“How’s the thing going with Disney?”
“You know, they have all these concrete barriers up around the studio? Like outside there’s this acknowledgment that we’re all in serious trouble. Then you go inside, and you’re sitting in some executive’s office trying to sell an idea, and they tell you they’re only buying things that meet their mandate, which you know and they know will be completely different next week. And, anyhow, whatever it is, it’s not about anything that counts. It’s not about those concrete barriers and what they mean. It’s like they have no concept of the actual world in there.”
“But you sold it. You got the deal.”
“But I’m not so happy about it.”
I know what he means. I’ve been in those rooms, my purse bulging with small bottles of water offered to make it seem as if attention is being paid, and guest passes that allow you through the studio gates but not into a place you recognize as having any connection to the place you’re from. And my son is following the same thorny path. He’s a writer. He’s a writer, like his mother. And although I worry about how he’ll deal with rejection and compromise and even success, I can’t help feeling glad he’s a writer. Glad and hopeful.
The market is in full swing now. And the breeze from the ocean brings such relief, it’s enough to make you feel, for a moment, that everything is fine. I can tell my son feels this, too. But he breaks the reverie. Someone had to.
“All those articles you send me that I wish you would stop sending me, well, I actually started reading them,” he says. “I mean, why isn’t the world in an uproar? Why are we worried about bird flu when women are being mutilated and raped? Why aren’t we marching on Congress for that? And nobody has a clue why we’re in Iraq, but we would know why we were in Darfur. And maybe the privileged white kids who’d go to Canada to avoid a war they don’t understand might actually go to war to stop men from killing women. I’d have no problem. Well, except for food and bathrooms.”
I laugh. And then I ask him how living with me, and not living with both his parents, affected his feelings about women.
“Is this a trick question?”
“Seriously.”
“If you’re raised by a single mother, then you know a woman is as strong as a man—stronger. I’ve seen mothers save their kids’ lives. I think boys brought up by their mothers are closer to them. It gives you more respect for the opposite sex. And I feel an obligation to write women stronger.”
I am proud of him always, but at this moment I am also sure of him.
Back in New York, the phone rings. “So, what are their names, Mom? The women in India and Darfur and Pakistan and China and here, in this country. What are their names?”
I read from my clippings. “Usha, Ye Xiang, Solange, Mukhtar.”
“That’s your new mantra.”
——
As a little boy, my son imagined saving children and animals. Maybe just his imagining protected them. As a man, my son loves women for their bodies, their difference, their strength. Maybe one man’s love can be an example to other men. As a writer, my son portrays women the way he sees them. Maybe what he writes will one day let them be seen.
The Perfect Marriage
Edward Albee
It was the perfect marriage, they said; my family said; his family said; we said; everybody said. And it was! We didn’t rush into it; we took our time; we made sure we had about as good a chance as anybody could. All our—what do they call them?—all our “compatibilities” were where they should be—where we were happy with: temperament, intelligence, expectations … sex? Everything. It was the perfect marriage. And it was. We were really, really in love and … happy.… That’s the only word.
Then … five years in, a long five years in, this … “thing” happened that threw everything out of joint. Our sex life was … I hate words like “wonderful” or “deeply satisfying” but it was. We were equals in bed, enthusiastic, passionate, understanding. And then this thing happened and it all shifted.
One night … No! It was an afternoon, a Sunday afternoon, we were up in the bedroom, making love. The twins were at their grandparents’—my parents, I think—and we were relaxed and laughing, having a really good time. We were horsing around and by accident my knee caught him right in the jaw, bam! “Oh, I’m sorry,” I laughed, and … and I saw a look on his face I … I couldn’t place and he said … “That felt good.” “No, I’m sorry,” I said. “No,” he said. “That felt good. I liked it. Do it again.” “What?” “Do it again,” he said. “Use your fist. Do it again!” “No!” I said. “Please! Please!” he begged—he actually begged! “Do it!” And so I did; I gave him a swipe on the jaw—nothing much. “Harder!” he said, and I didn’t like his tone. “No,” I said. “Yes!” he said. “Harder!” And his voice was ugly. And so I hit him with my fist and it hurt. “Ungh,” he said, a groan, and then he smiled. “You made me come,” he said. And he kissed me.
(Pause.) That was the beginning. I didn’t want to; I hated it, but he was so loving and so … satisfied, I guess. I was making him … happy? The welts? The blood? Happy? Well, yes, it would seem.
But where we’d been happy together, now he was, and I wasn’t. Well, making him happy had always been what I’d wanted and what I worked at—in bed, out? But I was crying a lot. We’d come to bed and he’d bring things for me to use—to try, and I would do it and it was awful and he got off on it—why didn’t I leave?—and then … and then it began to change. I began to see that … that I wasn’t hating it; that it was beginning to turn me on. And that moved fast and it got to where I couldn’t wait! The cutting! The burning! The … hurt was what I wanted, was what I had become. Pain; degradation; that was … I was enjoying it! It turned me on! And it was so … compartmentalized. No one knew. No one saw anything different in us; I was careful where to hurt him; he dressed heavy at his gym and didn’t shower there anymore; he … it was just between us; no one saw; no one knew and I’d never told anyone. And it was … working. The sex worked; our lives worked. It was just that … we’d become … other people. I had become other people. It seemed entirely … normal; it worked.
And then … and then yesterday happened. We’d had dinner with some friends. We came home; we spoke to the nanny; we said goodnight to the twins. They asked why tickling each other works but tickling themselves doesn’t. “It’s all about what turns you on,” he said to them. “What does that mean?” they said. “Never mind,” I said. We went off to our room; we got ready for bed. I put on my harness and all. I watched him undress, ran my hand over some of his scars. “Off we go,” I said. “Why don’t we just go to sleep,” he said. “No!” I said. “I have something for you.” “All right,” he said—shrugging, I think. It wasn’t much, a new way of doing something old—but “better.” We started the routine; I started cursing and I spit at him—not at his face yet; I saved that. He was getting with it. And I took the little gouge I’d gotten us and I’d put it in him … in his, you know … and I began to turn it and … THAT HURT!!! He screamed at me. THAT HURT ME!!! And there was pain in it and … and something more … there was … rage! YOU HURT ME!!! And there was hatred in his eyes and … spit coming from his mouth. YOU HURT ME!!! And he didn’t move. And then he slapped me—hard!! And stared at me with such … hatred? Maybe. I don’t know. I backed off. “I’m sorry,” I said and I left our room, him just staring at me, something … something in his eyes I didn’t understand. At least I didn’t think I did. But, maybe I did—maybe I do. He doesn’t want the person he turned me into anymore—who he made me into wasn’t … What does he want!? Is he through with the game? This game? Does he want me out of the leather? Out of the harness? Does he want it all back the way it was before he ripped out who I was and made me who he wanted—what he wanted? I can’t go back to that! I … I … I don’t know how! I don’t know who I was!! Or … was that what I saw in his eyes even more!? Does he want the leather? Is he going to strap on the harness, and am I going to learn to lik
e to hurt? To be cut? Is that what he’s after—a complete turn around!? And am I supposed to learn to like this—become this?
(Eyes far away.) I probably can. I became the other. I love him so much. I love our perfect marriage so much. But … if I can do this—if I can take the burns and the whippings and the knives—if I can learn to love that—become that, then somewhere I will have passed back through who I was before it all began. I’ll move past who I was when it all began. And I don’t remember that; I don’t remember her! I remember we were perfect. Everybody said so. And we said so. We were perfect. But … who were we? Who was I? Who am I? I can’t do anything. I can’t leave. I don’t know who I am!
(End)
None of Us Are Monologists (aka Chill)
Anna Deavere Smith
December 1996—an expensive New York loft or apartment—a snowy night.
Gaudelieve, tall, Rwandan, Tutsi, beautiful, a model, early twenties, facing us, scantily dressed but wearing animal fur of some kind—mink, maybe, full-length, boots, long expensive earrings, huge rock on her left hand, sipping Scotch on the rocks. Accent is French and Kinyarwandan combined.
Beside her is Olivia, white, a stylist, American, Gaudelieve’s age, average height, in the hippest possible clothing and hair but not “done.” Perhaps a couple of piercings.
The two women face the audience the entire time and look at each other only when it is specifically stated.
OLIVIA
She’s talking about what happened tonight, James.
(Pause)
Before you went for sushi.
After the Nan Goldin show.
It happened outside of the Whitney, on the street.
GAUDELIEVE
(Calm)
James. Tonight we leavin’ the party, and dis big guy, he got his lady and he draggin’ her on the ground—
OLIVIA
(Calm)
Hold on a minute, James—
GAUDELIEVE
(On her feet, accelerating, suddenly full volume, yelling, her side of a full-fledged fight)
What you mean—“For Chrissake, we don’t haff to go over dis again, do we?” Dis don’t have nothing to do wif Christ!
OLIVIA
(Immediate—no buildup. They’re there—enough to wake the neighbors, gloves are off, words are flying)
What am I doing here at four A.M.? Who am I? Just a hack who does her makeup—not a fancy-pants. I don’t belong in your fancy lair, is that what you mean? I used to be fancy enough to bring girls to you up here or Paris/Berlin/Milan/Saint Tropez/wherever, before you met her, right? Oh? Oh? Oh?
GAUDELIEVE
(Another increase in volume and intensity)
How we gonna went “over it” already …
OLIVIA
(She’s loud; a barrage of words)
Honest to God, Jesus Christ, James—she came to my place at one A.M. and asked me to come back here to talk to you—obviously she didn’t feel comfortable coming back here alone to deal with you. Ever think of that? What? Snorting? Snorting what? You know damn well I’m clean! Oh, James, really? What, specifically, did she snort and when? Before she met you, she never drank anything stronger than porridge, goats’ milk, and Coca-Cola—’course everybody drinks Coca-Cola. ’Course.
GAUDELIEVE
(Even louder, what a duet. Poor James)
How we gonna “went over it already, at Nobu,” James, when everybody talking, drinkin’ sake, laughing?
OLIVIA
(In charge, outshouting them both)
I’m just saying—James! The two of you saw two different things tonight, and you need to talk about it!
GAUDELIEVE
(Top of the fight)
You thinks you want to marry me, but you don’t know me, James.
(Big pause / shift / quiet now)
GAUDELIEVE
I am talking about tonight. About what you did when the big guy draggin’ his lady on the ground! Right in front of you face. What did you do? Anything? Outside of the musee. Her—head—on—the—ice—on the ground! And I’m like, “James, we gotta ’elp dis woman!”
(Pause)
… And the big guy go out into the street, and he get a taxi to come. And he tryin’ to put the lady in the taxi, but she falling out, she keep falling out, and I’m seein’ dis an’ I’m like, “She gonna broke her neck, she gonna broke her head.” An’ I’m tryin’ to help, and you pullin’ me back, James. And all you mazungos just watchin’. And the taxi driver get out and he yelling—because he—don’t—want—to—have—to—wait—while the girl get in the car. (Acting this out)
The taxi driver screaming: “Get in the car—you fucking you mother—”
OLIVIA
Motherfucker.
GAUDELIEVE
—and the mazungos, the white guy wif de lady, he screaming back at the taxi driver, “You shut your mouth, you … you …”
OLIVIA
“Q-tip.” She told me the white guy called the Muslim cabdriver a Q-tip. My God …
GAUDELIEVE
Dey bof yelling, and I’m like, to bof of dem: “Why you so raging? You got you home, you got you life, you got your, your … democracy …
OLIVIA
(Under her breath)
So-called.
GAUDELIEVE
And the big guy hit the taxi driver! I’m, like, ’orrified, and James, you like, “Chill. Chill. Sssh. Ssshh.” And the lady, she on the ground wif her head scraping the ground. She like—
OLIVIA
Upside down. Un-fucking-believable.
GAUDELIEVE
And the taxi driver go off fast, mad, loud. Another taxi come, and the big guy got the woman like dis, like a sack, like a refugee sack—and he pick her up and push—
OLIVIA
—shoves—
GAUDELIEVE
—her in the cab. Like a sack—a sack—a sack—
(Pause)
I look at all you mazungos, you white people—you all jus’ looking. Jus’ watching—looking—an’ James, dass when you broke the straw of the camel.
OLIVIA
James, apparently, the straw that broke the camel’s back was what you said about how “that was a nice piece of downtown performance art”? Did you really say that, James?
(Pause—They stare him down, not with hostility but with scrutiny and curiosity, as if he is an object they’ve never seen before)
Oh.
(Olivia and Gaudelieve turn quickly and look at each other, which they have not done till now, and then they face front again)
You were just repeating what an art critic in the crowd said? (Beat; Gaudelieve and Olivia look at each other again) I personally try to be careful who I quote. I mean, why give more airtime to bullshit?
(Beat)
GAUDELIEVE
James—tonight make Rwanda come on my mind. Strong. About when the Hutus, they gonna kill my youngest brother—my mother was by his side in the road? You know dat story, right? But you don’t really know. Tonight make me think I gotta tell you—the whole story. My mother, she put her arms out like this—(Stretches her arms out)
Begging? And the Hutu soldier wif de machete said to her: “Why is it dat you Tutsi women always putting you arms out like beggars, let me help you so you don’t have to do that anymore.” And he cut them. Her arms. Like he cut dem, but—off.
OLIVIA
(Quietly)
Amputated them.
GAUDELIEVE
’E emputate dem. And den dey killed my brother, and den dey killed her. I saw it.
(Pause)
You know I saw dem kill my mother, but you didn’t know I saw it dat way. Even though we went over it. Before.
OLIVIA
What she’s trying to tell you, James, is—
GAUDELIEVE
(Fast)
I am sitting here in my Tutsi looks, talking to you, in my same looks that got my family killed, that got my father killed, that got my mother killed—my sisters, my cousins, m
y aunts—these same looks that got my oldest brother hiding in a septic tank for three months, never seeing the light until the rebels came and took Kigali back.
(She sips her Scotch calmly; this could be a commercial for single-malt Scotch if the sound were turned down)
Wif de same Tutsi looks, toll and skeeny, like a Tutsi, toll and skeeny as I am, never short like a Hutu, so obviously a Tutsi—I didn’t go in a septic tank. I ran. I went to Europe and went in a fas-shion magazine. You know this. James. But you don’t know.
(Another sip of her drink)
Isn’t that where you fust saw me, James? Wif dose niiiccce, expensive underwears, wif my long Tutsi legs, dey make dem look longer, in dat niiccce … fas-shion magazine—
OLIVIA
(Under, quick, sneaking it in so as not to interrupt)
German Vogue.
GAUDELIEVE
Remember, James? Dat fust time when you approach me in—the bar? Heming, Heming …
OLIVIA
The Hemingway bar in Paris. The dude had bars all over the damned world. Paris, Havana—
GAUDELIEVE
But you were very angry, James, at dat time—about the genocide. You told me what you had heard about Rwanda, what you had read in your papers, not much had been writ-ten. What had been writ-ten—
OLIVIA
—was like Disneyland compared to the real hell going on. But it was enough to piss you off.
GAUDELIEVE
(Musically)
You tol me dat a col-league in you business telled you? Told you?
OLIVIA
“In Rwanda, cars are German, watches are Swiss, and the women are Tutsi.”
(Pause)
Un-damned-believable.
GAUDELIEVE