They used to be called "domestic servants" (or, perhaps, "hired help") but nowadays most often appear on personnel rosters as "support staff." Before you dismiss those who make their living through the exercise of housekeeping skills, however, consider what your place of business would look like if the janitors quit for even one week. When President Franklin Roosevelt exhorted the stewards of the 107-room residence in our nation's capital to remember that they shared in making history, his were wise words. Alonzo Fields never intended to spend more than two decades in the butler's pantry of the White House, surrounded by wall-to-wall dish racks and floor-to-ceiling linen closets. Born in 1900, in an Ohio town founded by former slaves, he sought a career as an opera singer, enrolling at Boston's New England Conservatory of Music and supplementing his meager income as a butler in the home of retired NBS director Samuel Stratton, whose acquaintances included President Herbert Hoover. In 1933, spurred by the onset of widespread economic devastation, Fields accepted employment in the Hoovers' dining room, little suspecting that it would afford him a backstage view of four administrations, three wars and countless meals prepared for a dazzling array of distinguished guests. (The highlight of the evening is his tale of being one of six hand-picked—and, coincidentally, racially-diverse—men dispatched to a "top-secret" safe house, their mission, to care for British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, then laboring on the famous "iron curtain" speech. The aesthetic of a solo show lies in its first-person narrative, whether arising from the story or from the person telling it. Manny Buckley's portrayal of Fields for this American Blues Theater production takes full advantage of the intimacy engendered by the Greenhouse's upstairs studio. Under Timothy Douglas' direction, our insider witness emerges an individual of warmth, dignity and modesty commanding our immediate respect. Fields's summary of his life and times, while not without regrets—his were not the only plans thwarted by the Great Depression—is noteworthy for its absence of rancor. Every mention of slights inflicted-upon African-American citizens (Marian Anderson's concert entourage not being offered the customary post-show refreshment, for example) is balanced by a corresponding report of small advancements, from Eleanor Roosevelt inviting a heavily laden busser aboard her private elevator to Harry Truman integrating the armed forces, the former acknowledged with wry humor and the latter with the hopeful appreciation that comes of recognizing the—yes, historical—importance of humble deeds in shaping the future of great countries.
