An overnight road trip with Alexander Louis Handloff.
We embarked; setting off a little after 2pm. Me making ‘Yay’ and ‘ROADTRRRIIIPPP!’ noises as we left the condos then again at the Shop’n’Hop Gas station, Alex complaining because his theory was the road trip doesn’t start until you leave the town. I disagreed saying as soon as you leave with your bags, the fun has begun.
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals was on the speakers, the windows open and Alex and I laughing inanely and hysterically, interspersing with serious conversation, including the reason I wanted to actually go to Laramie.
The entire 2 months I have been in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, I have been asked what I was planning after the festival and every time I mentioned excitedly I was going to Laramie, Wyoming, inevitably I was met with a puzzled face and the question ‘Why?’
7 Years ago I was in a play called THE LARAMIE PROJECT. A verbatim account of an event in America’s history where, in 1998, a 21 year-old University of Wyoming student Matthew Shepard was brutally beaten, tied to a fence and left to die on the outskirts of Laramie. This play became, for want of a better word, iconic and propelled all around the world, all the way down to New Zealand to a 19 year old me, Kate McGill. This play marked the start of a process of learning what acting, performance and the purpose is all about for me.
At 21, I started my degree at the New Zealand Drama School, and more questions arose surrounding what makes a powerful performance and all the time, I came back to my shining moment where ego was pushed aside and I did the job of the text. Of the real persons words. I continue to pursue these curious questions.
Last year, I was fortunate enough to do an unpaid internship with TECTONIC THEATER PROJECT who wrote and produced THE LARAMIE PROJECT. When I arrived, they were about to start work on a tour that included TLP and a new work THE LARAMIE PROJECT: 10 YEARS LATER. They had four weeks to rehearse two plays, one of which still in development. Still finding its purpose.
From this experience, I was intrigued by the concept of how we mark an event in history, how history repeats, how history changes. And how we forget. Things very pertinent in my own culture, in my own home. New Zealand.
So, at 25 years old, I have decided to produce this play. The second one. The arguably more flawed of the two. Because I think it’s purpose stands strong and the challenge is to make it into ‘entertainment,’ into ‘art.’
That’s the short version.
Alex agreed to take me, Stuart agreed to lend the car. And I was very glad to not go by myself and not get too lost in the emotion of it.
I think that was important, in order for me to reflect perhaps more clearly than if I had soaked that up on my lonesome.
I was told before I left Steamboat to a) not tell people why I was there and b) not act like my usual overthetop, silly self because apparently people think a supporter of gay rights is gay and that’s not a safe thing to be in Laramie. I was shocked into speechlessness. Has anything changed? Was that true? The very thought made me sick.
We arrived at the Super 8 Motel around 5pm, met by a woman who appeared to have a large, brown, racoon-like wig affixed to her round bobbly head. (And I mean bobbly – her head moved around like she was one of those dog toys that sit in the back of cars.) She checked us in, I asked about the internet discount, and she asked us in a thick accent firstly ‘What make is yer vee-hick-il?’ and then ‘Are you in the army?’ Alex pulled out the charm about how is grand-daddy was and she gave us the Services Discount. Wow.
Off we traipsed into dingy little 406, dropped our stuff off and the first port of call was the University of Wyoming.
Laramie has just over 20,000 in its population and more than two thirds of that figure are students. The campus was lush, green, nice buildings with random homages to Dick and Lynn Cheney everywhere – he must’ve studied there. We looked in the peculiar library – brand new, devoid of books, smell and emotion. My father, the writer, would’ve hated it. We saw lots of statues of various Presidents and important people I hadn’t heard of. It was about an hour in I remembered there was a memorial bench for Matthew. Somewhere. It was only put in last year or the year before – I know this because of a scene in the second play.
Alex and I walked the campus zig-zagging across each other checking benches ‘What’s his name again, Kate?’
‘Matthew Shepard!’
‘This lady’s got a weird name, look!’
‘Alex, don’t mock the dead!’
‘I’m not mocking, I’m merely stating the obvious. She’s not here is she?!’
‘OK Alex.’
‘Sorry’
‘Oh! Is that it?’
‘Nope’
And on it went, until I saw the arts and sciences building and it all came back to me. Matt studied political science. He wanted to make a difference.
And there it was, in amongst 5 other benches, but the only one dedicated was his
‘MATTHEW WAYNE SHEPARD 1976-1998
BELOVED SON, FRIEND AND BROTHER
PEACE BE TO HIM AND ALL THOSE THAT SIT HERE
HE CONTINUES TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE’
I was struck with emotion then: For the injustice of the crime committed on this young boy, for all he’s done for gay rights in the United States – and at those words ‘He continues to make a difference’
On October 28th 2009 The Matthew Shepard Act was brought into law changing legislation on Hate Crimes in the United States of America. He continues to make a difference.
Alex asked me if I wanted a photo on the bench. I declined. I took a photo of it. But I didn’t want me on it.
It was back in the car that I suddenly thought of people who think they know celebrities because they see pictures of them all the time, and know random and specific facts about their lives. I realised I felt like I knew Matthew. Because I’ve ‘studied’ him. This thought both fascinated me and threw me into guilt. It’s not my job to grieve for him. That’s HIS family, HIS friends.
And though, I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about him, he was a human. Humans are not perfect.
Martyrdom, celebrity, VIPS. I’m now interested in this ‘concept.’ But really me being me, I can’t throw away my ideals about Matthew Shepard. He’s given the world so much for me not to respect him.
Alex was a perfect gentleman, and managed to bring my emotion up by saying ‘Now I understand, I am really glad I came.’ The visit and seeing my reaction to it changed something in him, a little.
We walked down to where the sun was setting beautifully against the train tracks and circled the area for somewhere to eat. At Melissa’s, a vegetarian restaurant, we got platters of tapenade, Greek salad and burritos. An ageing cowboy offered to let me grope him. I got a photo.
A few games of billiards followed, me nearly beating Alex each time. Shooting really well, but just missing the 8. My competitiveness was at an all time high by the end.
Back at the Super 8 Motel, we watched TV, chatted and then conked out till the morn.
Alex asked me what I wanted to do. I said ‘a little walk round town, breakfast, then the site.’
The Prairie Rose was a downtrodden diner where Alex threw a burger into his mouth, I had eggs and hash brown – it was not nice. The coffee was welcomed.
The shops were charming. From the upmarket tourist store to the antiques shop, we had a great time ambling around – full as ticks.
Back at the Uni we played Frisbee, and I was pent up with nerves. I both wanted to go to the site, and not go. I did not want to be disrespectful. The site where he was left.
After an hour of throwing the friz around, we got into the rav and drove up to where Matthew Shepard was found dying.
The area is private property and surrounded by more houses than I expected. I didn’t go right up to it. A mix of fear for safety and fear of emotion. I could see the little rock shrine-like marking they had for him.
All those times I’ve recited Dennis Shepard’s speech, I imagined exactly what I saw. Sparse, quiet, lonely – looking out onto the dry, light caramel covered earth and bush, down onto Laramie below – so small and insignificant and across to the snow dusted mountains. All of Mr Shepard’s words flooded into my head and I cried. 'You Mr McKinney left him up there by himself. But he wasn't alone. He had the beautiful night sky and the same stars and moon we used to see through a telescope. Then he had the daylight and the sun to shine on him. And through it all he was breathing in the scent of the pines from the snowy range. He felt the wind. The ever present Wyoming wind. For the last time. He had one more friend with him. He had God. And I feel better knowing he wasn't alone.'
How can people be so hateful? You know they say death is all about the people who are left behind to remember. I wonder whether those killers, any killers, ever thought about the family? The friends? The lover? The children that would miss this person so much?
One of the preachers quoted in THE LARAMIE PROJECT said of Matthew while he was up on that fence ‘I hope that he had some time to reflect on his lifestyle.’ Meaning his homosexuality. You know I hope he had a moment to reflect too. But I hope he reflected on his life, that he had a moment to accept he had a good life and did good things in this world and would continue to in spirit. And I hope with all my heart that felt some peace up there in that expanse of land.
That was my last experience of Laramie. We drove away quietly, me looking out the window wanting to think. Alex accepting that.
We drove away sombre and respectful. Eventually, the music came back on, the mood lifted and I felt in one way or another I had honoured Matt.
