Tarell Alvin McCraney: How to Endure Imposterphobia
Since its earliest days under Joseph Papp, the Public Theater has nurtured new theatrical voices. Its latest find: Tarell Alvin McCraney, a recent graduate of the MFA program at Yale, where his mentors included Richard Nelson, Lynn Nottage and John Guare. The Public's artistic director Oskar Eustis calls McCraney "one of the most exciting and distinctive young playwrights to have emerged in many years," and the theater is giving McCraney the ultimate vote of confidence by producing The Brothers Size, a breakout hit at its Under the Radar Festival earlier this year. The show, which is set in Louisiana but draws on West African myths and contemporary rhythms to tell the story of a pair of African-American brothers, has already toured the UK and will play at London's Young Vic Theatre in November. The prolific McCraney is juggling workshops and productions of no less than six new pieces. But for all his emerging success and acclaim, the playwright admits to feelings of self-doubt and uncertainty, which he shared with Broadway.com readers in typically original fashion.
I hear the greatest artists have them,
Moments of insecurity,
Spells of feeling the imposter.
It is this creeping Sensation I've been trying to beat back since my
Days of living out of suitcase began:
Graduation day from Yale School of Drama,
May of 2007.
I use small prayers learned as a child
To help ground me: "The Lord is my Shepherd…"
I think, "The work isn't about me. It's about…"
And try to keep my mind on those thoughts.
But it's difficult.
You walk into an institution like the Public Theater
Or the Young Vic and the Alliance…
People look to you
Expecting you not to be tired, not to be frazzled by the whirlwind
Tour that has become your 27th year on this planet,
But for you to be grateful, which I am,
Clear-eyed, bushy-tailed, fed, and un-lonely.
Right then:
A small voice in my mind asks, "You sure you know what you doing?"
The answer is quick and rushed.
"Nah, but I know how to make it up as I go along."
Brothers Size was a collaborative workshop project that began at school
In September and October of 2005
Every playwright enrolled at Yale in their second year had to have one.
We were assigned a director and a slot of time to perform the piece.
A budget of $100 and a two-week rehearsal period informed
Me right off: This needs to be a play where the focus is the actors and the magic
And the fire between them—the story and the audience.
I talk to my friends, my collaborators, about what we are doing to make this work. We've had two years to figure out how to talk to each other. We've gotten pretty good at it. But I never have shown them the side of myself that continues to wonder if, somewhere, before the elevation from page… did I fail? I began this epistle, this dialogue and conversation piece about my experience of being brothers, of what the love of your brother can do. Did I miss something? Am I remiss in… Sigh.
There goes that imposter feeling again.
How does one fortify oneself? How do you sturdy yourself and maintain a course of soul-searching and not glamour-shopping? How do you work to build deeper connections to audiences and not accolades in parchments and press? And how do you do multiple explorations into similar waters simultaneously around the globe?
For me, it is always important to remember the source. There were three pieces, poems, scripture, that led me to Brothers Size. I reread them or just say them to myself in my mind. A Yoruba Short poem that, translated, says something like: "Ogun's brother Oshoosi has gone wondering and Ogun built tools to find him."
The other was from the Bible: "A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother." Proverbs 18:24
And a passage from an Essex Hemphill poem, "When My Brother Fell," for Joseph Beam:
When my Brother fell
I reread these. I recall two names in my mind: Jason and Paul. I remember their faces. I walk into rehearsal. I work hard. I pray hard.
Actors we set forth to do the world's poorest play with style and grace.
In the room, then and now, we recognized something important; we were
Doing a play about brotherhood, a bond to which we could all relate.
The exploration of that bond, into this portion of the human condition,
Could go on and on… And still does.
I watch for ways to deepen a moment, add this
Line or more likely cut away that. In there is the play.
Here, I am most confident. And safe.
They say it's normal.
They say a lot of things.
I picked up his weapons
And never once questioned
Whether I could carry
The weight and grief,
The responsibility he shouldered.
I never questioned
Whether I could aim
Or be as precise as he.
He had fallen,
And the passing ceremonies
Marking his death
Did not stop the war.
I try… hard. I… try.