I remember the moment vividly. I’m driving on H1 into Honolulu, smack in the midst of the wild roller coaster called menopause, the 50-something mother of a screaming toddler, feeling trapped, stuck, like I need to do something. Something Different. Something Fun. Something Frickin’ Exciting.
Ever since I was little, I wanted to be on stage. In front of an audience. As a child, I remember playing the White Queen in Alice in Wonderland at a Jewish community center in Brooklyn where I had to make my entrance by walking backwards across the stage. I remember begging my mother, when I was about five years old, to let me take acting classes but she said no. So, I grew up to be a writer instead. But I always loved theatre. Loved standup comedy. And absolutely adored improv.
The traffic slows down so I call a friend in Makiki, complaining. “I can’t stand it anymore. I have to do something new! I want to study improv. I want to take classes. But I want a really, really, really great teacher.”
My friend, a talented watercolor artist laughed. “You must be psychic,” she said. “I literally just read in the paper that Alan Arkin is coming to Honolulu. He’s teaching a weekend improv workshop through the University.”
I almost slam on the brakes. Alan Arkin? THE Alan Arkin? The Russians Are Coming Alan Arkin? Second City improv pioneer Alan Arkin?!
Barely able to contain my excitement, I immediately call UH. A young man answers. It’s a very brief conversation.
“The class is full.”
His words fall on deaf ears. That’s impossible! How could I not be in that class? Alan Arkin coming all the way to Hawaii? To the most geographically isolated land mass on the planet? To teach improv? Exactly what I just said I want to study? The class is meant for me. It’s destiny! It’s exactly what I need. They can’t possibly say no to an exhausted, fifty year old menopausal emotional wreck!
My words fall on deaf ears
“Sorry. The class has been full for weeks,” he repeats. “There’s already a wait list.”
Desperate, I call another friend, a grad student at UH, and she tells me that if I really want a shot at getting into the class I have to show up on the first day. Just show up, she insists. That’s my only chance.
So, with a great deal of trepidation, that’s exactly what I do. I get there early Saturday morning. Walk to the crowded registration desk. I see students taking their seats inside the large glass-walled classroom. The registration guy tells me that if someone who is registered doesn’t show up, then maybe I can get in. But I’m second on the wait list. Someone is ahead of me. I stare through the glass wall and spot Alan Arkin. There he is. Just sitting there. My ex-New Yorker chutzpah takes over and I push open the door, boldly introducing myself.
“Are you in the class?” Alan asks.
“No,” I reply, suddenly gripped with an overpowering desire to be funny. “I’m on the wait list. But I’m hoping the person ahead of me gets hit by a bus.”
Silence. No smile. “That’s not very nice,” he says.
STRIKE ONE.
I mill around outside of the class as more students show up. When I notice a petite blond-haired woman pick up the restroom key I follow her, not knowing what else to do.
“Are you here for the class?” she asks.
“Yes,” I chirp, a bit too enthusiastically. “I’m on the wait list. But my plan is to schmooze Alan Arkin and convince him to let me in.”
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes kind.
“I don’t think that will work,” she says gently. “I’m his wife. He’s very strict about the number of students in a class.”
STRIKE TWO.
Back at the registration desk, it looks like class is about to start. Everyone who registered has shown up so there’s no chance of me getting in. When Alan steps out of the room for a moment, I make a beeline for him. He’s gotta like me. We’re both Jewish. Both originally from Brooklyn.
I start talking to him, or rather talking at him, barely able to disguise my wildly desperate need for his approval, but he doesn’t crack a smile. He politely listens, deadpan. Then he excuses himself and heads into the classroom, closing the glass door behind him.
STRIKE THREE.
I slump down on a stone bench directly across from the classroom and fight back tears. It’s over, Marcia. You tried. You failed. Go home. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and do the only thing left to do. Surrender. Take my hands off the wheel. Let go of my fierce need to control. As I relax, my breathing softens. Then, for some reason, I open my eyes to see Alan looking straight at me. He motions to me. Hesitantly, I walk over and open the heavy glass door. He smiles. “You’re sitting so quietly,” he says. “I can’t leave you out there. Join the class.”
That day was the beginning of my life-changing relationship with Alan Arkin and his wife, Suzanne. The weekend of improvisation was one of the most exciting experiences of my life. Being given permission to be spontaneous and not hold back, I felt liberated, enjoying the hell out of following my crazy instincts and impulses, taking creative risks, and at rare moments, seeing Alan Arkin laugh at something I did.
After that weekend, I was hooked. A few weeks later, Alan and Suzanne asked me to help them organize a 6-day improv camp on Molokai. I felt like I won the lottery. Those 6 days were probably one of the highlights of my entire life. There were about fifteen of us, from around the country, eating meals together, laughing together, and spending all day and evening practicing the art of improvisation. Alan was a deeply spiritual, compassionate, and extraordinarily wise teacher, always stressing that improv is not at all about trying to be funny. In the end, it’s about being genuinely present and a hundred percent authentic.
Alan Arkin’s presence in my life literally changed everything. That burning childhood desire to be on stage emerged in full force. After the week on Molokai, I decided to do something I had promised myself I would do for decades: I auditioned for my first theatre play, The Miser, at HPU. The director, Joyce Maltby, didn’t know me at all since I had not been involved in the theatre scene. But a good friend of hers, a renowned local playwright who had been in the same improv weekend with me, apparently urged her to cast me because of what she had seen me do in Alan’s class. I got the part and had an absolute blast. It was a thrilling experience. And I never would have tried if it hadn’t been for all the encouragement I received from Alan.
Over the next few years, I stayed in touch with Alan and Suzanne, helping organize a few more Hawaii-based improv workshops. And I continued to do more and more performance-inspired work, including studying improvisation in Honolulu with various local teachers, then going on to study with Mick and Tess Pulver, doing their amazing Breakthrough Performance Workshops; writing and performing my solo show, WHO THE BLEEP AM I?; and finally co-writing and co-performing a successful 2-woman musical, MONEY TALKS: But What the Hell is it Saying, that my creative partner, Lucie Lynch, and I performed for many years all over Hawaii, and Colorado.
I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico with my husband visiting friends when I learned of Alan’s passing on June 29th. It hit me hard. Even though I hadn’t seen him in many, many years, I had stayed in touch with him a bit through email. And as strange as it might be to say, I loved him. He always felt like family to me. I always felt this deep, profound connection. Maybe that’s why he welcomed me into his class that day. Maybe in some small way, he felt it, too.
I feel so blessed to have known him, to have glimpsed his tender-hearted spirit, to have spent precious time with him and Suzanne. I realize that I can’t in any way imagine the profound loss his family and close friends are feeling. And I know it might seem like he was, to me and many other students, “just” a teacher. But his generous spirit, wisdom, and creative joy had a monumental impact on my life. One that I will never ever forget.
