Through the Performance Door–Part II

By Peter Nevland - Nov 10 , 2008

Eight months after my writer’s strike began, I went to see The Hurricane, starring Denzel Washington.

“See, writing is a weapon, more powerful than any fist could ever be. Every time I sat down to write, I could rise above the walls of this prison…”

When he spoke those words, something came alive in me.

“Write the vision. Make it plain on a tablet…” I heard in my head.

“..Peter, you have a gift that the world needs to hear. I want you to start writing again…”

That night I wrote the first piece I’d written in eight months. Creating beauty became a land of wonder, where words dripped like magic from the heavens into my fingers. I gave up the rules of poetry I’d learned and experimented with free verse, making up words, rhythm, internal rhyme, and structures I’d never seen. It wasn’t as if the analytical side of my brain wasn’t active. It just shared a new, equal role with the creative, unbounded part, guiding it and keeping it from destruction or insanity.

On stage again at the 2001 Hope Arts Festival, the mystery came undone. In the middle of performing a new piece, running around, faster and faster, barefoot, in blue shorts with gray flames, time stopped…

“Man, I love being on stage. It feels like I’m home. I feel like this is what I’m made for.”

Time resumed, and I finished performing. I needed to get serious. I made two CDs that year—one with, and one without, a band. I became a regular at the poetry slam, featured at open mics, rocked out with my full band, performed on street corners on Friday nights, and started getting invitations to travel. My two soccer teams got left in artistic dust as I used Motorola money to fund a performance career.

The art monster forced its way into Motorola corporate life. People on the manufacturing floor became my impromptu audiences. Cubicles transformed into stage spaces and epicenters of laughter. I still got my work done, won awards and went to meetings, but how we worked became more important to me than what we manufactured. Management let me use my performances to inspire fellow employees for our work programs, but they didn’t see that my inspirational and writing skills had greater value than my engineering skills.

“I think yer talkin’ about yer drrreams,” Gerry the head of BAT-1, said in his thick, Scottish brogue.

“And wouldn’t that be something,” I shot back, “if Motorola sent out the message that said, ‘Come work at a place where you can follow your dreams.’ You’d get people to do anything for you.”

Later that week, my fellow laser repair technician said, “I give you eight months.”

“What are you talking about, John? They love me here.”

“I don’t know, something’ll happen,” he breathed out through thick Chicago puffs of smoke. “But I don’t think you’ll stay at Motorola longer than eight months.”

The next month we got the announcement that BAT-1 would be shut down. Jobs were available in other parts of Motorola, but less qualified people kept getting them. I didn’t even get any interviews.

It scared me to think what I’d do if I lost my job. But how could that happen? Motorola had paid me thousands of dollars to sign a contract stating that I would work for them until the end of 2002. Why didn’t they seem to want me?

At some conference in Fort Worth where I ended up performing, I told a couple friends I had made about my predicament and how scared I was that I’d lose my job. One of them said, “I’ve got this feeling that you don’t need to worry about your job situation. God’s got something much bigger for you to step into.”

All of a sudden, the deal I’d made appeared like a rabidly joyous bunny. I had told God, “If you’re as cool as you say you are, I think you’ve been dreaming about me performing even more than I have. So I’m leaving Motorola at the end of 2002, and if you want me to leave sooner, you have to make it so that I don’t have to pay them back the money they paid me to stay here.”

If I told Motorola I didn’t want a transfer to anywhere else, they would lay me off with an involuntary severance package. Not only would I not have to pay them any money, they would pay me more money. The deal was on, and even better than what I’d asked for!

After that weekend, I quickly went into the HR office and signed my non-transferral papers. A month or so later, on Sept 30, 2002, I got called into the bosses’ office on severance day.

“Thanks for all that you’ve given me and taught me during my time here,” I quickly told them.

“Uhhh… It’s been great to work with you, Peter. Normally we have security escort people out of the building, but I don’t think you need that.” I don’t think they’d ever seen a laid-off employee so happy.

I said my good-byes, gathered up my few belongings and left, almost eight months to the day after my friend, John, told me when I’d be leaving. The performance door swung open, and I stepped through, brain abuzz with possibilities.