By Arturo R. García

The Mixed Roots Film & Literary Festival contacted us with the heads-up: the submission period has opened for this year’s event, scheduled to run June 16-17 at the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles.

There is no submission fee for entries sent before Feb. 15, but entries submitted between Feb. 16 and March 15 must be accompanied by a $50 fee. We’ve got information on each category, and links to the required submissions forms, under the cut.

Film Submissions

• Subject matter may include but is not limited to: interracial/cultural relationships, transracial/cultural adoption and the exploration of multiracial/cultural identity.
• Please note that there may be a Q&A session at each screening of the Festival on June 16 or 17, though participation is not mandatory.
• Participants are responsible for their own transportation and lodging. The festival is unable to provide an honorarium. (This applies to all categories.)

Performance Submissions

• Open to comics, actors, musicians, and spoken word artists with self-contained, portable acts suitable to a black box theatre.
• Submissions must be complete and run under five minutes. (Performers must be off-book.)
• Performers must be available for both a mandatory rehearsal on June 15 and a performance during the festival.
• No props or furniture will be provided.

Literary Submissions

• Besides filling out the submissions form above, applicants must send a 10-15 page writing sample and a high res jpeg photo of themselves as attachments to mxrootsfest@gmail.com with “Literary” and the applicant’s name in the subject line.
• Participants must be available to read from their works during the festival.

Workshop Submissions

These submissions may address only one of the following:

1. Creation of literary content
2. Creation of film content
3. Providing a historical context for inclusion in film/literary content.

• All presenters’ attendance must be confirmed by applicants at the time of submission.
• Presenters are expected to arrive at the Festival site no later than 45 minutes prior to the scheduled workshop time.

On Sunday, I walked into the Shakespeare Theatre to join a bunch of academics in a three part discussion about the currently playing update of Much Ado About Nothing. I tweeted about the event that morning, and while we were in the green room, I received a link from Tony Adams of the Halcyon Theatre in Chicago pointing me towards an amazing analysis of race, stereotypes, and using culture as window dressing by Marisela Treviño Orta.

I read it eagerly, especially as it spoke to some of the questions I had viewing the play. But, there was a conundrum – I was called to specifically discuss modern gender portrayals in conversation with a gender scholar specializing in the Renaissance era. Added to that, most of what I know about Cuba I learned from Yoani Sanchez and The Lost City – which really amounts to a few glimpses and a bunch of knowledge gaps.

So we went ahead with the discussion as planned. For my part, I discussed with Holly Dugan how Claudio is essentially the crackerjack prize for Hero when compared to the other men in the play. We also framed the conversation around the death of intellectual equals in pop culture – how the banter and game of match wits that was so popular in classic films is remembered fondly but has mostly vanished. It didn’t seem as if the crowd was really into modern culture – a lot of folks came up to me afterward saying they had never seen Mad Men, much less anything else I brought up, so who knows that they actually got out of what I was saying. Makes me feel like it’s time to dust off that copy of Nobrow and do a serious write about the imagined boundaries between “high” and “low” culture. But I digress.

Towards the end of the segment, I decided to bring up Orta’s piece, noting that “setting a work on a plantation is a very loaded act,” added a couple of questions I had, and toss it to the next panel who dealt with the portrayal of Cuba and Cuban history directly.

But I couldn’t bring up all of Orta’s analysis right then, so some things (like the reason she wrote the piece in the first place) so it wasn’t addressed – some of the choices that pulled the play from homage to problematic. Orta explains:

There’s a character in Much Ado with the name Jose Frijoles. What the what?!

This required further investigation. I went to the theatre’s website to look at the “Artists Involved” (that’s where you’ll find the names of the actors and the characters they play).

Guess what, there’s also a character named Juan Arroz.

Isn’t that awesome [sarcasm], there are two characters named Rice and Beans. [...]

The choice to rename two characters Arroz and Frijoles in my mind is a flippant one. Or how ‘bout this: a gimmicky one. [...]

[W]hen I come across characters named Arroz and Frijoles I am little irked. It feels like the play is going for the easy laugh, it feels like very little real thought was put into naming these characters, like it doesn’t really respect the culture it is supposedly trying to reach or celebrate with its Latino production.

Oh, but it’s a joke. Don’t you get it? They’re the clowns, so they have clownish names. (Rib jab, rib jab).

Well, guess what. I’m not laughing. And I’m not the only one.

Orta then goes into a detailed explanation of why the naming was so off, particularly considering the dominant culture of the people attending the play and some conversation around the flippant naming in light of director Ethan Sweeny’s heavy reliance on the sexy, macho, and the exotic stereotypes to evoke certain reactions in the audience. But most damning, she writes, is “that the culture and setting, while well-researched, is nothing more than a well-designed prop, an adornment.”

It’s a provocative reading of this interpretation of the play, but not incorrect.

I punted to the next panel, hoping that folks with far greater knowledge of Cuba than I could pull together the threads – and that they did. From the program:

“Changing Times: Much Ado in Cuba” will explore the placement of Shakespeare’s play in the fertile ground of Cuba with Ana Serra, author of The New Man in Cuba: Culture and Identity in the Revolution (American University), Ricardo Ortiz, author of Cultural Erotics in Cuban America (Georgetown University) and director Eleanor Holdridge, whose all-female production of Much Ado recently ran at Taffety Punk Theatre Company (Catholic University).

Ana Serra begins, explaining that the Cuban setting was a provocative choice, but not unexpected. She notes that the play is a comedy, it’s supposed to be farcical, and “that tells me I’m not meant to take it to seriously – but as someone who has been studying Cuba a while, I am a little bothered by this interpretation.”

Serra contextualizes the choice of setting:

“This play has been set in a rural setting before, but to put it in a place as far removed from the city as a plantation is daring. To have a plantation, and to not play with color (as in skin), is shocking. I think the director missed an opportunity to play with the hierarchy of color in the play.” Making Don Pedro black, rather than the ladies in waiting – on a plantation, they would absolutely have to be black. That was suprising to me.”

“They could have even played with the setting even more – Cuba is remembered as the playground of the US in the those days. Or it could have been set in the post-special period of Cuba, after the fall of the soviet black, so the whole setting could have been different. He could have played with the social inequality – so Dogberry and Friges could have been the underlings, and the red bourgeoisie could have been called other things. But my guess is that by setting in in 1930s Cuba, the director isn’t trying to get into those political Cuban stereotypes from the 1950s and from contemporary Cuba, so he went to the 1930s to find another mythical Cuba.”

Serra also pointed out some moments that missed key cultural context that would have enriched the show:

“If we were playing with expectations [and color as social commentary], he would have made Beatrice mulatta. We have different names for the colors of people, which would be considered racist here.

In Cuba, the mulatta has an iconic role as breaking social boundaries, being very sexy, – I would have expected Beatrice to be a mulatta, to take the stereotype to the full extent.”

Serra is making a tricky, but crucial argument. She notes that a little more basic knowledge would have deeply enriched the play more and that a lot of the gaps are due to applying an American (and Renaissance) lens to Cuban society. Eleanor Holdridge, the director of the all-female version, interjected to say that colorblind casting would have made portraying a planation with a light skin/dark skin divide difficult. I think what she also meant to say was that the politics of theater (and the long history of racial segregation and the marginalization of actors of color) also plays a role in why that idea may have been nixed. But indeed, the results was mixed. There were no brown-skinned people in the play outside of Don Pedro and Borachio, which was an interesting choice, and it speaks to the tension between depicting color-conciousness in on stage and on screen.

Ricardo Ortiz, the other panelist, came out swinging as well. While both he and Serra stressed they loved the play, Ortiz notes:

“If you are going to set it in Cuba, you should commit to it fully or not do it at all. You could have done something pan-Carribbean – but once you set it in Cuba, all this other stuff comes up, especially the color issues. I wrote a book about Cuban American lit, and one of the things Cuban writers are fascinated by is Cuba before the revolution. But that kind of dropped out of this production. I think it could have done so much more with the setting.

Ortiz explains:

“I can’t help but to approach this play personally – my grandma was Cuban born in rural area in 1912, so she would be in her 20s during this time. I was raised by someone who had these exact values in terms of racial politics, gender politics, and values.”

It was one thing for me to watch the play as black and American. But it is another thing to hear about these issues from those intimately familiar with the subject, like Ortiz. He also brought up that the Eurocentric (and UScentric) view of the world also forgets a few things:

“The other thing I wanted to put on the table is the relationship of Shakespeare to Cuba. It’s one thing to discuss a North American play that is coming to Cuba. But Shakespeare is a writer that resonates all over Latin America, primarily through the Tempest. Anna in the Tropics – the Tempest is all over that play. So Cuba in a way has had a relationship with Shakespeare that’s important.”

Ortiz and Serra also pointed out how despite the colorblind casting, somehow race (and racist stereotyping, as Orta pointed out above) still snuck into parts of the interpretation. Ortiz notes:

“There isn’t a racialization of characters, but there is a colorization of sorts – some characters get a latino accent – and it’s Braccio and Margaret who were clearly directed to act more Latino than the other characters.”

In line with this was a broader conversation about the pan-Latinoization targeted at US audiences:

Serra, who went to see Puss in Boots, said:

You try not to be the critical scholar. I went to see Puss in Boots with my daughter and you have this music, and it’s salsa, meringue, flamenco, bolero…and Gypsy Kings. I was loving it, but my academic [side] was saying “this is such a pastiche!”

Ortiz expanded on those ideas, saying:

Puss in Boots has Hayek & Banderas – in a fantasy world, you can do anything you want, so why Latinize this world with a mishmash? The same thing with this production – it goes back to a pan-Latin depiction and it may speak to how this country deals with anxiety about its own Latinization.

Even Ugly Betty – the narrative is that Betty is from Mexico, but the actors aren’t; issues dealt with are immigration. They are supposed to be in the Bronx, but Betty’s sister is totally full on Nuyroican, and no one ever explains how this Nuyroican girl got into this family! And if you are blind to it, you just see a family of Latinos, and if you are conscious of these differences it is glaring.

Other interesting notes from Ortiz:

Those complications [in creating worlds that are based in reality] can take you in the direction that may ultimately become problematic – but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.

“Another thing about Cuban women – having been raised by a lot of them – society has always been deeply particiarchial, but Cuban women are not shrinking violets. There is a strength and intensity that circulates with femininity in the culture. There are far more Bernices that Heroes in Cuban culture.”

I’ve been to a great many plays on race. Some, like August Wilson’s Jitney, manage to survive through the ages and provide a stunningly timeless view on the problems of the colorline.

Others, like David Mamet’s Race or Neil Labute’s This Is How It Goes, make me realize how much of an abstract concept racism’s pervasiveness can be for white people. Unfortunately, much of the mainstream art world is controlled by white people, and therefore what is considered worthy of production is shaped by white perceptions.

Trouble in Mind has been resurrected, but there are always complications. Over at the Arena Stage website, Irene Lewis speaks to the cause of the persistent racial gap in evaluation of material:

For years, the play Trouble in Mind, by African-American playwright Alice Childress, was recommended to me as a show that, as artistic director of CENTERSTAGE, I should produce. I had read the play several times over the years and found it to be “old-fashioned/old hat,” especially concerning the depiction of the character of the white director. Finally, I decided to ask the opinion of an African-American actress whose judgment I have always valued. She read the play and told me that she liked it. When I asked if she found the role of the white director dated and unbelievable, she said, “No.” So I came around to the opinion that this was another case of – what should I call it – whites (me) being “out of touch” with the experiences of African-Americans. I decided to produce and direct the play at CENTERSTAGE in Baltimore. It subsequently transferred to Yale Repertory Theater. I am delighted that Molly is bringing this groundbreaking piece to Arena Stage.

“Out of touch” is the last term I would use to describe Childress’ noted work, considering it was originally performed in 1955. Considering the play was created more than five decades ago, it should not be so fresh and contemporary. And yet, we live in an era in which a white woman’s tale about a white woman and the black maids she liberated swept the bestseller’s list and the box office – clearly, things haven’t changed that much. So why the disconnect between black and white theater aficionados? As Childress herself has stated:

“There aren’t any black critics who can close a white play. But in black theater, black experience has been fought against by white critics. The white critic feels no obligation to prepare himself to judge a black play.”

And so, here we are.

Trouble in Mind is a play within a play, designed to explore racism in the theater industry by allowing the audience to peek at the inner workings of a troubled production. Wiletta Mayer (E. Faye Butler) is an aging starlet, who has spent her life toiling in mammy and sidekick roles, desperate for a big break. She is cast in Chaos in Belleville, along with five other actors – three black and two white. John (Brandon J. Dirden) is a young, black upstart, determined to make it in the business despite the cost. Sheldon Forrester (Thomas Jefferson Byrd) is an older black actor who refuses to rock the boat, for any reason. Mille Davis (Starla Benford) is a friendly rival who boasts about her husband’s desire that she give up acting in favor of homemaking. Of the white cast, young Judy (Gretchen Hall) is the classic ingenue type and Bill (Daren Kelly) is a set in his ways older white man. They are all drawn together by director Al Manners (Marty Lodge), who is mounting a large production against the odds and hopes to make a play “that says something.”

Unfortunately, the play was written for to appease white audiences, causing a key conundrum for the black actors in the performance. Wiletta struggles with the play most of all, coming to the conclusion throughout the play that there is something terribly amiss with the script – and having trouble finding an ear for her concerns.

Reviews of the play frustrated me, almost as if I was playing bingo. I heard about the “sassy” back and forth between Millie and Wiletta, and the “stirring gospel renditions,” which made me wonder if the reviewers had read Black Culture for Dummies before scribbling together their responses. These things are in the play, but they are also the examples that appear in review after review – ignored are the more subtle discussions of black cultural frameworks, or the broader idea of the ongoing plight of black actors choosing between regular work and acting on principles of racial justice. And there wasn’t a single reference to Robert Townsend’s “Black Acting School” sketch from Hollywood Shuffle, a more modern update to Childress’ core concepts.

There are other moments gone unnoticed by critics. Of particular interest to me was the relationship between Henry (played by Laurence O’Dwyer) and Wiletta. Initially, Wiletta is unable to voice her dissatisfaction with the director’s commands, and Henry attempts to provide some comfort and support. Henry, a former crew member turned doorman, speaks with a heavy Irish brogue. But Henry is also one of the only whites in the play that does not bother with pity, condescension, and naivety – he just commiserates, person to person. One would be tempted to think that this is a reference to the complicated history that Irish Americans have with whiteness – however, a major part of the acceptance of the Irish into the white majority was abuse and separation from black Americans. Unfortunately, answers are not forthcoming – I couldn’t find any critical analysis of Henry in this context. Taking the play at face value, though, Henry embodies human connection and friendship transcending traditional racial boundaries – even if the two leads had to wait until the stage was dark and their coworkers had gone before they could speak freely.

But the most electrifying part of the play comes from the exchanges between Wiletta and Al Manners, each pushing the other farther and farther outside of the bounds of polite racial conversation, where the ugly truth often lies buried under the veneer of polite society.

Most telling is this monologue, delivered from the beleaguered white director of the production after being accused of prejudice:

Get wise, there’s damned few of us interested in putting on a colored show at all, much less one that’s going to say anything. It’s rough out here, it’s a hard world! Do you think I can stick my neck out by telling the truth about you? ‘

There are billions of things that can’t be said… do you follow me, billions! Where the hell do you think I can raise a hundred thousand dollars to tell the unvarnished truth?

(Picks up the script and waves it) So, maybe it’s a lie…but it’s one of the finest lies you’ll come across for a damned long time! Here’s bitter news, since you’re livin’ off truth… The American public is not ready to see you the way you want to be seen because, one.. .they don’t believe it, two.. .they don’t want to believe it…and three… they’re convinced they’re superior.. .and that, my friend, is why Carrie and Renard have to carry the ball! Get it? Now you wise up and aim for the soft spot in that American heart, let ‘em pity you, make ‘em weep buckets, be helpless, make ‘em feel so damned sorry for you that they’ll lend a hand in easing up the pressure.

In Plays by American Women, Judith E. Barlow notes:

Manners is surely right that few directors in the period would be willing to work on a show about racial themes with a predominantly Black cast, and that White audiences “don’t want to believe” or see people of color as they really are and “want to be seen.” (The failure of Broadway producers to risk showing Trouble in Mind is ironic proof of his claim.) Yet he cannot understand that a White liberal “version” of African American life is no substitute for Black people defining who they are and what they have experienced.

The fraudulence of “Chaos in Belleville” is most obvious when the elderly actor Sheldon offers a moving account of the lynching that he witnessed as a child, a description at sharp odds with the sanitized melodrama of “Belleville.” The ring of authenticity in Sheldon’s account points up the shabby cliches of the interior drama. “Chaos in Belleville” is not only a bad reflection of reality, it is an example of how drama by White authors differs from, and usurps the place of, drama by playwrights of color. “Chaos in Belleville” purports to contain “an anti-lynch theme,” yet it bears little resemblance to the anti-lynch dramas written by African Americans, particularly women. In Angelina Weld Grimke’s Rachel (1916), Rachel’s mother is helpless against the mob that brutally murders her husband and son. The mother in Georgia Douglas Johnson’s Blue-Eyed Black Boy (ca. 1930) appeals to the governor of the state (who raped her long ago) to save their child, while the grandmother in Johnson’s A Sunday Morning in the South (ca. 1925) desperately tries to rescue her unjustly accused grandson. In none of these plays does a mother blame her son for White bigotry and turn him over to an angry mob, and none offers as hero a White man like Renard, who preaches tolerance and pity after Job has been killed. “Chaos in Belleville” is a distorted mirror not only of actual events but of the way those events have been interpreted for the stage by African Americans themselves.

The metatheatrical structure of Trouble thus allows Childress to write a critique of the history of the American stage, where plays by (usually male) White writers purporting to show the Black experience have been embraced while dramas by African American writers are ignored.

Trouble in Mind is currently playing at the Arena Stage in Washington, DC through October 23, 2011. Tickets are $70-85 per show; however, there are student and senior matinee priced tickets, as well as Pay Your Age tickets, military discounts, and Hottix, which are half-priced and first come, first serve thirty minutes before showtime.

by Latoya Peterson

I thought I knew Oedipus Rex.

The first time I read Sophocles’ masterful Greek tragedy was in the 11th grade.  There, scribbling out an analysis as part of a 40 minute timed writing, I focused on what epitomized Oedipus for me – the struggle between fate and free will. After hearing from the Oracle that he was fated to murder his father and to sleep with his mother, Oedipus does what any rational person would do – he tries to put as much distance as he can between himself and the only family he knows. Unfortunately, prophecies are not so easily averted – Oedipus never knew he was adopted, and thus did not know the man he slew on the road to Thebes was his father; nor did he know the beautiful widow he would eventually marry was his birth mother.

Back then, I wrote about the icy hand of irony in Oedipus’ journey -  how he closed himself to what would have revealed the truth because of his hubris, but once he finds out he literally blinds himself.  But what really stuck with me was the idea of fate.  If your life is predestined – and all roads will lead to your eventual path – what is the point of having free will? Life never promised to be fair, but the fates are needlessly cruel, especially in Greek mythology.  And so, when I heard about a retelling of Oedipus Rex, set in the barrios of LA with a Chicano protagonist, I could immediately see the connection.

Indeed, the idea of being trapped by larger, unseen forces makes a lot of sense when thrust into a modern context. Oedipus El Rey bases its narrative in California’s penal system, with the title character Oedipus (also nicknamed patas malas due to the torture inflicted by his father at his birth) growing up in juvenile detention.  At one point, Oedipus confesses that after he was released at the age of seventeen, he robbed a Costco without a gun, just so he could be returned to jail.  It was a powerful admission – that so many boys who go into the criminal justice system at an early age come out without any sense of what it means to function in society, that there are people who come to prefer the steady monotony of incarceration than be forced to cope with the unstructured chaos of real life. The idea that regardless of your own intentions, one might still end up ensnared in forces beyond your control resonated with me. I could understand that.

So, playwright Luis Alfaro threw me for a loop when he replied to one of my questions, saying the play, at its core, was “about love.”

I stumbled over my next question, mind reeling. Love? Oedipus isn’t about love! It’s about the cruelty of the Gods! Man vs. spiteful assholes who would happily smite you to punish your father! It’s about hubris! Incest! Patricide! Defilement! What the fuck is love in the time of oracles?

But there is a reason why Luis Alfaro won the MacArthur Genius Grant. Having delved deeply into the works of Sophocles before, producing the Electra send up Electricidad, he knew the source material – and saw more than the obvious message.  Alfaro explained to me that the whispers of longing, of need, of separation and pain in the text were all about love.  From what I remember, Oedipus married Jocasta as a sort of thank you – “We, the people of Thebes, appreciate you killing the Sphinx, and hey, here’s our king’s widow! She’s a total MILF!” But Alfaro’s take was informed by the time he spent learning about the toll that California’s penal system had on people.  In an interview on the Woolly Mammoth blog, he explains:

Recidivism, it seems to me, is a symptom of a larger issue. Why is it that more than half of all Americans who end up in jail, when released, go back? A lot of times this happens within hours. My state, California, has the highest recidivism rates in the nation. As a playwright, interesting facts like this sort of lodge in my brain when I hear them. When they are coupled with some fascinating images or one’s own history—I have worked in the Juvenile Detention System as a poet and writer since I was young—they start to form the thread of an interesting story. When I think about recidivism among prisoners, I wonder not about what’s ahead, but what one leaves behind when they get out. The comfort of a family one never had, a structure where one might not have lived with rules, the need for protection in a world that seems unsafe. What fascinates me most about prisoner recidivism is that there might be an alternate society out there—actually in there—that functions differently from the one we live in, and for some this is a better place. [...]

I studied with Maria Irene Fornes, who in my first day of workshop asked me what kind of plays I wanted to write. I had already been arrested for civil disobedience a number of times, and I said that I wanted to write political plays. She laughed and said that she hated political plays! I was ignorant and didn’t know her work, so I didn’t realize she was lying. She said I should stop writing and go live these political ideas and then come back and write a play about nothing, a rock, and she promised me it would be political. So, I did just that. I spent over ten years protesting, working with at-risk youth in the California Youth Authority. At one point, I even worked for the ACLU teaching protesters how to get properly arrested! But sure enough, I came back to writing and wrote from my heart, and politics and humanity were simply part of a larger organic mix. People who have made really big mistakes in their lives are very complicated people. They represent the complexity we are looking for in our work. Incarcerated children are missing elements that many of us take for granted—a notion of family, security, love, or even intelligence about the world. The first gig I had in a youth prison was a poetry workshop with teen felons, 12-17 years old. Five minutes into it I realized that none of them could read and few could write—which didn’t seem to matter because I couldn’t use pencils or pens anyway. No one told me this beforehand. Out of sheer terror and desperation, we stood in a circle, created a rhythm with our hands and bodies, and each student had to tell their life story through rap. I set some parameters about language and violence, and they were able to adapt. I could not ask them to write down their lives and crimes, but there was no law saying that they could not say out loud their histories. And they did, and the stories were extraordinary and sad and full of regret and fear and lack of hope. And that is when I realized that everyone is a playwright. Some of us just have training.

Alfaro infuses this complexity with wit, heart, and inside jokes – definitely intended for the Chicanos in the audience. Oedipus El Rey has been produced before in other cities – here is a clip from an earlier production:

Still, the beauty of live theater is that you never truly see the same performance twice. The clip above is not familiar to me – the Oedipus El Rey I watched was a bit slower in pace and delivery. Michael John Garcés, directing this version chose a more contemplative mood, shot through with music and sound director Ryan Rumery’s selections of eerie, single voice a capella renditions of classics like “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” providing the background for Oedipus and Jocasta’s ill-fated tryst. Andres Munar’s Oedipus flows through yoga poses, holding plank while other men do chin-ups, balancing in shoulder stand until his body gives out, conscious of, but not defined by his disability, which Jocasta likens to “a cholo walk.” (Side note: I would love to see a PWD analysis of Oedipus El Rey.) And this interpretation marks the only tragedy where I’ve seen the chorus break to deliver a physical beat down to match the verbal one they normally spout from the sidelines.

Still, Oedipus El Rey isn’t quite perfect.  I never felt as if I connected with Jocasta, in all of her grief and sorrow.  Her character has the potential to be rich – and yet, Sophocles’ original also left her as a question mark, a tragic, devoted figure, but with little else underneath.  This may be due to Sophocles’ to the societal norms in his age.  In Aristole’s treatise on writing, Poetics, he refers to Oedipus, as well as other classic works. Being a fan of Sophocles, it is interesting that Aristotle makes a point to note (emphasis mine):

In respect of Character, there are four things to be aimed at. First, and most important, it must be good. Now any speech or action that manifests moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character: the character will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative to each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a slave; though the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The second type of thing to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valour; but valour in a woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is inappropriate.

If Aaron Sorkin is correct in his assertion that Artistotle laid out all the rules of writing in Poetics, then it kind of makes sense that representations of women on screen and stage are still stuck in the hookers-victims-doormats loop, so eloquently exposed by Shirley MacLaine.

Other than those minor gripes, the update just works, providing a beautiful retelling of the quintessential tragedy. But still, I found myself sitting in the theater and relating most to Creon – brother to Jocasta, next in line for the throne before Oedipus showed up. While Alfaro’s interpretation revolved around the love between Oedipus and Jocasta, it is Creon’s anguished cry protesting the idea of a pre-destined life that stays with me:

If it is all simply fate, then why not me?

Oedipus El Rey, written by Luis Alfaro, is currently playing at the Woolly Mammoth Theater in Washington, DC. The show closes March 6th.

(Image Credit: Luis Alfaro)

By Fatemeh Fakhraie, cross-posted from her blog

Last Sunday, I went to a local production of Jennifer Jajeh’s solo show “I Heart Hamas.” The show’s site gives a pretty good synopsis:

With the current ongoing conflicts in the Middle East, the threat of global terrorism, and the never-ending negotiations and hostilities between Israelis and Palestinians, it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed by all of the bad international news. That’s exactly how Jennifer Jajeh feels. And to make matters worse, Jennifer is Palestinian. Well, Palestinian American. Or more precisely: a single, Christian, first generation, Palestinian American woman who chooses to return to her parents’ hometown of Ramallah at the start of the Second Intifada.

Join her on American and Palestinian soil on auditions, bad dates, and across military checkpoints as she navigates the thorny terrain around Palestinian identity. Weaving together humor, slides, pop culture references and live theatre, Jajeh explores how she becomes Palestinian-ized, then politicized and eventually radicalized in a fresh, often funny, searingly honest way.

I really enjoyed the performance. Jennifer’s wit when talking about her Jewish cat Judah or preachy Palestinian audience members made the evening fly by. She’s a wonderful performer, and it showed in both the show’s comical aspects and its serious ones. Her performance and the show’s vivid audio brought her life in Ramallah into startling perspective.

It was comforting and refreshing to hear someone address the, “No, where are you really from?” question. Though I’m Iranian and Muslim, I related to so many of Jennifer’s experiences as a Christian Palestinian trying to figure out where she fit in America. She spoke about feeling confined and uncomfortable in the small Palestinian American community, but being completely alienated from Palestinians in Ramallah. She talked about her frustration with trying to find a place for herself within mainstream American life, sharing examples from elementary school and her attempts to find work as an actress. She spoke about making people uncomfortable just by virtue of who she was—wishing aloud that she could be “ethnic, but without the baggage.”

If you get a chance, you should definitely see the show. She’s currently doing a college tour and will be in Los Angeles early next year—watch for updates at her website!

Anticipation buzzed around the debut of Deez Nuts, a five-man independent show billed as “the “all male spin to the Vagina Monologues,” since it was announced back in December. Amanda Hess of the Sexist blog was so excited that she reached out to creator/writer John Johnson to get the inside scoop:

City Paper: Deez Nuts. What does the title of the piece mean?

John Johnson: “Deez Nuts” is just like, D.C. . . . I’m sure everywhere people say “Deez Nuts,” but when I was in high school, it was like a refrain. “Guess what? Deeeeez nuuuuuts!” It was more of a chant or a cadence. People are familiar with it, you know what I mean? And it refers to a dude’s testicles. So it’s a witty title for a show that talks about men’s experiences.

CP: Was Deez Nuts inspired by the Vagina Monologues?

JJ: The show was inspired by talking to men in the community, but the Vagina Monologues is a good reference point for the audience. . . . The world is familiar with the Vagina Monologues, so we used the name to make people understand what it is. This is an all-male spin on that concept, with a real local D.C. flavor. It’s a perspective on everything from love to war to having children, being fathers. But unlike the Vagina Monologues, where the women talk a lot about their parts—you know, about hair on the vagina and having periods—Deez Nuts doesn’t focus on the male parts so much. It definitely talks about sex and relationships, but it’s more about all the things that affect these nuts, instead of the actual nuts.

Intriguing stuff.  In the name of supporting local theater and the narrative voices of black men, my friends and I trudged out into the brutal 20 degree weather and froze all the way to Dance Place on Saturday night.  It was well worth the trip.

The title, Deez Nuts, would assume some form of belligerence or an angry, posturing defiance – and that dynamic is present, but muted. Instead, the five pieces were unified by the idea of men dropping their guards and speaking directly from the heart.  Each piece began with each actor dropping to floor and doing fifty push ups, as if they just rolled out of bed.  (They also did this sans shirt – this becomes problematic later.)

John Johnson opens up with a poetic warm up, a free-style welcome to the audience.  He dedicates the poem to “kings, queens, niggas, and bitches” and to  “Marion Barry and the guy who introduced him to crack.”  He makes a 50 cent reference saying “put the kids in jail/be a millionaire” and notes that “poor whites ain’t free either, they’re just light skinned niggas.”  He expresses love to all the GLBQ brothers and sisters in the house, and with that, opens the show.

The play takes place on a very small set – there’s a small couch, a table and chair, an ironing board, a photo, , a guitar amp and guitar, and an ancient Nintendo system.

The first monologue is from a character who appears to be struggling with a love issue.  He muses to himself “I love women like graffiti loves Disco Dan…like ghetto girls love weave and tattoos, like chicken wings love mumbo* sauce.”  He pauses while struggling to find something to say to his wife.  It takes a few moments to realize that the character is a soldier, stationed in Iraq.  Explaining that “our bombs don’t speak Arabic,” the actor reflects on the choices that led him to enlist.  Sometimes, these opinions are tinged with anger, like when he reminds the audience that recruits have more opinions than just left, left, left, right, left.    He talked about understanding that the only people who had good consistent money where he grew up were either in the military or slinging drugs on the corner.  He talks about thinking of Iraqi fathers and why the US is here in the first place.  The solider also ruminates on when Muhammad Ali was a conscientious objector, asking “How are you going to tell a whole country to hold deez nuts, because I’m not doing it?” That was actually a pretty good summation of what happened, in my opinion.  He thinks a little more on racism and patriotism, but then decides to try to reconnect to home through Facebook and Myspace.  (There was also a “poking” joke in there about Tiger Woods.)

The next monologue was on dreams. Opening with the question “just because your eyes are open, does it mean you’re awake?” this character was more poetic than the others.  “Dreams are like living with your eyes closed,” he says, defining terms as he goes along.  “To imagine is to be caught between the real and the fictional.”  The monologue is loosely organized, tumbling along as if it was being done on the spot.  The character explains  his view on reality, explaining “I am going to believe that Nikes make me run fast…I am going to believe that every girl has a phat ass.”  The dreamer quickly falls into defeatism though, saying “Life is too short – why waste it trying to make sense of it.” As the narrative goes on, the dreamer grows more and more cynical before returning to himself, asking for truth.  He closes saying “America makes you an opportunist…it will institutionalize you…use deez nuts to inspire you, maybe I’ll pinch you awake too.”

The next monologue is about a father grappling with his own sexual relationships while trying to steer his daughter through hers.   The father (who refers to himself in the piece as Jay) is open about his insecurities and having no game.  The audience was in stitches as he described a dream where he was staring down some fine girl at a house party…because all he could do was stare, since he has no game.  He lays out the vision of the perfect woman (who was 36-26-40), and as she came closer she smelled of an ancient oil “like kush.” He couldn’t figure out if this dream woman was real or not until the moment in the dream where  he started having sex without a condom. Then he woke up.  Jay then uses the jumping off point of the dream to discuss sex and the AIDS epidemic in DC.  He wryly explains: “Kanye would say that George Bush doesn’t care about black people, but Reagan must have hated some niggas!  AIDS, crack, y’all should take all that!” Jay then segways into a conversation he had with his baby’s mother about their college-aged daughter, who apparently caught some “dick desire” while hanging out with “her winter boo.”  He waffles about this, knowing that his ex wanted him to be outraged, but feeling hypocritical (because his daughter was born when he was sixteen) and understanding what her paramour is also going through.  However, he did talk about worrying that his daughter would catch HIV.  He makes sure to note he would be disappointed, but would not judge her -  the disease does not define the person.  Jay thinks on some of the things his daughter said, ending with discussions of how often the government has used blacks as experiments, either formally (like in Tuskegee) or informally.  He ends, explaining that we cannot trust the government cannot cure what ails us – healing will need to come from within.

The final monologue was about the changing nature of love.  The lover begins speaking to a photograph, explaining that he just got out of a five year relationship.  He speaks openly, almost wistfully, about falling for a girl named Ebony he met at the now-defunct Caribou books.  The lover talks about the years he spent, the wonderful energy at the beginning of their relationship, and how it was so good they ended up having a child.  More sadly, he described how his relationship changed post-baby, how they fell out of tempo, how he cheated.  Then, things got better.  They worked on their relationship, and things were going well – until he suspected her of cheating after a month of consistent phone calls from an unsaved number in her phone.  After one day of strange behavior, he calls the number.  The guy on the other end hangs up on him.  He calls back, and incredulously asks the audience “do you know this dude had Soulja Boy on his answering machine?  With him? Really?”  He then lapses back into reflection, explaining “I mean, I did the same thing, but I did it when shit was fucked up.  I thought things were better now.  Maybe they weren’t.”  With resignation, the lover moves on, leaving Ebony behind.  To end his piece, the lover performs an easy, reggae-tinged acoustic song on his guitar, a beautiful end to his set.

The play ended.  The audience asked questions.  We sat and thought for a few moments, reflecting on all we had seen and heard.  Most of the people in the small hall agreed they liked what they saw, though one woman put in a request to hear from some older men, which Johnson then summarized as “40 year old nuts.” I also found out this was actually the second Deez Nuts performance – the first set of monologues had debuted in 2008.  Some people seemed less than satisfied during the show – one woman heckled her way through most of the monologues, loudly cheering when the men did their push-ups without shirts on.  This was fine – into one smaller guy came out and she said loudly “oh, I guess he’s just working on it.”  In a space where men wanted to share their lives and experiences, the catcalls felt silencing – after all, we can find a great many images of black men in various stages of undress, but it can be difficult to find one decent monologue, or a role that doesn’t fit the trails blazed by Sidney Poitier or 50 Cent.

Another member of the audience asked the different players why they chose to participate, and the lover (who I believe was played by a musician named C-Love) said exactly what I had been thinking the whole show:  “You rarely get to see black men – men in general, really – but black men really get to speak on what they think and how they feel.  You just don’t see that.”  And it’s true – often times, men are not given the space to articulate themselves within the strict confines of masculinity.  This is even more harmful to men of color, who also contend with racial stereotypes associated with the expression of their emotions.

I’d love to see Deez Nuts expand the way the Vagina Monologues did, to spark college plays and small revivals and other spin offs featuring men of other races. I’d like men to reclaim their inner lives, their emotional space, and to share those thoughts with the world.

But failing that, I’ll just wait for Johnson to write part three.

*Sometimes called mambo, sometimes called mumbo.  Spelling of the condiment depends on where you go, much like the recipe.  No I don’t know what it is and I can’t explain it to you and even if I could, you’d probably go somewhere else and eat their version.  If you’re in DC, just try some.  It probably won’t kill you, but don’t quote me on that.

Reader Ray tipped us off to this musical currently playing at the Edinburgh Theatre Festival: Mercy Madonna of Malawi.

Putting an African spin on the story of four-year-old Mercy James who was adopted by the original Material Girl earlier this year, Mercy Madonna of Malawi is an upbeat musical that takes stock of a world in which a global superstar and a developing nation can find common ground. Without taking sides, it asks whether it is right for a child to be taken away from her culture if it means enjoying a life of privilege.

No matter what I might think of trans-racial/cultural adoption, I think it’s really admirable that Mercy Madonna of Malawi is trying to portray both sides of the adoption debate without judgement. And as reader Ray said, the fact that Madonna is being played by a man makes the whole thing even more intriguing.

I mean, you gotta love that picture.

If you’re lucky enough to be in Edinburgh, Mercy Madonna of Malawi runs Aug 7-31 at the World @ St George’s West. And let us know what you think of it!