Learning to Embrace Goodbye

A personal curtain call for the show my grandmother and I loved.

Credit: www.broadwayupclose.com

As the years pass, I constantly find myself standing at the threshold of a new phase in life. I am not necessarily old, but I am growing older, and with each passing year, I come to the realization that much of life is an intricate web of goodbyes – to people, to places, and to the fragments of my own identity that no longer serve me. Saying goodbye has never been my forte; it is an art I continue to refine as I come to terms with the fleeting nature of existence and the inevitability of change.

The farewells to friends have been, perhaps, the most gut-wrenching of all. There are those who have gradually drifted apart, their lives or worldviews diverging in ways that no longer converge with mine. I grieve the loss of shared dreams and whispered secrets, even as I acknowledge the inescapability of our branching paths. 

And then there are the goodbyes to the things I cherish – the books that have provided solace in their worn, tattered pages, the melodies that have scored the various chapters of my life, and the neighborhoods that cradle my memories like precious jewels. These goodbyes are often unassuming, sometimes fading away so gradually that you barely know they are gone. But there are other times when the things you hold dear leave with a bang, demanding not only your attention — but also your gratitude.

This past weekend, one of the most influential works in my life made this same sort of exit.

It was with a bittersweet pang in my heart that I recently learned that after 35 years, the final curtain had come down on Broadway's longest-running show, "The Phantom of the Opera." It was a moment that tugged at the deepest fibers of my being, a moment that brought memories of my grandmother and my formative years flooding back to me like an unstoppable tide.

I love Broadway, and specifically, have a deep affinity for the masterpiece that is ‘Phantom’. This feeling is not only rooted in my profound appreciation for musical theater, but also an enduring bond with one of the women who helped raise me.

Growing up in Yonkers, New York, a landscape of both gritty reality and the gentle warmth of family, I was granted a unique opportunity to attend a performing arts elementary school called Enrico Fermi (named after the creator of the world's first nuclear reactor). This institution, a beacon of hope in our small corner of New York, offered programs such as drama, which I found myself immersed in. Beyond learning the arts of acting, orating, and improvising, the program also captured my interest because it granted us the privilege of attending Broadway shows occasionally. With my mother working nights, my grandmother typically stepped into the role of chaperone for those adventures into New York City.

These excursions were a highlight of my childhood, offering an opportunity to venture outside the familiar confines of our loving yet impoverished community in South Yonkers. I believe those trips opened not only my eyes, but also my grandmother's, to the immense possibilities that life had to offer. You see, Yonkers, nestled just a stone's throw from the glittering expanse of Manhattan, always seems worlds apart in its own right. A mere twenty-minute drive separates the two, yet the chasm between them yawns wide with disparity in opportunities and culture. 

New York City, with its luminous skyline, bustling museums, and many avenues for endeavor, stands as a beacon of dreams, while South Yonkers, a microcosm of struggle and quiet perseverance, remains firmly rooted in its own reality.

It was as if those school trips briefly broke an invisible barrier that seemed to separate the world from those of us who gazed longingly at the distant lights of the city down the Hudson River. 

At nine-years-old, The Phantom of the Opera was my first encounter with the dazzling world of in-person theater, and it changed my life in ways that words alone cannot adequately express. From the moment the curtains lifted and the show’s iconic chandelier burst into life, I was transported to a realm of beauty, elegance, and passion that seemed to defy the very limitations of theater. The sights and sounds enveloped me, and I knew, even then, that my perspective on art and music had been irrevocably altered. It was a profound awakening, one that planted within me the seeds of a deep appreciation for the transformative power of the stage.

As I sat there, nestled in the darkness of the theater, listening to the haunting melodies of Andrew Lloyd Webber captivating my soul, I felt the weight of my grandmother's mutual excitement beside me. Though we were in a theater full of other people, it was as if the two of us had been whisked away to our own secret world of childlike wonder. The music and spectacle had ignited a passion within us.

As the final notes of the performance faded into silence and the cast took a last bow, we leaped to our feet, our applause echoing through the theater like the steady drumbeat of possibility. Our hands came together in an impassioned rhythm, filled with an intoxication of amazement and astonishment at what had just unfolded before our eyes.

I can still recall the way Mr. Zawel, our beloved Drama teacher, laughed when he noticed my grandmother and I were some of the last people remaining in the audience, refusing to end our thunderous applause. "I think they know you liked the show," he joked, "we've got a bus to catch."

As we filed out of the hallowed theater, my eyes fell upon a life-size poster featuring a solo shot of the Phantom, played then by the Broadway legend, Michael Crawford. I couldn't help but pause, transfixed by the powerful image before me. Sensing my fascination, my grandmother inquired about the thoughts that were swirling around my mind.

"I want to do that one day," I murmured, unable to tear my gaze from the poster. "I want to be the Phantom. Here — on Broadway."

Her eyes met mine, brimming with love and understanding. A warm smile played upon her lips as she gently placed a hand upon my shoulder. "If you work hard," she whispered, "I believe you can make that happen."

I smiled a determined smile at my grandmother, and then we walked out to the bus. As we walked on, she asked Mr. Zawel whether there had ever been a Black Phantom. He thought for a moment and said he didn't believe so. She looked at me and said, "So not only will you do it. You'll do it in a way that it's never been done." I beamed and said, "Yeah, I will." Then we took our seats and headed back home.

Over the next few years, my grandmother and I would have the chance to go to many Broadway shows thanks to my elementary school. All while I worked tirelessly under the guidance of Mr. Zawel and other instructors to hone my skills as a singer, dancer, actor, and orator in an attempt to one day become the first Black Phantom on Broadway.

Sadly, a short while after finishing elementary school and leaving the watchful eye of Mr. Zawel, I stepped into a world where young Black boys are often taught dreams of being on a theater stage aren't for them. As such, I lost my way on the path to Broadway and the hope of wearing the iconic Phantom mask. One of the dreams of my childhood slipped through my fingers, like sand cascading through an hourglass. Though I never lost my love for the art itself, nor the magic of the iconic show. 

Society often has a way of pressing upon you, and molding your aspirations until they no longer resemble the vibrant daydreams that once danced in your mind.

Still, the memory of that evening spent at the theater with my grandmother remained planted firmly in the depths of my heart. Honoring that moment, I have been to the Majestic Theatre to see the Phantom of the Opera over fifteen times since my childhood. One might think that such a feat is an exercise in excess, yet I've found that each experience offers a new revelation, a fresh perspective on the art. But most of all, I had to see it as many times as possible after the show made one of my dreams come true — a Black phantom. 

The news of Norm Lewis, a Black actor, taking up the mantle of the title role surged through my veins like a jolt of electricity. In my youth, the dream of a Black man donning the Phantom's mask had once seemed like a mountain I would surely climb, then that dream faded like an old acquaintance whose name I struggled to grasp, and eventually, it became a distant mirage that would dissolve upon approach. Yet, there I was, a man approaching his thirties, witnessing the impossible becoming possible. It didn’t matter that I didn’t do it, it simply mattered that it was done. 

I nearly emptied what little savings I had to make sure I was there for opening night. 

CREDIT: MATTHEW MURPHY

The joy that filled my heart as Norm Lewis graced the stage made me feel as though I had slipped through time, returning to the wide-eyed wonder of my nine-year-old self. I could feel my grandmother's presence beside me as the familiar melodies washed over us. When the final curtain fell, my applause echoed with the ferocity of our shared dreams, the sound reverberating through the theater like a triumphant anthem with lyrics affirming “we dit it.” 

Over the next few months, I found myself inundated with tickets to see the first Black Phantom, gifted to me by friends and family who understood the depth of my love for the show and the significance it held for me. With each performance I attended, I felt as though I was reclaiming a piece of my childhood, restoring the fervor and wonder that had once burned so brightly within me.

But as the winds of time passed, life's currents have tugged me away from the Majestic Theatre’s halls. It has been nearly a decade since I’ve last seen Phantom of the Opera on Broadway

And now, with the abruptness of the show ending, I am faced with the reality of a world without the Phantom on Broadway. The sudden finality of it all leaves me grappling with the difficulty of sudden goodbyes and letting go. A sensation that seems all too familiar in this ever-changing period of my life. The frustration that welled up within me at the news of the Phantom's final curtain felt like a storm crashing against the shores of my heart. 

I yearned for the opportunity to say goodbye on my own terms, to stand and applaud one last time as the lights dimmed on this cherished chapter of my life. But as I read the headlines about the show’s ending, I was struck with an unsettling clarity that life rarely affords us the luxury of bidding farewell on our own terms. The final curtain call was not meant for me to attend, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t still have the opportunity to honor what was. The truth is, our lives are shaped by a delicate interplay of hellos and goodbyes, of arrivals and departures that we can neither predict nor control. Time, as it were, remains the ultimate arbiter, bestowing and withdrawing its gifts with an unpredictable hand.

Such is the dance of impermanence and immortality that all things beautiful and beloved take part in.

In the quiet spaces between breaths, I can still hear the whispered echoes of my grandmother humming its melodies, and the resounding applause that filled the theater on the fateful night of our first Broadway show. It’s there, in that place, that I go to as I mourn the end of an era, choosing not to be sad, but rather to embrace the joy that was bestowed upon us. 

However the end comes, it is always within our grasp to say the best goodbye by weaving the essence of what is gone into the fabric of who we are and what will be.

And so, now, I offer my own final curtain for this beloved show. I find myself embracing the art of farewell with a newfound grace. Feeling a profound sense of gratitude for the countless lives it has touched and the enduring legacy it leaves behind. A legacy that will forever remind me of the loving spirit of my grandmother, the boundless possibilities that lie within art, and the essence of what makes New York City truly special.