“You start by writing to live. You end by writing so as not to die.”
― Carlos Fuentes

“Carlos Fuentes, Mexico’s elegant public intellectual and grand man of letters, whose panoramic novels captured the complicated essence of his country’s history for readers around the world, died on Tuesday in Mexico City. He was 83.” — New York Times

This portrait went with a story written after he had published, ”El Espejo Enterrado” (The Buried Mirror: Reflections on Spain and the New World).

georgetown

After meeting Tana on the street at the Kennedy Center we got together again for a longer photo session. Tana is almost always decked out in vintage fashions and believe me she turns heads no matter where she’s headed on her Raleigh bicycle.

nanette

Maarten Kolsloot, Dutch writer and journalist. photographed on the street, Valparaiso, Indiana

Written by Leslie Perry

So what do you do when a young twenty two year old girl comes to visit you in a retirement home? You share what is important to you. You share a part of your life. You both share something together. But if you are like me, you share your creative life. Kalen had already shared some of her stories with me. She shared it before I moved into this facility. We were sitting on the couch at The Coffee Gallery where she worked as a barista. It was on her off day and she came in just to read me some of her work. When she finished I told her that it was good writing. She was pleased to hear me say that. She really was a good writer.
When I told folks that I was moving into an assistant living facility, my friends told me they would come visit me. I told them I invite all phone calls and visits. Kalen said she would visit me every Wednesday.

Our first meeting took place in the lobby. We sat on a couch and talked. It was very easy to talk with this young girl. She seemed much older than her twenty two years on earth. I told her that I wasn’t satisfied with my book “The Story Man” because there were more stories I wanted to include. I told her that at one point my hands were hurting so bad I couldn’t bare to touch the keys of my computer. I came to a point that I could do no more work on the book. It was finished, but not finished.
“I have a lot more stories that I really wished could have been in the book,” I said. “Want to hear one of them?”
“Sure,” she said.
I went to my room and brought one of the stories. It was the story about my daughter. I read it to her.

I was going to visit my daughter. She had moved up to Oakland, California. The last time we had seen each other was three years ago when I took her to the airport. I remember telling that we never got the chance for me to teach her how to drive. Maybe someone up north will teach her.
We talked on the phone about once a month. She would tell me about her day and her work at the alternative school she was attending. I would ask her had she check out Berkeley or the San Francisco scene yet. She would let me know she hadn’t. I would tell her that there are a lot of cultural things in those two cities. Those were my stomping grounds when I lived up there. In a way I felt she didn’t have that much of an interest. At the end of each of our calls she would say, “I love you Dad” and I would say, “Love you daughter.”
I was now at the Oakland airport about to be picked up by my brother, George. I would be staying with him in Castro Valley.
There was another reason why I wanted to go up to the Bay Area besides seeing my daughter. I had created a series of stories about my life at U.C. Berkeley and I wanted to see if I could perform them there. These were stories about my recreation of Frederick Douglass and my improvised play production of “Mock Trial Of Huey P. Newton” and my time as an instructor in the Black Studies Department.
Soon after I picked up my luggage and went outside of the terminal, I spotted George waiting in his car. I hadn’t seen my brother in a year and it was good to see him and get updates on how he was doing, what he was doing and how his favorite grandson Christopher was doing. We picked up some food before we got to his place. George told me he didn’t do much cooking any more. I told him that I didn’t either.
When we got to my brother’s house, I gave my daughter a call. I told her I would be seeing her tomorrow.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you Dad. “ she had said. “When you see me, you’re going to be surprised. I won’t tell you what it is, but you’re going to be surprised.”
The next day George and I went to pick up my daughter. The plan was that the three of us would hang out together. Our first stop would be the University. Later we would have lunch at some restaurant on Telegraph Avenue. After that who knows. The main thing was we were going to have a good time together.
When we got to where my daughter lived, I walked up to the house and knocked on he door. The door opened and there was my daughter. There she was looking beautiful, beautiful and bald. Bald! This was the surprise she spoke about and believe me I was surprised. You see my daughter had a head full of dread locks and she had had them since she was a child. They came almost down to her waist. I never thought she would ever cut off her dreads. That’s all she knew was her dreads. That’s all anybody knew of her was her dreads. Now she was bald, B-A-L-D, bald! But I got to say she was beautiful, beautiful and bald.
We made our way to the University, parked and walked up Telegraph Avenue to the campus. There were students and tourist and street people, all doing their thing. I was pleased to see that people’s park still existed. I was a student when that park came to existence. The University wanted to make the area into a parking lot, but a revolt erupted and the University backed down and the people took it over making it into a vegetable garden, a well sculptured vegetable garden. It has remained that way for over forty years.
George and my daughter decided to wait for me in the student lounge while I made the rounds taking care of business. I first went to the Drama Department. It seemed smaller, less impressive than what I remembered. Sadly the only person I could talk to was a student office worker. My next trip was to the African-American Studies Department. I found that office on the top floor of one of the highest buildings on the campus. There was only one person in the office and he was the chairperson of the Department. He knew me and he knew my brother. I told him that George was in the student lounge waiting on me. Then I told him about my show. He sounded interested, but there was no budget. So then I went to Student Government. Here again there was only one person to talk to. She was another student office worker. She gave me the names of the office holders in Student Government. I found it interesting they were all Asians.
It was clear the campus had changed. Maybe that saying that you can’t go home again is true. Everything changes with time. Even though my stories have a history related to the campus, they may not have an audience for them.
I met up with George and my daughter and we went to a restaurant and had lunch. It was a Mexican restaurant, one that I had gone to many, many times when I lived in Berkeley. I was surprised to see the décor and tables and chairs looked the same as I remembered them. I was happy to see that the Mediterranean restaurant still existed. I spent many a time there also. I was also pleased to see Cody’s bookstore was still standing. I spent many an hour in that bookstore. That’s where I found the book “Book Of Negro Folklore” edited by Arna Bontemps and Langston Hughes. That was the book I used as my textbook when I was teaching Improvisational Theatre at Berkeley. I had my students create a program of folk tales, which we performed at an elementary school. Later that book and that theatre experience lead me into storytelling.
We walked down Telegraph Avenue window-shopping and people watching. It was very clear that Telegraph Avenue hadn’t changed much since the days I lived there. The campus had changed, but not this vibrant, lively avenue. We did go into some fancy dress shops. My daughter loved clothes. She didn’t buy any, but she did buy a book. She also loved reading. Finally we headed home.
The next day I was to be my daughter’s escort to see “Aidia”, the musical by Elton John and Tim Rice. My daughter wanted to see the musical because her name was also Aydia, only spelled differently. I found the music lovely, but not memorable. My daughter found it sad because the two lovers were killed. As a souvenir, she bought a halter-top with glittering words saying “Aidia”. My daughter loved clothes.
My visit with George and my daughter was over and I was now heading home. It had been just what I expected, a marvelous and pleasant time. I was sitting in the terminal waiting to board the plane. I turned around and saw my daughter walking toward me. She was with a young man and they were holding hands. They were dressed in African-style clothing. A loving smile was on their faces. They had come to see me off. As they came closer I was struck by one very interesting thing, they were both bald. He was handsome and bald and she was beautiful, beautiful and bald.

“That was one of the stories. I was going to put it in the book even though my daughter doesn’t want anything to do with me. After all,” I said, “She’s part of my legacy, like it or not.”
“She’s losing out,” said Kalen.
“We both are,” I said. “And I ain’t done nothing, you hear me, nothing except get sick.”
I thought to myself about some other folks in my life that I don’t hear from anymore. Just like my daughter, they too told me they loved me.
The next time we met we went into the private dining room. She shared her work and I shared mine. It was a good visit. For her next one, we decided to share food together. I treated, but she bought it. All I said was surprise me!
At one of the meetings we discovered our lives had already come together once before. Several years ago I worked as an artist in residence at Allendale Elementary school in Pasadena. It was one of the more than a dozen schools where I worked during a ten-year span offering workshops on storytelling and puppetry. I worked with hundreds of young people opening them up to the beauty of storytelling and the magic of shadow puppets. At Allendale I directed two children’s plays, one with adult-size puppets that I had built. The other was a play with music, “Eleanor Scrooge” based on “The Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens. The plays were presented at school assemblies. Kids were watching kids perform. Sitting cross-legged at both assemblies with all the other children was a young Kalen Tolen.
“Small world,” we said.
During this time I was in a creative dead-zone. I had stopped creating new work nearly a year ago when this illness was beginning to affect my body. That was when the pain was in my hands. It was also in my legs and feet, and at times all over my entire body. The last new work I created was a play called “The Muse” which was written a year ago. Since then no new idea was in my head, no new story was stirring in my soul. This was not me! This was not Leslie Perry! For most of my adult life I have been creating ideas and stories. Yeah, I was in a creative dead-zone.
What I was sharing with Kalen was old work. Then there would be times when we would talk about our personal lives. She would tell me about her boyfriend, her love to sing, her close relationship with her mother. I told her about my driving passion as an artist and hinted at all the women in my life. She told that she never had a close relationship with her father. I reminded her that I don’t have one with my daughter.
At one of the meetings Kalen asked me to tell her a story. I felt somewhat awkward at first. I said, “It’s hard to for me to tell a story to one person. I’m use to telling stories with a lot of energy and it’s hard to do that when you’re telling to one person. But okay, here goes.
“This is an old Jewish folk tale. This story has been told by a lot of storytellers, mostly Jewish storytellers. Although I loved the story, I never thought of telling it myself. Not until I was sitting at home on my couch. Now I got to tell you that a lot of my creativity takes place on that couch. I would be sitting there and all of a sudden a story would pop into my head. I’ve created a lot of stories sitting on that couch. Well this time it was a song working in my head, the song “If I Were A Rich Man” from the musical “Fiddler On The Roof”. The song kept ringing in my head and for some reason I started thinking about this story, “The Tailor”. I kept thinking about it and thinking about and all of a sudden I found my telling of this old folktale. So here it is.”

There once was a tailor who bought a beautiful piece of cloth and as soon as he bought it, he knew just what to do. He began to cut and snip and sew, cut and snip and sew. And when he was finished, he had a beautiful coat. He went everywhere with that beautiful coat. He went to the market place, to visit friends and neighbors, to the bakery, and always, always to the synagogue. But there were times when he would stand before the mirror and sing to himself.
Daidle deedle daidle
Digguh digguh deedle daidle dum
Dah dah dum biddy biddy bum
Daidle daidle deedy dum

But in time that coat began to show wear and tear. There was wear and tear here and wear and tear there. That tailor took that coat, hung it on a hook on the wall and thought to himself, “What to do? What to do?”
Well, that tailor was a practical man and a clever man and he soon realized what to do. He took that coat and began to cut and snip and sew, cut and snip and sew. And when he was finished he had a beautiful jacket. He went everywhere with that beautiful jacket. He went to the market place, to visit friends and neighbors, to the bakery, and always, always to the synagogue. But there were times when he would stand before the mirror and sing to himself.
Daidle deedle daidle
Digguh digguh deedle daidle dum
Dah dah dum bibby bibby bum
Daidle daidle deedy dum

But in time that jacket began to show wear and tear. There was wear and tear here and wear and tear there. That tailor took that jacket, hung it on a hook on the wall and thought to himself, “What to do? What to do?”
Well, that tailor was a practical man and a clever man and he soon realized what to do. He took that jacket and began to cut and snip and sew, cut and snip and sew. And when he was finished he had a beautiful vest. He went everywhere with that beautiful vest. He went to the market place, to visit friends and neighbors, to the bakery, and always, always to the synagogue. But there were times, there were times when he would stand before the mirror and sing to himself.
Daidle deedle daidle
Digguh digguh deele daidle dum
Dah dah dum bibby bibby bum
Daidle daidle deedy dum

But in time that vest began to show wear and tear. There was wear and tear here and wear and tear there. That tailor took that vest, hung it on a hook on the wall and thought to himself, “What to do? What to do?”
Well, that tailor was a practical man and a clever man and he soon realized what to do. He took that vest and began to cut and snip and sew, cut and snip and sew. And when he was finished he had beautiful scarf. He went everywhere with that beautiful scarf. He went to the market place, to visit friends and neighbors, to the bakery, and always, always to you know where: the synagogue. But there were times, there were times when he would stand before the mirror and sing to himself. And you can sing with me.
Daidle deedle daidle
Digguh dugguh deedle daidle dum
Dah dah dum bibby bibby bum
Daidle daidle deedy dum

But in time you know what happened. Yeah, there was wear and tear here and wear and tear there. That tailor hung it on a hook on the wall and thought to himself. And he soon knew what to do. He began to cut and snip and sew and when he was finished he had a handkerchief. And as was his habit, he went everywhere with that beautiful handkerchief. And just like before it too began to show wear and tear. But being that practical man and clever man he made it into a beautiful button to hold up his suspenders.
But as fate would have it, he lost that button. He looked all over the house for it, but couldn’t find it. He couldn’t find it.
But remember that tailor was a practical man and a clever man. With the fabric left when he made the jacket, and the fabric left when he made the vest, and the fabric left when he made the scarf, and the fabric left when he made the handkerchief, and old pants that he no longer wore and his wife’s dresses that she no longer wore he cut into rectangles and squares and diamond shapes and he made a beautiful patch quilt. And on cold winter nights he would cover himself and his wife with that patch quilt. Just before he fell asleep a song would ring in his ears.
Kalen and I sang it together.
Daidle deedle daidle
Digguh dugguh deedle daidle dum
Dah dah dum bibby bibby bum
Daidle daidle deedy dum”

It might have been after that visit that an idea started forming in my head. I woke up in the middle of the night thinking of my sessions with Kalen. Most of what we shared with each other was our creativity. That was who I was as a person. That was how I related to most folks in my life. That was how most folks saw me: a storyteller, a puppeteer and a theatre artist. I started thinking what about us doing a creative writing project together? She could write about her life experiences and I would write about mine. What about me writing about this disease I have? Several of my storyteller friends have suggested I create some stories about this illness. At the time I told them I wasn’t ready. Maybe now is the time. Maybe now I’m ready.
Those thoughts kept turning over in my head. I couldn’t sleep. I looked at the night clock near my bed. It was something like two in the morning, a long time to go before getting up and going about my day. I needed to go back to sleep. And then it came to me, “Wednesdays with Leslie”. I had read the book “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom. A friend had suggested the book to me. I read it and loved it.
In the book Mitch Albom tells about his visits with his old professor, Morrie Schwartz from Brandeis University who was in poor health. They met every Tuesday sharing life experiences. During the course of their visits, Morrie’s illness got worst. Finally Morrie passed away. The book was made into a CBS TV movie.
Later in the day I started calling friends and telling them about my possible new project. One of those people was Robert Hilton. While I was talking to Robert on the phone, he was checking things out on his computer.
“Did you know that Morrie had Lou Gehrig’s disease?” he said.
“No, I didn’t,” I answered.
I called a few more friends. They all liked the idea. But they also liked my excitement. This was the typical Leslie Perry they were talking to.
“Great to see you excited about a new work,” said my friend Riua.
“That’s a great idea,” said my nephew Fred. “This sounds like it could be a good storyline for a Hollywood movie.”
“I love it,” said Barbara Clark who told me about Mitch Albom’s book in the first place.
“If this is another book, count me in,” said Zofia, “I’ll design it for you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You got it,” she added.
Later I called Kalen. She was in San Diego with some friends. I told her of the project. “It’s a project right now. If we get a body of work together it will be a book.”
“I like it,” she said.
“Well, next Wednesday when you come let’s talk about how we want it to be,” I said.
“I’ll be there. Want me to bring some food?” she asked.
“Yeah, bring some food,” I said.
“What do you want?” she asked, “Anything special?”
“Surprise me,” I said.

THE BOOK IS OUT! “Wednesdays With Leslie” by Kalen Tolces & Leslie Perry will have a debut reading at the Coffee Gallery located 2029 N. Lake in Altadena on Sunday January 29 at 2:00 p.m. We will be joined with performances by Robert Hilton, Lance Anderson, Laura Vega and others to celebrate this grand moment. We invite you to join us also.

tana, kennedy center, washington, dc