THE MAN I PLAY IN

This is Claude Pepper, the man I will be portraying in the new play Red Pepper. Look out it will be coming in October.

RED PEPPER - TAKE ONE

(MY NEW BLOG IS thejplay.tumblr.com)

The play is called Red Pepper.

The playwright is Suzanne Willet.

The setting is a political backdrop of United States history.

One of the primary characters is former Florida senator, Claude Pepper.

And the actor playing Claude Pepper is Jared O’Roark.

Wait a freaking second!!! That’s me! What the…I am not an actor, well I’m not an actor first and foremost, at least, I’m a writer. Writing is my love. It’s my heart. I haven’t been on stage with characters that haven’t come out of my head in six years!! What the hell am I thinking? I’m scared out of my ever-loving mind!

“I’m scared,” that’s what I was thinking. When Suzanne called me up and asked me to play the role of Claude Pepper, my initial feeling was fear. I get scared when I don’t know if I can do a good job. And I have to be honest, I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN DO A GOOD JOB!!!!

That’s why I agreed to do the play. I am 32 years old, and I am following the trend of the world…as the years pass, I don’t get any younger like I would like…I get older. Therefore, I decided that if I am to become any better of a human being, and grow like I would like, I am going to have to take on new challenges…

WHEN FEAR LOOKS AT ME IN THE FACE, I DON’T WANT TO RETREAT, I WANT TO CHARGE AHEAD!!! (Okay, except with rollercoasters, I don’t like metal deathtraps.)

I took the job because I love and believe in the power of theater so much. I believe that when it comes to the performing arts, theater is the most powerful and the most personal form of expression. Sure the actors on TV or movies are expressing themselves, but they don’t have to experience the audiences reaction live to the touch. Theater provides the audience the power to instantly show their feeling. Theater provides the actor the power to feel that appreciation (or sometimes, not-so) while they are performing.

I also accepted this job to say to myself that, “Jared, you are not going to get better as a person, if you don’t look fear in the face, and fight it back.”

I deal with teenagers (and adult teenagers) on almost a daily basis, and I always tell them that life is scary, and that you have to go after the things that you want. And you have to take risks, and you have to challenge yourself. I decided to put my foot where my mouth was, and practice what I preach. This is not going to be easy. It is going to be hard. I already see improvisation on the list, and a bit freaking out (as it puts actors in the most vulnerable position.) And it is going to be scary, but you know how the saying goes…

“We have nothing to fear but…” well you get the idea.

Breathe.

Walk forward.

Lion’s den.

BALD HEADS AND COLORING BOOKS

"I'm hungry," I growl, as I usually do whenever my brain and stomach decide to be at odds with each other. A bear would beg to escape my mood without a morning dose of sustenance.

I decide at 10 o'clock (a disgustingly late time for me to eat breakfast, especially considering I arose at 6:30 in the a.m.) to go and get some food at the local Panera Bread (my personal hang-out and relaxing spot to get stuff done.)

I walk briskly in the front door (as I have a mission that must be accomplished to cure the monster growing in my stomach) passing a father and son on my right sitting at a table, clearly coloring or doing some other child-like activity. I approach the counter and order my not-so-surprising typical order of a regular sized drink and a Breakfast Power Sandwich. As a matter of fact, I don't have to order it. I walk up to the cashier and the order is basically recited to me before I even get to utter a word (a creature of habit, what can I say.)

I pass the father and son duo (still coloring) a second time as I go to the room I always go to in order to set up my laptop. I walk back by them as I go and fill up my drink (I was in a real true caffeine mode, and therefore I decide to get a real drink, a soda). I walk back by them as I go sit down. I continue my routine as my buzzer goes off to indicate that it is time to go and pick up my order. I rush by them again (are you seeing a pattern) as I head back to my table where my laptop is resting. I eat my sandwich, I drink my Diet Pepsi. I need a refill. I walk by them (are you getting dizzy?) as I go and refill my drink.

Something struck me - finally! - as I walked back to my laptop. I stopped, and I could see this father and son sitting by the door at the table, coloring. I noticed something I didn't notice before. The father was bald, which isn't what struck me, as I myself suffer from the tortures of male-pattern baldness. No, what struck me was the son, coloring - he was bald. This was not a bald that is buzzed. This is not a chosen baldness. This is a bald that indicates that no hair is able to grow in. The baldness of the boy's head glistens under the soft lighting in the restaurant. No this is a different kind of baldness, this is a baldness that you can just see comes with a story.

Your head has probably already completed the story that can be told just by a shiny bald head on a (possible) eight-year-old. This is clearly associated with cancer, and my heart suddenly goes out to the little child coloring.

However, I glance back over at the father for a second time and I notice his head. This man isn't balding, I know what it looks like when hair is falling out of your head because genetics have kicked in. There is a look to that kind of baldness, this man did not have it. This man clearly had a full head of hair just begging to grow into his scalp. That is when it hit me. I started putting the pieces of this puzzle together...

This man...no, this father, has shaved his head in honor of his son who is sitting like a child on the chair (propped up on his knees) coloring in the book. And a father, who is aping his son's fashion statement (well, at least making his son believe it is just a fashion statement) and coloring right along beside him.

My heart hurt for the boy sitting in the chair, but rejoiced for the moment that I almost walked past. I was so gung-ho on making sure that my needs were satisfied, that I almost skipped this picture. I almost trailblazed right past the visual beauty that was sitting right by the front door at Panera Bread.

My life has been enriched.

I think maybe from now on I should try to walk slower.

BAD POETRY

I have been spending several days doing something that I never thought I would actually sit down to do - printing out all of the works I have ever written, and p uttingthem in chronological order. I never thought I would do it, because some of that earlier poetry is just so bad (okay and occasionally some of the modern stuff.) I mean there are forced rhymes, and fake emotions, and you can actually feel all the cover-up of my feelings pouring off the page. I mean I didn't want to put that all together in a self-made notebook that my friends could flip through. Why would I do that? Insane!

Call me a glutton for punishment because some undefinable force came over me to actually try and achieve this goal, and I have found out something quite powerful. I have grown up! Who knew, right? This isn't a series of poems written by an 11 year-old boy and following him up to a 31 year-old man. No, this is so much more than that. This is my history. These are the stories of the childhood I had, and the life that I lived.

If you can get over the bad writing (okay some of it is downright god awful), you can see me growing up. You can see me developing a style. You can see the time when there were dark days, or when I was feeling disgusted by myself and how I looked.about myself. I have read these poems, and thought "oh that is when my mom and dad were going through that horrible patch in the marriage." (Don't worry they made it through.) I read another poem and I tear up (not because the words are touching, because honestly they are not). I tear up because I remember that part of my life when I was questioning myself and doubting exactly who I was, and if my family would love me. I remember someone in my congregation in the religion I was in treating me so badly, and spreading lies about me. I remember when that person cut at my feelings so deep I could do nothing else but bleed on page. I can look at a poem and think about exactly what emotion I was feeling, and how i was trying to cover it up, because there are some poems where I was scared of feeling that emotion.

These poems reveal so much about me. I decided that I didn't want to touch a word. So much would end on the cutting room floor if I decided to do that, and I can't get those feelings back (as I am not the same person.) So, I will gladly let them shine in all their horrible-ness. :) These are not just poems, this is a history of my teenage years.

I went to an open mic night here in St. Petersburg, Florida a couple years back, and there were a ton of poets there, and an emcee that at first I thought was quite charming. The emcee got up to the podium and announced the name of the next poet. This skinny, frail teenager gets up there with these "emo"-type clothes, with his wallet connected to a chain. He is very scared and shy. You could feel that. He opens his notebook and he just reads this poem that he wrote. He spouts off these forced rhymes, in a style that wasn't very strong, with words not combined well. I don't quite remember what the poem said, but I remember him talking about love. You could tell that the room was uncomfortable because this was not the strongest words ever to be heard coming from a teenagers mouth.

Half-way through his poem the emcee stands up and says, "Oh, I'm sorry to interrupt you but we have a special guest here today..." and pleasantly sends this kid off the stage, without him finishing the poem. At the time I remember feeling so much pain for him. I mean this kid got up there and spilled his guts, and maybe the rhymes were forced and maybe his emotions aren't fully understood yet, but he got up there.

You know I think about that day, and look at my poems that I wrote down on paper when i was a teenager. THEY ARE HORRIBLE! I needed that outlet. Bad poetry or not, I needed that release. Life is hard enough without being shut up by adults. The fact that this emcee did that to this teenager, bothered me in my heart. Here we are two years later and I still remember that. I recall not in that moment not fully understanding why this kid I don't know made an impression on me. I completely understand now! I was that kid! I had that inability to form words, and no style at all. There was just these emotions that needed to be let out. This anger, and love for the unknown, and frustration....

It got worse. I remember leaving early that night, and as I walked out of the theater there was that kid crossing the street of downtown St. Petersburg, with this heavy walk that forced his head forward and back. Beside him was his mother...his mother brought him to the poetry reading so that he could share his thoughts and feelings to a group of strangers. That is an image I am never going to forget. That kid may not have fully understood that moment in his life, but I know his mother did. I bet his mother knew that he just needed to say it (even if it wasn't the most eloquent), and she brought her son to the poetry reading so that he could allow himself to use his words.

I go back to these poems in front of me that I wrote when I was a teenager...I don't know if I could have taken being shut up like that. In fact, one of my biggest pet peeves is when I feel like my voice isn't being heard. I cannot allow that to happen to another teenager. They have voices, too. Teenagers may not be able to express them as well as adults (and by the way how many adults do you know that can express themselves...let alone even try) but they have things to say. And if you listen, really listen, not to the words themselves, but to the emotions in the words, you are going to see something very powerful.

That is right, that is what I am saying...everyone can see themselves in the bad poetry that a teenager composes, so don't shut yourself up.

FISH AND FAMILY

So I would like to begin this blog with this very important warning: I love my family. (Uh oh, that sounds like something bad is about to come, right?) They are some of the most loyal individuals I am ever going to have the privelage to have in my life. (Uh oh, this must be really bad.) They would do anything for you, no matter how they feel towards you at the time. (Uh-oh, what did these people do?)

I have a very important saying that I have created, that at least in my family is the truth: "Family is the closest thing to unconditional love you are ever going to find in a human being." Now what you consider to be your "family" will change that statement as traditional families aren't as common as they once were.....unless you are a member of the O'Roark/Roark household.

This past weekend I went to a family reunion in Dallas, Texas. Every single member of my immediate and extended family was there (minus one aunt who couldn't make it for whatever reasons.) I had every single cousin on that side of the family (there are ten of us, and only one is a girl.) I had every single one of my dad's brothers and sisters (there are six of them)....are you up to count that is 16 people. WAIT!!!! Four of those brothers and sisters are married (and my brother)....ADD 5....21 people! And who could go to a family renunion if the matriarch and patriarch weren't there. Got to love those grandparents! 23 people! Are we done yet? Oh now, my grandmother has two living brothers and sisters. 25 people! One of those has a child with a husband and two kids. 29 people! And still yet one of those brothers and sisters is married. 30 people! Yep, 30 people all staying at a bed and breakfast (with Hitler as the bed and breakfast owner....but that's a blog on it's own) not a hotel. That means that all of us were in walking distance of each other, and there was almost no time to have alone. Smell trouble? Because there was trouble.

Which brings to another saying an uncle once told me..."After three days, fish and family start to stink."

There was fighting and arguing (notice I separated those two words) and there was bitching about this and that and the other. There was people trying to get people's goat, and people not trying and yet succeeding nonetheless. Yet through it all I noticed something. I am the oldest grandchild in my family (on both sides). I noticed that everybody younger than me was getting along and pretty well behaved. We were having the time of our lives, and smiling and laughing and just all around enjoying the company. It seems all those older than us (well, the middle generation; the older generation were nice, quiet and reserved) were just up for arguing ad nauseum. It was insane! I think I figured out why.

All of my cousins have things we do not tell the older generations as they come from a time when a lot of things are just wrong (no way to look at it, no angle to try to maneuver to). There is no acceptance of things, just plain wrong. However, my cousins and myself and brother all have no real secrets from each other. (Secrets seems like such a strong word, but those little things that your family really doesn't know about you, and they don't want to know.) All of those surface things that we are told are "wrong" are not hidden from the other cousins. We may not speak all the time, but I know that we can all be ourselves around each other. I think that is not what my family is missing, I think that is what most families are missing. Communication.

There is no communication. And the odd thing is is that nobody in the family (or any family for that matter) has true secrets. Everyone knows them, but if someone finds them "wrong" instead of talking about them, they choose to pretend it doesn't exist, allowing the "secrets" to just fester. So here is the dilemma, becasue nobody speaks about them and yet everyone knows about them, here is what happens: 1) Nobody talks about it. Which leads to 2) A family member allowing themselves to create whatever scenario about that person they want to in their mind, whether true or false (as they won't speak about it). Which leads to 3) A sense of anger developing for that family member because you believe your created scenarios to be true. Which leads to 4) The anger going from internal to external. Which leads to 5) Yelling. Which leads to 6) People yelling back. Which leads to 7) Pushing. Which leads to 8) Violence. Which if you are not careful can lead to 9) the breakdown of a family that at one time was so loyal and dependable.

Communication is always the key. I don't know too many people who would disagree with that statement. However, I have seen what happens when no one communicates. I saw this past weekend a difference in generations. I see what happens. My parents' generation come from the world of "if you don't speak about it, than it is better not to think about." Whereas myself and generations below me are clearly part of a "we may not agree with each other but I say we discuss it all and just talk it through."

You know I love my family (and that is not me convincing anyone, but just a statement of fact.) This past weekend proved to me just how important they are to me in my life. They formed me and created me in a lot of ways that nobody can take away. My eyes, my nose, my sense of humor, etc. However, sometimes I look at the world and I see the generation below me just preparing to ruin the world. But then I look at the generation above me and I see how much my generation has shaped and improved the world. Maybe that is what the generation below me is doing, and I have to be prepared to face that.

The fact of the matter is this. Fish and family do start to stink after three days. However, let's face it, just like fish, you need a dose every once in a while. It's good for the heart.

TENNIS SHOES AND TELEPHONE WIRES

So one of my many jobs at Ruth Eckerd Hall is to go into low income schools and work with teachers by teaching part of their curriculum but doing it by coming at the material in a more artistic way. I tend to focus more on the writing of poetry. Well one of the things we do is thing style called a box poem, which helps the kids write a poem without them even having a clue they are doing it until the end. Well, I do this style of poem with them based on landmarks that are from certain continents that they are studying in 3rd Grade.

However, the trick of the poem is that you have to explain what landmarks are to these kids. Now most of these kids do not see beyond the 6 block radius of their worlds. Landmarks that we are going to be talking about are simply pictures in books. That is all. I live 10 minutes from the beach, and many of these kids have never even seen a beach....you would think I would be joking, but I got bad news, these kids exist. Very few have any idea how close they even are to the beach.

So landmarks come up and are explained, and once they can grasp the concept, you ask for them to provide landmarks they have in their head. And you get the standard replies: Statue of Liberty, Eiffel Tower (yes the kids who have never been to the beach in their back yard, know the Eiffel Tower), Mt. Rushmore, Grand Canyon, Great Wall of China. Until one little boy raises his hand to be heard, he is so proud of his landmark, "a piece that marks a piece of the world, that lots of people visit.")

He proudly says, "Mr. Jared! I have a landmark! Tennis shoes that have been tied together and thrown over a telephone wire." The class erupts into applause, and as he is a joke-ster in the group, he isn't really bothered by it. I am not so sure that he is aware that it was funny, but he laughs right along with them....including me. At first glance, this exchange is very funny, because how do you let a third grader know that this is a landmark, but not really the one i am looking for.

I would like to take this time out that anyone who doesn't know, tied shoes thrown over telephone wires is an indication that drugs are being sold in the area. Though I don't know that this kid knows this exact thing, it is still very funny that he connects that to a landmark.

I laughed for a good three minutes, without stopping. I couldn't breathe, the teacher had to take over for a minute because I could not catch the wind in my breath. She was laughing as well, but I found it absolutely hysterical. Yet again another very interesting way a 3rd Grader takes a question. Kids are awesome.

But even when the laughter subsides, something sad tends to come to the surface. Clearly the kid has seen this and has connected with a landmark of some kind. This is the world he comes from...or one he lives around. This is a fantastic kid, and he really is quite a wonderful and funny student. However, you think of them in 3rd Grade and you go, "You have to get them now. Teach them at this age."

This whole school is filled with wonderful, amazing, and astonishing kids who come from worlds that I can only imagine. I mean my mom and dad were on food stamps for a little bit of time when I was a pre-teen. I mean we had it tough, but I didn't realize that due to great grandparents, I was never really in any grave danger. I didn't live in a bad area (a working class area, but never a bad area), I never was confronted with drugs until I got out of high school, and the world I lived in I thought was pretty annoying, but in reality there was no wolves knocking at my door trying to blow down anything in my well-developed brick house...(hey, who knew that that story had a meaning...and my dad is a bricklayer...double meaning).

I see the world that these kids I work with grow up in and all I can do is just hope that they learn in their youth to fight it and to get out of it. They are all so capable. Some of them are so incredibly smart. Some of them, sadly, you can see the doubt and anger of their world starting to seep in.

Politics be damned. I believe a song I know put it best, the only things you really leave behind in this world are "children and art." Why are we not putting our money in the future of the world?

PROJECT: SHATTERED SILENCE

Project: Shattered Silence is a group of teenagers that I created last year to amazing success. Through this group we write a play about differences and how they make us special. The end of the year performance last year was sold out and standing room only. Well, I was given a stay for another year, to let the group grow and try a different topic. The group expanded from 17 to 36 people.

Today marked the day when we were going to talk about the topic. Well, due to some huge event (IRON MAN) that was going on in Tampa Bay today there was only 14 that could brave the traffic to come. I wouldn't change what I learned today.

These are all teenagers who are being very brave and opening up their lives and stories in hopes that in turn it is going to help others. We discussed turning points in lives....and then the waterworks poured forth. I couldn't believe what i was hearing...such truth, told in a way that wasn't about a bunch of teenagers that just wanted to be heard....they wanted share.

And share they did....about their personal ideas about family, a lost father, cancer, dude ranches, the time they realized they can understand others, the day they understood what heartbreak really looks like, or maybe there was no turning point in their life that they could point to, or maybe their mother believes their life was saved by freeing fish in the ocean.

I learned something powerful today, and that is that no matter who you are, your story deserves to be told. I saw that everyone has an amazing story! Not a good story! Not an okay story! They have an amazing story! They aren't all about big gigantic life changing moments, but sometimes they are about how I got picked on cause people thought I carried my books "like a girl" in the crook of my arm. And when I overheard that I officially carried them to my side, more "like a boy would carry them." And that began my conforming moment.

It was beautiful in it's honesty. Talking and sharing....giving and taking...yin and yang...ebb and flow.....this is how beautiful honesty of the world gets shared.