A Letter

Dear Susan,
Ever since my parents told me about your cancer, I have been meaning to write you. Also, last week, I read that wonderful Shakespearian sonnet that Emma Thompson put in Sense and Sensibility and immediately thought of you. Then again, I almost always end up thinking of you when I read Shakespeare, ever since that first day when I walked into your class, and you taught me how read the Bard properly.

It's been years since I was your drama student, but the memories of drilling lines on that bare, black stage have stayed with me. Many of the best memories from that time are of you. I even find myself mimicking some of your "Susanisms." For example, whenever I lead a small group study in classes I almost always end with that line of yours, "Any comments, questions, or concerns?" Do you know, it's funny, I heard you say it so many times that now your inflection has become mine. Also, if ever my hair is being willful, my mind conjures up an image of you striding about the shadowed Cabaret with your wild grey hair cinched back with an extra large scrunchie. "It's the only thing strong enough to hold all of this craziness," you told me once.

My favorite part of the day at rehearsals was always the tongue warm-ups. To this day, I often dispel my own somberness by quoting "to sit in solemn silence in a dull, dark dock..." or "Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter" as loud as I can. Thank you for teaching me these, since they have proven most successful in making me laugh, or in scaring the wits out of an unsuspecting freshman in the halls at college.

I must admit, there were days when acting class frustrated me, but you were so patient. Your endless creativity amazed me. Once, when I asked you if you ever grew tired, you said, "I always have to be doing a show, or be helping with one. Otherwise I stagnate, and I feel miserable." This drive to work, to keep creating and not give up, has stayed with me over the years. Now I know what you meant, and you were absolutely right. It's miserable not being creative.

Back then, I wondered why you wanted us to do Shakespeare. After all, I was barely a teenager, and some actors spend their entire lives practicing the Bard. Now I realize that studying such challenging material helped me later on when I had to do easier plays. You awakened in me a love for the Bard and his work because you loved it so much.

I always respected you, and wanted to be as interesting, elegant, creative, and eccentric as you were. I can still hear your voice on the phone saying, "I'd love for you to play Hero," and remember the ecstatic excitement of knowing you thought me worthy of that role. What a time we had trying to create chemistry between me and the boy who played Claudio. I knew you understood, though, and that made it easier to bear.

The clearest memory, though, is of that final performance of Much Ado About Nothing. I came to you after curtain call, covered in stage makeup and wearing that beribboned white and pink dress, and you gave me the most wonderful hug. "Well done," you said in my ear. Your approval filled my heart.

Do you want to know the only thing I regret? I never said any of this to you, and now that you're gone forever, I wish I had written this letter the day my parents told me you were dying. You deserved to know that you were one of my most favorite teachers. You deserved to be told how inspiring you were in the way you faced us all so confidently every rehearsal, your arms outstretched as if to say, "Well then, let's make something, shall we?" Susan, if I could go back, I would write this letter and so many more, telling you that I am doing something with what you taught me. But since I can't, I will let the world know, in my own small way, that you were an incredible teacher. I will try to teach others the many small lessons that you taught me, and give all my students that same unconditional patience that you gave me. I will always cherish the memories I have of you, and whenever I read the Bard I remember you and that first lesson in Shakespearian pronunciation.

Love Always,
Rachel Palm