excerpts from A Dead Black Man

Author’s note: A Dead Black Man is both a call to action and my love note to black men. I want to remind America to cherish black men and give them space to dream again. I want to imagine black men in all of their many hues, in all of their sensitivities, quirks, passions, and insecurities. In this play I want to remember that the lives of black men are layered, sweet, funny, and complex. That the picture we have painted of black men limits not only our imagination of them but also their very humanity.

Performance note: The body of the Dead Black Man is onstage throughout the play.

Interstitial 3

(black female actress comes out, dressed in mourning.)

Black Female Actress: I saw someone get shot today. Not like theoretically. I saw someone actually get shot. And it was the realest thing that had happened to me in quite some time. ’Cause there isn’t like an antidote for death. You know, like in the movies? When a superhero gets shot? And they’re bionic, and they grow a second skin. In real life they cannot morph their bodies or shapeshift. The shot rings out and there’s a chain of reactions. It happens like a flame hitting oil—like there’s nothing to contain it, and the chaos is instantaneous.

That is what it is to be caught in the cross fire. There’s nothing to create distance. There’s just fury . . . and the flames are lapping at the passerby. What does it mean: to be caught in someone else’s fury? If it spreads quickly, wantonly, is there respite? And if I am to be caught in the web of someone else’s hatred—is there any possible escape? In the movies I would be whisked off by a webbed creature or flung upon someone else’s back. But in reality—I might be taken off on a stretcher—or more than likely: I may not make it off—at all.

Will I Ever Come Back?

(Dionne Wilkes and Deshawn Thomas. Dionne struts on in full 
drag—just hot off a show. Deshawn is acting weird. 
the Dead Black Man is reconfigured in a wild, flamboyant pose—as 
if he were break-dancing. 
He gets up and follows deshawn in. At a distance. Throughout the scene 
he is Deshawn’s shadow.)

Dionne: That was ill—I mean—that was actually that hot fire—did you see that sick move at the end—the death drop? I mean—that was it—and I mean—I know I know—it’s not polite to toot your own horn . . . it’s not cute or whatever . . . and then again—I’m thinking—fuck that. Am I right? I mean . . . toot—toot!!

(Deshawn is typing on his phone at a crazy speed.)

Dionne: Who you texting . . . at this hour?

Deshawn: No one.

Dionne: Nigga?

Deshawn: Akesha . . .

Dionne: (sucks teeth) Your baby mom’s at it again? She ever rest? (mumbles) Bitch do entirely too much, always at you—

Deshawn: She trippin’ cause I’m late on my payment—I been told her—I forgot—wasn’t like I ain’t good for it—she always on me ’bout sumthin’—I don’t be takin’ the baby enough—or when I do, I drop him at my auntie’s for too long—and she make it sound like I ain’t got no interest? But that ain’t it. The baby don’t do nuthin’. Girls is different—girls be like cooin’ at babies—they jus’; they speak a different kinda language with babies—but I don’t got that. Mayasia? My oldest? That’s my girl. That’s my best friend. But Lindee? She just—she so little. I’m almost afraid.  (sucks his teeth) Nevamind.

Dionne: What?

Deshawn: I’m just a lil afraid Ima break her. She jus’ that fragile, nahmean?

(Deshawn picks up the remnants of a broken glass bottle and throws it out.)

Dionne: You need to tell Akesha ass you busy. I don’t get nearly enough time alone with you as it is . . . and she had betta learn how to share . . .

(Dionne goes to pull deshawn in—who backs away . . . )

Deshawn: Not now. I can’t think straight . . .

Dionne: This ain’t about your kids or they mothers. This different. (beat) What’s up . . . what’s up witchu?

Deshawn: (sighs) I uh . . . It’s nuthin’. It. Is. Nuthin’.

Dionne: Deshawn—it’s not nuthin’ . . .

Deshawn: Get offa me . . . (beat) Please.

Dionne: It’s cool. It’s whatever man.

(A pause. the Dead Black Man leans on Deshawn. Then walks away and takes a seat.)

Dionne: You don’t um . . . you don’t look at me the same.

Deshawn: What?

Dionne: You don’t—you don’t—it’s like—like you lookin’ through me . . . and if I was to look at you, nigga—like you—like you not lookin’ at me—

Deshawn: Baby-baby, please . . . It’s—I got a lot on my mind right now . . .

Dionne: Yeah, I could see that. But usually we talk about that shit . . . and that’s not what you doin’. You standin’ inside—like grippin’ on your balls by the fireplace—and you got me out here—in the cold . . .

Deshawn: Some things don’t gotta get shared, aight? We ain’t gotta talk about everything all the goddamned time . . . some things . . . just is . . .

(the Dead Black Man agrees.)

Dionne: No, you right. We don’t. (beat) Ima go . . .

Deshawn: Please . . . Please . . . don’t—don’t leave.

(the Dead Black Man is pulling dionne in the other direction.)

Dionne: What’s goin’ on witchu? Usually—we up in a show? We up in a show . . . and—you all up in it wit’ me. You mah biggest supporter, nigga! I—(lowers his voice) I started to do dis’ shit—’cause a you. “Nah, D. That ain’t me—I jus’ wanna be a regulah nigga . . . I don’t wanna—stand out ’n shit.” But you said—you had told me— “Nah.” You ’member? (beat) You told me: “You gonna be so big, baby—nobody gon’ want you to be regulah. Nah. Regulah ain’t chu.”

(the Dead Black Man climbs onto deshawn’s back. And they wait there.)

Dionne: You gotta tell me. It’s like—I could almost see it—sumthin’ weighin’ on you. Heavy. And you not gon’ be okay again ’til you let it down.

(dionne helps deshawn sit down, still carrying the Dead Black Man.
 DBM then wraps himself around him as they sit on the lip of the stage.)

Deshawn: It’s jus’ a lot. A lot goin’ on . . . a lot all up in mah head—and it sits and sits there . . .

Dionne: And I’m here. I’m here, baby. (beat) You ain’t gotta carry it all. It ain’t all on you.

(the Dead Black Man holds them both—they rock, a gentle caress. A lullaby plays, softly.)

Deshawn: I got two lil girls, man. And they waitin’. Every night. For me to come home. (beat) I’m afraid to go outside sometimes, D. I’m afraid to leave mah crib. ’Cause I don’t—I don’t wanna not come back to them lil girls. Mah life? Different now. Been different six goin’ on seven years, baby. And I don’t—I don’t think nuthin’ the way I usedta think it. (pause) I get outta bed. I make a lil omelet or whatever. Green juicin’ and shit—keep it healthy. I gotta lay offa the fried shit—so I do that. Get my moms ready for her job. I take care a mines. I’m organized even. I mean—I live here—but I done come up . . . Ima get offa the block. One a these days. But ’til then . . . baby—what happen ’til then? What gon’ happen when I uh . . . when I’m out at the wrong time, and I’m wit’ the wrong cats—or I say the wrong thing to the wrong cop? (beat) I jus’—I don’t wanna not come home to them . . . I don’t wanna not come home to them . . . I gotta come home to them . . .

(At this, the Dead Black Man, deshawn, dionne are all huddled in a ball holding each other. They stay this way for a long time.)

Interstitial 4

(the Dead Black Man sits on the stage with a candle. The ensemble hums “Silent Night.”)

Dead Black Man: It is. Silent here. Which is something. I mean—it’s something to be silent. And just listen to what comes up.

(A quiet beat: the ensemble stops humming. And then:)

Dead Black Man: There’s so much . . . noise . . . so much chatter. And I feel like that chatter’s gotten us away from ourselves. Like if we just sat and listened? We would hear the ancestors. We could hear them and feel them. And they would tell us . . .

(The ensemble speaks in all of the languages they know, at the same time . . . and then a hum.)

Dead Black Man: But it would be crystal clear to us. We could see our way out. We could feel our way out. Maybe then? Maybe then we could get free.

(The ensemble’s hum crescendoes: and the Dead Black Man blows out the candle.)

Ima Do This

(A young teenage black girl, alesha winters, in tights and a firm bun runs on, in tears. Headphone cords dangle from her ears.)

Alesha: No. No-no-no . . . it’s fine—it’s fine—I’m fine. (pause) It’s just the way it is. I don’t—it doesn’t matter . . . (pause) I’m not gonna stop, Ma. I can’t just—I’m good—you and I both know . . . (pause) I just—it’s just the stupid stuff that people—that Yvegeny and—they’re gonna say. (pause) It doesn’t matter, Ma. It’s not gonna affect—I’m not gonna let it affect me. (pause) Nah. No. I won’t—you cannot do that—it’s not your fight. I gotta do this—on my own—on my own—terms . . . (pause) Mommy! When the hell would you even make it? In between your second and third shift?! (pause) I’m not—I didn’t mean to raise my . . . (takes the earbuds out of her ears) It didn’t come out right, Ma, but I know what you sayin’—and I’m listening to you—but are you hearin’ me? I am going to do this thing. I don’t—I know that’s hard for you to hear. So please just—sit there—will you please not say anything? (pause) Okay. Thank you. So Yvegeny is a twat. And so is Yulia. And—they are the best dance teachers in the nation. Not in the community, Ma. In the country. And Mommy? They believe I have potential. So if I gotta shave my head, lighten my skin, and wear a swastika on my arm. And maybe I’m scaring you? But I need you to make the hair appointment on Monday. We are cutting my locks off. Or I am moving out of the house to live with Daddy. That’s how serious. (long pause) Thank you. This is all we got, Ma. So: I’m going to do this. (pause) Thank. You.

(Just then, alesha observes the dead body.)

Um . . . Ma . . . ? I’ll umm . . . I’ll call you back. (pause) Yeah. I gotchu. I’ll be home soon.

(Alesha hangs up. Stares at the body.)

Oh. Jesus. Oh Jesus-Jesus-Jesus . . . (beat) Uhhh . . . Uhhhm . . . Uhhh. (to herself) How did this—how did this—how did you?

(A long pause. Alesha examines him for a while, meticulously, losing her anxiety; her breathing slows.)

Uhhh . . . Hey. (laughs at herself) You can’t talk back. I uh . . . I’m sorry. Sorry this happened. I don’t know—I don’t know how this happened. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry it did. (beat) So young. I mean— you could be . . . you could be my age. Nah . . . you jus’ a lil bit older—like nineteen, twenty? I don’t um . . . I don’t recognize you. I ain’t seen you around here. But then again I do. You look a little bit like my uncle . . . Uncle T? He’s um . . . he’s at Rikers . . . And we—

(Alesha tucks her knees under her, gets comfortable . . . )

We visit him sometimes. ’Cause—well—he’s lonely. (beat) Were you . . .? (beat) Yeah. That makes sense. It’s hard to be like that. Lonely. I’m a latchkey kid, myself. I go to school and I take myself to dance—and I get home late—sometimes I don’t see my moms for like two-three days. And it’s aight. I sometimes wish she was like the other kids’ moms at ballet . . . all pickin’ me up and shit and making me I dunno—paper-mache doily cards and shit . . . but—ya know that’s not—not my life. (beat) But I stay clean. I stay off these streets. ’Cause—well, I ain’t got no—no other choice. So I ain’t got no clue how you got here, but I hope to God—(pause) I bet you had kids—like I bet you had like two-three kids—(laughs) Like by a coupla baby moms, am I right? You had kids but you was real good to ’em and you ain’t even stress about the child support or nuthin’! (beat) My dad just dipped . . . like dipped hard when I was nine. And I mean—ya know what? Fuck him! ’Cause ain’t nobody need his junky ass nohow—but then again—but I heard his ass went and got clean and started a brand new family. And and they like vacation and shit. (pause) And I wanna fuckin’ vacation and shit—maybe not with his sorry, good-for-nuthin’ ass . . . but I want to. I want to vacation! (pause) Ya know what I mean? I don’t even know what that fuckin’ looks like. But I want to—real bad. And then I think about it—and maybe that shit—if I got it? Wouldn’t make me happy? I mean and that’d be a damn shame. (beat) ’Cause I ain’t ever know no thrill unless I was dancin’. When I’m dancin’—it’s like—like I am plugged into this—this life-force! And there is no stopping me. I just light up—like a Christmas tree! I light up in a way that illuminates the whole world. (beat) That’s all I got. (pause) You wanna see? Nah-nah-nah. I’m tellin’ you—you ain’t never seen dance—you ain’t neva seen me dance. Not like this.

(And Alesha puts down her things. And takes the stage. She bows for him and executes a beautiful combination, a prima ballerina in training. She beams at the dead body, as if he has clapped for her.)

Stooooop. Stop. It ain’t alla that. It’s aight—my pirouette was a lil sloppy, and my piqué—but hell: you ain’t know alla that! It was pretty perfect . . . ain’t nuthin’ feel free unless I am dancing. Everything else—is a chore—is a trial—is a prison sentence. (beat) I wonder what lit you up . . . made you feel free??

(A buzz from her phone.)

Oh shit-shit-shit-shit. Uhhh . . . Mr.? I uhhh. I gotta go. But . . . Ima come back. And if you here? We’ll uhh . . . we’ll continue our conversation.

(Alesha leans into the man and closes his eyes. Takes another look at him and hastily exits.)

Read more from Issue 17.1.