Thomas J Aberger

REMEMBERING TOM: I met Tom in 1989 when he came to playreading at a theater in New Jersey where I was working in my first pro job teaching playwriting in prisons. Tom was a friend of a colleague (Maggie ?) who introduced us briefly. The following year, a friend suggested that I try to get a job as a stage manager for the playwrights conference (as an aspiring director, I was told it would be a good opportunity to work with great directors.) Well, I showed up for an interview and Tom remembered me. I was nervous because I had very little experience stage managing. In fact, I had never even called a show. Tom talked about the O’Neill with the passion of an artistic Director. He talked about the sacred nature of the work that was being done here, and about the purity of the process. He talked about Lloyd and about all conference discussions. In 20 minutes Tom had convinced me to come and drive a van for $25 a week -- and to be a part of something that would transform my life and my career and, it was the beginning of the most important friendship of my life. I spent four consecutive summers at the conference. (And, yes, I did call my first show here). At the time, Tom lived in Brooklyn, and I lived in New Jersey. We saw each other often during the year. Tom gave me a few jobs that he had given up, including introducing me as a production manager. I got to work with Tom as a Director (something he was quite good at). For several years we worked together, sometime me for him, sometimes the other way. But the night would almost always end late following a deep and challenging conversation. As a theater gypsies do, Tom and I moved around a lot and we didn’t see each other as much, but we managed to pull off a few visits each year, and at conferences, and the occasional holiday. One year I made Tom help me install a new floor in my laundry room during Christmas break. Tom was my friend, my mentor, my brother, and sometimes my father. When I had a broken heart, Tom, would listen to me wail on forever and then remind me that I had actually gotten what I had wanted. When my first child was born, Tom called all night long to check in. And when life was nearly unbearable – and I wanted to give up, Tom kept me in the game. Tom loved and took a huge interest in my children, Noah and Maren - as he did with other adopted children. I think it was right after my daughter was born, Tom decided he would be the god-parent for my kids. (We don’t have god-parents in my traditions), but sure why not? Tom said that he wanted to look out for them. And he did. Despite not having children, Tom relished talking about parenting decisions and about the kids activities. Early in the fall, Tom would start in with Christmas gift ideas and always wanted to know what the kids were into. He encouraged their every move and when we weren’t talking late at night, he’d have something to tell them. The word best describes Tom for me is passion. I always admired Tom for his passion and his unabashed pursuit of things and people that he cared about. And nowhere was Tom’s passion greater than his love of teaching and mentoring the next generation. Tom talked about his students all the time. He loved watching them grow and seeing them discover things. Their success was his success. As a mentor, he approached mentoring as Socrates might have, exploring what is true, what is right, and probably making his students argue their points. When Tom gathered his O’Neill team for their first production meeting, he would give us some rules, and one went, “Now, I’m right unless I say I’m wrong”. To some people this would clearly mean it when the boss says something, you do it. If that’s the way you interpreted it, that would be good with Tom. But, if you had an idea that you thought was better and you could argue your point, Tom would often be happy to say “I’m wrong.” And this is how Tom created a passionate world around him. I don’t particularly like sports analogies, but please bear with me. An actor that I worked with once said to me that I was like his catcher (he’s the pitcher). The catcher‘s job is to read the room to watch the field so the pitcher can concentrate on the mental game between Him and the batter. (The Actor and the Audience). Tom taught me how to be a catcher, Tom showed all of us - all of those he worked with - and especially his staff and students - to read the room, to understand that work happens in both activities and in meditation. He encouraged and insisted that we have an opinion, that we care, and he taught us how to have an opinion and how and when to have it heard. Tom taught us empathy and understanding, and the ability to accept constant change with humor. Tom rarely lost his temper in public. He did, however, fiercely defend his staff and on more than one occasion, chose principles over stability. That was Tom. He showed all of us that when we bring our best game, when everyone is treated with respect, we create theatre with soul and with heart. So, Tom, I miss you, I love you, and I thank you for all you taught me and for all you helped me learn myself. Thank you for loving my wife and my kids like family and for your friendship.