Talk about sophomoric. Before the Beginning, After the End. That was its title. My first play. Set in the womb-tomb of time-space. Very eerie sound track by a fella named Satie. Eric. Wouldn't touch it today, but, there it was: my virgin voyage. I'd written poetry (or what I fancied passed for poetry) for years, however, except for school compositions, I'd never written anything else. It wasn't my intent to write anything else this time either, certainly not a play, but it somehow came out that way - an older man and a younger man arguing about - what else? - Life. Me 'n' my father? Who are you? Dr. Phil?
My writing career may not have begun at Morgan, but it certainly got a jump start there. Opening night the Morgan auditorium was packed. It was a fine night - beautifully dressed and well bespoke folks right there because I had written something. It was a lead article in the Afro-American, the local Negro newspaper. Politicians, local gentry, students, faculty, friends, family -- all right there filling all five hundred seats in the Morgan auditorium. To see something I had written. After the performance, my father came up to me backstage, put his arm around me, and said, "Well, I guess you're not gonna be a bum after all." I remember him standing there all natty in his gray Chesterfield topcoat with the black velvet collar. We weren't close. He died two months later. Often I felt he was disappointed in me because I wasn't very good at very much. There was one time, however. One other time.
I'd been away from home for five months, three on Parris Island, two at Camp Lejeune. In that time I became a United States Marine. My first liberty I arrived in Penn Station, Baltimore, in uniform, red PFC hash mark on my sleeve, marksmanship medal on my chest, and walked towards the entrance to meet my father who was walking in the opposite direction. Towards me. And damn if he didn't walk right by me!
"Dad," I called out.
He stopped, turned, saw me, recognized me, choked up and stifled a cry. I wish I could remember what we said to each other. I wish I could remember whether we hugged or shook hands.
One play led to another. Morgan was gracious enough to grant me an honors scholarship which obligated me to write another play. I can't remember anything about it except the actress sat in a rocking chair. This play opened at Center Stage, Baltimore's only professional theatre. After almost sixty years the actress, Carolyn Dotson, and I still talk from time to time. This past time - just a couple of weeks ago, actually - she told me something I hadn't known: our play broke the color line at Center Stage. We did that. Yes, we did. We broke the color line.
Morgan granted me a third opportunity as well. A local television station approached the drama department about doing some kind of project together. As a result, I wrote a show called, The Unknown American, the first TV program ever to document in detail the contributions to the United States of its Negro population. The range and breadth of accomplishments was astonishing to all of us, in science and business, military, medical, academic, literary, as well as the arts and entertainment. The Unknown American. Morgan students appeared in and narrated it. It even won a few awards, as I recall. The Unknown American. Not any more. Go, Morgan!
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