A Holiday Wish…

Really, more like a fantasy, as this will never happen. But since this is the time of year when we celebrate a holiday with religious roots that supposedly champions goodwill toward our fellow man (all sarcasm intended), I am going to bring my fantasy to light.

Emergency Shelter in Massachusetts. Image courtesy of NBC News.

In 1983, in a gust of goodwill, Massachusetts passed a “right to shelter” law, guaranteeing all homeless families with children and pregnant women access to temporary housing. Forty years later, Massachusetts is the only state with such a law. In 2021 the state spent about $180 million housing homeless families. During the recent, unprecedented, surge of both documented and undocumented immigrants, the system collapsed. Annual costs ballooned to $1 billion. Money that kept folks sheltered in the short term did nothing to address the underlying discrepancy between a law that offered protection for all families and a state that already suffers from limited, expensive housing. Last July Governor Maura Healey truncated the law’s provisions (how I do not understand—I am not an attorney) and limited family stays to no more than five days in a state-sponsored shelter.

St. Peter’s Episcopal Church in Central Square, yet another mainstream Protestant church with an extensive physical plant and shrinking congregation, decided to do something to address the state’s shortcomings. They curtained off portions of their community space and created space for three families to stay overnight, every night, from 5 p.m. until 9 a.m. The families have access to cooking facilities; they can stay as long as they need.

When this mini-shelter opened, the church solicited volunteers to stay overnight with its immigrant guests. I spent a few weeknights hanging out with families originally from Ghana and Haiti, sleeping on a floor mattress, reminding me of so many couchsurfing gigs I’ve enjoyed during bicycle journeys. Now that the families are acclimated, they are sufficient to spend overnight on their own, though volunteers still come every evening to open up and make sure things run smoothly.

St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, Cambridge, MA. Image courtesy of St. Peter’s Church

Churches are supposed to be charitable organizations. The state forfeits millions of dollars of taxes by granting non-profit status to their valuable properties. What does the state get in return? How about we make the churches practice what they preach. Let them shelter those in need.

Mass.gov purports that there are over 2,000 churches mosques, synagogues, and other places of worship within our state. In July, when Governor Healy curtailed the state’s shelter responsibility, there were 3,534 families in stat sponsored shelters and 1,405 families in overflow motels. About a third of these homeless families were recent arrivals. If each church adopted three immigrant families, we could provide temporary housing for over 6,000 homeless families. Q.E.D.

And, with some forethought, we could reallocate that $1 billion to creating desperately needed housing to address our long-term needs.

In this season where darkness turns to light, let us remind our religious institutions that they have to live up to the human responsibility they preach. Let them earn their charitable status by offering charity, and sheltering homeless families in our state.

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Diary of a Tap Dancer

Diary of a Tap Dancer

American Repertory Theater

December 12 2024 thru January 4, 2025

Ayodele Casel in ART’s world-premiere production of her “Diary of a Tap Dancer.”Nile Scott Studios and Maggie Hall

Diary of a Tap Dancer showcases everything that makes A.R.T. shine, and where it all too often overshoots the mark. I let my A.R.T. subscription lapse years ago, when its push to raise consciousness superseded their renown theatrical effects and pointed story telling. But hey, I love tap, so I purchased myself a holiday gift and looked forward to some spiffy dance.

Artistic Director Diane Paulus’ opening night remarks gave me great hope. “Tap is a language of its own. Listen to the stories told by the feet.”

The stories these feet tell are awesome, phenomenal, jaw-dropping. The energy of the excellent cast of eight female dancers fills A.R.T. immense main stage. The set projections are effective, though too many stage level changes sometimes challenge fluid movement. And despite a few missed spots, the lighting is fabulous; alternately casting mystery and glory.

The show, written directed, choreographed, and starring Ayodele Casel is, as described, a diary of her life. When that diary is written by feet, whether in sand dancing, soft shoe, hip hop or frenzied tap, it is thought provoking and inspiring. Unfortunately, when the diary is delivered as spoken word, the play falls flat.

Act One focuses on Ms. Casel’s journey from The Bronx to NYU and into the hallowed clubs of all-male tap dance. Ms. Casel has risen above many challenges that could thwart a less determined spirit: a favorite cousin who died too young from addition, a mother who exported her to Puerto Rice for six years, a father absent until she turned seventeen. Her talent and determination is inspirational, but I was confounded by the gentle glow she showers over these people who didn’t step up to their adult responsibilities. At the very least, smoothing over whatever anger, fear, or rejection she felt makes for tepid drama.

Ayodele Casel in ART’s world-premiere production of her “Diary of a Tap Dancer.”Nile Scott Studios and Maggie Hall

Act Two reels us back to the origins of tap. The most moving—and chilling—scene in the show is the dance of slaves who have been forbidden to communicate across plantations with drums, and thus communicate with their feet. It’s an amazing piece of theater. The history continues onto a celebration of female tap dancers. When the present-day ensemble assembles in cream-colored tuxedos, to voice these women, they express their talent, determination, and woe across time.

Anyone who has seen A Chorus Line knows that, once the dance line arrives in tuxedos, we’re at the finale.

Unfortunately, Ms. Casel was still a child in The Bronx when A Chorus Line broke all box office records, so I guess she missed it. For after an amazing number, she returns, alone, to deliver a too-long monologue about the trials of female tap dancers, past and present. Preaching to the audience about lunch counters and back-entrances deflates the powerful emotion, and empathy, of the dance tribute. Why did anyone connected with this large-scale theatrical effort think it was a good idea to tack on this limp coda?

Instead of leaving the theater exalted and thankful for the long line of female tap dancers, and savoring their contribution to this world, I left feeling that once again, I am being shamed for the sins of my fathers.

Any objective comparison of the life of Adeloye Casel and her forebears must reveal that conditions are not the same. Was the historical treatment acceptable? Absolutely not. Was it more difficult for Ms. Casel to open doors than for men of equivalent talent? Probably. Do we have further to go? For sure.

But the A.R.T. needs to lighten up. Instead of berating an audience of mostly white, mostly liberal Cantabridgians about how much more there is to be done, celebrate that Ms. Casel is able to lead a fuller, more open life than her tap-dancing predecessors. And end a holiday show that celebrates tap: with tap!

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Respect Must be Paid (except for Billionaires)

This cult-like thing happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I was at the premier performance of How to NOT Save the World with Mr. Bezos at Boston Playwright’s Theatre (BPT) when mid-way through the show there was a sing-along.

Mark W. Soucy and Becca A. Lewis in How to NOT Save the World Mr. Bezos. Photo by Benjamin Rose

BPT is such a bastion of political correctness; attending plays there feels retro as 2021. They offer select performances where all attendees must be masked. They make a land acknowledgement before every performance. The community expectations page on their website lists all the ways that everyone—on and off the stage—must be respected. Those expectations are also repeated on the email you receive with every ticket purchase.

And, of course, there are the trigger warnings, freshly renamed “Content Transparency.” The Content Transparency for Bezos lists: graphic violence, vomit and blood effects, as well as disrobement and discussion of drug use.

What? No warning of sing-alongs?

I’m a fair singer. I like to sing. But here’s the thing that bothered me about the sing-along. The audience got to choose between two ditties whose lyrics were written on placards. The first opened with “How to kill a billionaire…” The second set of lyrics began, “How not to kill a billionaire…”

Now, we are in a theater in the middle of the campus of an elite university, sixty minutes into a play whose premise is that Jeff Bezos, and the other 800+ billionaires in the United States, have neglected their social responsibility. Jeff Bezos has been portrayed as a deplorable man, at this point reduced to his skivvies. It is any surprise that 100% of the people who chose to sing voiced the “kill” verse, while exactly no one sang the “not kill” verse? Or is it perhaps more surprising that I was practically the only person who kept my mouth shut?

In BPT’s self-defined safe space, no one is allowed to be disrespectful based on age, race, religion, gender identity, or sexual orientation. Surely, any playwright who wrote a sing-along suggesting that we “Kill the Poor…Unemployed…Homeless…” would be drummed out of the program. But apparently, billionaires are fair game because, somehow, all their money means they deserve no respect.

I went to a play but, apparently, I landed in a cult.

I’m cautiously optimistic that none of people singing would actually kill someone because they are a billionaire, and wishful singing doesn’t make something so. But I was amazed how this group of lefties who proclaim to care about everyone could invoke such violence. Such is the power of the crowd. “By the mere fact that he forms part of an organized crowd, a man descends several rungs in the ladder of civilization, Isolated, he may be a cultivated individual. In a crowd, he is a barbarian…a creature acting instinct.” (Gustave Le Bon, The Psychology of Crowds, 1895)

More than forty years ago, as a VISTA Volunteer in West Texas, I received an essential life lesson from Emmer Lee Whitfield, a woman on welfare upon whom I bestow great respect. She taught me that: “Each of us, every day, absorbs the world around us, assesses our strengths, our opportunities, and determines how to engage with the world. The systems our society has established, whether they be Wall Street or welfare, are key factors in these decisions.”

I’ve always thought about how people’s best interests are contorted by our social systems in terms of how the poor and marginalized navigate the world. But sitting among this cult of progressives literally singing out loud to kill billionaires made me see, for the first time, that the flip side is also true. Jeff Bezos can only be Jeff Bezos in a world that ridiculously rewards his behavior.

I have no interest in killing anyone, even billionaires. True, the world will be a better place without billionaires, but the way to get rid of them is not to kill them. Rather, let’s dismantle the systems that allow them to thrive.

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EMMA!!!

EMMA

Actors’ Shakespeare Project

Cambridge Multi-Cultural Arts Center

November 14-December 15, 2024

Clueless. Photo courtesy of Town and Country

One amazing attribute of great art is how it can be twisted and bent into new shapes without losing its original power. Emma Woodhouse arrived in this world over two hundred years ago, the rather unheroic heroine of a beloved Jane Austen novel. In the intervening centuries Emma has been translated, staged, and filmed in marvelous adaptations. Remember Clueless? Nothing more than Emma, updated and reset—as if—in Southern California.

Actors’ Shakespeare Project is a production of EMMA serves up playwright Kate Hamill’s 21st century take on this Regency-era satire. Wed ASP’s craft with Ms. Hamill’s versatility with Jane Austen’s sensibility, and the result is simply: wonderful!

Backstory. A few months ago I enjoyed dinner with delightful friend and theatrical virtuoso, Regine Vital, who told me she was directing this production. Regine also confided that she’d never been much of an Emma fan; rather Persuasion was her preferred Austen novel. I’ve always been a garden-variety Austen fan, which is to say, I know Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice but never dipped into deeper (later) works. Given the luxury of advance notice, I got myself a ticket to EMMA, and was able to read both Persuasion and Emma before the performance. I can now proclaim that Emma is my favorite of Jane Austen’s novels. The plot more intricate than her earlier works, the satire less obvious but equally biting, the story more connected to the world beyond its provincial setting.

But how does Emma hold up as a piece of contemporary theater? Very well. Ms. Hamill condenses the plot in appropriate ways, even as she expands the characters to conjure convincing 2024 selves. She correctly stresses farce over verisimilitude and doesn’t forget for a moment that the audience is sitting right there: Emma direct addresses us so often, we’re essentially the ninth cast member. Meanwhile, Director Vital’s staging betrays her own Shakespearean training. The acting is broad, the actions enthusiastic, the overall energy effervescent. The production sizzles with the over-the-top effort required to make an Elizabethan (or Regency) audience understand what’s going on without benefit of amplification and raked seating. And folks…it is funny!

Alex Bowden and Josephine Moshiri Elwood in EMMA. Photo courtesy of ASP

EMMA at ASP must close on December 15 – dash over to the Cambridge Multicultural Arts Center and see it this weekend. But if you miss this production, rest assured that Emma will come back around, in some from or other, over the next years and decades. The story is simply too human and too funny; the heroine simply too flawed and too true, not to resonate forever.

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5 Plays in 5 Days

Boston’s theater scene continues to grow in every dimension. In the 1990’s, when I first moved beyond touring Broadway shows to discover local theater, Boston supported a handful of companies and few people made a livelihood in live theater here. Now, there are more companies doing more kinds of plays than ever. I even know a few full-time actors who choose to live in Boston over New York because the pool is smaller while the opportunities are great! A few weeks ago I saw five plays in five days. And there were some I missed!

Cast of Noises Off at Lyric Stage. Photo by Mark S. Howard

Noises Off

Lyric Stage

November 15- December 22, 2024

If you like slapstick, farce, Buster Keaton and Monty Python you will LOVE Noises Off. I know this for fact because I do not particularly like that kind of comedy, yet I was guffawing right along with everyone else. Act One of this play-within-a-play delivers a series of silly zingers during final dress rehearsal of a theatrical that appears doomed. In Act Two the set is literally turned around, so the audience is backstage during some provincial performance a month into the run. The same drivel we heard in rehearsal is now delivered to the rear wall, while the personal foibles of the off-stage cast are front and center. It’s perhaps the most perfect thirty minutes of choreography I’ve ever seen. Sardines fly, hatchets swing, lovers slap, then faint, then reconcile. It’s all hysterical. Act Three? Suffice to say this ain’t MacBeth. But if you want to know what happens…you’ll have to go see that for yourself.

Cast of How to NOT Save the World with Mr. Bezos. Photo by Benjamin Rose.

How to NOT Save the World with Mr. Bezos

Boston Playwrights’ Theatre

November 7-24, 2024

Boston Playwrights’ Theatre produces only new work, mostly by MFA Students in BU’s playwrighting program. I’m always intrigued by things that are still finding their way. And though some plays at BPT that are interesting in their own right, what’s usually most interesting is registering the ways in which fledgling playwrights hit and miss.

How to NOT Save the World with Mr. Bezos has a promising premise. A journalist (Becca A. Lewis) interviews Jeff Bezos (Mark W. Soucy) to explore the social consciousness of a billionaire who’s materially changed our world. I can imagine that a fascinating conversation. But the premise is undermined before the journalist even opens her mouth when she unbuttons her shirt to expose cleavage in a most unprofessional manner. Having abandoned verisimilitude, playwright Maggie Kearnan serves up virtually every theatrical trick in the book. There’s a black out, clothes come off, necks are sliced, blood spurts. The content of the so-called interview is lackluster since Jeff Bezos doesn’t spout anything we don’t already know, and the so-called journalist is a sham from the start. Fortunately, there’s this wonderful other voice: the fact checker (Robbie Rodriguez), who turns out to be more engaging than the main event. The play is too literal to come off as absurd; too spot-on to play as satire. But I give Ms. Kearnan kudos for tackling so much.

Annika Bolton and Mairead O’Neill in Soft Star. Photo by Amelia Cordischi.

Soft Star

Boston Playwrights’ Theatre

November 8-25, 2024

Soft Star, by Tina Esper, is Bezos’ polar opposite We follow a pair of lifelong friends in rural Minnesota as they navigate boys who become husbands, jealousy, and babies. The play has several well drawn insights into how we grow into adulthood, but ultimately the story’s too tame. Soft Star includes a few magical moments when Jane (Annika Bolton) displays her gift to nourish and communicate with birds. I look forward to Tina Esper giving us more of that magic.

Sandra Seone-Seri and Diego Arciniegas in Galileo’s Daughter. Photo by Maggie Hall.

Galileo’s Daughter

Central Square Theater

November 14 – December 8, 2024

Central Square Theater continues its admirable productions of plays that highlight women in science with Galileo’s Daughter. Italian scientist and heretic Galileo placed his eldest—illegitimate—daughter in a convent at a young age. 120 of her letters survive, portraying a devout daughter keenly interested in her father’s work. Those letters are the basis for the 1999 book, Galileo’s Daughter by Dava Sobel, as well as this play. The story is touching, though hardly enough substance for a full-length play. Perhaps that’s why playwright Jessica Dickey inserted another character: the Writer, a contemporary New Yorker in Florence to research the letters. The theatrical device is compelling, but ultimately comes up short, as the Writer’s back story is offered in tiny nuggets, so the audience does not much care about her. Until, late in the play, we realize that she is the actual character going through a transformation, and we feel a bit cheated. As if the play is somehow mistitled. Nevertheless, the production is sharp and Diego Arciniegas as Galileo and a slew of other 17th and 21st century characters is just wonderful.

Cast of Tartuffe at Hub Theatre Company of Boston. Photo by Maggie Hall.

Tartuffe

Hub Theatre Company of Boston

November 9-24, 2024

Ten seasons in, Hub Theatre Company of Boston continues to dazzle on a dime. Lauren Elias, Founder, Artistic Director, frequent actor and all-around hilarious human being has made an astounding concept thrive: every seat at every performance of every Hub Theatre show is Pay-What-You-Like. I kid you not. Yet their productions are top notch. Tartuffe adds yet another quality notch to Hub’s belt of successes. Today is a perfect time to revisit Moliere’s satire on hypocrisy (in a witty translation by Richard Wilbur.) The set and costumes are a clever confusion of eighteenth-century French Court fashion layered over jeans from the actor’s home closets. The contrast works brilliantly, as does every contemporary touch director Bryn Boice brings to the play. The production sizzles with the gee-whiz enthusiasm of “Let’s put on a show.” The ensemble cast’s timing is impeccable: every joke in the script lands and the stage antics are hysterical. When Act One ended, with the audience howling, I could scarcely believe that time had passed. And Act Two was just as funny!

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The Thanksgiving Play. It’s Not What You Think. It’s Way Better.

The Thanksgiving Play

Moonbox Productions

November 21 – December 15, 2024

Forgive me for being wary when I read the flyer for The Thanksgiving Play, written by Larissa Fasthorse and directed by Tara Moses, Seminole Nation of Oklahoma/Mvskoke. I pictured an audience of affluent white folks being brow-beaten by the sins of our forefathers.

The first ten minutes reinforced my fears. Uber correct elementary school drama teacher Logan (Jasmine Rochelle Goodspeed) and her wannabe equally woke boyfriend Jaxton (Johnny Gordon) trade politically correct drivel in a perfectly rendered public school classroom as they prepare to create a Thanksgiving play for their students. Among Logan’s listicle of development grants is one to celebrate Native American Month. She’s actually hired a Native American to star in the show! Geeky history teacher/theater nut Caden joins the process. Just when the overwrought language of inclusion wears so thin as to become humorous, Alicia (Marisa Diamond) arrives—fabulously late. The featured actress is no one’s conception of a Native American. Turns out she’s just a garden variety Disney Princess who sports seven different head shot identities to increase her chances of getting a gig. You want Jasmine? Mulan? Pocahontas? Alicia will deliver.

Between classroom scenes, the actors realign to deliver direct snippets from actual teacher training manuals, You Tube videos, and media reports that illuminate how corrosive depiction of Native Americans continue in our society to this day.

The four white characters, charged with creating a culturally appropriate Thanksgiving play, tangle and twist and contort themselves so far from original purpose they wind up realizing, “Whatever, it’s theatre. We don’t need actual Native Americans to tell a Native American story.” The play moves from the intractable problems of playing redface to a joyful acceptance of whiteface with so much hilarity, by the time The Thanksgiving Play descends into farce, and gallons of white paint cover everyone, playwright Larissa Fasthorse’s point is well made: all this circular angst is not getting us anywhere near the roots of the structural inequities of our world.

The play ends on an ambiguous note that I will not spoiler alert. Except to say, that while it feels vacuous in the stage moment, it resonates true long afterward.

Cast of The Thanksgiving Play. Photo by Smugmug.

My habit is to read the program, and other media, after I’ve seen a play. I like the fewest possible preconceptions. Director Moses noted that the script reads, “BIPOC that can pass as white should be considered.” I find that a telling note in an era when progressive culture has straight-jacketed actors into identity silos where, for sure, white actors cannot play anything else but. The program goes on to proclaim that all four actors are Native American. After seeing so many white guys play Injuns for so much of my life, this seems fine, even refreshing. But I wondered whether the program writers observed the same play I just did—where the entire idea of slicing humans into so many discrete, disconnected identities yields us exactly: nothing.

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Mindplay

Mindplay

The Huntington

November 13 to December 1, 2024

Calderwood Pavilion, Boston

December 15, 2024 to April 20, 2025

Greenwich House Theater, New York City

Program Cover Photo. Credit Unknown.

A few minutes into Mindplay, mentalist Vinny DePonto asks the question hanging from the curtain beyond him. “What’s on your mind?” He answers his own question in Big Brother fashion. “When someone knows this, they can control you.”

Then, through ninety minutes and a dozen or so audience members (selected at random from a fish bowl of the envelopes each audience member completed and sealed before entering the theatre), Vinny proceeds to control our minds. Or, at least, peer into them with chilling accuracy.

Mindplay has a vintage, vaudevillian sensibility—grainy black and white slide projections, cassette recordings, tales of a billiard-loving grandmother and magic-teaching grandfather—coupled with 21st century neurology. Vinny accompanies his mental machinations with a fair smattering of how our brains work. And how they don’t. And how they work in ways we don’t understand.

His sleights of mind are amazing. The audience gasps again and again when volunteers confirm that he’s correctly mined their minds. Vinny convinces one volunteer that her empty right arm is supporting a bucket of water, her left a balloon; and her arms lower and rise accordingly. He slows his pulse to zero; we see him grow chill. Then he slides behind a stage curtain and reappears at the rear of the theater quicker than Star Trek could beam him up. The most impressive trick, to me, involved two volunteers sitting opposite lengths of a table. Vinny cajoled thoughts from one, and shifted them, somehow, to the other. Returning to the original, he then lightly touched her, while the other volunteer felt the pinch.

Merely describing these feats in words dissipates the wonder of the experience. My mind was at play the entire time trying to understand the what and where and how of his magic.

Vinny DePonto among the file drawers of our brain. Photo by Jeff Lorch.

When the curtain parts to display an impressive set of gunmetal grey steel file drawers, representing how we store information, Mindplay feels like an actual play. Vinny roves among the data depositories, extracting all manner of cranial curiosities. Drawers ring and glow and shake. He climbs among them like a jungle gym. All the while extolling neurological delights.

The final segment, back before the curtain, is—sadly—the most unsettling. Vinny extracts some difficult memories from a lovely older woman, who winds up crying onstage. Whether this is typical of all performances, or was singular to ours, I’ll never know. But it felt unnecessary, in the least; exploitative, at best.

Nevertheless, the after-show vibe in the theater lobby was unlike any I’ve witnessed. People clustered around the various volunteers, inquiring whether they were plants (they were not) and whether all that they said and did onstage was true. I met the woman who reacted to being touched, even when Vinny was touching someone else. Did she actually feel those pinches? Yes, she confirmed, she did.

Vinny DePonto and volunteers in Mindplay. Photo by Chris Ruggiero.

Oh, and did I mention ice cream? There’s a through line about ice cream from first scene to last. One of the volunteers admits to craving strawberry. And there, in the lobby, for all to enjoy at the end of the show, were hundreds of little dishes of…strawberry ice cream from J.P Licks. By this time my mind was blown so wide open, I simply swallowed down the sweet, delicious stuff.

Mindplay is not much longer in Boston. But the show is moving to an extended run in New York. If you can’t catch it here, perhaps Vinny DePonto can teleport you there.

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The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

This summer, I reread The Heart is Lonely Hunter. Carson McCullers’ masterpiece, published in 1940 when the author was 23-years-old, is a perennial feature on many “Best Of’ book lists. (Ranked #17 in The Modern Library List of 100 Best Novels, among others). Thirty years after my first encounter, the novel is as piercing and vibrant as I remembered. But a singular attribute struck me in a fresh light.

Today, I doubt that the author of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter could find a publisher.

The central character of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is a middle-aged deaf man. As the novel opens, fastidious Mr. Singer lives with another mute, a messy, obese Greek named Antonopoulos. In short order Antonopoulos gets in trouble and his cousin commits him to an asylum, a feasible plot turn in 1930’s America. In time, an odd assortment of misfits attaches themselves to Mr. Singer. Biff Brannon, a man of wide and weird sexual tendencies, owns The New York dinner, which is open pretty much all the time. Jake Blount is an alcoholic socialist and carnival mechanic. Dr. Benedict Copeland is a Negro physician drowning in the inequities of his place and time. Mick Kelly is a tomboy with dreams well beyond her family’s boarding house in this Georgia mill town. There’s also a bevy of supporting characters, Black and white, intelligent and illiterate, each believable and sympathetic.

The novel has a plot, insomuch as time passes and things happen among the various characters. But what makes it an irresistible read are the characters themselves, so unique, so real, so richly rendered.

Which is the reason, of course, that The Heart is a Lonely Hunter would have a tough time finding a publisher in 2024. A 23-year-old white woman who escapes the Deep South to find literary acclaim might well write about a restless tomboy. But how could she possibly (regardless how sensitive) pretend to write about a deaf person, a tortured night-owl, a socialist, and a frustrated Negro? Aren’t these each distinct people, with distinct identities? How dare Ms. McCullers presume to give them voice?

Such are the blinders of our identity-driven age. So fixed on how we are different that we dismiss our commonalities. The genius of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is not the peculiarity of each character. Rather, it is the universal humanity that motivates them all. Anyone who reads this amazing book will see themselves in every character, and in some small way bridge the artificial divides we have created in the name of…I’m really not sure.

The heart is a lonely hunter, regardless the color of our skin or the digits on our bank statement. Human connection is always a challenge. Yet in our era of stupendous communication capability, we have managed to make it all the more difficult. Thank goodness to Carson McCullers’ beautiful recitation which acknowledges that, yes, we are all alone. But at least we’re all alone together.

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A Universal Tale of Folks Unlike Me

Sojourners

The Huntington

October 31 – December 1, 2024

Abigail C. Onwunali and Asha Basha Duniani in Sojourners. Photo by Marc J. Franklin

The Huntington is spearheading the Ufot Family Cycle, a series of nine plays by playwright MFoniso Udofia that chronicle the experience of a Nigerian-American family in this country. The plays will be presented over the next two years in and around Boston. The scope of this project is impressive, yet it seemed particularly poignant that opening night of the first play in the series, Sojourners, took place on Wednesday November 6, the day after our country elected Donald Trump to another presidential term. The characters in Ms. Udofia’s plays do not represent President Trump’s vision of America. And yet here they are, American as you and I, though perhaps without an appreciation of apple pie.

Elections and politics aside, I was looking forward to seeing Sojourners because I had attended the opening rehearsal of this production, and was keen to see how it had evolved from a table read to a full production.

Sojourners is a chamber play, sometimes called, less kindly, a kitchen sink drama. There are only four characters; never do they all appear on stage. The setting is domestic, even proletariat. The costumes are vintage; loud nylon shirts and bell bottoms circa 1978. So I wondered how The Huntington would bring a play long on themes but short on visual splendor to their main stage.

The Huntington is famous for its elaborate sets, and they triumph in this production by creating a dingy apartment, a garish gas station, a claustrophobic dorm room, and a hospital ward, each meager yet imbued with a presence worthy of main stage. The trick is three screens, full stage height and width, entwined with curved metal that open and close to reveal only that stage portion where action occurs. The screens are elegant, yet also reminiscent of marsh or grasslands. And of course, they are cages. The action is tightly circumscribed, as are the lives of the sojourners.

Joshua Olumide in Sojourners. Photo by Marc J. Franklin

The plot of Sojourners is tragic. The actors are wonderful, though at times the desire to faithfully relay English with a Nigerian accent left me, and many around me, confused, even lost. Nevertheless,. Ms. Udofia is as much poet as playwright, and her language rolled out and over the audience, a tidal surge of human yearning.

Because this is the first of nine plays, some plot points are left dangling; taste teasers for future productions. And the decision that the main character, Abasiama, makes in the final moments of the play is so shocking I can hardly wait to see what will happen next (in The Grove, February 2025).

The true resonance of Sojourners is a universal story of striving and failing and striving again. None of the characters bear the least resemblance to my own life, and yet I identified with each of them, was honored to spend time with them, and want to spend more time with them. That’s what universal stories are—they tap into what we share rather than highlight how we are different.

Sojourners is the perfect palate cleanser to this post-election moment. Go see it, and be nourished.

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Make Our Garden Grow

All photos Courtesy YouTubeTV: BBC Proms

Yesterday, Election Day 2024, I was a poll worker at my local precinct, as I am every election day. We are a great crew at Cambridge Ward Three Precinct Nine. After taking our dawn oath to uphold the Constitution of the United States, we spend the day making the Constitution’s promise real: treating each voter with respect, providing any assistance they may need to cast their vote, counting, checking rechecking that every vote is properly cast: only once. An orderly exercise in democracy. The work’s not difficult, but it’s exhilarating. To greet my neighbors, to witness the incredible array of people who inhabit my tiny corner of a city, to be a small cog in the process we call democracy.

This election, we had a new member of our crew. When Namran and I chatted during a break I asked why he decided to do this work. “I am from Iran, where a couple of clerics hand down the names of four pre-selected people, and they call it an election. What happens in this country is beyond our imagination. I wanted to be part of it.”

I returned home, exhausted, and went to bed. The actual results of the election I’d just participated in could wait.

I woke refreshed, with a song in my head. “Make Our Garden Grow,” from Leonard Bernstein’s Candide. That tune told me, immediately, that whatever the election results, I will be fine.

I’ll keep on doing what I do; lending my voice and my hand to people and causes I care about.

I opened the internet to discover a Trump sweep: a majority vote, an Electoral College victory, with Congress in his pocket.

The gut-wrenching reality of democracy is: we get the government we deserve. Unlike the citizens of Iran, we have freely chosen Donald Trump to be our president. If the ramifications of such a choice turn dire, we have no one to blame.

The personal ramifications of another Trump presidency vary for each of us,. But they are immediate, and they are real. For me, the two Haitians I love most, and applied to sponsor under Biden’s parole program, will now languish in Haiti for who knows how many more years. But I will continue to tutor Haiti immigrants here, helping them navigate our confusing country, marveling at their energy and initiative, so completely opposite the caricatures Trump denigrates.

Human history is written in blood. We are tribal, fearful violent, possessive. Although I agree with Martin Luther King Jr.’s assessment that, “the moral arc of the universes is long, and it bends towards justice,” I also know that arc is riddled with kinks, and often suffers reversals. I believe that the election of Donald Trump is one of those kinks. I will accept it as the will of the American people, but I will not let it bend me from my pursuit of a peaceful, equitable society. To look for the best—rather than the worst— in each of us. To address anger with kindness. To counter fear with hope. To meet hate with love.

Anthems are stirring songs, too often used to excite people with puffed up patriarchy and patriotism. I love “Make Our Garden Grow” because it is an anthem of nourishment, of community. When it filled my head this morning I knew it would sustain me through whatever reckoning our country has inflicted upon itself.

Perhaps it will offer solace and inspiration to others baffled by choice we have made.

Make Our Garden Grow

You’ve been a fool
And so have I,
But come and be my wife.
And let us try,
Before we die,
To make some sense of life.

We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow…
And make our garden grow.

I thought the world
Was sugar cake
For so our master said.
But, now I’ll teach
My hands to bake
Our loaf of daily bread.

We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow…
And make our garden grow.

What worlds they please
Those Edens can’t be found.
The sweetest flowers,
The fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground.

We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.
And make our garden grow!

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