The Decision
“What made you decide to study law?” asked Dr. William Harbour, my college advisor, seated behind a small metal desk. A collage of photos depicting pleasant memories, postcards with colorful, vibrant images inviting office guests to ask about his travels, and sticky notes filled with task lists created a chaotic backdrop behind him. I felt like I was in therapist Sean Maguire’s office in a less theatrical version of Good Will Hunting.
Dr. Harbour peered at me over the rim of his glasses, awaiting my answer.
“Blair Underwood on L.A. Law,” I said with assurance. “He’s black. I’m black. I like to debate and speak in front of people and so does he. It’s the perfect job for me.”
It was 1995, before my twentieth birthday, and I was starting my sophomore year at Longwood College in Farmville, Virginia. I'd graduated high school in the spring of 1993. After high school, I completed basic training for the U.S. Army Reserve, as well as training for an administrative assistant position because I didn't think college was in my life plan. I thought I’d spend my career in the military. However, in my family, education came before sports, entertainment, and relationships. I’d spent more time trying to get girls than good grades in high school. Around six months into what I thought would be my military career, my father pushed me to apply to college, and I entered Longwood as a freshman in spring 1994. At this moment, I thought I had a good idea of what I wanted to do with my life.
My advisor, who was taken aback by my answer, continued to press me. “But why?”
What did he mean why? Did my answer not suffice? I believed that I would be Jonathan Rollins, Blair Underwood’s character, and that his life would be my life. To me, it was a no-brainer.
Dr. Harbour sighed, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “Look Ransford, the field of law requires long hours, lots of paperwork, and low pay. Quite frankly, it’s a very boring life. You’re going to be here at Longwood for two more years.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
“Let’s consider this,” he continued. “If you could pick anything to study that you enjoyed, but would not lead to a job or a career, what would it be?”
Studying and enjoyment don't happen together. Fun doesn’t happen in institutions of academia. College is supposed to be serious. My parents, Betsy and Cyril, sent me to school to get an education, not for amusement. I’d understood this throughout elementary, middle, and high school. Why would college be any different?
My parents had high hopes for my siblings and me. They held careers in law, medicine, and science in high regard because these careers were thought of as practical employment opportunities that paid the bills and provided comfortable lifestyles. My sister Hileen raised the bar during her career by not only being the valedictorian of her high school class, but a graduate of Howard University with a Master’s degree who became a successful physician assistant who ran her own clinic and gym, and was a Major in the United States Army. My fraternal twin brother Beresford also reached that bar over time by becoming a Major in the United States Army and achieving Bachelor’s and Master's Degrees in Business Administration.
My family is from Sierra Leone; West African parents love to brag about the careers their children will have. For my parents to win the ultimate supreme brag matches that occurred among my aunts and uncles at our family functions, I had to be like Jonathan Rollins to live up to their ideals. As I sat in my advisor’s office, I imagined one of those brag matches.
EXT. PARK - DAY
During a barbecue, family members sit under the shade of large trees, eating, and enjoying each other’s company.
A few men attend to a grill filled with expertly seasoned meats simmering over hot coals. Children run and play.
CYRIL, early 50s, sits at a circular table with nine other relatives. They peer at each other, ready for battle. An imaginary boxing bell dings as an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN walks by, holding a big white card with the number “1” on it.
The rest of the people at the table are silent, tuning in to the match between PARENTS 1 and 2.
PARENT #1
Our daughter is going to the University of Virginia to study biology. They call UVA the Harvard of the south, you know.
PARENT #2
Ah! Congratulations. Well, our son is going to Virginia Tech to study chemistry and biology.
CYRIL
Oh, well, my daughter Hileen is finishing up the pre-med program at Howard. She will do her residency at Johns Hopkins University.
Cyril observes the parents’ glares. He's winning.
CYRIL (CONT’D)
She might intern at the White House with the most recent Nobel Prize winner in medicine or join the Peace Corp.
PARENT #1
What about your twin boys?
The suspense grows at the table. The rest of the relatives lean in.
CYRIL
Both my twin boys will attend Harvard for their Master's, and Princeton for PhDs. Beresford will major in military science, while the oldest, Ransford, will study law.
The bell rings. The relatives at the table cheer. The parents scowl as Cyril smiles triumphantly.
“Ransford,” Dr. Harbour said, snapping me out of my daydream, “answer the question. If you could pick anything to study here, that would not lead to a job or a career, but you would enjoy studying, what would it be?”
As the question hung in the air, I thought about the fact that even though my sister Hileen was a brainiac, who had won countless science fair awards and honors for debate in school, she was also a gifted playwright, actress, and comedian and had won awards for those creative efforts. I was amazed by her ability to capture an audience’s attention. I was in awe of her, but I never thought that anything involving a stage could be considered a feasible profession. I didn’t think that acting was something real, that you could study or become a part of. It all seemed like make-believe. Even Hileen had to come to terms with reality. She became a physician assistant because that was something real. It was practical.
Then, I thought about my high school speech and drama class experience during the beginning of my junior year at Hylton High School in Woodbridge, a suburb of Washington, D.C. That year, I felt like I was going through a phase in my young life where everyone knew what they wanted to do with themselves except me. Everyone seemed so confident. They seemed like they had things going for them. I knew I was going to be something in life, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly.
I was sitting next to Ann Novakowski, probably talking about our summers (or I was probably trying to get her phone number), when Ms. Julie Clarke, our teacher, approached me while taking attendance.
“How do you pronounce your name?” she asked. She was tall, slender, sophisticated, and reminded me of Maggie Seaver on the eighties show Growing Pains.
“Ransford,” I said with a shrug.
Pausing for a moment, Ms. Clarke began saying my name, imitating the voice of an aristocratic character, and rolling her tongue. “R-R-R-Ransford. R-R-Ransford! Hmm, such a theatrical name!”
Ann giggled beside me. My name? Theatrical? Me?
I’d heard different pronunciations of my name—like Rancid, Ransfart, or Ransturd — from my smart-ass peers. Plus, I was a second-string varsity football player and a bench-warming varsity basketball player who worked part-time at the Burger King in the local mall. There was nothing theatrical about me.
But the way Ms. Clarke said my name, she made it seem like it could be a brand—as if my name could be displayed in lights on a marquee. She saw potential in me as an actor when I never saw it in myself. That made me want to invest in her, her class, and what she had to teach us.
After seeing my enthusiastic involvement in speech and drama class, Ms. Clarke asked me to audition for the school production of Romeo and Juliet. I got the role of the prince, and I had a blast rehearsing!
“Ransford, for the play, wouldn’t it be cool if you rode in on a horse?” my classmate Melanie Vracas asked one day during a rehearsal. She was a trained equestrian.
“Yeah, it sure would,” I said, thinking that she was musing aloud.
“I can bring CeCe. It’ll be great.”
CeCe? I thought.
“You’ve ridden a horse before, right?” she asked.
I chuckled nonchalantly. “Of course.”
I lied. But I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to parade onstage on a real, live horse in the school play. And sure enough, Melanie guided CeCe through the loading dock behind our school auditorium right before the production began on our opening night.
That was the type of environment that Ms. Clarke fostered for us. She enforced a respect for the craft of performing arts, and I was surrounded by other creative students who enjoyed the class as much as I did.
“When you get on stage, leave whatever personal problems you’re dealing with backstage,” she’d instruct us. “The stage is a professional and sacred place. When you get on it, it’s time to perform. It’s your time to shine!”
No personal problems allowed? I liked the sound of that!
Back in his office, Dr. Harbour was still waiting for my answer. “I can pick anything? And I really don’t have to do it after I graduate, right?” I asked cautiously.
“Yes, what is it you want to study?” he asked.
“You’re not going to laugh at me when I tell you?” I probed further.
“No. What is it?”
As if I were revealing my secret crush to a school newspaper reporter, I whispered, “I want to study acting.”
I expected a multitude of reactions from Dr. Harbour. Rolling-on-the-floor laughter. A stern Get out of my office! Or, So you’re just going to dump your parents’ money in the toilet and flush repeatedly, huh?
But without hesitation, he smacked his desk with the palm of his hand and said, “Then go study it!”
“Say what? Hold up, that’s not a real thing to study!” I said. “You don’t come to college to study acting!”
“Why not?” he asked. Dr. Harbour picked up a pen, scribbled something on a sticky note, and handed it to me as if it were a prescription for medication.
“Go to the theatre department and speak with Dr. Nancy Haga. She’s the department head. Tell her you want to switch your major to theatre,” he said.
He held the note out for me to grab. I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, staring at it.
How could this be real?
“You can go now,” he said, waving the note at me.
In a trance-like state, I grabbed the note and my things and walked out of his office.
I descended the winding staircase in the Ruffner Hall rotunda and headed to my dorm. My mind raced. I was a ball of mixed emotions. The beautiful Longwood College campus did nothing for my mood, which was rare. I had chosen this school because the campus was gorgeous, even in the rain, and rain is depressing! As I looked around at students walking to class, talking and laughing in small groups, or playing Frisbee, I was jealous and convinced that they had all fallen in love with stable professions. Here I was considering a college major that had no guarantee of stability once I graduated. I thought they were the lucky ones.
When I got to my dorm, I was exhausted.
Alone in my room, I sat on the bed and thought about the decision I was about to make. Was studying acting so far-fetched? I’ve been doing it all my life.
Even though my parents and my older sister were born in Sierra Leone, my fraternal twin and I were born in Washington D.C., which makes us first-generation Americans. I knew that I was a black child growing up in America, but that didn’t negate the rich West African culture in which our parents raised my siblings and me. Being exposed to two different worlds, two different languages, and two different cultures made me who I was. I learned that playing checkers with chess pieces wouldn’t get me far—meaning I needed to know when to code switch. I always needed to switch my dialect or the way I acted based on the situation and the people involved.
For example, the West African Creole pronunciation of my last name is Dwah-tee, but my parents assimilated to American culture, so our last name is pronounced Doh-er-tee, like Shannen Doherty. We’re not related. During my school years, fitting in was tough. When I started Hylton High School, I thought it was a chance for me to make a brand new start and create a new identity for myself. I learned to expertly code-switch to survive. I became the type of kid who knew how to fit in with everyone. Like, I could go to a go-go, but I knew how to avoid a fight. And I knew when to run. If you don’t know what a go-go is, it’s a party you attend to hear a popular music subgenre associated with funk, originating in the Washington, D.C. area during the mid-60s to late-70s.
My father left Sierra Leone for the United States in the early 1970s, seeking a better opportunity for himself, my mom, and Hileen. “In America, with a high school diploma and a college degree, you have opportunities to get a job,” my dad once told me. “Back home, there were no opportunities like that, no matter your education. If I had been born an American citizen, I can only dream of the opportunities I would have had.”
Despite not having been born in America, my father attended George Washington University and graduated with a degree in civil engineering. He was the first member of his family of eight children to graduate from college.
I wondered, if I chose acting, would I be squandering the opportunities my dad dreamed about when he arrived in America? Would I let my family down? My parents? And more importantly, how would my decision impact my father’s chances of winning the ultimate supreme brag matches?
EXT. PARK - DAY
During the family barbecue, CYRIL, early 50s, sits at a circular table with nine other relatives. He begins a round of ultimate supreme bragging with his SISTER.
An imaginary boxing bell dings as an ATTRACTIVE WOMAN walks by holding a big white card with the number “1” on it.
The rest of the people at the table are silent, tuning in to the match.
SISTER
My daughter will attend Brown University. She'll double major in space engineering and business technology and minor in biomechanics.
CYRIL
Is it on a full-ride scholarship?
SISTER
Yes! Now, what about your son, Ransford, the oldest twin? What does he want to study?
Cyril bows his head slightly, hesitant to answer. The other relatives at the table lean in.
SISTER
Cyril? What's Ransford studying?
CYRIL
Acting.
Sister sucks her teeth.
SISTER
Ah. So, he wants to study the make believe?
She lets out a triumphant laugh. The other relatives at the table erupt in laughter, too. Then, everyone at the barbecue laughs and points at Cyril.
The bell rings. Cyril hangs his head in defeat.
The constant thinking—especially about my dad’s crushing loss at ultimate supreme bragging because of my choice in majors—was giving me a headache. The headache probably explains why I began to see Blair Underwood standing in my dorm room. I shook my head quickly, but he was still there, pacing as if he were in the courtroom. He was dressed in an expensive-looking, smoky gray, three-piece suit. He was Jonathan Rollins, cross-examining me.
“You picked a major you loved?” he asked.
“So!” I blurted out.
“You’re not supposed to pick what you love! You’re supposed to pick what’s practical. What makes your family proud. Wait until I tell your parents.”
“You gonna tell my parents?” I asked. “Really, Blair Underwood? Why you gotta tattle-tell?” Before I could cuss him out with all the energy I could muster, another Blair Underwood appeared. Looking unbothered and holding a pastry, he was dressed in an olive green, diamond-patterned, short-sleeve dashiki with khaki pants. He sat cross-legged in my desk chair, wearing sandals and reading a newspaper.
“Go ahead and tell his parents. He's a man, he can handle it,” this Blair Underwood said with a twinkle in his eye after taking a bite of his croissant. “Besides, he's got to live his life for him, not his parents. It’s his dream. It’s his life.”
“You damn right!” I said through clenched teeth.
“Ransford picked what he loved. How dare you do such a thing? Who do you think you are? Your parents are gonna go ballistic,” L. A. Law Blair said mockingly.
“The man can’t help what he loves,” said Dashiki Blair.
Before I could agree, both Blairs disappeared. I checked my desk for pastry crumbs. Then I decided I needed to consult a higher authority.
I started talking to God.
“So... what do I do?” I asked. I listened intently for an answer.
No response.
“This doesn’t make sense. Couldn’t you have given me something else to be curious about? Can’t you give me some sort of sign to let me know I’m making the right decision?” I pleaded.
Again, I listened intently for an answer, but there was no response.
“Silence is the only response you giving me, God?”
I felt so alone. Abandoned. Betrayed.
Even though I didn’t attend church regularly, I thought God and I at least had a decent relationship. I got off the bed, got on my knees, and prayed fiercely.
“Dear God, I’m trying, man! Can’t you at least give me a sign or something? Acting is cool and all but, it doesn’t make sense. It’s not a real job!” I screamed.
Over the next few days, no inner peace or sign came to let me know if changing my major would be the right decision. I hated that I had to accept the fact that I was a grown up, and this was a pretty grown-up decision. This was my path and my path alone. If I chose to study acting, as Dashiki Blair thought I should, and I didn't succeed, I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for failing.
But what if I listened to L.A. Law Blair?
I imagined myself with my wife, Toni Braxton (go with me on this), and our daughter and son watching the Oscars from our living room couch. I’m tired from a long day of tough litigating. Suddenly, the presenters call the name of someone from Longwood College as one of the award nominees.
I point to the TV screen and shout, “That person went to my school! They made it? Are you serious? That could have been me up there!” The host announces the former classmate’s name as the winner of the Oscar, and he jumps up ecstatically to accept, kissing and hugging people along the way.
Toni rolls her eyes at me, arms folded. Sucking her teeth, she says, “You should’ve gone for it. That could have been you!”
Though this thought did help to propel me, it still took several days to summon the courage to walk over to the theatre department and talk with Dr. Haga. But when I finally went to the bursar’s office and changed my major, I felt like it was the best decision I’d ever made.
But how was I going to tell my parents?
When my father answered my call after I left the bursar’s office, I was officially in unchartered territory.
“Dad, I’ve decided what I want to major in,” I said cautiously.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Theatre Performance,” I blurted out.
There was an eight-month pregnant pause. “Talk to your mother,” he said, handing her the phone.
I repeated my announcement to her, this time with less doubt.
“Well, if that is what makes you happy, we support you,” she said.
“I know what you’re going to say, but this is what I love and—” I rambled. “Wait, what?”
“We support you,” she repeated.
“Support me?” I had to make sure I wasn’t hearing things.
“Yes, Ransford, we support you.”
I sighed with relief, and all the fear and anxiety left my body.
They were really supporting me in this? I was overjoyed, but I played it cool. “Okay, cool, thanks. I just wanted to let you know.”
I didn’t hear the yelling or chastising that I had expected. Just a simple, “We support you.” And that was okay with me.
With my parents’ support, I started to participate in college life, and more opportunities opened up for me. I had the opportunity to work with great acting professors like Pamela Arkin, who was tough and didn’t accept anything less than your best. No excuses. She knew what type of competition we students were going to face in the acting business once we left the comfort of the theatre department. Bruce Herman prepped us with the Meisner technique, designed to help us connect with our emotions and other characters in our scene. Bruce Speas provided us with the basic skills we’d need to direct a production. I performed in plays, and befriended Bill Fiege, who got me involved in forensics and debate, as my sister Hileen had done. I became a peer helper and orientation leader. During my junior year, I even got to travel to Eastern Europe to perform Taming of the Shrew with our theatre department!
While in Romania on vacation, Pam bonded with theatre department faculty and staff at one of the universities there and arranged for our class to come and perform the play at an auditorium in Iasi. My parents talked constantly about my brother and me going “back home” to Sierra Leone one day. Beyond that, I never thought leaving the United States was a reality for me. I was a broke college student. Overseas travel seemed like something I’d do when I became rich and famous. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one who couldn't afford the trip, so all the theatre students and faculty joined together to raise the money. In addition to participating in the school’s car washes, I picked up a gig mowing the lawn at the local Golden Corral. This experience taught me the importance of asking for help, something I was never fond of coming from a West African family that was all too familiar with the word no. Can I try out for the basketball team? No. Can I try out for football? No. Can I get this? No. What about that? No!
Instead of deterring me, hearing the word no forced me think of other ways to get whatever it was I wanted. It prepared me for rejection. I learned that when you rarely ask for help, and people see how hard you work for things and the good you do in the world, these people will want to help you. Like my mentor Betty Randa, who gave me $200 out of the goodness of her heart. I was shocked. That was a lot of money to me back then. It was so surreal to amass the cash I needed for the trip through my own hard work and the help of others.
Before the trip, Pam broke the news to us that the opening scene of the play that included my big part was getting cut due to time constraints. I was irritated, disappointed, and hurt. How many times do folks in Romania get to see a young, Black man (besides Laurence Fishburne, James Earl Jones, and Denzel Washington) perform Shakespearean theatre? I wanted the chance to represent my school and add another Black actor to the list. Over lunch, my classmate Robert Gray, whose part was also cut, and I decided to meet at noon to head to Pam’s office. We were going to get her to see error of her ways. At noon, Robert was nowhere to be found, so I decided to confront Pam on my own.
“Pam, how could you do this us?” I asked. “We worked hard on these roles and the scene is funny! We need to showcase our talent. I want the Europeans to see that a Black man can play Shakespeare.”
Pam looked at me, deadpan. “Do you want to be an actor or a star?” she asked.
Damn, what a riddle! I felt like I was on a game show. Was this a trick question?
“I want to be an actor,” I said.
“Well, start acting like one. There are going to be times when you do this professionally and your role will get cut, or your scene, and there’s nothing you can do about it. An actor accepts it and moves on. Your job is simply to tell the story.”
I left her office humbled with my tail tucked between my legs and a newfound awareness. I couldn’t believe I lost sight of what my purpose was. I had to stop thinking about being a star and just tell the story.
Despite the jet lag—I slept a lot—I was grateful for the opportunity to go on the trip. After we landed, we traveled by bus to different parts of Romania. I remember going to the cafeteria at one of the universities, which resembled one at an elementary school, and all they had for breakfast was bread and soup. The food didn’t taste the best, but it was good enough. Although Meals Ready to Eat in basic training prepared me to eat anything, the cafeteria breakfast experience made me appreciate being an American and seeing what we take for granted.
The Romanian students were kind and respectful. Best of all, they saw me, a Black man, as beautiful. The women didn’t look at me in fear but stared out of curiosity. They wanted to take pictures with me because I was the first Black person they’d ever seen in real life. My dark skin was seen as something to be admired. I never felt that way in the U.S. It made me feel like a star.
During the spring of my senior year, Sam Scalamoni, a very accomplished Broadway actor and director came to our school to direct the musical The Mikado and share some wisdom with us budding thespians.
“I need everyone to pull out a sheet of paper and take out a pen,” Sam said to us, a group of students gathered in a small theatre class. “You’re going to create a goal list of all the things you want to accomplish. Now, when you write down your goals you have to break them into two categories: long-term and short-term. Also, write down the age or age range you’d like to be when you accomplish your goals. For example, you can write ‘between the ages of 22-26,’ then list the things you want to accomplish. Once you finish writing your goals, sign and write today’s date.”
“Have you accomplished all of the goals on your list?” someone asked Sam.
“Most of them.”
“So, I can write anything I want?” I asked.
Sam nodded. “I mean, why not? They’re your dreams. It’s your life.”
I smiled. There’s something very liberating about having the freedom to simply go for anything you want without shame, without a care about what others think, or fear of ridicule. In that moment, I felt safe to be who I was and to desire whatever I wanted. It was my to-do list, my dreams, my goals—not anyone else’s.
I pulled out a piece of paper, borrowed a classmate’s pencil, and started to write. First, I imagined what I wanted to do and experience in the future, then I wrote down the goal. My short-term dreams were to buy a car, audition as much as I could, keep my skills sharp by reading plays and practicing monologues, stay fit, make a name for myself, and keep God in my life. My long-term goals were to make a living as an actor, work on a major TV network drama or sitcom, star in movies, help others in a big way, and continue to keep God in my life. As I continued to write, I got excited about my goals and how they would materialize.
Also, at that moment, I thought about my dad.
When I was six or seven years old, he showed me something that was special to him: a detailed blueprint of a five-bedroom house with exact measurements and specifications for each room. “When I go back to Sierra Leone, I am going to build a home,” he said. “I’ll build my own water tower, so we don’t have to depend on anyone else to provide water for us.”
My father never told me, “Son, you need to write your dreams down!” He shared his dream with me with the confidence that it would come true.
And years later, it did.
