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In the Winter of 2006, The Boston Home organized a set of four classes called 'On Death and Dying'. THe course was led by a local UCC minister. Before the course began, I asked an organizer for assurance that I would not be pressured on such topics as LIfe After Death: instinctively, I was repulsed by anything which sought to give me hope. (I was assured that there would be no such pressure.)
For the second class we were asked to write our own obituaries. I dictated a shortened version of mine to Dorothy over the phone. My goal (not quite realized) was to have a joke in every sentence. (As it turned out, I was in the hospital with a fever when that class met and so my 'performance' there never took place.)
Since that first draft, I have seen fit to add items to my obituary as they occurred to me. Thus has a seasoned broth gradually grown into a full rich chowder. So much is there, that I hope a few readers might have a tinge of envy - this to balance the smug feeling of superiority which the living feel toward the dead.
Writing one's own obituary shows a desire to have the last word - or at least a last word - and on one's own terms. It is, therefore a sort of hyper-subjective immortality. Here one is in posthumous control - not only because one has written the thing, but in the very ways one wishes to be remembered.
But suppose it goes further and its creator endows it with his own unique persona, which seeps out and envelopes the reader? Thus would an essential part of the deceased be conjured up in the reading - a nimble bit of sorcery!
Those are my modest goals in writing my obituary.
P.S.: One of my fellow residents here aptly and succinctly deflated the bubble of self conceit which the above obviously seems to represent. After I had described the essence of this Introduction to her, she remarked dryly, "There's no getting rid of you!" Indeed.
P.P.S.: Since I wrote the above, the Obituary has taken an unexpected turn: I recalled that some experiences which were initially positive had some negative ramifications: the study of composition with Herbert Brun caused my paralysis to write music; a wonderful experiment in math teaching led up a blind alley; and so on. Given these additions, I no longer harbor the illusion that this doctrine might cause envy in its readers!
P.P.P.S.: The discerning reader will notice the absence of something which is the hallmark of extended obituaries: the testimonial as to the greatness of the deceased by experts in his field. (Indeed, the only person quoted - and often - in this document is the deceased himself.) Given the number of fields I have plowed, this should arouse the suspicion that I was in effect a dilettante - that is, good at various trades without being a master at any one of them. I think there is some truth in this. I suppose that if it be recorded that I pursued each task with exuberance, I shall be (posthumously) content.
23 February 2006
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My Obituary
Mr. Theodore (Ted, Teddy, Tedikins) May of Medford and Boston was killed last week when The Ride van in which he was traveling lost a race to a railroad crossing with an express train.
His death has put to the severest test yet his motto, 'The situation is hopeless-but-not-serious.' It also seems clear that Mr. May has lost a bet with his brother Bob, made when they were about ten, concerning who would live the longest. A quarter is owed Bob, but it is unclear when or how it will be paid.
Mr. May was born in 1943 and grew up (if in fact he ever did grow up) in Verona, New Jersey. The defining moment of his life came early: In first grade one day, Mr. May burst into laughter for no discernible reason. His teacher must have considered this behavior to be anti-social, for she placed him in the cloakroom for an extended period of time. Since that day he has taken as his raison d'etre the goal to entertain others with humor, thereby making laughter socially acceptable again. "But occasionally it's caused me to be 'cloakroomed' again!" he said with a laugh.
As a result of his mother's desire that he be a hit at parties, he began the study of the piano at age 6. But he went too far when he developed a lifelong passion for music. This set up an ongoing conflict between mother and son. (Mother: "You can't support a wife and two children on a musician's salary!" Son: "Mom - I'm only fifteen years old!")
He also went too far with religion. In high school he joined HiBA ('High School Born-Againers') for a few weeks - ostensibly because he had a composer's attraction to the cadences of biblical language. He proselytized, and briefly converted one boy before he dropped out.
Mr. May began studying the pipe organ "as soon as my feet could reach the pedals." Like Bach, as a young man he was once admonished by the ecclesiastical authorities for bringing a girl into the organ loft. He was good at improvising on hymns but not everyone was edified: one minister accused him of 'showboating' (a charge with which he readily agreed.)
His mother won the first round when Mr. May renounced his desire to go to Julliard and instead went to Lehigh (an engineering school) to study mathematics. There his two passions were music and girls (Lehigh was an all-male school without a music major.) He managed to earn a degree in mathematics in 1965.
At West Virginia University, where he completed a masters in mathematics, the dichotomy between music and math could be seen in physical form on his desk in the graduate students' office: on the left side were his math books, while on the right side was his organ music. "I opened the math books with a bit of trepidation," he confessed. "But the organ music i opened with elation!"
He taught mathematics at two colleges in remote locations over the next three years. He describes his time at the second, a branch of Penn State near Chambersburg, thusly: "It was 1970. I was reasonably happy, for I was making music as well as teaching math. I could have stayed there forever. But deep down I felt the need for a fundamental change: the place was provincial (some of my students didn't even know there was a war going on!), and I felt like an amateur in music."
So in quick succession he married mezzo-soprano Dorothy Allen (afterwards to be known as his 'Allen Wench') and he began the study of music composition as a freshman at the University of Illinois in Urbana. (There is no record of what his mother thought of either of these changes.) There he was assigned as composition teacher a fiery little German named Herbert Brun. This man concerned himself with the uses of language in and by society, and May fell under his spell. In addition to the private composition lessons, he took all of Brun's graduate seminars. He describes those classes as follows:
"The course would be the same whatever its title. Herbert would sit up front puffing on his pipe. He would begin each class by asking a question. A student would respond to that, and we would be off on another exhilarating Socratic ride! There were no homework assignments, no papers, no tests; yet it was the most electrifying education I've ever had!"
With a bachelor of music degree in hand, Mr. May moved with his wife to the Boston area for purposes of music performance. After some failed attempts to teach piano (only one pupil was still with him at the end of the year), he began teaching mathematics again as a vocation - thereby proving his mother right after all.
All in all, he taught mathematics in 13 different schools over the course of some 30 years. The first day he would invariably introduce himself thusly: "My name is Mr. May, as in the month we all wish it were!" From the students' reactions he claimed he could predict what sort of class it would be: no reaction would be a reticent class; chuckles would be a fun one. But once in awhile there would be guffaws. "That told me there'd be some troublemakers!" he laughed.
Mathematics would seep on occasion into his private life. Mr. May and his daughter Heidi once memorized the number 'pi' to 120 decimal places while waiting in a doctor's office. "It was a lot more interesting than reading People Magazine!" he exclaimed in apparent seriousness.
His most controversial teaching occurred when he threw away (figuratively) the textbook in two geometry classes at Peabody High School. He and the students developed their own curriculum as they went along. Every precept was discussed in parliamentary debate and voted on by the class. "Of course that was absurd - that's not the way mathematics is developed at all. But it gave each student a feeling of some power." It all finally ended "when we found ourselves debating trivia equivalent to how many angels could dance on the head of a pin," he said. "So I retrieved the books and we had ourselves a real geometry course for the rest of the year!"
The greatest challenge to his teaching style came when he found himself in a wheelchair. "The thing math teachers love to do best is write on the board," he said. "But I couldn't do that anymore." The solution, he found, was to place himself in an ambiguous position between the pupils and the front of the room, and let the students do the board work: they would put up homework problems, and serve as his amanuensis. He found that the students preferred to look at one another up front. "I would just sit back, be entertained, and occasionally make a sardonic remark."
Meanwhile, while he taught mathematics during the day, Mr. May pursued his passionate artistic interests after hours. Inspired by Brun's ideas, he wrote a large number of short political essays called 'Impreachments', and a collection of aphorisms called 'Aperçus'. All this writing was done in bars and restaurants at night. "Thanks to my addiction to a powerful drug (nicotine) and alcohol (burgundy wine), I had a creative life that lasted for several years," he boasted. "I wish I could recommend this regimen to any aspiring young writer, but alas, the smoking ban forbids it!"
Mr. May's two major compositions after his study with Brun were 'Bavel' for six virtuoso speakers, and 'Para-diddle' for nine snare drums. The discerning reader will notice the absence of pitched music. As May explained, "Herbert left me so hypersensitive about musical languages that I was helpless to choose musical notes." This was the downside of his compositional study with Brun. "The worst of it was that I regarded the composition of music as a higher level of artistic endeavor than the writing of prose," he said. "I would really beat up on myself about that!"
(This disability lasted many years - until one day May decided to write the sort of music he wanted to, and 'hang the consequences'. This involved a return to the tonal system. He recently joked, "People said that tonality was exhausted. That was true. But once it had a good rest it was fine again." But he added with a nervous laugh, "I was careful never to show any of my music to Herbert!")
Also as a result of the political leanings of Brun and his coterie, Mr. May joined and worked intensely in the U. S. Labor Party run by the notorious Lyndon LaRouche. He described it thus: "I was attracted to this socialist group because they seemed to have some excellent ideas about a new monetary system, fusion energy development, and music. In practice, though, we were sent out to proselytize hapless members of the working class and try to sell them our paper New Solidarity. Strangely, it was very much like HiBA in high school!" He would also harangue his family and friends with political tirades. "I was pretty obnoxious!" he confessed. After 16 months he became disillusioned and quit the Labor Party. "They weren't interested in my ideas at all", he said with some chagrin. "They were only interested in my accepting LaRouche's."
(Ted and Dorothy did not buy a house until 1988, after the prices had doubled. "As a socialist I hadn't believed in owning private property until it was too late," May said sadly.)
The couple formed an ad hoc group called the Mystic Chamber Opera Co. out of bitter necessity. "Dorothy wasn't getting many gigs. Finally she was hired by a chorus as their alto soloist for Messiah. But when we got to the performance time, it turns out they had engaged a countertenor to do it instead. We went to a cafe to lick our wounds, and there vowed to start our own group. And so we did." Indeed, they eventually performed every chamber opera they could find with a mezzo part. "We were strong on the music side, but a bit weak on the staging," he said.
He also invented a new type of performance piece for singer and pianist which he called the duodrama. "Basically, I was jealous of the attention given to the singer and wanted a bigger piece of the action. So I wrote pieces wherein the pianist not only plays, but, like the singer, moves, acts, speaks, and even sings as well." He added, "I was lucky to have such a tolerant wife, to put up with all of that!" Unfortunately, as Mr. May was not a very prolific composer, he only wrote two pieces in this genre: 'Queen Recluse' (based on Emily Dickinson) and 'The Waltz' (after Dorothy Parker.)
(Still, he was in the planning stage for a third duodrama when the disease struck. To be called 'The Audition', it would have had Mr, May playing an Impresario auditioning a Diva [Mrs. May.] When he attempts to dismiss her with 'Thank you!', she takes umbrage and, refusing to leave, passionately tells him exactly what she thinks of him and the whole music 'racket'. In doing so, she sings the aria of her life (which he helplessly accompanies.) In the end the Impresario murmurs 'Thank you!' - and means it.)
(Alas, that this work will never be written!)
Mr. May also wrote a comic chamber opera, 'Harry and Helene' for his wife and three other singers. He claims he wrote most of the libretto at Peabody High School during study halls he was supposed to be monitoring. "The absurdity of that place was a good breeding ground for a comic opera!" he exclaimed. This work, unlike most new pieces, received five performances at five different venues.
He was sketching plans for at least three more operas when the disease took away his ability to play the piano. One, called 'Dorian', was to be a comic-absurd treatment of Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. The work would begin with a musical pun, in that the opening chorus would be written in the dorian mode. The part of Dorian Gray would be played by his wife Dorothy. "Allow a female in that role, and you can do anything you want with the piece!" May exclaimed gleefully.
(Double-alas, that this work will never see the light of day!)
When he could no longer perform as a musician, Mr. May had the notion (never realized) that he and his wife could start a performance group called the Doro/Theo Theatre Duo, for which he would write comic dialogues. One, called 'Interview With Isolde', would consist of the 12th century princess being interviewed in a cafe by a hard-bitten reporter for the National Inquirer. They would have absolutely nothing in common; yet somehow the couple would fall madly in love with one another and end up ecstatically singing the Liebestod in duet to words by Mr. May.
(Triple alas, that this work will never have life breathed into it!)
Mr. May's daughter Gretchen set up a web site for him, which he called Simian Simmerings. Already in the name one can detect hints of a bizarre self-conception. Indeed, the web site consists mainly of self-deprecatory humor imposed on quasi-disastrous autobiographical events: interviews he has blown, teaching jobs he has been fired from, an election he lost by gross incompetence, students run amuck in his classrooms, and more. But the web site also contains stories by Mr. May with unexpected endings. One, about a composer who wishes to commit suicide because of writer's block, ends happily when the dirge he writes for his own funeral becomes the masterpiece he couldn't write before.
Besides his compositions and assorted prose writings, Mr. May leaves around 100 volumes of a personal journal, which he described as 'the height of self-indulgence': "I often had trouble composing, but I never missed a day to write about myself!" he said laughing. Indeed, the journals contain hundreds of pages lamenting the fact that he couldn't write music.
In addition to his wife, two daughters and brother, Mr. May is survived by many relatives and friends, several of whom seemed for some reason to find him amusing.
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