There’s a lyric in a Pam Tillis
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By Shane Gilreath
There’s a lyric in a Pam Tillis song, “met you once in a Williams’ play.” It’s a testament to his genius that we know his characters, have met them, live with them, are neighborly. From the moment I was conscious of his contributions to American theater, Tennessee Williams became one of my literary heroes. Undoubtedly, my love affair began with a Paul Newman/Elizabeth Taylor film that the writer wasn’t particularly fond of, but my affections blossomed into a world beyond the Pollitts’ plantation, to Europe with Mrs. Stone, and into the rugged New Orleans of Stanley Kowalski. Williams, like one of the actors long-keeping his literary bequests alive, had the capacity to breathe life into characters, unearthing eccentricities and family skeletons long buried beneath the southern soil. His work is a study in psychology – so much so that I showed the film to a psychology class I taught, not long out of college – and a cultural undertaking that encompasses the mood of southern gothic, marrying it with beautiful poetic prose and the writer’s strong propensity toward the tragedian. Storms, both those environmental and contextual, are so much a part of Williams that I tend to think of him when a summer storm is brewing, flashes of lightning and rain beat down on a tin roof and emblazon the night sky. Somewhere, it’s easy to imagine that a Williams character bursts from the pages, becoming flesh and bone, grievous and heartbreaking, struggling in their confrontation with human nature and the conflicts therein, fight or flight, feast or famine, and an awakening of bubbling raw emotion that we all inter deep within.
When my Kaitlyn – always called Teensy for her diminutive size – was small, not knowing the enormity of what she was taking on, she would crawl into my lap, snuggle cozily into a recliner, and, together, we would read oned one of the embodiments of my favorite Williams’ play, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” Excited and giggly and sharing the making of a memory, she would participate only if she could read the part of ‘Big Daddy,’ pronunciation lilted like ‘Lottie’ in Disney’s “The Princess and the Frog.” The honorific title of the Pollitt patriarch seemed to give Teensy some sense of big accomplishment and proved something bordering on the winsome and spectacular. For my little munchkin, snowy blonde and ringlet curled, and barely learning to read herself, to forcefully challenge the world on its mendacity instantly gained my lifelong favor, eclipsing anything Burl Ives or Ned Beatty brought to the part. Though many nights she would drift off to sleep amidst ‘Sister Woman’s’ tirades, from the moment she picked up the script, ‘Big Daddy’ – suddenly adorned with the moniker, “Teensy” – was never the same. I had – and have – long wanted to see a production of “Cat” in my hometown. Teensy gave me that, adorable and Tony worthy, night after night, and I hope, though small she was, she remembers just as fondly.
I, too, hope she remembers that there is truth in Williams. There is also, as ‘Big Daddy’ reminds us, mendacity. That, unfortunately, is life. In time, Teensy, now on the verge of adulthood, will know that, too. It’s been my experience – and a good reminder – that, as Williams said, “all cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.” So, when the world gets feisty and the pretentious Sister Women rear their heads – throwing insults and purposed accusations – I hope my munchkin embraces a shrewd southern warrior she once knew and sharpens her claws like ‘Maggie the Cat;’ and, as present quickly becomes future, I hope she recalls her most favored role and discovers – as she once proudly performed – that ‘Big Daddy’s’ scrapy success story is still buried within, knowing that, in this life, it’s important to have the courage to live and always stay on the roof.
