a camera? Not my forte.
Before being asked to try again, Mac and I had dinner at Garnett's where we admired the recently refurbished floors, talked about her Uncle Bootsy and ate our favorite salads like we do. Both of us briefly (and foolishly) considered ordering something different than our usual, but why mess with complete satisfaction?
And speaking of that, nothing could have pleased the two of us more than seeing that chocolate chocolate cake was in the house tonight, its frosting as soft as my cotton dress trying to stand up to another dog day of Summer (my apartment was a toasty 94 degrees when I left).
Luckily, the air conditioning at the Hoff Garden was set on full blast when we arrived for Sneakpeek: 2nd Annual Afrikana Film Festival's launch. The system struggled a bit once the room filled up with other devoted movie fans for an evening of short films by directors of color and the sunset beamed its warmth through the big window, but eventually recovered.
The trio of films came across like a trilogy of up-to-the-moment commentary on race relations in the 21st century.
First was Johnny Ray Gill's difficult "Strange Fruit hanging," an emotionally charged music video shaped as a tribute to victims of police brutality. It was painful to watch because the reality for blacks in this country is painful.
The next film was black and white, produced by Ava Duvernay and titled after Common's album "Black America Again." It featured the musician rapping the title track - a protest song of the highest order - to a percussionist in between emotionally charged scenes of women in white singing and dancing on urban streets.
His message was plain: "We write our own story."
The final film, "Hell You Talmbout," had a fascinating story behind it, in part because one of the filmmakers, Denzel Boyd, was from Richmond and in the audience tonight.
It began with children in a schoolroom and roll being called, the names being those of blacks killed by cops and went on to feature a group of kids in white t-shirts with a large "X" on each dancing behind a master tap dancer (in the same shirt) performing to Janelle Monae's Trump-era protest song, "Hell You Talmbout."
During the Q & A afterward, recent VCU graduate Boyd explained how the project had come about with a grant of $8,000 and two partners (one a filmmaker, the other a tap dancer). Since his degree was in graphic design, he was tasked with the visual elements of the film, which they completed in a single day.
I have to say, for one so young who'd been part of his very first film endeavor, he handled the non-stop barrage of questions and comments from the crowd admirably, admitting that they'd seen video of a Seattle tap group dancing to the song and taken their inspiration from that.
And while he hadn't felt any particular calling to address social injustice issues before making the film, he was feeling differently as a result of it. He also admitted (to appreciative laughter) that he was hoping to hear from Janelle any day now.
Then came the announcement of the theme for this year's 3-day Afrikana Film Fest - Black with a Capital B: Celebrations of Black Personhood and a tease about one of the festival's guests.
When Talib Kweli's name was announced, the crowd roared its approval. Can. Not. Wait.
Tonight was also our opportunity to buy early bird festival passes at a discount rate (no dummies, Mac and I both did before they sell out) and it was after we'd done so that I got tapped to take a turn in front of the camera talking about Afrikana.
When I tried to get out of it based on my skin color, the brains and beauty behind the festival was having none of it. "That's exactly why you're just the person to do it!" she told me. Clearly she had no clue how lame I present when a camera is rolling.
But I did it anyway (with Terrance Trent D'Arby playing overhead) for the cause.
I did it because I think Afrikana Film Fest represents what Richmond is trying to become in terms of race relations. I did it because I attended the very first Afrikana screening back in fall 2014 and scores of their events since.
I did it because I want cultural happenings in this town to resemble the Prince concerts I went to in the '90s: a colorful mix of black and white, old and young and everything in between.
Just don't judge me for how poorly I convey my convictions. Really, I have other skill sets.
That's a cold, hard fact I first learned back in college when a friend tapped me to star in his film project to wooden results.
Oh, sure, I can talk to a brick wall or any complete stranger, but a camera? Not my forte.
Before being asked to try again, Mac and I had dinner at Garnett's where we admired the recently refurbished floors, talked about her Uncle Bootsy and ate our favorite salads like we do. Both of us briefly (and foolishly) considered ordering something different than our usual, but why mess with complete satisfaction?
And speaking of that, nothing could have pleased the two of us more than seeing that chocolate chocolate cake was in the house tonight, its frosting as soft as my cotton dress trying to stand up to another dog day of Summer (my apartment was a toasty 94 degrees when I left).
Luckily, the air conditioning at the Hoff Garden was set on full blast when we arrived for Sneakpeek: 2nd Annual Afrikana Film Festival's launch. The system struggled a bit once the room filled up with other devoted movie fans for an evening of short films by directors of color and the sunset beamed its warmth through the big window, but eventually recovered.
The trio of films came across like a trilogy of up-to-the-moment commentary on race relations in the 21st century.
First was Johnny Ray Gill's difficult "Strange Fruit hanging," an emotionally charged music video shaped as a tribute to victims of police brutality. It was painful to watch because the reality for blacks in this country is painful.
The next film was black and white, produced by Ava Duvernay and titled after Common's album "Black America Again." It featured the musician rapping the title track - a protest song of the highest order - to a percussionist in between emotionally charged scenes of women in white singing and dancing on urban streets.
His message was plain: "We write our own story."
The final film, "Hell You Talmbout," had a fascinating story behind it, in part because one of the filmmakers, Denzel Boyd, was from Richmond and in the audience tonight.
It began with children in a schoolroom and roll being called, the names being those of blacks killed by cops and went on to feature a group of kids in white t-shirts with a large "X" on each dancing behind a master tap dancer (in the same shirt) performing to Janelle Monae's Trump-era protest song, "Hell You Talmbout."
During the Q & A afterward, recent VCU graduate Boyd explained how the project had come about with a grant of $8,000 and two partners (one a filmmaker, the other a tap dancer). Since his degree was in graphic design, he was tasked with the visual elements of the film, which they completed in a single day.
I have to say, for one so young who'd been part of his very first film endeavor, he handled the non-stop barrage of questions and comments from the crowd admirably, admitting that they'd seen video of a Seattle tap group dancing to the song and taken their inspiration from that.
And while he hadn't felt any particular calling to address social injustice issues before making the film, he was feeling differently as a result of it. He also admitted (to appreciative laughter) that he was hoping to hear from Janelle any day now.
Then came the announcement of the theme for this year's 3-day Afrikana Film Fest - Black with a Capital B: Celebrations of Black Personhood and a tease about one of the festival's guests.
When Talib Kweli's name was announced, the crowd roared its approval. Can. Not. Wait.
Tonight was also our opportunity to buy early bird festival passes at a discount rate (no dummies, Mac and I both did before they sell out) and it was after we'd done so that I got tapped to take a turn in front of the camera talking about Afrikana.
When I tried to get out of it based on my skin color, the brains and beauty behind the festival was having none of it. "That's exactly why you're just the person to do it!" she told me. Clearly she had no clue how lame I present when a camera is rolling.
But I did it anyway (with Terrance Trent D'Arby playing overhead) for the cause.
I did it because I think Afrikana Film Fest represents what Richmond is trying to become in terms of race relations. I did it because I attended the very first Afrikana screening back in fall 2014 and scores of their events since.
I did it because I want cultural happenings in this town to resemble the Prince concerts I went to in the '90s: a colorful mix of black and white, old and young and everything in between.
Just don't judge me for how poorly I convey my convictions. Really, I have other skill sets.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Wrapping Up the Stories
Remember when I didn't have to start my day by calling the Senate committee on Homeland Security to leave a message protesting the confirmation of a terrifyingly inappropriate person to the National Security Council?
Sigh, neither do I. But I can't not. It feels like we're in a battle for our lives and it's only the third week.
To deal, I walk.
On a sunny 55-degree morning, Mac and I walk the T Pot, along the floodwall and back on the Pipeline, marveling at how drastically the river has dropped in the past week or so. Where last Saturday I slipped on a muddy bank dodging puddles, today the water had receded and all the paths were completely accessible again.
Because when you're walking the T Pot and the volume on the river kicks up to 11, it's impossible to focus on democracy dying right before your eyes. But then you're two thirds of the way across and it becomes hushed still water and all is calm again.
Am I clutching at straws seeing a metaphor there? This intensity of disturbing change can't possibly be sustained (and we're stronger in numbers resisting it, right?) and all will one day be settled again.
Or, at least I fervently hope.
All I'm saying is that I appreciate how fortunate I am that I can walk a mile and a half to the river and soothe every frazzled fiber of my being for even a little while. Just another of the many reasons to love this city.
Sunday the two of us had walked from the Roosevelt to Evergreen, the city's black cemetery, taking in gravestones with layers of meaning ("For our dear Mammy") along with higher-profile names like Maggie Walker and John Mitchell. Volunteers were clearing a small area in an enormous cemetery, but tramping through overgrown paths to look at statues and markers distracts a person from paying attention to what the leader of the free world is tweeting.
And who couldn't use a bit of a respite from that madness?
That's where Secretly "Y'All, Tell Me a Story" at the Hof came in tonight, offering an evening's diversion on that most relevant of topics: cyberspace.
There was nearly an hour of mingling first which was just what I needed after an afternoon spent alone and while I could've happily chatted with strangers, friends kept showing up.
Flora's new booker was there and we spent a fair amount of time discussing the goals for the new space in terms of what types of music will be booked and what he hopes to accomplish in terms of diversity of music, always a good thing.
After the career barkeep and I talked politics, the dumpling queen (and her roommate, a Georgia exile looking to return) sat down next to me and whispered her upcoming business plans.
He who had moved to Colorado showed up unexpectedly on my other side, admitting that it took moving to the center of the country to realize that he's a water, not a mountain, kind of a guy. Coincidentally, he's moving back at the end of the month.
My question is, who doesn't know which one they are? You could have given me that choice in kindergarten and I'd have known I was a water person.
What's important here is that we'd all come tonight to hear strangers share stories from their lives on the subject of the Internets and the world it has wrought.
P.S. I'm pretty sure I was the sole person there who still exists without a cell phone, though I didn't poll the group.
As someone who's been coming to these events for years, I can tell you I continue to go because I have heard not just compelling stories, but stories of historical note by being in the audience.
It happened yet again tonight and many of the tales came with a lesson.
Michelle learned the hard way that the web allows some so-called spiritual men to use and discard multiple women from opposite coasts, while Tyra's saga of buying a couch on Craig's List (a recurring theme tonight because of the perfect storm that is Craig's List) turned gory when a rug cleaner informed her it had once been covered in blood.
And while that was the end of her Craig's List purchases, I have to admit (as did several of my seatmates) that I found my lovely apartment there, albeit 8 years ago. Of course, there's no telling how tawdry it's become since because I haven't needed it again.
As a naive young art student, Finula had used Craig's List to solicit nude models, winding up at a nudist colony, hanging out for a day and, yes, eventually disrobing herself ("What have you got to lose?" her willing subject asked) before karaoke began in the dining hall. A year later, she waited on the guy and his parents at Chili's and when the 'rents wanted to know how they knew each other, the answer was, "Internet friends."
Shannon ruminated on the dissolution of human contact due to Tinder, compounded by issues of using it to network and spotting casual acquaintances ("Had I missed something about them before? Could they be my soulmate?") on it and not being sure which way to swipe. He concluded that Tinder is a dire disconnect for humanity because it causes people to objectify each other.
Don't look at me, it's not like Tinder factors into my life.
Kevin's story of Jose, a terrific couch surfing host ("He had beds for us both, made us dinner, gave us 40s and shared a blunt") in Spain, wound up with the compromised guests and host mistakenly setting out on foot at 3 a.m. on the pilgrimage to Santiago.
Trying to find a telephone in the wilderness so his 6-year old daughter could call Mommy while on her first Daddy/daughter camping trip had David telling us about multiple drives to various phone booths and country stores near Otter's Creek, none of which had phones.
Emily's trials and tribulations involved taking a nanny job in Istanbul with little information ("My parents were good liberals, so they just said to have fun and enjoy my independence") with a ridiculously rich couple who promised her travel and a cushy job and delivered servitude and 24/7 working hours. Fortunately, she escaped and met a woman who convinced her to stay with her and then become a teacher, which she's since done.
But there were also several stories that grabbed you by the gut and didn't let up and that's why you show up on a Monday night.
Samantha began by instructing the audience to take a deep breath before she launched into the story of surfing Facebook last fall and spotting a photo of a local venue's promoter in blackface on Halloween. Yes, in 2016.
Suddenly you could hear a pin drop in the room because everyone (even The Globe in the UK) had read about this story that just happened to go down in Richmond.
"This isn't a digital crucifixion," she assured the hushed room, explaining how she'd called the guy up, looking for a way to process why he'd done it and realized that he, like many others, had no knowledge of the complicated history of blackface.
As a result, she began a 3-part series called "Unmasking RVA" to discuss that kind of history with everyone who's interested and turn something ugly into something positive, making for the best possible ending.
That said, we had a positively crazy town and terrifying story, too.
An unnamed guy took the stage sharing that a coworker had emailed suggesting meeting for a drink only to find they had little in common (she: Kardashians, he: Godzilla) but they gave it a second go just in case (her: tanning and nails, him: space models and B movies) before going their separate ways.
Before long, he's getting dozens of delusional texts a day from her - "You should have fought harder for me!" - which escalated to threats, suggestions he kill himself and eventually 2,837 texts in a matter of months.
She'd been to jail and she wasn't afraid to go back, she told him. He doesn't answer her. He's changed his number repeatedly and she always gets it again. She repeatedly contacts him on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
"She's called four times since I got here tonight," he shared. That's why his name hadn't been announced when he was introduced. "Because of her, there's nowhere I'm safe online." He stood there looking a little helpless and hapless, a guy who'd granted a date to a lunatic and was paying a huge price for it.
"There's really no wrapping up of this story," he concluded sadly. "Wish me luck."
The room was stunned and the applause huge, but all the buzz afterward was about how this man's life has been destroyed.
It was the kind of story that exemplifies the secrets you potentially hear from strangers at Secretly Y'All and if that had been the outer reaches for tonight, it would have been a sterling example of such an evening but no, oh, no, it got wilder.
Originally from Brazil, Isabella had moved here 8 years ago without family so she'd made a point of looking up a Peace Corps volunteer, a good man who'd stayed with her parents years ago and whom she'd been hearing about her whole life.
A retired psychologist, he used Craig's List to search out interesting-sounding people and talk to them for research purposes. And ad for a guy looking for someone to show him around Charleston when he visited caught his eye, because it included the caveat, "No Jews, no queers, no n-words."
But when the psychologist contacted him about showing him around and talking, the guy begged off because he was going through a difficult time because he was miserable with no friends "even though I'm cool."
Recognizing what sounded like mental illness and trying to help, the psychologist suggested a peer of his in Columbia where the guy lived, but contact broke off shortly thereafter.
The cool guy with no friends was Dylan Roof who'd gone on to kill nine blacks in a Charleston church. Her friend the psychologist eventually had to turn over his computer to the FBI for evidence in his trial.
There we sat, gob-smacked for the second, maybe third, time tonight after hearing a stranger's secret.
All I could think of was another Secretly Y'All several years ago when I'd been similarly overwhelmed.
Then a woman had shared a story about her college boyfriend's father having had a sex change operation and identity reassignment because as a child he'd heard his uncle admitting to being part of the Birmingham church bombing that killed the four little girls and he worried about retribution (bullets on his window sill didn't help).
Cyberspace turned out to be a hell of a theme for the evening, but was brought into perspective by host Kathleen who reminded us, "Despite the theme, we'e all here in the real world to share stories. That's pretty rad!"
And who couldn't use a great big dose of rad right about now?
Sigh, neither do I. But I can't not. It feels like we're in a battle for our lives and it's only the third week.
To deal, I walk.
On a sunny 55-degree morning, Mac and I walk the T Pot, along the floodwall and back on the Pipeline, marveling at how drastically the river has dropped in the past week or so. Where last Saturday I slipped on a muddy bank dodging puddles, today the water had receded and all the paths were completely accessible again.
Because when you're walking the T Pot and the volume on the river kicks up to 11, it's impossible to focus on democracy dying right before your eyes. But then you're two thirds of the way across and it becomes hushed still water and all is calm again.
Am I clutching at straws seeing a metaphor there? This intensity of disturbing change can't possibly be sustained (and we're stronger in numbers resisting it, right?) and all will one day be settled again.
Or, at least I fervently hope.
All I'm saying is that I appreciate how fortunate I am that I can walk a mile and a half to the river and soothe every frazzled fiber of my being for even a little while. Just another of the many reasons to love this city.
Sunday the two of us had walked from the Roosevelt to Evergreen, the city's black cemetery, taking in gravestones with layers of meaning ("For our dear Mammy") along with higher-profile names like Maggie Walker and John Mitchell. Volunteers were clearing a small area in an enormous cemetery, but tramping through overgrown paths to look at statues and markers distracts a person from paying attention to what the leader of the free world is tweeting.
And who couldn't use a bit of a respite from that madness?
That's where Secretly "Y'All, Tell Me a Story" at the Hof came in tonight, offering an evening's diversion on that most relevant of topics: cyberspace.
There was nearly an hour of mingling first which was just what I needed after an afternoon spent alone and while I could've happily chatted with strangers, friends kept showing up.
Flora's new booker was there and we spent a fair amount of time discussing the goals for the new space in terms of what types of music will be booked and what he hopes to accomplish in terms of diversity of music, always a good thing.
After the career barkeep and I talked politics, the dumpling queen (and her roommate, a Georgia exile looking to return) sat down next to me and whispered her upcoming business plans.
He who had moved to Colorado showed up unexpectedly on my other side, admitting that it took moving to the center of the country to realize that he's a water, not a mountain, kind of a guy. Coincidentally, he's moving back at the end of the month.
My question is, who doesn't know which one they are? You could have given me that choice in kindergarten and I'd have known I was a water person.
What's important here is that we'd all come tonight to hear strangers share stories from their lives on the subject of the Internets and the world it has wrought.
P.S. I'm pretty sure I was the sole person there who still exists without a cell phone, though I didn't poll the group.
As someone who's been coming to these events for years, I can tell you I continue to go because I have heard not just compelling stories, but stories of historical note by being in the audience.
It happened yet again tonight and many of the tales came with a lesson.
Michelle learned the hard way that the web allows some so-called spiritual men to use and discard multiple women from opposite coasts, while Tyra's saga of buying a couch on Craig's List (a recurring theme tonight because of the perfect storm that is Craig's List) turned gory when a rug cleaner informed her it had once been covered in blood.
And while that was the end of her Craig's List purchases, I have to admit (as did several of my seatmates) that I found my lovely apartment there, albeit 8 years ago. Of course, there's no telling how tawdry it's become since because I haven't needed it again.
As a naive young art student, Finula had used Craig's List to solicit nude models, winding up at a nudist colony, hanging out for a day and, yes, eventually disrobing herself ("What have you got to lose?" her willing subject asked) before karaoke began in the dining hall. A year later, she waited on the guy and his parents at Chili's and when the 'rents wanted to know how they knew each other, the answer was, "Internet friends."
Shannon ruminated on the dissolution of human contact due to Tinder, compounded by issues of using it to network and spotting casual acquaintances ("Had I missed something about them before? Could they be my soulmate?") on it and not being sure which way to swipe. He concluded that Tinder is a dire disconnect for humanity because it causes people to objectify each other.
Don't look at me, it's not like Tinder factors into my life.
Kevin's story of Jose, a terrific couch surfing host ("He had beds for us both, made us dinner, gave us 40s and shared a blunt") in Spain, wound up with the compromised guests and host mistakenly setting out on foot at 3 a.m. on the pilgrimage to Santiago.
Trying to find a telephone in the wilderness so his 6-year old daughter could call Mommy while on her first Daddy/daughter camping trip had David telling us about multiple drives to various phone booths and country stores near Otter's Creek, none of which had phones.
Emily's trials and tribulations involved taking a nanny job in Istanbul with little information ("My parents were good liberals, so they just said to have fun and enjoy my independence") with a ridiculously rich couple who promised her travel and a cushy job and delivered servitude and 24/7 working hours. Fortunately, she escaped and met a woman who convinced her to stay with her and then become a teacher, which she's since done.
But there were also several stories that grabbed you by the gut and didn't let up and that's why you show up on a Monday night.
Samantha began by instructing the audience to take a deep breath before she launched into the story of surfing Facebook last fall and spotting a photo of a local venue's promoter in blackface on Halloween. Yes, in 2016.
Suddenly you could hear a pin drop in the room because everyone (even The Globe in the UK) had read about this story that just happened to go down in Richmond.
"This isn't a digital crucifixion," she assured the hushed room, explaining how she'd called the guy up, looking for a way to process why he'd done it and realized that he, like many others, had no knowledge of the complicated history of blackface.
As a result, she began a 3-part series called "Unmasking RVA" to discuss that kind of history with everyone who's interested and turn something ugly into something positive, making for the best possible ending.
That said, we had a positively crazy town and terrifying story, too.
An unnamed guy took the stage sharing that a coworker had emailed suggesting meeting for a drink only to find they had little in common (she: Kardashians, he: Godzilla) but they gave it a second go just in case (her: tanning and nails, him: space models and B movies) before going their separate ways.
Before long, he's getting dozens of delusional texts a day from her - "You should have fought harder for me!" - which escalated to threats, suggestions he kill himself and eventually 2,837 texts in a matter of months.
She'd been to jail and she wasn't afraid to go back, she told him. He doesn't answer her. He's changed his number repeatedly and she always gets it again. She repeatedly contacts him on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
"She's called four times since I got here tonight," he shared. That's why his name hadn't been announced when he was introduced. "Because of her, there's nowhere I'm safe online." He stood there looking a little helpless and hapless, a guy who'd granted a date to a lunatic and was paying a huge price for it.
"There's really no wrapping up of this story," he concluded sadly. "Wish me luck."
The room was stunned and the applause huge, but all the buzz afterward was about how this man's life has been destroyed.
It was the kind of story that exemplifies the secrets you potentially hear from strangers at Secretly Y'All and if that had been the outer reaches for tonight, it would have been a sterling example of such an evening but no, oh, no, it got wilder.
Originally from Brazil, Isabella had moved here 8 years ago without family so she'd made a point of looking up a Peace Corps volunteer, a good man who'd stayed with her parents years ago and whom she'd been hearing about her whole life.
A retired psychologist, he used Craig's List to search out interesting-sounding people and talk to them for research purposes. And ad for a guy looking for someone to show him around Charleston when he visited caught his eye, because it included the caveat, "No Jews, no queers, no n-words."
But when the psychologist contacted him about showing him around and talking, the guy begged off because he was going through a difficult time because he was miserable with no friends "even though I'm cool."
Recognizing what sounded like mental illness and trying to help, the psychologist suggested a peer of his in Columbia where the guy lived, but contact broke off shortly thereafter.
The cool guy with no friends was Dylan Roof who'd gone on to kill nine blacks in a Charleston church. Her friend the psychologist eventually had to turn over his computer to the FBI for evidence in his trial.
There we sat, gob-smacked for the second, maybe third, time tonight after hearing a stranger's secret.
All I could think of was another Secretly Y'All several years ago when I'd been similarly overwhelmed.
Then a woman had shared a story about her college boyfriend's father having had a sex change operation and identity reassignment because as a child he'd heard his uncle admitting to being part of the Birmingham church bombing that killed the four little girls and he worried about retribution (bullets on his window sill didn't help).
Cyberspace turned out to be a hell of a theme for the evening, but was brought into perspective by host Kathleen who reminded us, "Despite the theme, we'e all here in the real world to share stories. That's pretty rad!"
And who couldn't use a great big dose of rad right about now?
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