All stories about the Dome (that is, when it really was the Dome) begin and end with Bertrand A. Henry. And the stories . . .
My first year full-time began with an introduction to the management of Dawson College. I met, in quick succession, the Director General, the Head of H.R. (who was to turn into the McAuslan of brewing fame) and our Dean at the time, Fred Harris. I have always thought of a “Dean” as a kind of intellectual guru, steeped in the lore of academia. Unfortunately, I have never met such a type in the six deans that I have worked for. Fred was a short, squat man who reminded me mostly of a Union enforcer. After the social niceties, it was immediately into the academic year which meant, for the Dome, theatre production time. Things were excessively crazy with 2 second-year studios, 3 third year majors AND a first-year studio. There was very little double casting, no double studios and no rules. Also, there was no money, so that kept the directors just a little bit in check– although, to be truthful, Bert always let every budget run over. Like pretty much every other year at the Dome we lurched from crisis to crisis but the event of the year was Bert’s attendance at Festac 77.
It was called: The Second World Black and African Festival of Arts and Culture, or, Festac 77 for short, and it was a really big deal. It was a month-long celebration of world-wide Black art, culture and spiritual regeneration, held in Lagos, Nigeria in 1977. It had been delayed year by year since 1974 because of infrastructure and political problems. With delegations from fifty-five countries and an estimated 17,000participants, Festac 77 was a momentous occasion – and underneath all the splendour was a deep political agenda in which the festival provided an important space to discuss strategies, parallels, and differences across national contexts, all while celebrating the rich and diverse cultures of the African diaspora that were themselves a testament to resilience and community in the face of western culture. The American delegation included Paule Marshall, Audre Lorde, Amiri Baraka, Houston Baker, Jayne Cortez, and Stevie Wonder. Canadian attendance was orchestrated by the North American Zone committee (NAZ), a subgroup within the larger International Festival Committee, and included Bert Henry and a troupe of actors from across Canada who presented David Edgecombe's Strong Currents. This enormous celebration received very little press in the west except in the pages of Ebony magazine, but in Africa it was huge. But for Bert is was always: “Lagos, man.”
Since it started in January, Bert was able to attend because there were no classes until the end of the month. I was fully engaged with the second major at the time and since I had been given co-signing authority over the bank account I could easily carry on without Bert – which I did. But then came February and there was no word of Bert. His classes were supposed to have started and since he was the Acting teacher in an Acting program, his absence could not be over-looked. By the middle of the month a number of members of the Canadian delegation had returned and stories began to spread about Bert residing in near regal splendour, parties galore, living in a house on a cliff over-looking the beach, with his own limousine and driver. One of them said “Why should he come back?”
But the College wanted him back, in his class, teaching, and in the Dean’s office, explaining. I was called with a couple of other faculty members (I remember Victor Knight being there) to a meeting with Dean Fred. The Dean made his anger abundantly clear and suggested that we find a way to get a message to our errant chairperson, that the loss of a teaching position was not out of the question. Somehow that message was sent and received because about a week later Bert was in the office of the Dean, behind closed doors, explaining himself to the Dean before making his way to the classroom. And as far as Bert was concerned (and as far as I knew) the matter was closed.
But … it turned out that our Dean was not quite so easily mollified. He once again requested the presence of a few faculty members in his office and, when we were there, he expressed his exasperation in emphatic terminology.
“That bastard told me and the Academic Dean that he was held in Nigeria against his will, that they took his passport away so that he could not fly home, that he had to charter his own flight out, escape his captors and run after his plane, down the runway during take-off, grab hold and be pulled aboard by the co-pilot.” This statement was gracefully framed with much choice and descriptive language. ”What the hell do I do now? I can call him a liar but I can’t prove it. Do you believe his story?”
What could we do but shake our heads in wonder and try to look as confused and surprised as possible? We expressed our sympathy for the Dean’s unenviable position but there was little that we could offer. It was only when we had left the building that we could release the suppressed laughter. I laughed so hard I thought I would do myself an injury.
And that was it. The College could do nothing and Bert went on to direct the final major and just… continue being Bert. Lagos, man!
