The following is a short piece I performed with the New York NeoFuturists, a theater troupe that performs 30 plays in 60 minutes, in their annual queer-themed fundraiser, TOO MUCH PRIDE MAKES THE BABY GO GAY in 2016.
Legacy of Love
by Chisa Hutchinson
CHISA: Some years ago, I wrote a play called SHE LIKE GIRLS which, as the title might suggest, is about inner-city lesbians. I wrote it as a tribute to a 15 year-old girl from my hometown of Newark, NJ who, after deflecting sexual advances with the declaration that she had a girlfriend, was stabbed to death by the man who had failed to seduce her with his obvious charisma. To add insult to fatal injury, there was virtually no coverage of her death, national or otherwise.
This fucked me up a little on the inside. So I wrote the play. And I got a reading of the play and, because one typically wants her loved ones there to share in moments that are significant to her, I invited my Ma. And she was game until she found out what the play is about. She was a good Christian woman, after all, with some pretty distinct ideas about what penises and vaginas are for. Put it to you like this: this is the woman who, when I summarized ANGELS IN AMERICA for her, inquired in startling earnest if Joe Pitt won against his demons. So yeah. She awkwardly declined.
She had a harder time refusing me when I got a production, however. I guilted her pretty badly, so she winced her way through the whole thing and, during the standing ovation at the end, remained seated. When the applause subsided, she turned to me and went, “I don’t know where you come up with this stuff.”
And that was all she could say about the play. Until a few days later, when I received this:
(Ma’s voicemail, in which she explains that she took a belated moment to read the note in the program about the impetus for the play and fumbles for words to express pride and encouragement, plays.)
Five years have passed since then. And so has my Ma. This voicemail is about all I have left of her. Not a bad inheritance, all things considered. And SHE LIKE GIRLS? It was published the year following its first production. I’ve decided that if that’s all that remains of me when I die, I’d be okay with that.
CURTAIN
Legacy of Love
by Chisa Hutchinson
CHISA: Some years ago, I wrote a play called SHE LIKE GIRLS which, as the title might suggest, is about inner-city lesbians. I wrote it as a tribute to a 15 year-old girl from my hometown of Newark, NJ who, after deflecting sexual advances with the declaration that she had a girlfriend, was stabbed to death by the man who had failed to seduce her with his obvious charisma. To add insult to fatal injury, there was virtually no coverage of her death, national or otherwise.
This fucked me up a little on the inside. So I wrote the play. And I got a reading of the play and, because one typically wants her loved ones there to share in moments that are significant to her, I invited my Ma. And she was game until she found out what the play is about. She was a good Christian woman, after all, with some pretty distinct ideas about what penises and vaginas are for. Put it to you like this: this is the woman who, when I summarized ANGELS IN AMERICA for her, inquired in startling earnest if Joe Pitt won against his demons. So yeah. She awkwardly declined.
She had a harder time refusing me when I got a production, however. I guilted her pretty badly, so she winced her way through the whole thing and, during the standing ovation at the end, remained seated. When the applause subsided, she turned to me and went, “I don’t know where you come up with this stuff.”
And that was all she could say about the play. Until a few days later, when I received this:
(Ma’s voicemail, in which she explains that she took a belated moment to read the note in the program about the impetus for the play and fumbles for words to express pride and encouragement, plays.)
Five years have passed since then. And so has my Ma. This voicemail is about all I have left of her. Not a bad inheritance, all things considered. And SHE LIKE GIRLS? It was published the year following its first production. I’ve decided that if that’s all that remains of me when I die, I’d be okay with that.
CURTAIN
