Five years ago something bone-crazy happened. A white benefactor contacted a national playwright membership to commission someone to write a story about a real-life incident involving a black man at a white college. An African-American playwright was chosen and that playwright set out to write one hell of a play. [For the record, I'm NOT talking about myself].
When the play was finished a reading was set up for the generous benefactor to hear and cheer. During the reading the benefactor said nothing. She blinked, belched even from what I'm told. But she said not one word. After the reading, she pulled the membership administrators to the side and informed them she was not pleased. In her words—the African-American writer was too close to the material. She preferred a playwright who could translate the story and leave out the emotional and personal connection. [Now this last bit was my interpretation of what I describe as blatant insanity, but hey, let me have that.] Needless to say, the African-American playwright was pulled from the gig, and the benefactor extended a new commission to a non-black writer.
For the last several years, there has been a rise in white storytellers telling black story, or story with black content. Stephen Belber and his McReele, Marsha Norman and her book for Broadway's The Color Purple, George Stevens Jr. of the forthcoming Thurgood with Laurence Fishburne, Beau Willimon's Lower Ninth, Thomas Gibbons' Permanent Collection, [and yes, I'm going to continue to name them. i'm on a frigging roll] Bob Glaudini's A View From 151st Street, Romulus Linney's adaptation of A Lesson Before Dying...
Now, of course, this isn't a new phenomena. White storytellers have been pimping black content for centuries. Oscar Hammerstein and the black-infused Carmen Jones, Jerry Horwin and Stormy Weather. It's been a part of how we Americans ingest the story of the marginalized: through the eyes of others. But lately many white storytellers have taken great leaps in their exploration of black: there's less empathizing and more in-depth investigation. Hey, it's a wi-fi planet and folks have more access to the ins and outs of what makes black tick, or hip.
A few years ago, I wrote a play about a black slumlord in Harlem and how he was reaping havoc on the residents of Sugar Hill. It was a gritty play, a play that explored how some blacks exploit and undermine their own fragile communities. Well, the play was read by a major New York Theater who told me they enjoyed it, but they already had their urban, Harlem play for the season. A play written by a white playwright. I was devastated, of course. Every playwright wants to believe their work is great and worthy of a major production. I needed a revengeful release. So I toyed with the notion of finding this playwright and charging him with trumping opportunity with his ability to filter black without the burden of personal and emotional connection. I didn't. I'm contemplative, not crazy.
A year or so ago, a white playwright-friend, was commissioned to write a play about a community of black women in Alabama. After a successful reading of the play, the artistic director walks up to her, pauses a moment and says, Too bad you're not black. Yeh, you're right—he produced the play anyway. But when my playwright-friend told me the story I thought: Have folks gotten THAT bold? And if he wanted a black playwright to write a play about black women in Alabama why didn't he commission a black playwright.
I love theater. No doubt. The telling of story on a live stage with a live audience is probably the oldest surviving ritual on the planet [next to the drawing on caves, and music]. And something about that feels primal. But it's often complicated when the playing field for plays widen, and anyone is welcome to tell your story. Anyone who's capable of pulling out the personal and emotional. [And often that "anyone" does not include you].
