May they never know our names

I’m standing with the brilliant dramaturg Jess Applebaum, after a panel she and Nic Benacerraf moderated at the Prelude Festival.  I think I said angry things?  I hope I wasn’t too pessimistic.  It’s hard to keep your head up these days.  At any rate Jess and I are at what must be the most intense and worst Irish bar in midtown east, which is a steep competition, tossing around ideas, concepts, theories, discussing examples of our leaders failing us, of our heroes letting us down - and Jess, because she is brilliant, is citing sources and cross referencing theories like you just wouldn’t believe; her mind is a great house with many windows, the sun shining into each one.  At some point we pause, looking around ourselves we see that we have buried ourselves in the problems of the theater industry up to our ears, so many issues, so many bad intentions, so many good people corrupted. “May they never know our names” Jess says to me shaking her head - and I grab my chest.  Oh my heart.  Because for too long, for really long, I mean, maybe since I moved to New York City, a bright and foolish teenager, I have wanted them to know my name.  And I knew I had things to prove, so the child proves things, and works hard and gets jobs and does well and gets better jobs and makes art and fails and makes better art.  I have seen my colleagues, those with college degrees and family connections, rise and pass over me in station - and that has been difficult, it has been hard to get people to remember me.  To remember my name.  But what does it cost?  To have your name remembered, to be someone in the eyes of the field.  Too much.  Just look at our leaders, look at those with power in the field, those with influence.  Do they seem happy to you? 

I pray to the God of lost teenagers and big vague ambitions, grant me this wish: steer me away from power.  Steer me away from having the power to make projects happen or not happen - the power to make someone’s career, the power to destroy my enemies, the power to decide what culture is, what art is, what is important.  Cause oh god what a beautiful dictator I would be!  I’m just so certain that I know what is right and what is not.  But like Galadrial, let my hand be turned away from the ring.  May I be happy.  May I be respected by my peers and artists.  May I work with people with big ideas and may I be smart and be able to help smart people.  May I be of great USE.  May I be able to help things flower.  And may they never know my name.  Those power brokers and gossip mongers, those kingmakers, those who write history. May my ego fall away like leaves fall to the ground in November.  May they never know my name.  May I never become resentful when people forget to mention me in their speeches.  May I remember that I know who I am, I know what I have done, and I don’t need them to crown me king.  For I am richer when they do not, than when they do.