This weeks blog post is a from our own Margaret Dwyer, who beautifully puts into words why we do this crazy business of show. And how often times, a show means more than just simply what the audience can see. Take it away, Margaret...
In Working, Mike the Ironworker sings, “Now I know…why I work my whole damn life, so I can give a better life than the one my daddy could give me. I give it to my kid.”
Everything I know about working I learned from my father. When I was younger, he often worked as many as six days a week at Newsweek as a photo editor, leaving our house for his Manhattan office as early as 9:00 AM and sometimes not getting home till midnight. He worked hard and he loved it. His devotion showed me what happens when you love the job you do.
In 2002, my father retired from the magazine world, but continued working, now as an English teacher. He was constantly doing more: coaching basketball, encouraging students in a poetry contest, picking new plays for his class to read. In the summer of 2011, he received tenure at Pelham Middle School, the same school my siblings and I all attended. Upon receiving the promotion, he said to me, “This is what I’ve been working for, sweetie. Now we can have a good life.”
My father died suddenly a month after saying that to me. He was a young man, a good man, and a man whose work on this earth as a father, husband, and teacher was not finished.
It’s hard to lose someone young and with no warning. I miss my father every day. There are few comforting words in a time of grief, but I was told by someone on the day of the funeral, “There are unexpected gifts in the death of a loved one.” Unable to see beyond my loss, I could not conceive what gifts might come into my life by losing my dad.
The greatest gift for me since Dad’s death has been Working. This is a play about America, about jobs, and about how every individual matters. Working takes the people we see every day, the valet, the cleaning woman, the bag boy, and shows us their stories. We are challenged to view each character as a fully fleshed out human being, someone who has hopes and fears beyond the title of their job.
In addition to the gift of moving subject material is the gift of family. The cast of ten onstage at the Lex is a true ensemble. We support each other, onstage and off. We share a tiny dressing room and giggle like schoolchildren in it. We move the rolling desks and chairs into the correct places to set the scene for the next song. We sing in harmony, which must be the ultimate expression of working together. We stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, singing different notes that create something bigger and more beautiful than any one of us.
Our support onstage is made possible by the care we received offstage throughout the rehearsal process. Our director August Viverito, producer TL Kolman, musical director Richard Berent, and choreographer Nancy Dobbs Owen put unimaginable amounts of effort into every rehearsal. They prodded us, pushed us, and molded us into the ensemble we are. Now that the show has opened, we’ve added two committed stage managers and two incredible musicians. The gifts of this production are infinite.
Every night onstage, I sing the words, “I can see my father smiling at me, swinging on his arm.” I know Dad is smiling, but not just at me. I am sure he is watching every member of this musical with pride as we work onstage together. He did work his whole damn life to give me a better life, and I feel lucky that I get to spend part of it onstage in Working with The Production Company.
WORKING is now playing at The Production Company in Hollywood, through May 5th. For tickets and more info: www.theprodco.com
