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the song alone as Dee Dee wept. The applause was better than first aid. I loved the purpose and the drama and I knew Dee Dee would never make it in show business.
    The next scheduled production was The Miracle Worker. I became fixated with Helen Keller. Anyone with that many handicaps was not only captivating and heroic, but could relate completely to the tribulations of the human spirit. And who, better than I, to understand the complexities? As it was a high school production, both six-year-old Helen and her twenty-year-old teacher, Annie Sullivan, typically would be played by high school girls of the same age and size, making the dining table scene where Helen eats from everyone’s plates look like a teenage food fight, and all but destroying the famous water pump “wa-wa” scene. A sixteen-year-old would just look and sound stupid and Helen Keller was anything but. Because of my triumph in South Pacific, I was certain I would land the role of Helen. I understood her—and I was short.
    I began staggering about the house with a dish towel tied around my eyes and toilet paper stuffed in my ears to simulate blindness and deafness. I thudded into furniture and knocked over lamps. I stumbled to the smallish avocado-green Formica kitchen table, which was scrunched between the refrigerator and a doorframe against a wall, though an actual full-size dining table, exclusively reserved for holidays, sat only four feet away. I squeezed myself into a chair and, just like in Helen’s family, my mother insisted I eat with a fork. Still, I was surprised at how messy pancakes and syrup can get when you can’t see where the fork is going. Finally, she’d had it.
    â€œTake that rag off your head and eat like a person!”
    â€œHelen Keller was a person! How can you say that?”
    â€œYou’re not Helen Keller!”
    â€œI could be if they’d give me a chance!”
    My father entered and exited with one sentence, ripping the cloth from my eyes. “Take off the goddamn rag and eat your goddamn pancakes and don’t talk to your goddamn mother like that.”
    I removed the toilet paper from my ears, but had memorized my senses so I could still pretend to be blind and deaf.
    I’d auditioned for South Pacific, even though Dee Dee and I were the only ones up for our roles, and on the day of tryouts for The Miracle Worker, I begged to go—even though I’d been told a part was being given to me.
    I had other plans.
    I walked confidently onto the auditorium stage and friendly voices welcomed me from the darkened house. Then Miss Young, the drama teacher and director, said, “You didn’t need to come, Sam. We already know you’re playing Percy.”
    â€œI wanted to come. I want to read for Helen.”
    Read for Helen. Helen didn’t have any lines. But I was prepared to convincingly stare blankly with my eyes slightly crossed and bump into furniture.
    They didn’t even attempt to stifle their titters, which quickly grew into full-out, patronizing “isn’t that cute . . . and strange” guffaws. Despite my pleading logic, I didn’t get to bump into anything.
    I was cast, instead, in the tiny, silent, and pajamaed role of Percy, “a little Negro child,” who mostly slept. I couldn’t understand how they could see me as a Polynesian child and a Negro child, but insisted on casting a non child in the most important part. The girl who played Helen Keller was gangly, with full-on breasts, and somehow managed to “wa-wa” with a southern accent. Dreadful. I knew she wouldn’t make it in show business either.
    My disappointment was not discussed at home, but after a few days, I heard my name called with a tone that I knew meant my dad had been inspired to offer fatherly, sage advice, which would fit perfectly into a commercial break from a game.
    â€œTurn down the TV,” he said. I knew this must be really important.