It's been a week since I hit the WGA pickets. As a former writer of the show Girlfriends and writer-for-hire with a signatory albeit small indie film company, my butt is expected to be on line, dancing the dance of solidarity. But thank the Stars, there's no picketing over the weekend in NYC and I've been consumed with the finishing touches of my screenplay [I got a feeling the strike will be over in a week and I want the producers to know I'm ready to rock and soul]. Wishing thinking? Yes. But I’m an artist living in Nueva York, if I don’t wish big, my landlord may get nervous.
So I'm gearing myself up this morning for another two-hour romp in front of The View and All My Children. And honestly, I'm not hyped. Yes, the Strike is nearing its third month. Animation and reality have been removed from negotiations. And the hope of bountiful residuals from internet downloads and streaming is feeling more like a probability. But besides for the camaraderie of my strike-captain, being corralled in a circle with a few dozen, pensive and often cliquish writers is as much fun as waiting in line for a 3 for 1 sale on rocks.
But if I can be real: it's not just that. It's sometimes being the only one. Yes, I mean, the only brother, the only color. There's no secret that the film and TV industry is dominated by white male writers, and trust, they're quite aware of who sits in those writer rooms and who gets what deal from what exec. So when you're out there on the picket, you get that "Who are you?" and “I wonder where he works?" glance. And then the question: "So where do you uh write?" And you hold your breath and swallow your frustration and explain you once wrote for Girlfriends, and they nod because most writers of color write for shows about folks of color, so they grin and smile and say, "I don't know that show". Yeh, even after eight seasons.
I imagine that's what my father felt on the picket a decade ago. The first black trucker for Kroger in Cincinnati. And certainly one of their first black Teamsters. And on one of their many strikes, he'd be out-there raising eyebrows with his blackness, and having to define his presence as a man on the line so his family can eat well and live in comfort. Just like them. But he was out there anyway. Wind, rain or shine. And most likely not complaining.
So as throw on my long-johns and gear up for another day walking in solidarity, another day of “Who are you” and “Who could you possibly write for?”, I think of my dad. It’s cold out there on that picket, and I obviously don’t just mean the weather.
Keith Josef Adkins is an award-winning playwright and screenwriter.
