Summary

Roll Call

For eleven men and women, time had not eclipsed the memory of their eccentric drama teacher. If Rockland Academy had rolled out the red carpet for the extravagant reunion in their honor, Dame Miriam, in the moxie of her guile, had yanked it from under their feet. She knew that her transcendent, unorthodox lessons, dueling with an elite academy built upon religious convention, was nothing now that they had life with which to contend.

Still, it had always been their responsibility to be punctual, to give their greatest performance, and to answer her overarching question “…who are you and why are you on my stage?”

As the spotlight bears down, and well before masquerade dinner dramatizes their reply, a torrent of light refracts off the fortified, prismatic identities of each guest.

The road to the reunion immediately becomes an interrogation of the past, present, and future, and they each realize how obligated they are to play a role in Dame Miriam’s intelligent production.

But they were taught that to be actors, they only needed to tell their story and to master the doubling down skill of evasion, and once learned it can never be unlearned. The eleven students Dame Miriam chose were her finest prodigies.

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Roll Call

While this is a question of who will be the last guest to arrive; it is also a question of who will be the first to emerge from behind the mask.

SEASON 1: EPISODE 1

ROLL CALL

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SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2010

We stopped as if seeing it for the very first time. A gatehouse of English stature and Mediterranean appeal positioned formally at the entrance of Rockland Academy’s interior road. Like a newborn’s sensitivity to motion—halted, our memory opened up its sleep-sedated eyes.

We drove ahead, underneath its shaded, damp archway, and were led onto a narrow, unpaved aisle, seemingly charmed with the stillness of a castaway’s island or a child’s secret garden.

Centurion oaks bowed and formed a haven-like underpass. Sycamores with flaking skin stood like towering monuments while Elm and Red Maple stretched out their branches caressing Debussy the way ballerinas would. Through our windows came the scent of magnolias—breeze-touched, sauntering by like white-laced ladies from a bygone era.

A coal black fence guided us along, and horses, sixteen hands high, watched our curious procession. We followed the leaf-littered road for another half mile, taunted and teased by early shafts of light that imitated forest sprites, glinting across our windshields then darting between crooked limbs, twisted branches, and dew- dropped leaves. When we had reached the road’s

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end, a clearing opened up before us so grandly it was awe-inspiring.

Each of us parked our vehicles and got out to see how possible it was to improve upon perfection. Everything had been meticulously maintained: the stone pavers surrounding the clay fountain with active, up-falling, crystal water, the building with uniform tiles and crisp new paint. To the right and left, a precision-trimmed lawn stretching past sight, and bending walkways curving ahead, linking the academy’s historic halls to those long, stone-encased corridors. Birds of Paradise, vines of Bougainvillea, bushes of Winter Roses… we stood surrounded by art. When we looked up, as if it was the sincerest ordinance of a dignified empire, at its crown, the building declared:

Alpha. Omega.Let us Acknowledge, Let us Honor, Let us Not Forsake

our Heritage.

We were there again. At the red carpet of Rockland Academy: its fine fabric having ushered us onto pathways of success for more than a decade, now yanked free from under our feet.

We checked to see who was with us. Eight faces. Eight and not the eleven, we noticed, but still a group, now forming a queer assembly for having been the ones summoned there at the early hour.

It became clear that we stood, strangers

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and acquaintances alike, randomly and selectively chosen to be present that Saturday morning because of, well, we did not know.

“Is there going to be coffee?” someone said.

A few laughed, but no one answered. No one really wanted to, besides, no one knew details. Nor did it seem appropriate. If nothing but our alma mater, Rockland Academy still boasted its power of conduct and Dame Miriam’s spirit of reprimand. As that point quickened in our minds, someone else asked, “Is anyone else scared?”

The comedic point was that we each received a handwritten letter from Dame Miriam—not an e-blast or a traditional alumni announcement or a formal letter from a reunion committee about our early morning rendezvous. And also, to tell the truth, Rockland Academy was not our childhood playground. Nearly militant, it was an exclusive institution erected for optimum productivity and spiritual excellence, demanding both from its privileged student population, of which we belonged. Glad tidings about our return, accordingly, did not belong.

The longer we stood, the more our assorted expressions looked as if we had just bitten into sour candy. We had accepted the invitation, but by fault of compulsion and intrigue. Compulsion because, perhaps, we had been conditioned to do nothing else, and intrigue because, well, that is The Progressive Publishing Model™

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the force that surrounded Dame Miriam. In fairness, it had been fifteen years, more

or less, since any of us had confronted the psychological impact she had had on our very basic development, no matter the year we graduated. In that moment, what Rockland represented to each of us could have easily been a Pollock painting on display.

We all fell in line to the climb up the imposing steps before us, and once the door opened, we were whipped by the distinctive smell of must, old wood, and astringent pine cleaner.

Passing through the hallway, elegant glass encasements braced the walls, decorated with worthy accomplishments from Rockland’s finest; it was a portal to our past. The dining hall was set back, deep at the end of the building. When we reached it, one by one, we were accosted by a burst of exotic, tropical aromas which competed with the tantalizing sensations of sight and the sheer loftiness within the room.

It was fashioned to scale after the great halls in Spanish castles. Upward, a barrel- vaulted ceiling yawned. Two iron-cast chandeliers, shaped like inverted cones, were suspended from a long, iron cable. Although bulbs illuminated the circumference of the base, sunlight had begun to spill in from the arched, paned window, inset of the upper wall.

Its virgin rays angled towards the sidewall and shone on three ornate tapestries woven of The Progressive Publishing Model™

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silk, wool, and metallic thread. The skillful artwork depicted the holy crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. At the back of the room, a double fireplace jettisoned from the wall. The over-mantel displayed a high relief of The Last Supper and above, the Rockland crest was carved in white stone.

At the focal point of the richly themed room, throne chairs sat tall, red-breasted under massive oak dining tables in perfect alignment. One table displayed a feast.

Our hosts came to greet us. We were seated and then, with the precision chime of the grand clock Mrs. Rockland took a dignified place before our diverse group.

Refined and with a carefree sort of poise, her clear, well-articulated words resonated: “Good Morning, Dame Miriam’s Cast.”

Her great smile loosened the structured grip of formality surrounding us, almost.

“You may or may not remember me, but I certainly remember each of you and well.”

She continued, taking a step closer to us, slipping her hands gracefully into the slits of her slacks.

“I want to thank you sincerely for being part of this memorable event. Let me begin by honoring my husband, the founder of this remarkable establishment, whether you agreed in high school or not.”

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For that, she managed to earn generous laughter.

“Dame Miriam,” she continued, “should also be honored for her ingenuity and undaunted courage in proposing we host this reunion. And finally, I thank my friend, Phaedra Prince, for leaving me out of the ugly details. We came this far because of her persistence, daring creativity, and passion because I certainly would have quit at strike one.”

She earned another round of reception and then paused to recover words from her heart.

“Perhaps a rescue mission out of the dismal forest of mediocrity was his objective for starting this school. I’m still not sure what Dame Miriam’s is for bringing you back. But I hope that you have reaped the benefits of having crossed paths with both of these remarkable individuals, faithful stewards whom our Alpha and Omega chose to watch over you and attend to the care of your brilliant minds, intellects, and impressionable characters so many years ago. I would now like to take a moment to read you a passage I have been asked to read by Dame Miriam. Dr. Prince?”

She delivered a folio with a sturdy back, sealed with Rockland’s crest. After a sip of water from the table, Mrs. Rockland began.

To my Eleven: Isaiah Rockland’s point was that you could

not handle life without the help of Jesus Christ. He was bold in his faith to assert such a thing. He

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was determined to push those beliefs down your throats even if it meant you would gag. He believed sooner or later, you would break apart and realize he was right.

This heavy-handed approach did not pass to me, however. I know, tantrum and temper, I was Rockland Academy’s eccentric, the black sheep among them. I reasoned with you and encouraged you to exercise your minds, which were rightfully yours to protect. Each of you, my cast, the one’s I’ve handpicked like the roses from my garden, you did protect your minds.

You did so every day in the quiet places of your homes and hearts. And so much, you were not afraid to touch life and grab hold of it. You did not care that someone told you it must be handled a certain way or you would be responsible for the undoing. You refused to follow order, but you kept it tightly under your belt. That is not an easy feat, and I should know.

I have never been scared of it—life, and I did not think any of you beautiful, remarkable, amazing, talented creatures should be either. I did not play with its demons or deeds, but I also never accused of it evil. But time away from such truth causes one to banter what really is true. “Life is a street fight—it does not grapple fairly. Truth must predicate over folly,” I said to you. To an eighth grader, I spoke gibberish, but alas, I wager to think those words have come into play.

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Because you have been trained to think critically, you are no doubt struggling. And this is where I get you best. I get you in gravel and sand and that is where we touch earth and mean what we mean. Do you think of my intentions? I think of yours. If you declare you have none, then I will say to that, you are here to celebrate the remarkable impact you have made on this prime institution of learning.

And we will know that we both and all are liars, clever story tellers, and nothing can hold weight with the likes of us. But if we wait, will the coming of coming of coming be enough for the wanting? I want something from each you and that is fair. Your intelligence has become my obsession, and for this reason:

In that superb school auditorium, what words I spoke to you were meant to transcend time and teach you silently the way you should take, even if the way spiraled out of control.

If you are in hearing of this elemental piece, you have successfully followed my first direction, and I am pleased. But I am also curious. Have you laughed at all since the mad dash to be in attendance at this event, or have I terrified you into submission without explanation?

I hope that you have while I have left you exposed to wonder. But then I welcome you home. Home to my stage which is never more powerful than when it is stripped bare and the

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actor himself must become what he becomes, while he seeks to answer the cyclical question and the cacophony of his thoughts, who are you?

Dame Miriam had stolen our security. That she brought eight out of eleven students back on her stage was just the ordinary miracle of her eccentricity and the moxie of her guile. She knew it would be impossible for us to ignore her invitation, no matter where were in our careers, the outcome of our spirituality, our relationships, or what pivotal crossroads we were facing.

Why did she bring us back? That question too had become the cacophony of our thoughts because, although she must have heard summaries about our professional lives, that we’d been challenged or successful in career and educational pursuits, she could not be interested in the one dimensionality of our elite titles or multiple degrees, nor was she content settling for what was stated on paper about us. Had we remembered and not forsaken our heritage? Who were we and what had we become on life’s stage? That was her question, and it had always been our obligation to answer.

What things she taught us at Rockland Academy were meant to surpass time. She taught that in order to be actors, we first needed to become storytellers, and once we learned this skill, it could never be unlearned. It would hold us together in the midst of conflict if we trusted ourselves, and committed to our tale. She taught The Progressive Publishing Model™

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to never let the tides affect our position in the boat, however, to be wise about where we placed our feet. “For a little to the left or a little to the right would not be center stage, would it?” she declared.

If off-centered, then, she believed, being knocked into the raging sea to find out just how good we were at staying afloat was not only necessary, but good, right, normal and okay. On stage, she encouraged us to pioneer even when others forgot a line, stumbled through a score, or misread a cue.

In the depressed chairs of discipline, she taught that once on stage, no one, not her, the audience or God had the power to give grace for a blundering mistake—which she assured us we would find in plenty throughout life. But only if and when we accepted that grace from whatever hand thought to extend it, would we find the appropriation of power restored and rested deeply in us who, with impromptu genius, could rewrite the script and be deserving of that richly deserved, “Well Done.”

The silence surrounding all of us was heavy, but finally Mrs. Rockland drew in a deep breath, raised a toast, and exclaimed, “We are here today to celebrate you and Dame Miriam, and the legacy of Isaiah Rockland. Now, I implore you to enjoy this beautiful spread and reacquaint with old friends because you, students of

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Rockland Academy, were and will never cease to be, Dame Miriam’s cast.”

We all applauded and then she said, “Now, in the custom of Rockland Academy’s morning order, please announce your form, past and present.”

We each looked around, and then one of us stood, “Sean Bennett, class of ‘98; I am present.”

“With whom?” Mrs. Rockland said in line with the ruler of her position.

“Solomon Ivory McDaniels, 1995; I am present.”

“With whom?” “Ephraim Harris Andersen III, class of 2005,

I am present.”“With whom?”“Hilton Prescott Cain, ‘95. I’m here.” “With whom?”“Maxine Chu, I’m present. Class of 1992.”“With whom?” “Jacqueline Leigh O’Sullivan, class of ‘92.

Jacqueline Leigh Cassidy, I am present.”“With whom?” “Bree Michelle Thomas. I’m here. Honorary

Class of 2005. Williams.”“With whom?” “Khalil Rhazdean, from the remarkable

class of 1995, I am present for the races.”“And without whom, we declare Alexandra

Monroe Prince, class of 2005 not present; Jasmine

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Christine Thomas, and Dorian Oskar- Buchannan McDaniels, not present class of 1998.”

|Episode 1:: Close|

What Happens Next Week? Episode 2: Collision

A glimpse of the past, present, and future obligates Solomon, class of ’95 to attend Dame Miriam’s reunion. In fact, his presence becomes a matter of social injury or integrity, especially for his slight predicament with the master of ceremonies, Carmen Rockland.

Experience the Story

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