I'm trying to respond ...
But a gunshot and shouts of no justice, no peace ring in my ears. I'm trying to respond to what has happened to Trayvon Martin ... to his family ... to the mothers of boys born with brown skin ... to each of us across this nation. But a gunshot and shouts of no justice, no peace ring in my ears. I'm trying to respond to the fact that when I see young boys with brown skin on the street, on the metro, in the grocery store and in the classroom, I silently pray this prayer: Bless you, stay safe, keep your cool, and may you live long enough to see your grandchildren and a time when strangers don't silently pray this prayer. But a gunshot and shouts of no justice, no peace ring in my ears. I'm trying to respond without remembering the cautionary words my mother and father shared with my brother when they taught him that his actions, words, glance and gaze could get him killed ... not just for their intent, but for his brown skin. But a gunshot and shouts of no justice, no peace ring in my ears. I'm trying to respond without tears of pain, sorrow and disappointment to this egregious crime and miscarriage of justice. But a gunshot and shouts of no justice, no peace ring in my ears. I'm trying to respond in a way that moves this nation forward. But a gunshot and shouts of no justice, no peace ring in my ears. I'm trying to respond ...
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This article made me cry, a deep choking heaving silent cry. However, it wasn't the advice that Phillip Roth gave to writer Julian Tepper that set me off, because Roth only spoke the truth: "Quit while you're ahead. Really, it's an awful field. Just torture. Awful. You write and write, and you have to throw almost all of it away because it's not any good. I would say just stop now. You don't want to do this to yourself. That's my advice to you." I cried because Roth has walked away from his writing. While absolutely brilliant, Roth's writing doesn't sing my heart the way that Jose Rivera, John Guare, Adrienne Kennedy, Amparo Garcia Crow, Lynn Nottage, Shay Youngblood and Zadie Smith and so many others do. So, these were not tears of sorrow for the loss of a voice that has guided my artistic journey. I cried because I cannot fathom doing what Roth has decided to do. I cannot conceive of walking away so entirely from my writing. I am at the place where writing drives every single aspect of my day. Where words, sounds, dreams, gestures, art, music, moments in history and overheard bits of dialogue push me towards a new play whether I want to be there or not. The idea of not writing--of not wanting to write, of being prevented from writing, of characters no longer coming to me to have their stories told--truly terrifies and deeply saddens me. His ability to do so made me mourn for a day that might one day come for me. Of course, I do remember a time when I took a break from my writing ... In 2009, I participated in Round House Theatre’s Silver Spring Series where I produced a workshop production of my play ANNA K. Two days after the show closed, I went into rehearsal for a full production of DEEP BELLY BEAUTIFUL as part of the Mead Theatre Lab at Flashpoint, where I served as co-producer. Both were under the auspices of theHegira, a wonderful company whose spirit and artistic director, I believe in quite strongly and passionately. It was an absolutely extraordinary and life changing experience. It pushed me past all limits of physical, emotional, mental and psychological exhaustion and into a wasteland. After it was all said and done, I had nothing left. I was unrecognizable to myself. I didn't want to create in this space and don't think I could've if I had tried. For the sake of my sanity and craft, I took the summer off. It was such a big and scary decision, because it meant that for the first time since the summer of 1997, I wouldn't be writing a new play and I was afraid I might not be able to come back to it. I was so frightened that I bought myself a commitment to writing ring (pictured above). I wear this ring every day. When I slip it on, I give thanks to the muses for their gift. I don't ever take it for granted that they have their whim and fancy as we all do, and might one day decide to leave me. But I don't know what the future holds. I can't predict the life experiences that might shift my focus, love and dedication away from this craft. But today is a day that I write. And I am grateful. Reeling, in all kinds of ways, from last night's episode of Mad Men. Peggy's demand of her worth; Joan's negotiation of hers; Don's flagrant dismissal of the former and chivalrous honor of the latter; my continued inexplicable annoyance with Megan (after all, she's only pursuing her dream in the exact manner I would have given the circumstances; save giving a clearer, more forthright explanation of the out-of-town rehearsal/performance schedule to said handsome, confused by what to do with me outside of the bedroom, and ultimately obliging hubby); and the callous, casual, and unbearably truthful observation that Black women are used to being bossed around (by the way, the current Black woman on the show, Dawn, is bellowed at, but doesn't actually appear in this episode). While the offers made last night and the brilliantly interwoven scenes between Don's pitch and Joan's deal with the jaguar strike a Godfather cord, the positions Peggy, Joan, and Megan find themselves in also remind me of this equally brilliant scene between Jenny (Carrie Mulligan) and the Headmistress (Emma Thompson) in An Education, which takes place in the 1960s in suburban London. In particular, this line: "It's not enough to educate us anymore; you've got to tell us why you're doing it." It's not enough to give us a job or use us as your most valued asset or give us the chance to live our dream, you've got to respect us, honor us, and pay us our worth. As I drink my Woman's Energy tea, to balance my hormones and make it through this day, I appreciate this meditation on the often uneasy, always bold, and sometimes dirty predicament of the challenging and evolving role of women in the 60s. Even more so, because I am struck and daunted by the recent assessment of my own current worth: a single, thirty-something, well-traveled, overly educated, black woman with no children, who chose to become an artist. Lovely on paper, but what gall. Putting all of this into perspective and under a microscope is what happened this past Thursday. About an hour after I learned that I had been accepted (after being made an alternate only the week before) as part of the Young Leaders of Color Program at the upcoming TCG Conference in Boston, I also heard from the Head of Drama Department at UDC that everything is up in the air for the Fall. They are proud of my recent achievements, love my pedagogy and repoire with the students and want me back. However, UDC is struggling with funding as many institutions are and must wait for budget approval before passing out contracts to anyone. This is a frustrating and disappointing position. It has thrown my entire sense of being off balance. What gall, again. How can anyone, let alone a woman...a Black woman--in this current economy, in this struggle for women's parity, in a world so wrought and marred with war, poverty, bigotry, and an ever expounding list of ism's and phobia's that we can hardly see straight for the sight of God--claim a sense of balance? “They look like big, good, strong hands, don’t they? I always thought that’s what they were.”
In this scene of The Neverending Story, the winds of the Nothing have swept through the Land of Fantasia. The Rock Biter laments his inability to keep his friends safe. I was six when this movie was released in 1984. I don’t know remember how old I was when I actually watched it on television for the first time with my family, but I will never forget how struck I was by the Rock Biter’s sorrow and dismay. He, in this state of being, touched me more deeply and profoundly than even Atreyu’s gut wrenching loss of Artax to the Sadness of the Swamps. Oh, how I love this movie! In the course of my life, I too have under and over-estimated the physical strength of my hands. I have also taken them for granted. While I don’t get manicures, I do lotion and massage them between crafting lines of dialogue and fits of monologue. Interestingly, on my recent trip to Texas, I spent a great deal of time thinking about my hands. I was doing yard work to escape the homophobic rant of my mother’s home healthcare nurse. It was one of those pick your battle situations (and my mother was doing her level best to enlighten this woman). Instead of joining where I knew I could do no good, I chose the harsh, glaring Texas sun and good hard labor. I cut about half an acre of grass with the push mower, though I could have easily used the riding lawn mower. I tilled a 4 foot by 6 foot patch of earth with a handheld cultivator, though I could have easily used the electric one. I did all this by hand to buy time away from this woman’s rant. At some point, right about when my hands began throbbing from being clenched in fists for so long, I began contemplating all the great work accomplished with one’s hands. I thought of the American Indians who lived by and one with the land. The pioneers and homesteaders who braved lands and took root. The slaves who worked this land and built the nation on cotton, sugar, and tobacco crops. The immigrants and freeman who laid the tracks of steel and connected us from sea to shining sea. The men and women who raise cattle, sheep, goats and grow corn, wheat, and barley. The day laborers who build houses and sky scrapers, who landscape parks and gardens and who repair roads and bridges. In this moment of contemplation, I looked down at hands and remembered my Mama’s prophecy dream for me. The prophecy told her that I would be working with my hands and that it wouldn’t be rough. Excuse me, and I mean no disrespect to the Prophecy, but I assert that “rough” is a relative term, and humbly, I’m learning to grow a thick skin. Growing up, Mama always told me that my long slender hands were piano hands. We have a piano in the house that I learned to play by ear. Even after I learned to read music notes, having taken up the trumpet-only after my sister took up the baritone, I would cheat sometimes and just play by ear. Later that evening, exhausted, covered in dirt, ready to shower and sleep, my Mama’s dog escape from his pen! The great escape, I like to call it! He took off like a fury from hell and tore through the neighbor’s yard, the woods, and the back yard where the horses are kept. I went after him through three barbed wire fences and into the woods (where were you, Sondheim?). The whole ordeal was over in 15 or 20 minutes, but I was left with a nasty dog bite in the process. There was swelling, redness, blood, and pain. Immediately, I started thinking infection. The dog had recently had its rabies shots, but it had been years since I had had a Booster Shot. It was agreed, after much reluctance, pomp and circumstance on my part, that I would go to the ER in the morning. Reason being, our house is situated 30 minutes away from town and were getting up at 4:00am for Papa’s dialysis anyway. Now, this was my first my visit to the Dialysis Center. Papa goes three days a week for 4½ hour sessions. I was transfixed as I watched Papa’s blood leave his body, enter a tube that purifies his blood, and return to his body. Fascinated by the work of the hemodialysis machine, my mind filled with questions. However, before I could rattle them off, I had to drive myself to Urgent Care to get my Booster Shot. There, a jovial doctor spoke to me at length about what wasn’t happening with my bite and why I shouldn’t be worried. Then, a lovely nurse injected my arm with trace amounts of Tetanus, Diphtheria and Pertussis (there’s a whooping cough epidemic in Texas); small amounts of contamination to keep me from getting sick. When I got back, I learned about the dialysis machine. It has two systems: · The extracorporealcircuit, which contains lots of tubing, a blood pump, a heparin or blood thinner pump, and the kidney or hemodialyzer. This part also monitors blood flow, blood pressure, air bubbles and keeps track of time. · The dialysate delivery, which mixes and delivers the dialysis bath (sodium chloride, sodim bicarbonate or sodium acetate, calcium chloride, potassium chloride, magnesium chloride, and sometimes glucose) with purified water, and regulates for safety or purity. On my second visit to the Dialysis Center, I was taken the “back room” and shown a machine that makes the purist water in the world. So pure, I’m told, that if I were stranded in the desert and had only this water to drink, I would die. Our bottled and tap water are filled with small amounts of contamination or nutrients that can keep us alive. Thanks to Homeland Security, the “back room” is on lockdown with a coded key entry and high level security system. Unfortunately, there was little HS could have done to stop a disgruntle nurse who was convicted of killing five dialysis patients by injecting them with bleach and injuring five others. She’s been spared the death penalty, but was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole. I’m fascinated by the science behind dialysis: these two great and complex machines do the work of two tiny, but mighty kidneys. I'm intrigued by the varying levels and degrees between purity and contamination: the one drop of blood it takes to go from Holy to Vile; the one person needed to believe in order to save Fantasia; and the one drop of bleach it takes to enter the bloodstream and kill. Deeply aware that our capacity for love and empathy can fill as quickly as our capacity for anger and indifference, I 'm disturbed and sadden by the actions of this woman. I''ll work to hash all of this out in my next, next new play, The Devil Rode Beside Her. I'm excited to see where this play will go and look forward to sharing it with you. |
My BlogI'm a playwright, dramaturg, and teaching artist. It is here where you'll find my queries and musings on life, theater and the world. My posts advocate for diversity, inclusion, and equity in the American Theatre and updates on my own work. Please enjoy!
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