Yes, this is a performance with different rules. Security is tight and includes a photo ID sign in, a drug sniffing dog, and emptying your pockets of literally everything. No lip balm please. But it’s all done efficiently, in a rather upbeat fashion. It’s clear these productions rely on the goodwill and effort of both staff and prisoners. William Head on Stage, formed in 1981, is the longest running theatrical troupe behind bars in Canada.

The audience ranged in age from students to elders: a full house. In the theatre “lobby”, beautiful carved boxes and other carvings are on display (you arrange to come back later to buy them), along with the Out of Bounds Prison Magazine. I chatted with the Metis man in charge of the magazines; he says that writing helps him to know himself, and to let out anger (he burns those outbursts later). He was enthused about the power of the written word, well spoken, and friendly. He gave me a copy of the magazine and I felt myself warm to the potential of writing, of healing, of hope.

I’d been on the grounds of William Head before, doing research for some of my stories, and I already knew that good things can happen here. In the Salmon House where spiritual programs for aboriginal prisoners take place, at the Buddhist Meditation Garden on a promontory of land overlooking the sea, and in the chapel where various events and services are held. Now I was able to see the therapeutic and important role that drama also plays in the re-integration and self-confidence of prisoners.

The play was well-received, and lots of fun, complete with huge puppets, scary goblins rushing the stage, and a sliding Gollum on a dolly, (very clever). My favourite part was the Q and A afterwards when some of the actors spoke about the ways they had taken risks in trying these parts; many were way out of their comfort zone. They discovered they could overcome fears, earn people’s respect, and be part of a community that shared a common goal. On opening night the actors were given a standing ovation by their peers.

I watched the men’s faces, saw their grins and the way they sat and welcomed questions, and I listened to them talk about what this opportunity meant to them. One of the female actors admitted she was treated more respectfully by the men here than she is usually treated “outside”. I don’t think any of this is put on for public consumption…I think it’s that this process of staging a play together creates a safe place where self-confidence can grow, where a connection to the greater community can occur, where an inmate may begin to believe that his life can be better. And where the public can see this too and realize its importance to those incarcerated, and to all of society.

Other programs run within our prisons can be similarly life altering, including the services offered in the prisons’ chapels. At a time when our PM is cutting non-Christian chaplains to prisons, I wish Mr. Harper would come here and see the rehabilitation taking place through drama. Then he might understand that the possibilities we offer to those who are incarcerated, including spiritual guidance and creative projects, can offer perhaps the best chance for transformation and reintegration back into the world.

Photo Credits:

Photos © Star Weiss – All Rights Reserved

Their view of the old violin soon changed after Abbie’s music teacher took one look at her pupil’s instrument and dashed off to speak with Abbie’s parents, Iain and LynnAnne. A bit more research showed the violin had a faded sticker within its interior, dated 1849, bearing the name of Giuseppe Rocca, one of the most eminent Italian violin makers of the 19th century.

The instrument had been a gift to Auntie Wanda from her cousin, Pietro, a wealthy textile magnate in northern Italy, in the 1950s when she had been accepted to the Juilliard School of Music in New York. When she decided to study pharmacy instead of music, the fiddle rested in a linen closet for over 50 years.

After consulting musical instrument specialists in Canada, one name came up consistently: Bruce Carlson, considered by many to be the world authority on violins of this era. The only problem was that Mr. Carlson resided in Cremona, Italy (the birthplace of the violin) and the violin would have to be brought to him for verification.

Not one to miss out on an adventure, I promptly offered to accompany Iain to Italy. Thus, in late May, Iain and I found ourselves en route to Milan. Cremona is a short train ride from Milan, so we boarded a train bound for the ancient and historic northern Italian city.

On arrival in Cremona, Iain and I navigated through twisty medieval streets until we encountered the storefront offices of Carlson and Neumann. Bruce Carlson proved to be a soft-spoken American, originally from Michigan. He had visited Cremona in the early 1970s and fallen in love with the city, never leaving. Bruce asked us to leave the violin with him for a few days.

Iain and I didn’t spend those days fiddling around. Cremona itself has a wonderful 12th-Century duomo, a huge medieval church packed with Renaissance era paintings and a tower that dominates the town. I elected to climb the 400 or so stairs to the top, to be rewarded with incomparable views of the town and countryside for miles around.

Next we visited the town’s Raccolta di Violini housed in the Gothic-styled Palazzo del Commune opposite the duomo. Here we could gaze in awe at violins by the likes of Stradivarius, Amati and the Guarneri. I was amazed to see 16th century violins that looked almost indistinguishable from their modern counterparts. The legendary Antonio Stradivari made violins for over a half century and examples from both his early and late years were on display there.

In keeping with the musical theme of our excursion, Iain and I had also purchased tickets for a performance at Milan’s legendary Teatro della Scala, arguably the world’s most famous opera house.

Tickets are scarce and expensive but I had been able to get two of the best seats available online to a performance of Ildebrando Pizzetti’s Assassinio nella Cattedrale, an opera based on T.S. Eliot’s play, Murder in the Cathedral.

The evening of the performance we donned jackets and ties and walked from the Hotel London to the opera house. Even with seats at 350 dollars apiece we found that we still had to lean forward and crane our necks to see all of the stage from our sideward facing box. European opera houses are notorious for selling seats with no view of the stage. I was glad I hadn’t gone for the cheap seats!

After the performance we retired to il Salotto di Milano café housed in the nearby Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, for a glass of red wine and the best pizza in Milan. The Galleria is the 19th Century version of a mall, with arching glassed-over roofs, ornate buildings and is packed with shops bearing names like Gucci and Prada.

The next day we rented a car and drove to the little town of Valle Mosso, where Iain’s mother’s family had originated and where Pietro, the cousin who was Wanda’s violin benefactor, had resided.

Iain visited here 40 years ago as a child and had fond memories of happier times, but he’d been told that the family had died off over the years and no one was left.

We decided to have lunch in the Cacciatore Restaurant, once a private club to which Pietro had belonged and which Iain had visited. At the next table sat a group of older local gents sipping red wine, eating pasta and discussing politics and the latest soccer scores. Iain approached and introduced himself as a cousin of Pietro B. who had died many years ago. A portly, balding gent at the end of the table snorted in surprise and said, “But I had lunch with Pietro two days ago!”

To paraphrase Mark Twain, the rumors of Pietro’s death were greatly exaggerated. Iain’s long-lost cousin joined us and we had a joyful and emotional lunch together.

The next day we returned to Cremona to hear the verdict on the violin. Bruce Carlson entered the waiting area and sat down, heaving a slight sigh.

“Well, Iain, the violin was in fact not a Rocca. The Rocca sticker was most likely put in place to raise the price of the instrument.”

Iain’s face fell in disappointment.

“It is, however, an early and extremely well-preserved instrument by a prominent Turin violin maker by the name of Enrico Marchetti,” continued Bruce. “As such the violin is still worth in the low six figure range.”

One could say that our visit ended on a pleasant note.

Photo Credits

“Milan’s world famous La Scala Opera House at night.” © George Burden

“The opulent interior of La Scala Opera House before a performance.”  © George Burden

“The cast takes a bow after a performance of Pizzetti’s ‘Assassinio nella Cattedrale'” (Murder in the Cathedral) © George Burden

“A bust of world-Pi famous violin craftsman, Antonio Stradivarius, in a public park in his home town of Cremona in northern Italy.” © George Burden

“Bruce Carlson, a world authority on the violins of master Italian craftsmen, gives Iain the verdict on his vintage instrument.” © George Burden

In the first season of Glee, I found that Will (aka Mr. Shuester) shared many of my feelings of lingering doubt … Why did I never chase my dreams? What might have happened had I actually auditioned all those years ago?

But these thoughts were fleeting. Life was busy and it was good. Really good.

So it was not until a year after having had my daughter that I found myself feeling wistful while watching an awards show. Here I was, sitting in baggy sweatpants, drinking $10 wine while one of my former high school Drama Club members was walking down the red carpet in a designer dress.

If you take your talent and never give up, turn to page 13 to collect your Golden Globe award.

When Mr. Shuester is feeling this kind of wistfulness, Glee’s OCD-plagued guidance councilor shares a bit of wisdom with him: “They say it takes more certainty than talent to make it.”

There is was. Certainty.

Now, let me tell you, I did not relish the thought of being like Mr. Shuester. Quite the contrary. He seemed like a loser. A wanna-be who just never made it.

But then he starts to undertake a bit of a transformation. Rather than trying to live out his performance dreams vicariously through his students, he creates an all-male a cappella group. Sure, they’re a motley group with debatable talent, but Mr. Shuester is clearly enjoying himself. And that, in and of itself, made him more attractive.

If you choose to step over your pride and have some fun, turn to page 18.

And so it was that six years ago, I entered a room with an 8×10 head shot and a belly full of nerves to audition for a play. My eventual castmates were kindred spirits – former gleeks who also sought the stage, age and size of audience be damned!

As the old expression goes, Mr. Shuester and I will never leave our day jobs.  But you know what? We’re good with that.

Photo Credit

“Drama poster” courtesy of Julie Harrison

“Mr. Shuester” courtesy of FOX Networks

I need to inform you at this juncture that after assault and uttering threats, sexual assault ranks third among violent crimes for which men are incarcerated. Murder is a little further down the list.

So when the librarian from William Head Federal Penitentiary saw our play in the Fringe Festival and invited us to perform for the prisoners, we were keen, but a little nervous. He thought our show would present an interesting point of view, since so many of the inmates had committed violent crimes against women.

William Head on Stage, or WHoS, is the prison’s own inmate-run theatre program, and it’s had a positive impact, both as an activity and as a form of therapy. Prisoners rehearse and give public performances once a year, producing some really good theatre.

The choice of play is usually macabre or satirical: Macbeth, Endgame, Prison Food and Frankenstein in Oblivion. Whenever possible, the librarian/staff sponsor brought-in shows for the inmates to see, exposing them to actors from the outside community.

A week before the performance, we met with WHoS members to learn the rules of engagement. We couldn’t use real dishes or glasses (can be broken for weapons), only a kid’s toy telephone for a prop (no electronics to rewire or sharp pokey things), and no bobby pins, wigs or jewellery could be worn (more sharp pokey things, disguises and valuables in that order. Oh, and I guess I could have been strangled with my necklace.).

On their side, prisoners could not heckle or say anything negative during the performance as it would jeopardize their privileges. We were told that if they had a problem with the show, they would quietly leave the gym, or if they wanted to make a point of protest or let us know they disliked what we were saying, they could turn their chairs and sit with their backs turned.

On the big day, three very nervous women and their male director went through security. We were searched and scanned, shown our criminal record check results, and our valuables were secured in lockers. We were led by a prison guard to the gymnasium and shown where we could change. He assured us that he would be outside at all times.

We were unusually quiet as we dressed and did our makeup. Each of us withdrew to our own thoughts and jitters, unsure what to expect. My hand shook as I attempted to pencil black liner around my eyes. Just sign on the dotted line, I thought to myself, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Why did I do these things? Honestly!

Act One was Ellen’s solo performance as a young mom who had just gone back to work. She spoke of the struggle to balance nursing, laundry and a busy career. As she sipped her “Chardonnay” (out of a prison supplied plastic coffee mug), she cursed her husband for not understanding her stress, and for his lack of contribution around the house.

A few chairs turned to face the back of the auditorium.

Act Two was mine. My character was a 30-something single woman who was entirely devoted to her career. As my performance unfolded, it became clear that my character hated her father’s guts for always expecting more of her. About halfway through, she was to become very angry, half yelling-half crying for her father’s approval.

Within minutes of me taking the stage, the chairs started to turn. I froze momentarily. Could I do this? Would I remember my lines? I continued, my male bashing lines coming faster now. More chairs turned, a few men exited quietly. My chest tightened. My voice became louder, shriller. Almost half the chairs faced the back wall now. Looking down to the front row, I saw the WHoS members, riveted to my every move and word. Okay, I would just play for them.

Then suddenly, a stitch caught in my chest. My college theatre coach taught us method acting and I drew upon that training to let the lines run through my fear and become anger. It boiled up inside me, became blind rage and spewed out my mouth. I gave the most impassioned performance of my life. All fueled by fear and the backs of men who may have raped women, beaten their wives or killed their girlfriends.

By my final line, I was crying not staged tears, but real ones fueled by fear and exhaustion. I stumbled into the wings and to the dressing room, still gripped by emotion.

There was still one act to go, the story of a woman whose husband beat her. I was scared for her as an actress, but not for her safety. I wanted my dear friend to see at least a few faces in the audience.

Afterwards, having tea with the WHoS members, one very enthusiastic man asked me what my motivation was for my character’s anger. I told him flat out that I was half furious with the men who turned their backs on me and half frightened of what that said about their attitudes about women.

“They weren’t mad at you,” he explained earnestly. “Most of them are learning about themselves and what it was like for the women in their lives. They never thought about those things before. We were all told what the show was about, so there was no big surprise there. Their backs were most likely about shame and sorrow.”

I still remember the cookies we were served. It seemed such a nicety in such a cold place. The prisoner-actors were so enthusiastic, so excited about the show, the subject matter, and even more so about how we felt as we were performing. They were among the nicest and most polite people I’ve ever met.

As they peppered us with questions, I leaned over to the fellow who had been so kind to me. “May I ask why you are in prison?” I asked nervously.

“Yeah. I killed my girlfriend.” All I could say was “oh.”

“It was a long time ago. I’ve been inside for over 20 years. I’ve had a long time to think and learn. I’m clean and sober, and have my degree now. I’m a very different man.”

At some deep, intuitive level I believed him. When we said our goodbyes, our handshake communicated a new level of understanding. We both learned a lot about compassion that day.

That was the last performance I ever gave. Strange, as I’d spent many years studying theatre but life sort of got in the way. A writing career, babies who grew into teens, my own business, hobbies that I could share with my husband – new activities overtook the old ones. But I’m okay with that. I know that my last performance was my most inspired.

Photo Credits:

Inmate © Inmate Sarah #D2232 @ Flickr

Barbed Wire Prison © by Ray Phua @ Flickr