shrine
my first experiment in theatre writing...got published. a monologue and poem entitled ‘shrine’ was published in “In Full Color’ by arthouse productions and editor, summer hortillosa, in 2016. many thanks to everyone involved, including the muses.
shrine
(A brown woman, Penny, in her 30s, sits in the middle of a dance floor, looking up at an empty DJ booth. She sits, leaning back on her arms, in a single stream of spotlight.)
PENNY When I was 20, my father went to jail for the last time. I took my film scholarship and escaped. I flew out the window, and leaped into the sky. And then I met you. My story began, revolving around my two first loves --you and film.
('Runaway' begins to play in the background)
Do you remember this song by La India?
This was one of your favorites, and I could never get you to leave when it played. The light on your face, and the way you just flew around the dance floor. All 6' 2''of you, Jamaican and Trini. It made me happy just looking at you.
You were always scared of what they thought of you -- I wasn't. The day of my father's funeral, my uncle felt compelled to recount the hierarchy of the world and where we, the Trini-Indians fit in, above the Blacks (meaning you). You had every reason not to want to meet any of them. But I needed you, and you stayed.
Being Filipino Trinidadian in Montreal was full of every label you could think of: French, English, Filipino, Trinidadian, brown, half, mestiza, Canadian, Quebecois, Muslim, Catholic, middle-class, rich, poor. And my mother had the middle-class label on lockdown. Filipino middle-class pretensions and judgment reigned in my neighborhood, along with the suburban dream of a man with money, a house, and children that were seen, never heard. I grew up with material girls.
You didn't like to hear about my life before we met. I thought it was because you didn't care. But I understand it was because you cared too much. Childhood trapped me. When you took me to counseling every week for months, I knew you weren't like my father and uncles. You loved me as I was, and wanted me to live out my own story, on my own terms. No matter who my family was, no one could take away my brown- it was in face, and in my heart.
“How many Trinidadian Filipino Canadians have you ever met?” Then you would smile and rumble into a laugh.
And were you ever political. It would have been romantic to get a copy of Neruda's ‘The Captain's Verses’, but instead you gave me ‘The Wretched of the Earth’ by Fanon. I liked my photo of Denzel by my bedside. But you needed Che Guevara on the wall. Touché. We were ‘other’ in so many ways on that campus, and in life. But I kinda liked that I came from a family of three shades of brown, and my mother was ‘peach-colored’. That's what I started saying when I was 5. We weren't pretending to be any other color than what we were. We pretended in other ways, but at least we were real about that. Our faces did not change. Nor did the secrets. Secrets carried from country to country, from family to family. We were all living out the same story of violence, round and round we went. And then the silence. I grew up riding waves of quiet, then storms. I learned early to cling to my writing, books, films, and any place where my mind and heart could find a different story. And then solace came for the first time, with you.
Remember when you took me to Women's Studies class? You were the first feminist, male or female, that I had ever met. So there we sat, almost 50 women each class, and 2 dudes. You suggested we not sit together, or at least in the back to avoid the stares. And you loved music -- everything, but especially house. And people. You would fall in love all the time, and people really loved you back. You serenaded me with old soul and R&B songs on your late-night radio show, saying that Brian McKnight sucked, and I needed to hear Minnie Ripperton and Luther Vandross. Right, as always. And I still like Brian McKnight.
I learned what it was like to have a best friend, who never left my side, even when he didn't understand, or disagreed. And I was your Kali, your protector. Nobody messed with you for long. But we had demons, we both did, and I couldn't fight them all. And I'm so sorry….(beat)
We were so young, and I only knew how to survive. So the day you came over and insisted we stay away from the windows, and not talk on the phone -- I knew something was wrong. But I couldn't leave -- I went back and forth for a year. The paranoia, the very high ups, and dismal scary downs. I was in overload, and my best friend was fading. I never thought we'd be apart forever… But I had to choose me this time, alone, and create a new story… And you chose a story for yourself too...
(She gets up, and stands in the middle of the dance floor. She recites the poem, ‘shrine’)
i built a shrine for you to keep our memories intact our laughter close our sadness private our love lost on earth.
a shrine made of bricks and feathers light and heavy i hear gil scott heron music everywhere and food in gorgeous bowls curries banana fritters hot sauce. the light through the windows glistening with friendship and passion then drawer upon drawers of handwritten love letters. the paths out back winding and tree-lined, our walk and talks by the river.
lamenting about the poor the enslaved the anti-colonialist the feminist the politics the rant i hear you well, you rumbled.
the films the music the comrades we knew we loved we hated together
but you flew arms outstretched into a blue a black a red of sky that did not catch you as you fell
gone
you crashed into a coffin too small a spirit and love too big to fit into the ground
but still, you found wings you found a way to be free
and you pulled me through my hand held in your heart my heart in your wings
may peace astound you now.
be the general, greater than che. be the dj, and the best of friends to the angels. teach them to dance to house music.
my first of loves, tonight, i walk through your candlelit shrine. and gently close the cool door behind me. a dark sky over a luminous path. gone.
(She begins to dance in the middle of the dance floor to La India's ‘Runaway’. Lights fade to black as she dances.)