Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment by Dick van Patten Page A
Authors: Dick van Patten
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the cars. I still remember his exact words: “All colored in the next car. Colored people in the next car.”
We had four black actors in the show. I still remember their names: Earl Sydnor, Viola Dean, Eulabelle Moore, and Harry Clark. In fact, I had a slight crush on Viola Dean.
As soon as the Conductor made his announcement, the four of them just got up without protest and moved to a separate car. Nobody objected. Nobody said a single word. Nobody batted an eye. At fourteen, I had seen ethnic tensions in New York City, but never anything like this. It was really quite shocking, and I felt terrible for the actors who were forced to move. And the worst part, the most disturbing part, was that it all seemed perfectly natural to everyone, or at least that’s how everyone acted.
While I’m certain that some people in the play didn’t approve, nobody had the courage to express their disapproval. It makes me think of that old expression that evil triumphs when good people do nothing. On that train, nobody, including me, did anything. I wish I could say I stood up and protested or that I went to the other car to sit with those black actors, but I didn’t, nor did anyone else. It would take braver souls, heroes like Rosa Parks, who just twelve years later heard those same words from a bus driver in Birmingham and decided that enough is enough and just refused to move to the back of the bus. One person standing up to evil can spark a revolution. We could have used Rosa on that train.
18
H OW TO B EAT THE R ACES
My life as a student came to a crashing, and somewhat ignominious, halt not long after the close of The Skin of Our Teeth . In truth, it was extremely difficult for me to keep up with school assignments while working on so many different shows, both on the radio and in theater. But that’s not an excuse. I also became caught up in a world that was incompatible with the discipline of schoolwork. In fact, it was my attempt to bring that world into the classroom that was the final straw.
The kids in our class at the Professional Children’s School were required to write a composition about some subject of our choosing that had to do with how we had spent the summer. I knew a lot of the kids wrote about their families and things they did together. In fact, Pat was in the class and was ready with her essay. Since I generally cut corners on assignments, the teacher, Madame Motley, strongly suspecting this would again be the case, called me up onstage first to deliver my speech.
But Madame Motley had misjudged me—at least on that day. I actually did the assignment, and I had my composition ready and was looking forward to reading it as I walked up to the stage. It may say something about my state of mind at the time that I honestly thought I had chosen a good topic. So I proudly read the title of my essay: “How to Beat the Races.”
With that, Madame Motley went nuts, screaming: “Get him off that stage!” Within minutes I was in the Principal’s Office, and they had called my mother to the school. When she arrived, the Principal, Mrs. Nesbet, said to her: “Mrs. Van Patten, do you know what your son did today.” My mother said, “No, what?” And she told her about my composition. Now my mother had constantly been after me about spending too much time at the track. But on that day, she surprised all of us. Instead of properly expressing her mortification at her son’s behavior, she just started laughing. With that, Mrs. Nesbit let loose on her: “You’re as bad as he is!” And the next thing I knew, I’d been expelled.
But I got my degree—although not for another sixty-five years. A while ago someone from the Professional Children’s School found out I had never graduated, and they decided to give me the diploma. They had a very nice ceremony at the Beverly Hills High School, and the head of the PCS, James Dawson, made the presentation. It was a very nice event, but I’m not sure they realized that
We had four black actors in the show. I still remember their names: Earl Sydnor, Viola Dean, Eulabelle Moore, and Harry Clark. In fact, I had a slight crush on Viola Dean.
As soon as the Conductor made his announcement, the four of them just got up without protest and moved to a separate car. Nobody objected. Nobody said a single word. Nobody batted an eye. At fourteen, I had seen ethnic tensions in New York City, but never anything like this. It was really quite shocking, and I felt terrible for the actors who were forced to move. And the worst part, the most disturbing part, was that it all seemed perfectly natural to everyone, or at least that’s how everyone acted.
While I’m certain that some people in the play didn’t approve, nobody had the courage to express their disapproval. It makes me think of that old expression that evil triumphs when good people do nothing. On that train, nobody, including me, did anything. I wish I could say I stood up and protested or that I went to the other car to sit with those black actors, but I didn’t, nor did anyone else. It would take braver souls, heroes like Rosa Parks, who just twelve years later heard those same words from a bus driver in Birmingham and decided that enough is enough and just refused to move to the back of the bus. One person standing up to evil can spark a revolution. We could have used Rosa on that train.
18
H OW TO B EAT THE R ACES
My life as a student came to a crashing, and somewhat ignominious, halt not long after the close of The Skin of Our Teeth . In truth, it was extremely difficult for me to keep up with school assignments while working on so many different shows, both on the radio and in theater. But that’s not an excuse. I also became caught up in a world that was incompatible with the discipline of schoolwork. In fact, it was my attempt to bring that world into the classroom that was the final straw.
The kids in our class at the Professional Children’s School were required to write a composition about some subject of our choosing that had to do with how we had spent the summer. I knew a lot of the kids wrote about their families and things they did together. In fact, Pat was in the class and was ready with her essay. Since I generally cut corners on assignments, the teacher, Madame Motley, strongly suspecting this would again be the case, called me up onstage first to deliver my speech.
But Madame Motley had misjudged me—at least on that day. I actually did the assignment, and I had my composition ready and was looking forward to reading it as I walked up to the stage. It may say something about my state of mind at the time that I honestly thought I had chosen a good topic. So I proudly read the title of my essay: “How to Beat the Races.”
With that, Madame Motley went nuts, screaming: “Get him off that stage!” Within minutes I was in the Principal’s Office, and they had called my mother to the school. When she arrived, the Principal, Mrs. Nesbet, said to her: “Mrs. Van Patten, do you know what your son did today.” My mother said, “No, what?” And she told her about my composition. Now my mother had constantly been after me about spending too much time at the track. But on that day, she surprised all of us. Instead of properly expressing her mortification at her son’s behavior, she just started laughing. With that, Mrs. Nesbit let loose on her: “You’re as bad as he is!” And the next thing I knew, I’d been expelled.
But I got my degree—although not for another sixty-five years. A while ago someone from the Professional Children’s School found out I had never graduated, and they decided to give me the diploma. They had a very nice ceremony at the Beverly Hills High School, and the head of the PCS, James Dawson, made the presentation. It was a very nice event, but I’m not sure they realized that
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