Recently I found myself watching a reality show called I Get That a Lot, which, as far as I can make out, gets famous people to disguise themselves as not-famous people (Ice-T selling shoes, LeAnn Rimes waiting tables) so that not-famous people can have a chance to recognize them and subsequently end up somewhat more famous then they would have been had they not been on the show called I Get That a Lot.
And I thought to myself: We’ve done it. We’ve come full circle. When it comes to our celebrity obsession, we are “through the looking glass.” It also reminded me of how fortunate I am to be a part of the academy, where fame doesn’t mean much—most of the time.
My own little universe went into a tailspin, however, when an actual famous person—as it happens, a rock star—accepted my invitation to visit my class. Several years ago, I put out some feelers to see whether Sting (of musical fame—not the professional wrestler) would come and talk in one of my writing workshops about his recently released autobiography, Broken Music.
The idea was ludicrous on the face of it, but it actually sprang up somewhat organically. I had been a fan of his for years. I had also always been moved by Sting’s basic story: the son of a milkman and a hairdresser changing what must have seemed like the inevitable direction of his life, creating a new persona for himself. I also identified with him, because he had lost his parents in much the same way I had. Slowly, by cancer. And the way in which he distanced himself from his past, while still being inextricably linked to it, struck me as familiar. And the simple truth was, I wanted to talk with him about that.
But how does one get Sting to show up in your writing workshop, especially when your typical honorarium is $200?
At the time, I was teaching at a small, liberal-arts college in the Northeast, and I knew that he was going to be passing through the area on a tour. I called the only “friend of a friend of Sting” I knew: Steve Lawson, director of the Williamstown Film Festival, in Massachusetts, who had directed one of my plays and always been a supporter of my work. Steve knew Stephen Hannock, an actual friend of Sting’s, on the festival’s board of directors. Mr. Hannock was kind enough to relay the idea to The Man himself.
Incredibly, only a couple days later, Steve called me back saying something along the lines of: “No problem, Sting will come by.”
Wait, what?! What?! “Sting will come by?!”
As I hung up the phone, the reality of that simple phrase hit me. Sting doesn’t “come by” just anywhere, does he?
And so it began.
I had to tell the students in the workshop to read his book, without telling them exactly why, as they would tell their friends, who would tell their friends, who—well, you get the idea.
I informed some professor friends, some of whom flat out didn’t believe me.
I also had to make plans with Sting’s representative—in this case, his manager, who had her assistant keep me apprised of his schedule and who was kind enough to arrange a meeting between Sting and me beforehand, so that we wouldn’t be complete strangers to each other while I asked him terribly personal questions about himself.
Finally came the day itself. As I look back now, it’s all a blur. The ploy to keep his visit on the QT was hopeless, of course. The moment he stepped out of his car, he was met by a bevy of autograph seekers. Even getting him upstairs was somewhat of a trial. But after the doors were closed, we were able to talk about his book. And it really was quite amazing, because after only a few minutes, the glow of celebrity started to fade, quickly replaced by the simple and powerful act of someone telling his story.
As for Sting himself, he was maddeningly gracious, a perfect gentlemen. I’ve known playwrights who are bigger divas.
After the hour flew by, I asked Sting if he would give us a reading from his book—from a particular passage in which he describes the last time he saw his father alive. And so he lifted the glasses that hung on a chain around his neck and read.
It was then that the smallish room became even smaller, even though I could see throngs of people outside the door starting to gather and security guards struggling to keep the crowd at bay. But on he read. And in that moment, I thought of my own father and the swirl of contradictions that still existed in my own continuing relationship with him, even though he had been dead for 25 years. As I looked around the room, I could see that everyone else could relate as well. We were all absorbed in the story. After he finished reading, there was a palpable silence. I thanked him for coming by, and everyone applauded.
Then came the challenge of getting him out of the room and into his car. Easier said than done, as the word had spread, and the throngs were getting larger. Sting himself seemed intent on personally greeting with good humor and grace everyone who approached him, even though by now the people lining up to meet him weren’t in the workshop and were just pushing through the door to snap a picture.
Finally we got him back to the curb, where he and I said “so long.” I would see him later that night, thanks to the generosity of Stephen Hannock, who had bought my wife and me tickets to his concert.
After he was spirited away in his car, it dawned on me that what was most powerful about the experience wasn’t that Sting was famous, but that he had a story to tell that transcended his celebrity. His visit to my class wasn’t part of a silly reality show but simply a willingness to participate in a community. In this one instance, anyway, fame worked as it should: as a vehicle for telling a story and fostering connections among people.
As I stood on the windswept sidewalk—feeling less successful and less attractive then I ever had before (hanging out with Sting tends to do that to you)—I felt more than just the glow of reflected celebrity. Rather, I felt the glow of shared humanity. And I thought: This is the kind of 15 minutes of fame we should all aspire to.
