Copyright © 2023 Jordan John

Is it a neighbourhood that dictates the dream?
When we were kids, we weren’t told we could be anything we wanted to be.

Our parents knew the reality.
They knew circumstance and that at best we'd settle into the nest of brutalist concrete blocks.

The only thing that kept us warm

was our desire to perform.

Insulated by the drama classes at the schools that saw them as accessories.

Whilst art to us was a melody that we’d even take home.

We'd pull back tables.

Fold up chairs.

Turn front room into auditorium

And lay our heart’s bare.

While hash blew through cracks in the ground, imagination kept us high.

We’d throw in everything but the kitchen sink to create a world outside of our own.

And then our hour was over.

Curtains were drawn back to let in the daytime as mum and dad would applaud the playtime.
And here I wonder what was thought when we uttered the word actor?

To a household deemed as pedestrian,

A class seen as dystopian.

A vocation regarded as inaccessible

Could we in fact be the thespians like McKellen & Walters.

And alter what is taught

Be a part of an industry bought.

Move beyond perceived immobility.

To acknowledge our fierce ability and work hard to grab at that elusive word.

Opportunity.

The actor’s life was not in our genes, but we’d search our DNA for that working-class spirit.

The proletariat without limit.

And the play texts we had to beg borrow and steal for
We knew it was not ideal sure
We'd do it all again if not just to feel more
To speak speeches not spoken on estate before
Could a council kid like me walk through stage door?
Could I play the Prince of Denmark?

The Queen of Scotland.

Prince of Wales.

Could I play sovereign & nobility?

Could I play?

The RSC? The NT.
Would a royal academy even have me?

Well.

Behold the golden gates from a distance they say,

And follow the path of least resistance they say,

And regardless of our persistence they say,

That all the world’s a stage when you own the timber,

So, let us give pause and remember.

The cold home existence is rented and copied

Cut and paste, pristinely embodied

Borrowed from raw, presented half-baked

Accent, stance, swagger and dance adopted and mimicked.

Convincingly? Perhaps

Authentic? Perhaps not

High time for high class to abdicate the roles as we ask:

Why?

Why must we adhere to the stereotypical when it’s not just the bard who makes language lyrical?

And it’s not just the fact that we grew up too fast

But blue-collar lives are being miscast.

When to be or not to be is forever the question

Our futures seem bleaker at the mere mention

Of a life outside of expectation

But mark this session cos it’s in full swing

We’re outta this world when it comes to the authentic

And our stories are ours-

We just lent it.

So enough of tipping the scales to favour the few

And enough of asking for the space to be new.

This breed is returning and we’re not here for permission

So please don’t mark this as a work of fiction.

To the everyday flat caps who colour the screens

To the kings and queens who inspired a dream

Our future is hopeful, and we thank you for that

And we’ll no longer posit

No longer ponder

And we’ll no longer doubt, wonder or ask.

To be or not to be.

We’ll.

Just.

Do.