Deerfield's 2003 Lambert Fellow

Trevor Rhone, award-winning Jamaican playwright and current parent (Jonathon '04) was named the 2003 Lambert Fellow. The Lambert Fellowship, named for former faculty member Bryce Lambert, brings writers from all over the United States and abroad to the academy to share their knowledge and enthusiasm with Deerfield students and faculty. The fellowship is part of an ongoing effort to underscore the place of writing in a Deerfield education.

Speech given by Jamaican Playwright Trevor Rhone on April 14, 2003

Mr. Eric Widmer, Headmaster. Members of the Faculty. Students.

It is indeed an honour and a pleasure to be here and be the Lambert Fellow for this year.

I see my son Jonathon in the audience. The last time I addressed a school body he was there. On that occasion Jonathon graduated from Prep school. He was ten, and a mere slip of a boy. I referred to him then as Mr Winjy, aka as Mr. Stick. Winjy is Jamaican for extremely small & skinny. Today he is Mr. Light Pole. Illuminating the world with his charm & his grace.

If I may share a story with you about Jon. At three, to occupy his time, we'd provide him with paper and crayons. Jon produced the most amazing drawings. I watched him at work, his hand moved effortlessly and magically over the paper creating the most incredible shapes and forms and patterns. I looked at his drawings in awe, and said I am going to be rich. Then one day without warning Jonathan began drawing like a three-year-old child. Little stick men. I asked him about it. "What's happened?" "Oh Dad," he said, "My days as an artist are over." He took to writing poetry. Ah well.

Jonathon's life as an artist was over, but where did mine begin?

I was born in 1940. The twenty third child of my father, Hezekiah Nathaniel Rhone (Mass Heze), and the third child of my mother Rosamond Wilhelmina (Miss Mc). She was McCalla before marriage. I named her Mc ……Aroni.

Miss Mc was a short rather plump black woman...a schoolteacher. She'd started teaching at fifteen at five shillings a month. I grew up with my family in Bellas Gate, in a big old ramshackle house. Deep rural. Mountainous. Mist covered after the rain. Beautiful. Isolated. No radios. No telephones. Life was sweet. Life was harsh.

I spent my childhood, playing and eating. Moving between my home and a sister who lived down the road I would average six meals a day, with tons of fruit in between. I became quite round and they nicknamed me Tubby. I never got sick. The nearest doctor was ten miles away, by foot.

I was six when Mass Heze took me to a Tea Meeting. Members of the community sang, recited, danced, told jokes, and made music. Every so often someone shouted.

I thinking you take off or put back a man coz yuh liked or didn't like the performance. Come Mass Heze's turn...I was nervous for him...Mass Heze did me proud.

I was furious. Mass Heze was the best performer. No idea that the event was to raise funds for the school. I had a farthing in my pocket. I shouted. "Farthing to put him back"

Everybody laughed, but it was enough to put him back.

That night was the first time I saw live theatre. I knew then exactly how I would spend my days. Singing an' dancing an' reciting an' making music.

I practiced on the comb and paper, & the bamboo fife, even tried Miss Mc's organ. But try as I might I couldn't turn a tune; like Mother, like son. I gave up the music in frustration. My future reduced to Singing. Dancing. Reciting. An' recite I did.

Bartons Primary was rehearsing a song for the visit of the school inspector. I was singing at the top of my voice, when the teacher called me out and said,

I thought she had a solo for me. Well the inspection came and went. No Solo.

My Aunt explained, that God in his wisdom had not blessed me with a talent for singing.

OK, well then. I would dance. And recite

At twelve, I went off to Beckford & Smith's High School in Spanish Town on a scholarship.

My first school fete. My first slow dance. I discovered my body was very sensitive. I kept pulling back. Was embarrassing, so, I danced to the faster beat. Soon I was getting a polite,

To my

Later, I overheard two girls,

Left only with the talent to recite.

My school entered the school's drama festival and needed a small boy to play the back end of a donkey. I volunteered. "Get out," said the drama/maths teacher. "You do no maths in my class, Get out."

The following year I tried harder at maths, and got into the drama club. We presented scenes from Julius Caesar. Poor Brutus, Cassius, Anthony never stood a chance against an electrifying display of coarse acting by the first citizen.

As a proud possessor of a Drama Festival Award, I moved to Kingston to pursue my passion.

In the newspapers. "AUDITIONS. Singers. Actors. Dancers. Needed for annual pantomime." I avoided the singing and the dancing and knocked 'em dead with,

The producers thanked us.

A week--and no word from them. I met someone from the auditions who had heard from them. Rehearsals had started. I took myself down there. I sat in the auditorium and watched the rehearsals. I was back for the next rehearsal, and the next. People began to recognize me.

The next rehearsal I made my move. I crept round the side and slipped on to the stage and joined the chorus. That rehearsal ended and nobody said anything to me. And they never did for three pantomimes in a row.

At eighteen I met Edric Connor, the great Trinidadian actor. I told him I was going to Drama School. He recommended the Rose Bruford College in the UK, with a caution,

I applied. Few weeks later, news came--I'd been accepted. Major problem. To tell Miss Mc. She had her own visions for me. Teacher. Lawyer. Parson. I showed her the acceptance letter. She took me to see the priest. Didn't help. So a family meeting was called. My brother Neville was the most vocal.

I had a hundred pounds saved. With or without family help I was going to Drama School. Miss Mc, on hearing that I was leaving did a complete turn around and promised to help with the money, on condition I didn't get into any trouble.

I promised. I knew she had no understanding of this thing I was going to study. To be truthful, neither did I.

Miss Mc, and Aunt Syl were there to see me off. Miss Mc broke her promise and cried. Twenty-one days later, after a wretched time at sea, I arrived at Paddington Station.

I was one of three blacks in a student body of two hundred. On the first day the first years introduced themselves to the rest of the college. I was nervous as I stood facing a sea of white faces, and then in my best voice,

In that very first week, I was cast as the servant in the Mime play L'Enfant Prodigue, a play set to music. First rehearsal was a disaster. I stood. One left foot in front of the other left foot waiting anxiously for the cue. It came and neither left foot would move. I balanced backwards and forwards and sideways. Rose Bruford's face flooded with disbelief. After a couple times of,

Miss Bruford was heard to say,

I was voted least likely to succeed.

My first Verse Speaking class was another disaster. Weeks later I was still struggling with my first poem. I was falling behind and failing miserably at every thing.

My first year ended as it began, with me failing everything. There were fifty-five students in my year and I was fifty-fifth. Four students were asked to leave. I wasn't. I suspect for one of the following reasons,

My second year mirrored the first. We were down to fifty-one students in my year and I was fifty-first. I am convinced I would not graduate.

Beginning of my third year. I am at my lowest ebb. It was do or die. Death of a dream. Over the airways I heard the voice of Cassius Clay saying he was black and beautiful and he was the greatest.

First time I heard a black person say 'I am black and I am beautiful'. Soon after I had the confidence and the courage to write on the blackboard in the tiniest print,

After two years of being cowed and awed, the first signs of a new me were peeking out like crocuses in spring.

BBC radio sponsored a competition for final year Drama students. I auditioned. Nobody gave me a chance. To everybody's surprise, Trevor Rhone made the team. The BBC commended me.

I was saying it louder. My confidence is taking flight.

I challenge my two fencing instructors. A father and son team, both Olympic gold medallists. The Daddy beat me, but I whupped the son.

My confidence soared. I was asked to help first year students with their voice and speech. My confidence was in orbit.

I prepared for the most crucial Verse Speaking recital of that Third year. On Recital Day, the members of my year fell like nine-pins. Come my turn, I approached the spotlight, took twenty seconds to prepare my self and started,

The adjudicator took to the stage.

I received my diploma and seven of the eight awards. It was time to go home, but maybe, just maybe, I could make it in London as an actor. There was little or no work for black actors, but I was special. So like all the wannabe actors in my year, I started watching the post. Waited for the phone to ring. It rang, but not for me. Letters came, but none for me. Everyone in my year got work, except me.

I realised there was nothing there for me. It was time to go home. But home to what? To Bellas Gate? Would be great to see Miss Mc. Miss Mc cried tears of joy to see me. I greeted her rather coolly, in a sort of stiff upper lip, British sort of way.

Then it dawned on me that the College had moulded me in their own image. I had not heeded Edric Connor's warning.

I had swallowed it all hook line and sinker. I was a mimic man. British accent. Tweed jacket. And an umbrella. Didn't belong there. Didn't belong here either. I needed to undress and re-clothe my self. But how?

Money? None. I had to find work. The Theatre in Jamaica was amateur. Shows played for three nights.

Got a job teaching. Six other theatre graduates returned home at about the same time and we formed 'Theatre 77'. Objective? Professional theatre in Jamaica in 12 years -- 65 to 77. We announced our first production with great fanfare and razzmatazz. Our first show, a double bill, European authors, was a disaster. Opening night we had four people in the audience. Three were complimentary, complimentary programs. Our total box office take? Seventy-five cents.

Our second production, an English farce was well received, but there was nothing coming from the stage that mirrored the lives of the audience. And that became very important to us, except we had no plays of our own.

The fates and circumstances saw me write my first play. It happened like this. The headmaster demanded I put on a Christmas pantomime with the students.

I spent the next two weeks scurrying around from one library to the next trying to find a script for the Christmas pantomime. Puss in boots, Jack & the Bean stalk. Read them to the children. They looked back at me with dead-pan bored faces.

A week later, I had written my first script. Cinderella, set in the children's environment. They read it and loved.

A week into rehearsals, I walked into a crisis. Hundreds of black children and staff screamed at me.

My poor black traumatised Cinderella wanted out. I consoled her. You are black and you are beautiful with the most beautiful voice and the best actress in this school. You are my Cinderella. No you. No show. So come on let's rehearse.

Come opening night. Janice sang like a bird. Standing ovations. Janice didn't need the fairy godmother to turn her into a princess. She was now the centre of attention courted by every boy in the school.

The success of the school pantomime set me thinking - 'maybe I could write a play', 'cept I was so busy trying to eke out a living there was no time to write. The fates intervened. A year earlier I had purchased a Volkswagen for a 150 dollars. The car was trouble free for months, 'till some idiot asked when last I had it serviced. I had it serviced, and a day later it left me on the road. I needed to go check on it. Mr Mc, a member of staff loaned me his car, with a warning,

It fell apart. There were pieces everywhere. It took me forty-five minutes to re-assemble the wheel. I got out the car gingerly, and closed the door.

I sat in that staff room and looked across at Mr Mc and I saw myself twenty-five years on, a frustrated old man with my life collapsing around me.

I resigned with immediate effect. The car repair bill left me with no money for next month's rent. I tried to write but couldn't focus on anything--except the rent. Lord help.

The phone rang. An ad agency needed me for a commercial. Fifty dollars. A week later they rang again. There was a problem with the script. They needed to re-shoot. Another fifty dollars. They called again saying there was a technical problem with the sound. I was happy to re-record for another fifty dollars. I had enough money to last me for six months. Thank you Lord...

I know I wanted to write a play, but who for? Jamaica? Made no sense. Plays ran for ten nights if one was lucky. Couldn't live off that. London...NY? Plays ran for months--Years. Yes. London...I remembered the pain, the doors in my face. For weeks I was pulled, tugged between Jamaica. London. London. Jamaica. Yes. Jamaica, then the old self doubt set in. It cannot work. It had to be London.

Then, a tiny voice in my head. Bellas Gate. The place I escaped from. The joys of childhood. The first sounds. The foods. The smells. The things I never spoke about--buried deep inside me. My grandmother, who wouldn't have a black chicken in her yard. Miss Mc forever straightening my nose. Endlessly brushing my hair. Miss Mc's choice of a woman for me to marry. The fair skinned girl with the long hair. I resented my mother. I was so angry with her. I had to get it out of my system. Talk about it. Write about it Rhone. All the fervour and passion and repression in my soul poured out like an endless stream of lava and love.

My first play, 'The Gadget', was, in many ways, autobiographical. Audience response was good. For the first time they saw reflections of themselves on the stage, dealing with issues of race & colour & class that affected their lives. A man affected by the piece commented with tears in his eyes, 'A problem shared is a problem halved'. Problems & issues dealt with in the play were issues he'd been wrestling with all his life. The play had helped him understand and better deal with the problems.

The responses gave purpose to my life & work. My plays could heal & renew spirits & lives, and help the community better understand itself.

I shared the script with my drama teacher in the UK. Perhaps subliminally I was seeking approval. He responded favourably, but remarked that the piece reminded him much of early Jewish drama--remove one brick from the structure and the house would come tumbling down. Structure was a new word to me. I needed to give it thought.

For my next play, I moved even further away from the English traditions. I wrote in the Jamaican dialect. The piece included all the essential elements of Caribbean lifestyle. Body language is as important an instrument of communication as the word.

I used my entire savings of 1018 dollars to produce the play. On the opening night we had 28 people in the audience. Twenty were complimentary. A gross of four dollars. The second night we had 18 people in the house with eleven complimentary tickets. A gross of four dollars & fifty cents. Usually, I panic about money. I didn't that night. I would get a loan somehow to honour my commitments. I was about to be burdened by debt, yet I was exhilarated. The play was refreshingly different. Funny. It had achieved all my objectives. My debt was a small price to pay for the realization of a dream. We had no complimentary tickets for the following night. Hopefully we would get 20 people to lessen the indebtedness. The play would have to close after tomorrow's show. I looked forward to seeing the play for the last time.

The following day I delivered twenty tickets to the Box Office. I got home to hear the phone ringing. The box office needed more tickets. 'So what happened to the 20 I just gave you?' 'Sold them all Mr. Rhone. People are waiting. Come now'. I took her another 20, and returned home to hear the phone ringing. 'Bring all the tickets for tonight Mr. Rhone and some for tomorrow and the following night'. We sold out that night and the night after that and the night after that. Three years later we were still running. London. New York. Africa.

Smile Orange changed my life completely. It affirmed my faith in my self, and led me to the understanding that to be universal one needed to be culturally specific.

My life it seems was now headed upwards and outwards. But the gods have a curious way of bringing one back to earth. The comment by my old drama teacher that 'The Gadget' was structurally flawed stayed with me. I decided to re-rewrite the play. I started. Six months later I was stuck, with a serious case of writers block. I plodded on. One, two, three, four years of pain & frustration. Beginning of year five I discovered a little book. 'The Sun & the Drum' that said, 'The art of black story telling has an intimacy of its own, rooted in imaginativeness and fanciful flights into freedom on the one hand and a soulful, penetrating expression of social reality on the other'. A light bulb went off in my head. I introduced a story-teller and the phrase 'fanciful flights into freedom took me over'. A year later, I was done. I cried.

'The Gadget', re-named 'Old story time' premiered in the Bahamas to a full house, and a standing ovation. I had written another successful play but it had taken me five years. I decided it was time to study the craft of playwriting. I had been operating on instinct. On examining 'Old Story Time' I soon realized the reasons for the plays success. I had through some quirk of fate or accident achieved almost perfect dramatic structure. My advice to you today is to trust your instinct, but at the same time study the craft of writing.

Mr. Lambert, I gather, was an extraordinary man with a passion for language. Hopefully some little thing that I said today will deepen your interest in language and the writing process. That, I believe, would make Mr. Lambert very happy. He'd be even happier, I'd imagine, if, as a result of my visit, I not only deepened your interest, but also fired your imagination and lead you on to write words that would lead to the rejuvenation of spirits, and the renewal of hope in our communities. Words that will help lead us all to our happiness. If we do this, Mr. Lambert, I believe, would be well pleased.

I thank you.