| Cast of Characters
ALEX MARCHANT, a black girl EZRA KINCAID, a black boy MIGUEL CARRERA, a Mexican boy SONYA ZERANOAH, a Native American girl MISS HACKLE, their Creative Writing teacher CHORUS PROLOGUE (ALEX, MIGUEL, EZRA, and SONYA are discovered on an empty stage. They address the audience.) ALEX. We were coffee, MIGUEL. We were dirt, SONYA. We were clay. EZRA. We were chocolate bars, individually wrapped, ALEX. Spat out of a vending machine, SONYA. Or tossed into a trick-or-treater�s bag. EZRA. We were black. ALEX. We were the dirt of big cities, clumped together, EZRA. A language of taboo. Black- ALEX. The opposite of white. EZRA. We were baggy pants and gold chains. MIGUEL. We were brown. We were dust clouds, moving in storms in the South and blown like ashes in the wind to all corners of the country. We were gas stations and shabby restaurants with flies. SONYA. We were red. We were dolls with black hair and no faces, corn husks scattered on the ground. We were silhouettes of bears and wolves and turtles, eagles with broken wings. ALEX. We were two boys and two girls who sat at a table in a Creative Writing class. MIGUEL. We were chocolate chips in vanilla ice cream. SONYA. We were the brown kids� table EZRA. We were the Chocolate Mafia. SCENE 1- The classroom. (The desks are arranged in five groups of four to make tables. One of these tables is downstage center. The CHORUS enters as students, dressed in gray clothes. The purpose here is that they are white students and not �in color,� although all the actors may be of any race. The CHORUS takes random seats in the upstage desks. MIGUEL enters, tosses his backpack on a desk in the downstage table, and sits in the chair. He then proceeds to put his head down and go to sleep at his desk. After a few beats, ALEX enters.) ALEX. Did you finish your short story? (MIGUEL ignores her.) ALEX. You didn�t, did you? (Of course Miguel is not sleeping, but he pretends he is anyway. He shifts into a more comfortable position.) ALEX. You�re not fooling anyone, Miguel. If you didn�t finish your story, you better not be messing with Hackle today. Nobody wants to hear her bitchin�. MIGUEL. (Finally raising his head. Testily.) Who says I didn�t finish my story? ALEX. Did you? MIGUEL. No. ALEX. Exactly! MIGUEL. But it�s unfair to say that I didn�t. ALEX. No it�s not, it�s logical. It�s the sort of thing you always do. (EZRA enters. He slouches over to the table and sets his backpack on his desk.) EZRA. Any of you finish your short story? ALEX. I did. MIGUEL. I didn�t. EZRA. I hear Hackle had a shit-fit second hour �cause someone didn�t finish theirs. (ALEX gives MIGUEL a pointed look.) MIGUEL. Did you finish yours? EZRA. No, but I ain�t tellin� Hackle. MIGUEL. (To ALEX) Ha! ALEX. Fine, let her come and shout at you! But don�t you cause trouble for me, because if you ain�t noticed yet, parent-teacher conferences are next week, and I need this grade! EZRA. Shit. ALEX. Forgot? EZRA. My biology homework is backed up about two weeks. (SONYA enters. Wordlessly she plops her backpack on the ground by her chair and sits. A moment later, the bell rings.) MIGUEL. One day I�m here early and she�s late! Somebody lock the door on her! (MISS HACKLE enters in a wheelchair.) HACKLE. Okay, people. Sit down, please, and quiet for attendance! (Everyone sits.) EZRA. (Hopefully.) Maybe she won�t remember. HACKLE. You can start taking out your short stories, too. EZRA. Damn. ALEX. Did you at least get a good start? EZRA. You read it, you tell me. ALEX. You were almost done! What happened? EZRA. (Sheepish.) I got distracted. You know, my cartooning and stuff. HACKLE. Shhh! MIGUEL. (Sarcastic.) Yeah, shhh, I�m trying to sleep. (ALEX pulls out her folder and throws her short story on her desk. She pulls out a thick book and sets it on the desk. Then she pulls out some forms and, reading them carefully, fills them out.) MIGUEL. (Reading the cover of the book.) �A Guide to Political Manipulation�? You taking over the world, Alex? (Laughs.) ALEX. It�s for my political science class. EZRA. (Peering at it.) Any good? ALEX. I hate it. It�s probably the most useless book I�ve ever read. EZRA. Worse than �How to Lie With Statistics�? MIGUEL. I remember that one. ALEX. At least that book taught me something. MIGUEL. So is it true that eighty percent of teenagers swallow spiders while they sleep? ALEX. Oh, gross, where did you hear that? EZRA. It�s a load of crap, don�t worry. MIGUEL. Hey, what�re you filling out, Alex? ALEX. A college application form. EZRA. What college? ALEX. Pomona University. EZRA. Oh, man. Isn�t that place really- HACKLE. You three better have your short stories done back there! I�m collecting them after I�m done with attendance. EZRA. What are we doing next, then? ALEX. Poetry unit. EZRA. Oh, no. MIGUEL. Hey, I�m down with that. Poetry�s easy. (Sings to the tune of �Row Your Boat.�) Fuck, fuck, fuck a duck, screw a kangaroo, finger-bang an orangutan, orgy at the zoo. ALEX. (As EZRA laughs.) Dirty songs are not poetry, Miguel! EZRA. At least it comes from the heart. MIGUEL. Yeah, man- my love poem to Miss Hackle. ALEX. You wouldn�t turn that in as a poem. MIGUEL. Wanna bet? ALEX. You wouldn�t turn in any poetry. You�d write it, but not turn it in, just like your short story- right? MIGUEL. That�s what you think, man. This unit�s gonna be different, just watch. I�m gonna turn in a whole stack of poetry, and Hackle�s gonna have to stay up all night just to read them all. EZRA. What are you gonna write a whole stack of poetry about? MIGUEL. (With a wave of his hand.) All sorts of stuff. Stupid stuff. Pen caps and- and dollar bills. The stupider the better. She�ll get so annoyed. EZRA. You have a weird way of getting revenge. ALEX. Each to his own, right? MIGUEL. Each to what she deserves. Miss Hackle wants poetry from me, man� she�ll get it. HACKLE. All right, put your short stories in a neat pile and I�ll come around and collect them. (Promptly, ALEX plops her short story in the center of the table. EZRA contributes his half-finished story. After some rummaging in her backpack, SONYA adds hers to the pile. MISS HACKLE wheels herself over to the table and picks them up.) HACKLE. (Counting the stories.) Only three? Who didn�t finish theirs? (She raises an eyebrow at MIGUEL, but they all avoid her eye.) Well, I guess we�ll find out. (She wheels away.) MIGUEL. I�d really like to show her she isn�t so smart. ALEX. I thought you were going to use the poetry unit for that. MIGUEL. Well, yeah. But that�s just part of it. I�ve got a better idea. EZRA. Uh-oh. HACKLE. Okay, now that these are done, we can relax and breathe. (Some STUDENTS smile.) We�ll get a new, fresh start with our next unit- poetry! (The smiles fade.) Who knows anything about poetry? (No one volunteers.) Let�s try this: does poetry have to rhyme? (A few heads shake no.) CHORUS MEMBER 1. No. HACKLE. No, it doesn�t. Some of the greatest poetry, especially American poetry, has been in free verse. But there are some very successful rhyming forms of poetry. Who knows any rhyming forms of poetry? CHORUS MEMBER 2. (Raising hand.) Sonnets? HACKLE. Yes. Shakespeare, a very famous author of sonnets. Very good, Sam. Anyone else? There�s another popular form of rhyming poetry. (Nothing from the students.) It begins with a �b.� It�s also a kind of song. (Silence, then-) CHORUS MEMBER 3. (Raising hand quickly.) Oh, a ballad! HACKLE. That�s right. �The Highwayman� by Alfred Noyes is one of my favorite poems, and it happens to be a ballad. (Slowly, MIGUEL�S head begins to drop onto his arms.) Now, anyone know of any non-rhyming forms of poetry? CHORUS MEMBER 1. Free verse. HACKLE. Yes, free verse, that�s right. Any others? CHORUS MEMBER 4. (Raising hand.) Prose poetry? HACKLE. Yes, very good, Amanda. Poetry not in the typical form of stanzas, but paragraphs. Good. I�m glad you have some fundamental knowledge of poetry. In this unit we�ll go a little further in exploring the different forms of poetry, starting with biography poems and moving on to found poems and list poems. We�ll spend some time on prose poetry, haikus, and end with a final project, which will be a portfolio of your poetry this unit. Are there any questions? (Right on cue, the bell rings. MIGUEL awakes in an instant, jumping up and grabbing his backpack.) MIGUEL. Nope! See you later! (Other STUDENTS stand with their backpacks.) HACKLE. That can�t be the bell, can it? MIGUEL. (Almost out the door.) Shortened day, remember? (Exits.) (More STUDENTS stream out.) HACKLE. Well, all right. Have a good day. (Only SONYA is left, zipping up her backpack. As she crosses the room to the door, she trips and falls.) HACKLE. Oh- Sonya- are you all right? (SONYA rights herself quickly and exits at a run. Lights.) SCENE 2- The classroom. (Work time in class. ALEX, MIGUEL, and EZRA converse in hushed tones.) ALEX. Are you coming to our choir concert tonight? EZRA. I have to go out to dinner with my family. It�s the Korean New Year. MIGUEL. So� why does your family celebrate it? EZRA. (Patiently.) My brother�s Korean. MIGUEL. Your family�s weird. (EZRA shrugs.) ALEX. Are you coming to the concert, Miguel? MIGUEL. I�ve got plans. ALEX. To do what? MIGUEL. Just� plans. Oh, that reminds me. You might want to keep your feet off the floor today. EZRA. What the hell? MIGUEL. Trust me. (Puts his feet on the bars at the bottom of his desk. The others, after exchanging glances, follow suit.) Remember how I was gonna get back at Miss Hackle? Well, I decided to get back at the entire school, and- (A small bell dings. The voice of the PRINCIPAL is heard over the school announcement system.) PRINCIPAL. Please excuse this interruption. It has been discovered that a snake has been let loose on the first floor. Please watch your step for the rest of the day. If anyone has any information on who brought in the snake, please contact me or Mrs. Rice in the office. (The STUDENTS erupt in conversation. MISS HACKLE goes to her desk and dials the telephone. MIGUEL grins at the others.) ALEX. Miguel, you�re gonna get suspended if they find out. MIGUEL. How�re they gonna find out? You gonna tell �em? ALEX. (Pause. Sighing.) No, of course not. MIGUEL. Then how? They gonna fingerprint the snake? EZRA. It was still a dumb thing to do. MIGUEL. Look around you. Look at who you�re sitting with. Don�t you think this place does dumb things too? HACKLE. (Done with her phone call.) All right, the office says it�s a harmless grass snake. (The students begin to talk again.) Come on, people. Let�s return to the exercise. Finish the sentence you�re on and we�ll move onto the next exercise. (Pause. Some STUDENTS are still talking.) I�m waiting. (The STUDENTS are silent.) Thank you. Move onto a new sheet of paper. This exercise will require absolute silence and listening skills. I want you to focus on the sense of hearing. Think about sounds that mean something to you, or stir a memory in you. Whether it�s a voice, or a piece of music, or something as simple as the wind� just write about it. (ALEX, EZRA, MIGUEL, and SONYA just look at each other.) EZRA. Sure. Wind. (Writes in his notebook.) (MIGUEL also writes, still grinning triumphantly. SONYA and ALEX are left staring at each other. After a few beats, the sound of distant church bells are heard. They both look toward the window.) ALEX. (Listening.) Church bells. There�s a rhyme for it. The magpie counting rhyme. I�ve always used it with bells. One for sorrow, two for joy� SONYA. (Quietly.) Mirth. (ALEX, EZRA, and MIGUEL look up at her.) ALEX. What? SONYA. Two for mirth. (ALEX waits for her to continue, but she doesn�t.) ALEX. Three for a girl, four for a boy� SONYA. Three for a funeral, four for a birth. ALEX. Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told. SONYA. Five for heaven, six for hell. Seven�s a devil, his own self. ALEX. I�ve never heard it that way before. (Noticing that the bells have stopped tolling.) That�s it? Was anyone counting the bells? How many tolls were there? EZRA. (Surprised.) Eleven. Why? Is it important? ALEX. (Shaken.) Eleven? That�s horrible. EZRA. Why? ALEX. At funerals, in some churches, they toll the bells once for every year the person lived. That person- that kid- was eleven. EZRA. That is horrible. SONYA. (Suddenly.) I was eleven. EZRA. What? SONYA. I was eleven. (She rises from her seat and faces the audience as the lights dim on the classroom.) I was eleven when it happened. It was the evening of the Festival of Fire, back in Wisconsin, at the reservation. I went to my uncle�s house to find my cousin Ruth. There were people celebrating at her house, but all the fun was out by the bonfires. I wanted her to come celebrate with me and my brothers. (Looking for her cousin in the house.) Ruth! Ruth! Come out to the fires, Ruth! (Becoming panicked.) Ruth! Uncle Vince? VINCE. (From offstage.) Yeah? SONYA. Have you seen Ruth? VINCE. No. SONYA. I can�t find her! VINCE. She might have gone off to sleep somewhere. SONYA. (To audience.) She did that sometimes- curl up in odd places and go to sleep. I started checking in closets. (She mimes doing this. At the third closet, a dark-haired girl falls at SONYA�s feet. Blood is flowing from cuts in her wrists. SONYA stares at her, breathing hard, trying to keep herself calm. When she speaks, her voice shakes.) SONYA. It was Ruth. She was pale- all the color in her cheeks was leaking out of the cuts in her wrists. When I stepped back, (she does) I could feel her ice-cold skin on my feet. And then- I couldn�t keep it inside anymore. (She gives a blood-curdling scream for as long as she can hold it. After a beat, some CHORUS playing adults at the party at the house come running. They gasp, scream, and react otherwise to Ruth. The sound of SONYA�s scream, or sobbing, turns into the tolling of church bells. The CHORUS freeze as SONYA steps forward.) SONYA. (To audience.) It took me a long time to recover. I didn�t speak for almost three months. I clung to everyone I loved, making sure that they weren�t going to leave me. When I came to visit my aunt and uncle and cousin here in California, I slept on the floor of my cousin�s room. I had nightmares about her falling out of the closet, falling at my feet with blood on her wrists. Sometimes I wouldn�t sleep, and just stand over her bed, watching her breathe. Even now I�m still recovering, six years later, learning to speak again, and trust again. My cousin watches out for me, but she can�t help very much. Nobody can. Like my father said, eleven is awfully young to see a suicide. (She steps backward into the classroom, which lights up.) Eleven for a secret never to be told. (She takes her seat.) EZRA. Sonya? What happened when you were eleven? (SONYA just stares down at her notebook.) HACKLE. Okay, finish the sentence you�re on. (Pause.) Would anyone like to share? (No one answers. MIGUEL puts his head down and goes to sleep. Irritated.) Anyone? (ALEX sighs and raises her hand.) All right, Alex. (ALEX rises with her notebook.) ALEX. (Reading from her notebook. As she speaks, the lights begin to dim.) Bells in the wind In the tower Ringing from stones. Children in the morning In the yard Playing in the dog house. Counting the hours and counting the years Leaves in their hair and eyes full of tears. (The stage is dark.) SCENE 3- Empty stage. MIGUEL. (To the audience.) I�m going to get in so much trouble if I get suspended, especially when my mom sees my grades. Last time our grades came home, we were almost done with the short story unit, but I hadn�t turned in anything yet. I didn�t even know they were sending out the grades. That day, it was raining. I was at my friend Alejandro�s house after school, but I had to be home for dinner at five. When I walked into the kitchen, my mom wasn�t there. She�s usually there, making dinner or setting the table. But the lights were off, and there was only the clogged sink with Cheerios floating in the water, yesterday�s newspaper, and the holes in the ceiling from where the pipes broke and my dad had to go in through the plaster. I got the feeling that something was wrong. I thought she maybe had a migraine. (Enter MRS. CARRERA, Miguel�s mother. She is plump and short. She wears a skirt, a sweater, and hoop earrings. She holds Miguel�s report card.) MRS. CARRERA. Miguel Carrera! MIGUEL. What�s wrong? (Sees the report card.) Oh. MRS. CARRERA. Yeah, oh! What�s with the F in Spanish? How can you get an F in Spanish? MIGUEL. Senora Meyer hates me. MRS. CARRERA. I don�t think she does. I think you hate her, right? MIGUEL. Well, yeah, she- MRS. CARRERA. So you don�t try! You don�t even try to read and write Spanish because you want to be a dumb Mexican that no one will hire! MIGUEL. (Angry.) Someone who won�t hire me because I�m Mexican isn�t worth working for! MRS. CARRERA. No, but someone who won�t hire you because you don�t try is! (Taking a breath.) Miguel, try to understand. If there�s one thing I want you to learn in school, besides English, is to be able to read and write Spanish. MIGUEL. Why? Dad can�t. MRS. CARRERA. That�s exactly why. When you grow up, and you can�t even read and write your own language, people will know that you come from Mexico, looking for work. And they won�t give you a good job because they think you�re trying to take it from Americans. But a man who can speak Spanish, and read and write it, is smart and a good worker to hire. A Mexican boy who can�t read and write Spanish is in a gang, and he runs around the streets at night, causing trouble. MIGUEL. But I don�t! MRS. CARRERA. America thinks you do. MIGUEL. I don�t care what America thinks! I- MRS. CARRERA. America is going to give you a job and a paycheck! It�s important to look good. And not just for yourself- for your friends and your children, someday. You�ll never be able to prove that we are as good as white people if you don�t try. If you get a job and work hard, people will see you and know that Mexican people are good workers, as good as white people, and they�ll hire your friends and your children, too. You see? MIGUEL. (Subdued.) All right, Mom. I�ll try harder in Spanish. MRS. CARRERA. Now how about Creative Writing? Your teacher says you haven�t handed in anything for your short story. She says that you were supposed to hand in two drafts and you never did. MIGUEL. I didn�t want her to read it. MRS. CARRERA. You mean you wrote it? MIGUEL. Yeah. But I didn�t want Miss Hackle to read it. MRS. CARRERA. Why not? She�s giving you a D because you haven�t handed anything in. MIGUEL. I know. I just didn�t want her to read it. I wrote the story of how you and Dad came here. She wouldn�t understand. She�s racist, I think. She makes me sit at a table with two black kids and an Indian girl. MRS. CARRERA. Can I read it? MIGUEL. Read what? MRS. CARRERA. The story. MIGUEL. (Surprised.) Sure, I guess. (He kneels and shifts through his backpack. He pulls out some crumpled pages.) Here. It�s not very good. (He looks over MRS.CARRERA�s shoulder as she reads.) MRS. CARRERA. (Laughing.) This is funny! MIGUEL. (Eagerly.) D�you like it? MRS. CARRERA. I like it! I never thought of it like that before. You make it seem like an adventure. MIGUEL. I had to make up some stuff. MRS. CARRERA. Pretty good, considering you weren�t even born when it happened. MIGUEL. (Eager.) D�you think Dad would like it? (MRS. CARRERA becomes solemn. She puts a hand on MIGUEL�s shoulder.) MRS. CARRERA. (Quietly.) Maybe sometime later. MIGUEL. Yeah. Sometime later. (The lights go out on MRS. CARRERA. MIGUEL turns to the audience.) I haven�t been busted for the snake yet. I don�t know if I ever will. But when I think about my parents, I feel guilty about it. They�re the reason I write poetry this unit. I write poetry because I�m not a stupid Mexican causing trouble in a gang. And I write it in Spanish so that one day, if things don�t work out for me, my parents can read it and know that I tried. SCENE 4- Empty stage. ALEX. (To audience.) I can�t take this goddamn place anymore. I�ve had it with this miserable city, this miserable country! My sister Shelly and her kid were over at our house. Shelly had him when she was my age. Ever since then, all her friends have been actually jealous of her, as though a baby was some really great deal at a department store. My parents fawn over her, and she borrows money from them to buy expensive clothes for herself. (Insistent.) I don�t hate her- she�s my sister. But it makes me so angry that she�s everything she�s not supposed to be and she�s so- loved for it. (Pause. Looking at the application form in her hand.) Colleges ask about past achievements. I�ve won some awards, but never something that earned me so much recognition as Shelly did with her baby. Then, when I check the box next to �race�- (makes a check mark in the air) I know what that check mark is saying. It�s speaking about people like Shelly, who makes it so easy for the rest of the world to pass her off as a statistic, another pregnant black teenager dropped out of school. Shelly never went to college. I don�t know if she ever will. She works part-time at a grocery store. That ain�t- that�s not what I wanna be. I�ve always been more careful than that.You wanna know why? I wanna teach someday. I wanna teach literature. And you know what? I think I�m gonna do it. I�m gonna go off somewhere as soon as I can and learn to teach. Sometimes I think I�m already a teacher. When Shelly brings Nathan over, I read to him and tell him stories about heroes in history who did good things. But I�m gonna pay for college and work for what I get- the way my sister should, and her friends should, the way everyone should, black or white or Hispanic or whatever. Money doesn�t have a race. If it did, black and white could work together and gang up on green. Nathan was screaming and Shelly was bragging to my parents about how she gets extensions on her rent for flirting with her landlord. Then she was whining at my parents for money! Nathan�s face was snotty and streaked with tears. And as horrible as it sounds, I wished that someday, someone would take him away from my sister and give him to someone who works and studies and tries, and deserves to raise him. (A small child cries.) Hush now- it�s okay. It�s okay. I�ll come back for you. I�ll take you somewhere smart. When I learn to teach, I�ll teach you how it is. We�ll be okay, you and me. (To audience.) I know it�s not true. He�ll grow up with Shelly, with sleazy boyfriends and bad music and drugs. Then he�ll be a sleazy boyfriend and listen to bad music and do drugs. He�ll become exactly what this place wants him to be. My name is Alex, Alexis, Give-us-a-kiss big city sista Of a sambo mambo mumbo-jumbo Jumbled in high jumps, flips and kicks Kick back and jump into books And brace myself for a closer look Read between the lines, heed the lies That lie behind higher authority and dominion and the minions of popular opinion who pin on me what I should be based on my bleedin�-heart bent black back black hands, black lips, black girl hurled in a world that sees black, the seventh sea of black, a burden on its back taxes but takes time to teach me how to be me but I walk �round the block with the sons of the streets and I�ve seen what it means not to be just the infinity, finicky, unfinished, unreliable, undeniable, unjustifiable me. (Light up on the classroom. ALEX sits with the poem she has just read. The class applauds.) HACKLE. Very nice, Alex. Very distinct style. Does anyone have any comments for Alex? CHORUS MEMBER 2. (Raising hand.) I really liked it. It had awesome rhythm. CHORUS MEMBER 3. (As some others nod.) It was really good. I liked it. HACKLE. Yes, thank you, Alex. Are there any other readers? (There are not.) Then I have an announcement for everyone. It�s crunch time. If you haven�t turned in poetry to me, it needs to be in by Friday. Remember that I expect a portfolio of eight poems from you. You�ve all completed the oral participation part of your grade except for Miss Zeranoah. Sonya, I need you to read a poem, otherwise you�ll be given an incomplete. Okay? Do you have a poem to share with the class? (SONYA says nothing.) Miss Zeranoah, this is your grade. I can�t compromise it. ALEX. (Raising her hand.) Miss Hackle, Sonya�s cousin says that Sonya has a good reason for not talking. HACKLE. I know, Miss Meyers. Sonya, I understand the circumstances surrounding your� silence, but I can�t let you off the hook and make everyone else share their poetry. (SONYA remains silent. MISS HACKLE loses her patience.) Miss Zeranoah, open your notebook and stand up. (SONYA obeys. She stands up straight, staring angrily at the poem in her notebook) HACKLE. If you don�t share a poem right now, I�m writing an F in the grade book. Do you understand? This is your last chance. MIGUEL. Zora�s last stand. HACKLE. Quiet, Mr. Carrera! Sonya, read your poem. (SONYA stares at her notebook for a few beats. We see her struggle with herself, then reach a decision. She looks MISS HACKLE in the eye. When she speaks, her voice is clear and confident, and the language is musical.) SONYA. Ukweho-ku kwah i-ka tsi thonehtakwa tsi nihotiliho-ta Uska tsi atwahwenu-ni yukwanikula. Ta-tho niyotuhake akwanikula. Yukhinulha ohwatsya-ke teyukwasnye-u akwe-ku atunhetsla. Uksa tsi atwahwenu-ni yukwanikula. Ta-tho niyotuhake akwinakula. Onekli kakahakwatalhos ohwatsya-ke. Uksa tsi atwahwenu-ni yukwanikula. Ta-tho niyotuhake akwinakula. Ta-tho niyotuhake akwinakula. (She sits without another word. The class glances at each other. ALEX and EZRA suppress giggles, but MIGUEL laughs outright and claps.) MIGUEL. Zora�s last stand! Way to show �em! (MISS HACKLE shushes the tittering class and purses her lips.) HACKLE. (Struggling.) Does anyone� have any comments for- for Sonya? EZRA. I thought it was an interesting use of language. (MIGUEL laughs again. ALEX and EZRA join him. At last, a beaming SONYA joins in. They continue to laugh as the lights go out.) SCENE 5- Empty stage. EZRA. We hold these truths- MIGUEL. We believe in one- SONYA. I pledge allegiance to- ALEX. The old Negro spiritual- EZRA. E pluribus unum- SONYA. Out of many- MIGUEL. One holy, Catholic and apostolic Church. ALEX. Free at last. EZRA. Lord, I know I been changed. MIGUEL. The Mexicans are taking your- SONYA. (Singing.) �your land, this land is my land- MIGUEL. The campesinos know the name of the old beast- EZRA. Thank God Almighty, we are- ALEX. (Singing.) Blackbird singing in the dead of night- MIGUEL. It is death, despair, and dispossession- SONYA. Our mother earth takes care of all lives- ALEX. (Singing) All your life- MIGUEL. We believe in one- SONYA. (Singing.) One little, two little, three little Indians- EZRA. (Singing.) Swing low, sweet chariot- MIGUEL. In the veins of the descendents of the Maya- ALEX. (Singing.) Take these broken wings- SONYA. (Singing.) Take my love- MIGUEL. We love it like the sea. ALEX. (Spoken.) And learn to fly. EZRA. (Spoken.) Comin� for to carry me home. SONYA. (Spoken.) For love is everlasting. SCENE 6- Empty stage. EZRA. Where I was born, water is so scarce that families of nomads spend all their lives on foot, shoeless in burning sand, racing to beat the lions to find water for the first time in days. In the cities, in crumbling mud huts, children die from the diseases grown in sins of adults. Where my sister was born, the women watch the world through veils, and when sand blows in wind, and they can�t breathe when the sand blows in the wind. They live in fear of their priests, and the executioner�s sword, and marriage, and every day they watch their fathers� and brothers� retreating backs, off to worship. Where my brother was born, the sea surrounds fishermen�s villagers and they awake to the soft susurrus in the rushes� and in computer chip cities, people labor for technology and their families despair for their detached flesh and blood. But now we are sisters and brothers. We share clothes and fight over the DVD player. We have the same name, but not the same race. And that�s taught us an important lesson, I think. One of the oldest lessons of all- that life doesn�t come in black and white. But what do you read first thing in the morning? What�s so captivating about a drop of ink on piano keys? Why are tuxedos so important-looking? When I was at a Catholic school, my classmates called me and my siblings �The Rainbow Kids.� Next thing I know, they�re saying I�m gay. The only time those kids can look in color is to see something hateful. I draw in black and white, you know. Classic comic books tell stories better than I can write in Creative Writing class. All my thoughts pass through my hands, to lead, onto paper. You can�t tell that it was a dark hand that drew it. You can�t think of every individual death in a far-off country or every wasted chance. You�ll never think of the art they never drew, the music they never played, the words they never wrote, their stories that will never be told. But you can see my art, and hear my story, and read my poetry. That�s because I was lucky enough to be adopted by people with the wisdom that comes with seeing the shades of gray. (Smiles, remembering.) I can�t deny it. The kids with the newspaper glasses made me who I am today. And no one can make them see what they don�t want to see, but if they�re listening� if they can hear my voice crying out in the desert� (Behind him, the lights come up on the classroom. EZRA turns and stands at his desk, holding his notebook. He reads.) The path is deserted, empty and cold. Whenever I walk there, I know I�m alone, far, far away from the haunts of men, walking only with shadows of things that have been. I can smell the remaining love in the air And I shiver in the hate lingering there. I hear whispers as I walk along, Crying, and laughter, and snatches of song; Shadows flit past me with faces I know and eyes looking through my skin, past my soul. Some of the ghosts bear a sorrowful smile as we tread the path for one last mile; but some are following, haunting me, calling, teasing taunting me. Their fingers beckon with terrible claws, they scream in pain that I know that I caused. They howl in anguish in the wind through the trees. Their pain that I feel makes me fall to my knees. So beware, ye mortal, when you face the past, and confront the phantoms of those you�ve harassed. This lonely path is no afternoon stroll after bitter years have taken their toll. So walk in his shoes, and think of her pain, for one day it�s your turn for Memory Lane. (Lights out.) SCENE 7- The classroom. MISS HACKLE. I�m going to give you fifteen minutes to work on this exercise. Each person at your table will tell a secret about themselves that the other three don�t know. Then you will write a rough draft of a poem, either individually or as a group, about your secrets, what it feels like to share a secret, or what it�s like to hear a secret. (ALEX, EZRA, MIGUEL, and SONYA exchange glances.) ALEX. All right. I�ll start. I used to call my dentist �Dr. Suess� because I didn�t know his real name. (MIGUEL snickers.) EZRA. I don�t clip my toenails. (Pause.) MIGUEL. I hate white people. ALEX. That�s not a secret. Everyone knows that about you. MIGUEL. I don�t have any other secrets. I hate white people is all. EZRA. You don�t really hate white people. MIGUEL. How do you know? EZRA. You don�t hate anyone. You just dislike �em. ALEX. I dunno. They hate us. EZRA. Only some. ALEX. And the rest group us into stereotypes, like classifying insects. EZRA. Still no reason to hate them. There�s no reason to actually hate anyone. Besides, you�d be a hypocrite if you hated white people for hating you. ALEX. So what are we supposed to do? Just suck it up and let them keep at it? EZRA. No. We can just do what we�ve been doing. Black people have our own culture now. Isn�t that good enough? MIGUEL. You might have a culture. It�s not so easy for the rest of us. SONYA. You have to imagine what it�s like for them. MIGUEL. For who? SONYA. White people. They�re still learning how to deal with us. ALEX. Come on, they�ve had us around for centuries. SONYA. Not the way we are now. We are in their faces and we are growing. And- like Ezra said- we�re creating our own cultures. Now white people are� bewildered. They don�t know how to deal with us. MIGUEL. Is this one of those walk-a-mile-in-their-moccasins things? SONYA. Sort of. EZRA. It�s not such a bad idea. ALEX. I think I agree with Miguel, for once. If white people are feeling ostracized, or bewildered, or whatever, I think it�s about time they go through what the rest of us have gone through. EZRA. You don�t understand, Alex. Your mind is all closed up. This is America. This isn�t blacks standing next to Europeans standing next to Mexicans standing next to Indians. We�re all interspersed, you see? There�s no breaking us apart now. We�ll learn to live with each other, one way or another. SONYA. And we�ll marry each other and soon we�ll be all colors. ALEX. And none of us will be individuals anymore. SONYA. Not the same color. All colors. MIGUEL. Like the melting pot? EZRA. No, that would be the same color. �Mixed salad� is what they call all colors. MIGUEL. I don�t eat salad. EZRA. What do you eat? MIGUEL. Spiders. ALEX. Ew, Miguel. SONYA. I eat mealworms. EZRA. For real? SONYA. Sauteed in butter and salt. They�re not bad. HACKLE. You should all be writing your poems now. Try not to reveal whose secret is which so the poem remains mysterious to the rest of the class. ALEX. You mean we�re reading them aloud? HACKLE. Yes, Miss Meyers. You can choose an individual to read it for you, if it�s a group poem, or you can assign parts of the poem for everyone in your group to read. You have five minutes. EZRA. We better get started. (ALEX, EZRA, MIGUEL, and SONYA lean forward over a sheet of paper. Brief brownout. The lights come up again on the classroom, five minutes later.) HACKLE. All right, finish up the sentence you�re on. ALEX. Quick, what�re we gonna call it? EZRA. �Melting Pot Salad.� MIGUEL. How about just �Pot Salad�? ALEX. Are you kidding? She would kill us. �Melting Pot Salad� is okay, I guess. SONYA. I like �Pot Salad.� (They all stare at her.) What? I don�t smoke pot. Okay, what if we spelled it backwards? Umm� �Dalas Top.� EZRA. Let�s do that. MIGUEL. (Grinning.) I can make us some pot salad. ALEX. (Writing.) �Dalas Top.� HACKLE. All right, who wants to go first? (ALEX, EZRA, MIGUEL and SONYA all immediately put up their hands.) Go ahead. (ALEX rises with the paper and reads.) ALEX. �Dalas Top� Colorful critters creepy-crawl Under my bandana and through my afro. Swing music swirls in soup, saying Mix well before use. Salad, hand-tossed, goes with soup; Stale croutons and putrid lettuce, Brown cheese, black onions- SONYA, EZRA, and MIGUEL. Grey tomatoes, grey, grey, tomatoes. ALEX. Spoons of eye-water stew Teach lessons about the stove, And heat and toenails, And what the pot says to the kettle. Take yo� medicine, Dr. Suess. (She pauses. MIGUEL, grinning, gestures for her to continue. She sighs.) Spider legs tickle my tongue While worms crawl down my throat to a fiery comatose state of relaxation. (She sits and pounds fists with SONYA. The rest of the class, including MISS HACKLE, stare oddly at the four of them, who sit triumphantly, waiting for the inevitable feedback. Finally, MISS HACKLE gives in.) HACKLE. Who has feedback for Alex, Miguel, Ezra, and Sonya? CHORUS MEMBER 1. (Raising hand hesitantly.) I liked the rhythm of the piece. HACKLE. Very good. Performance style always adds flavor to the poem. Anyone else? CHORUS MEMBER 2. (Raising hand.) There was an interesting use of alliteration. HACKLE. Yes, very good. Did anyone else hear the alliteration? (A few CHORUS MEMBERS raise their hands.) Alliteration and onomatopoeia bring a new level of sense to listeners of poetry that readers don�t always get. Was your alliteration intentional? ALEX. More or less. HACKLE. It was interesting. I can see you put a lot of thought into this piece. It�s good to see. MIGUEL. We put our heart and soul into this piece, Miss Hackle. HACKLE. I always like to hear that, Miguel. MIGUEL. (Under his breath.) You would. (MR. MANATIK, an old man with a camera, enters hesitantly.) HACKLE. (Seeing him.) Oh my goodness, I completely forgot! Um, class, we�re having our picture taken for the yearbook today, so� how do you want to do this, Roy? MANATIK. Well, ah, I think if we lined everyone up in front of the blackboard, make three rows, shortest to tallest, I think I could get everyone in. HACKLE. All right, we can do that. Everyone stand up and make three rows in front of the blackboard. Short people in front, tall people in back. (After much mumbling and re-arranging, the class makes the three rows. ALEX, EZRA, MIGUEL, and SONYA stand together in the back.) HACKLE. Okay, let�s see. No, that�s not going to work, Sonya, we can�t see you. Come up front, please� and Alex, would you mind going on the other end of the row? (Neither ALEX nor SONYA move.) ALEX. If this picture was really representing our class, we�d be standing together. HACKLE. This is more about aesthetics than about representing the class. MIGUEL. (Muttering.) You mean you don�t want it to look like you keep the brown kids separate. HACKLE. What was that, Mr. Carrera? MIGUEL. (Louder.) I said, you don�t want to admit that you keep the minorities separate from the rest of the class. (The class holds its breath, waiting for MISS HACKLE�S reaction.) HACKLE. That�s not it at all. It�s just that we can�t see Sonya and Alex so well. EZRA. If you can�t see them, then we�ll all go to the front. Here. We�ll all four stand in the front. (They move to the front.) Like this� Miguel, you stand here. There, see? MANATIK. Well, now you and the- and Miguel are blocking the shorter people behind you. ALEX. Can we make another row? Can we kneel? EZRA. (Not waiting for MR. MANATIK or MISS HACKLE to answer.) Of course we can. Let�s kneel. Then you can see everyone else. (EZRA, MIGUEL, ALEX, and SONYA kneel in the front. Now there are three rows of standing white students and a fourth row of minorities, kneeling. They put their arms around each other�s shoulders.) HACKLE. (Without much hope.) Are you sure you don�t want to stand more interspersed in the rows? ALEX. Nope. We wanna stay right here. EZRA. See, we�ve been really brought together this year. We wanna stick together. MIGUEL. And it�ll look so good in black and white. SONYA. (Gently.) Are you going to be in the picture, Miss Hackle? We can move over for you. MANATIK. This is just a student picture. Now. Everybody ready? Smile! (He takes the photo. As the camera flashes, the lights go black. The following lines are said in darkness.) MIGUEL. We were coffee, SONYA. We were dirt, EZRA. We were clay. (Lights fade up onto an empty stage.) ALEX. We were people. SONYA. We were numbers. ALEX. We were statistics. MIGUEL. We were targets. SONYA. We were suspects. EZRA. We were victims. MIGUEL. We were students. EZRA. We were artists. SONYA. We were dreamers. ALEX. We are joy and comfort- MIGUEL. We are grief and sorrow- EZRA. We are hope and knowledge- SONYA. We are today and tomorrow. (They kneel together at the end of the stage and put their arms around each other�s shoulders.) ALL. We are the Chocolate Mafia. (Blackout.) FINIS |
| The Chocolate Mafia |