The Convincing

He stood next to his piano. He looked down at the middle c key -white. He took his right hand from his khaki’d pocket, extended his first finger, and hovered a bit, then melted his digit into the ivory. Sensual, physical,…heard. His lesson would be similar to this. He was practicing. “Remember, White Men Can’t Jump? Where Wesley Snipes' character says ‘you might be listening to Hendrix, but you ain’t hearin’ Hendrix’? I’m here before you, asking you, yes you, if you are hearing you.” Would this get through to them he wondered. Students love a quiz, he remembered, but is this approach quizzical enough and what if it comes off as too didactic and void of emotion? And what should I do with my hands? What am I going to say with my body in space? How can I communicate with my body language that the space between notes is as important as the notes? Should I be like John Goodman in O Brother Where Art Thou and say “The last thing you want…is…AIR in the conversation?” Ok, focus. Follow the template. Personalize the template, that’s all. I’ve got 88 keys to work with here, an infinite number of melodies to choose from, I can make this work. He sat down, his feet aching a little bit. He didn’t need to practice without looking at the keys…he was a pro. He knew he could lecture and play at the same time but isn’t that showboating he thought, and not essential. He had memorized the bit “Essence, from the greek ‘ontos’ – that without which, a thing cannot exist” and thought it might come in handy for this.

“I am here before you today, in front of this piano, to convince you of something.” He had his back toward his audience, looking down at the piano, with no visible concern for those in the room. “To convince you that you are capable. Now, capable means having the ability to do a specific thing. Now what you don’t know is that being capable is the easy part. I reiterate… the easy part.” He turned around and looked at the audience now, “Did you hear me? I just told you why I am here today. This guy, who had less talent than you, less ability, fewer resources than you, is up on this stage, to convince, CONVINCE, YOU? of something! That you are capable!” He was practically shouting now, his voice a roar of confidence and inquisition. “Listen to this!” He quickly turned his back to them, sat down at the piano, and with the utmost agility and bravado began a run from Liszt’s Etude number 1 and just as he was finishing with the flourish, he quickly turned around and jumped from his bench to address the audience…not allowing them a chance to applaud… “Remember what I said?, convincing you that you are capable is the easy part!” He paused, scanned the audience from left to right and back again from right to left. He confidently nodded up and down as if he were agreeing with something.

“Let’s listen to something,” he said. “What you are going to hear is from 1928. About 14 seconds long. 14 seconds long, 86 years ago, before your great grandparents were born but 14 seconds that would change the way you, yes you, hear music and also the music you hear.” He turned toward the AV table off to the left and nodded. The intro from Louis Armstrong’s West End Blues catapulted from the speakers, lifting the entire gym off the floor. As the 14 seconds raised and lowered by in a sublime fruition of swing, children became fanatics, no context needed, no soft selling required, the notes sold all there was to sell, the timbre engulfed the children in a soft cloud of sound, reverberating for what seemed like an infinity off the gym walls. “How do you feel?” he asked them.” “My guess is you feel pretty spirited right about now; a little more pep in your step, a little more stride in our pride, huh. Now because this is so old you have no idea who played that. Now remember why I am here again: to convince you that you are capable. So the man that played that was born black and poor, grew up in poverty, his father abandoned his family and his mother had to become a prostitute. Now ask yourself, how did this man get from this predicament to the sublime music you just heard. Part of the answer lies in him,” now pointing to his temple, “thinking he is capable.” He looked at them and crossed his arms.

“How many people in here can walk? Raise your hands. Raise them so I can see them.” He was stalking the stage from left to right, shielding his eyes from the spotlight as he scanned for raised hands. “Looks like everyone in here can walk. Good. Now how many of you were born babies?” The kids all looked at each other and furled their eyebrows at the question, with some nervous chuckles following. “What, didn’t you understand the question?” he shouted. “I’ll ask again” he shouted, “how many of you were born babies?” Hands reluctantly went in the air as the kids looked at each other in disbelief. “Oh, I see, all of you were born babies too. Now we are getting somewhere.” He stopped stalking the stage, put his hand over his chin as if contemplating god and said “you know what, no one person, not your mother, not your father, no one no one no one had to convince you that you could walk. No speaker had to be brought into your home and give you a pep talk about walking; no one had to get down on the floor,” as he lowered himself down to the stage, head parallel to the floor, “and say oh widdel beebie, you can walkie, da widdel beebie can walkie!” The kids chuckled but the point had been taken. He was at the lip of the stage now, scanning again from left to right, eyeing the kids in the front row. “Now here I am, brought in to convince you that you are capable. Why?! What changed? What happened to you since that baby that wasn’t going to be stopped from walking? “You,” running a finger over all the kids, “all of you couldn’t be stopped. Could. Not. Be. Stopped. And now… and now you let things stop you.” He nodded his head in disapprovel.

“I’m going to flip the script on you,” turning over an invisible piece of paper in hand, “by asking you a question. Close your eyes now. Close em’!” he demanded, running a finger over the audience. He closed his eyes and put his two forefingers to his temples. “What is preventing you from achieving your goals?” Eyes closed. “What is preventing you from achieving your goals?” It looked as though he was now asking himself this very question, thinking about his own goals and what was in the way. “Open your eyes,” he said as he seemed to come out of a trance, his voice now soothing and warm. “Look at me. If you are honest with yourself there is only one answer you can give. Only one.” He was at once warm and forgiving and judgmental and critical. “You are preventing you from achieving your goals!” He was on fire again, pacing the stage, glaring at them. “But you’re wrong, so very very wrong about what it means. You think it’s negative but it isn’t, here me now,” he pleaded, almost in tears, his voice cracking with emotion, it is you who are in control and nothing is more empowering, you control you, you determine where you go, you seal your fate, you make your stand, you draw your line in the sand, you you you!” he shouted. He paused, let the room breathe, let it inhale again, stood in the center of the stage with all eyes and ears hanging on his words. Whispering, “I knew a guy once who told me that the scariest thing you will ever know, “scanning the room again, “is yourself. And he was right.” His voice even lower now, more vulnerable, more honest. “Without a doubt, he was right. Because if you determine your fate but don’t achieve your goals, it means you didn’t really want them.” Tears were flowing from his eyes now; choked up and fighting a whimper he asked them “What do you want?”

Write a monologue of at least three pages, in which the interruptions-pauses, gestures, description, etc.-all clearly and persuasively characterize, and the shifts from monologue to gesture and touches of setting (as when the character touches some object or glances out the window) all feel rhythmically right. Purpose: to learn ways of letting a character make a long speech that doesn’t seem boring or artificial.