I had a plan. 

I was reading the New Yorker issue I had randomly chosen for this week’s collage, and I was stricken with inspiration. The comma. 

I think The New Yorker is known for its style guide. Or maybe I’m just aware of it because I’m into grammar and graphic design. But read any New Yorker for any length of time and you’re likely to run into one or more examples of their uncommon style choices: 

• “teen-ager” (thanks to an old definition of “teenage” as “brushwood for fences and hedges”)

• “per cent” (thanks, Latin!)

• “Web site” (thanks, proper nouns!)

• “coöperate” (thanks, umlaut that’s actually a diaeresis. I know! Look it up.)

So I was reading along when I came across a sentence that caught my attention. It was something like: So-and-so, writing, in 1892, did such-and-such. I read it over and over, struck by the succession of commas, wondering if you could do without any one of them.

Thus began my comma contemplation. 

As an actor and director, I have great respect for playwrights. I trust that they carefully choose every word, and I do my best to memorize them exactly as written. That includes punctuation. The punctuation provides a guideline for timing and intention. An ellipsis is not the same as an em dash. The former might tell me that my thought trails off; the latter might instruct my scene partner to cut me off mid-thought.

The period is a full stop, but it doesn’t necessarily give permission to pause. Unless a playwright says (pause), you best not. Keep it moving. Don’t give the audience time to mentally stray.

And then there’s the comma. It doesn’t necessarily mean I have to take a breath, but it certainly allows for one. As in music. I’m going to mark a score all up with commas if I’m singing or playing a wind instrument, so I know when to breathe.

Breath. A moment before continuing a phrase. A choice point: keep talking? Or listen. React? Or respond. 

That’s how things were rolling along in my head when I got a vision for this week’s collage. My plan was unfolding.

And then this week happened. Our most recent public displays of white supremacy exploded. And I am heavy-hearted. 

I’m white. I can’t not talk about what happened this week. White people not talking about it is part of the problem. 

I can’t single-handedly dismantle White Supremacy and The Patriarchy. I do what I can in my corner of the world. And I know there’s always more. And it never seems enough.

But doing nothing is not an option.

So I continue my education. My life-long education. I speak when I can. I become anti-racist. 

Despair is not an option. It’s an excuse. It’s a form of white fragility. I see this. Hopelessness keeps me paralyzed. 

I don’t have answers. Mostly questions. And most of them start with, “Can’t we just…?” But I can’t pretend to prescribe a blanket cure for all white people. We each have our own inner and outer work to do.

But this week, as I’m contemplating the comma, I can’t help but ask: can’t we just pause? Can’t we take a breath? And then another? And another. And another. And another.

Can’t we take those breaths to examine our fears? Are we literally being chased by a bear in the woods? Is our fear founded? Or is it indoctrinated? Is it an automatic, subconscious, irrational reaction? Or is my life actually in danger? Can’t I just leash my dog like the sign says and be on my merry way?

Our fight-or-flight response is designed to keep us alive, it’s not meant to be a state of being. The Black Man does not get to be our bear in the woods anymore. The jig is up, and white people, we need to do our work. 

A dear friend reminded me recently of this MLK Jr quote: “Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.” 

I have a dream that we all take a big breath, hold hands, and take a step together. And another. And another. And another. And another. 

For a list of anti-racism resources, CLICK HERE.

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