Devonne Brown

“You majored in theatre in college, in your twenties and thirties, you were active in community theatre and children’s theatre, you taught theatre, yet you never took your boys to a play or got them involved in theatre when they were little. Why is that?” the news anchor asked me.

I had been expecting this question for years, although I had hoped I wouldn’t have to answer it on national television. My shame was great. “There were no arts in Roxboro, North Carolina for us. Then, when we moved back to Charleston, I didn’t have money to go to plays or be in plays. It was like the malls and big parks in Durham when the boys were little, I pretended they didn’t exist because they were expensive. The carousels, train rides, bungee jumps, wind machines, things kids want to do were more than I could handle. I could buy what they needed, but not the cool stuff. Kids don’t miss what they don’t know.”

“I followed my theatre friends online in all their shows after I quit acting and directing. I missed it,” I said

My shame was great.

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“You could have been close to theatre opportunities for your boys, but you didn’t move close to Charlestson when you returned to West Virginia from North Carolina, why is that?” asked the anchor.

“Money. I didn’t take my boys because I couldn’t afford to go. I had to move in with Dad. I felt fortunate to get the boys to a good school. They only had to walk across the street in rural West Virginia. They made friends the semester before middle school, thank God. Starting middle school cold, with no friends is traumatic, at least they avoided that,” I said. I pictured the bucolic George Washington Middle School across the street from my dad’s house. I felt very defensive. Being poor and homeless was shameful. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to talk about. I was one of the lucky ones and I knew it. Everyone knew it. 

“My dad’s house was in the middle of a park, across from the gazebo, beside the boys’ school. What better place to be homeless in America?”

 I stopped the interview. “Turn the camera off ,” I said.

The news anchor remained calm. Difficult interviews were an occupational hazard. He put his pen down and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“How about a Diet Coke with a shot of whiskey in it, Jerry?” he motioned for his assistant.

Jerry brought me a pint of Diet Coke and whiskey on the rocks with a straw. There was another shot on the side. “Do the shot first, interviews are way more fun this way,” he said. “Loosen up. You survived that time.”

I downed the shot and took a long slow sip of the mixed drink. I was disappointed that it was weak, and looked the gumshoe in the eye. “You’re right. I survived. Everybody from then is either gone, dead, or all grown up. Those days are another lifetime ago.There are some things that I’m not discussing.”