"... I, uhm, I was somewhat thrown when Richards came to me with this proposal for his thesis. Certainly, as a cultural thread, it bears proper historical research so that we can see it both as a cultural and social phenomenom that has had impact to the current day. Still, when Richards said what he wanted to do for his defence..."
Here it comes.
"... I was, I believe, justifiably concerned. After all, I dont think anyone here wants to be reminded of this especially shameful part of our theatrical history. Still, here, we do encourage independent thinking, and... well, I suppose... there is a line of thought in this... one worth... investigating..."
His advisor seemed unable to continue. Although he couldnt see the professor, he knew the man had abandoned the stage, leaving him to... well, whatever was going to happen.
He could hear the music start: a ragtime piano, accompanied by a banjo and a tambourine. The curtains parted, and suddenly he was hit by a spotlight -- and he could hear the entire audience gasp. Steeling himself, he started to sing:
"Now, this is a story all about how
My life got flipped-turned upside down
And I liked to take a minute
Just sit right there
I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air
In west Philadelphia born and raised
On the playground was where I spent most of my days
Chillin' out maxin' relaxin' all cool
And all shootin some b-ball outside of the school
When a couple of guys
Who were up to no good
Startin making trouble in my neighborhood
I got in one little fight and my mom got scared
She said 'You're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air'..."
As he continued on, now easing into a soft shoe, he could tell the audience had no clue how to respond. Some sat there with stupid grins on their faces, others looked appropriately shocked. The one or two who had moved to walk off suddenly stopped, now openly curious even as they made their disgust manifest.
But the music had carried him onwards. He only had a moment to throw his top hat and wig into the wings before he was catapulted into the next song, a light banjo strum:
"Well we're movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up,
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie.
Fish don't fry in the kitchen;
Beans don't burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin',
Just to get up that hill.
Now we're up in the big leagues,
Gettin' our turn at bat.
As long as we live, it's you and me baby,
There ain't nothin wrong with that."
He could see the enormous question marks floating over everyone's heads: where was this going? Even the most offended now stood in the aisles, utterly perplexed.
But he had no time to gauge their reaction -- now he was in for the proverbial penny and pound. He flashed his brightest smile as he started to wipe off the burnt cork makeup, revealing his own skin tone, even as he rolled into his ragtime finale:
"You walk on the moon float like a balloon
You see it's never too late and it's never too soon
Take it from me what it's like to be. In living color.
And how would you feel knowin' prejudice was obsolete
And all mankind danced to the exact beat
And at night it was safe to walk down the street.
Everybody here is equally kind in living color.
What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine in living color."
He hit the final note on one knee, arms spread wide, a grin on his face, still streaked with makeup, a grin that was both cherubic and slyly winking. As he stood, it was silent in the theatre, followed by a thin trace of sporadic applause.
His professor joined him onstage, his eyes an odd mix of enlightenment and curiosity. He looked over the collected professors. "Mr. Richards will now entertain questions."
