Monday, December 6, 2010

Plays about Lynching in 2010: Recognizing History’s Presence

This year’s New York International Fringe Festival received applications from 800 theatre groups.  Approximately 200 shows were accepted and would be staged in August 2010.  Within the wide array of offerings, one presentation proved especially compelling:  Kym Gomes’s By Hands Unknown, which consists of seven one-act plays about lynching, many of which I examine in my forthcoming book.  Having studied these plays for many years, I was eager to see them staged for the first time, but I was also nervous.  How would these scripts fit together to make a coherent show?  They were all written in the 1920s and 1930s, when dramatic conventions were different from today’s.  Would they seem melodramatic and unrealistic?  Would they even be recognized as “good” plays?  As importantly, would the content feel relevant in 2010?

All of these questions could be answered with a resounding yes because the directors were so creative and resourceful, and the actors executed so well.  My more detailed performance review should appear in the May 2011 issue of Theatre Journal (Johns Hopkins University Press), but I want to share a few thoughts here.  The power of the presentation can be understood with a focus on its opening and closing moments.

The show began with a single light shining on Safiya Fredericks as she recited “Strange Fruit” from memory.  Though a musician accompanied her on guitar, she shared it as a poem, not a song.  However, most people know the lines because Billie Holiday made them famous with her 1939 recording, so the audience could instantly feel a sense of familiarity.  Beginning this way drew audience members in; we were reassured that we knew something about the subject matter.  There is always comfort in feeling like one has a way in, like one is not on the outside of an experience. 

This powerfully rendered poem gave way to Georgia Douglass Johnson’s one-act play A Sunday Morning in the South, in which a 19-year-old who aspires to be a lawyer is falsely accused of rape.  The action begins with Tom’s grandmother and younger brother teasing him about having fallen asleep at 8 o’clock the night before.  They laugh, recalling that he was snoring so loudly that they thought he might choke.  Soon, officers barge into the house, demanding to know where Tom had been at 10 o’clock the previous night.  The play dramatizes the moment when his testimony, and that of his family members, is disregarded.  The officers insist that they already have the case “figured out.”   

Gomes’s choice to begin with a piece that emphasizes African Americans’ exclusion from basic citizenship rights, such as due process, proved especially poignant as the show approached its end.  One by one, the actors emerged from the shadows to recite a portion of Resolution 39, the 2005 measure in which the U.S. Senate apologized for having never passed anti-lynching legislation.  By the time that all 18 members of the ensemble cast had stepped forward, the entire resolution had been shared, and they covered the stage from left to right, directly facing the audience.  Black and white, different ages and backgrounds, each actor took responsibility for recognizing that this is a history that we all share, encouraging audience members to do the same.

Knowing that the black rapist myth emerged only after slavery ended and black men had finally won the right to vote, I was especially struck by the challenge issued by the actors’ stance.  By labeling black men rapists, mobs insisted that they were simply protecting white women.  The charge overshadowed the real purpose of mob violence: to ensure that blacks remained terrified—and too preoccupied with basic survival—to claim full citizenship rights.  This white supremacist strategy has remained popular and effective.  Relentlessly labeling black and brown people “criminals” has always been a way of insisting that they are not entitled to civic inclusion.  Given this history, and the many ways that it shapes the present, we must understand that serious political realities are reflected in the way that Americans feel comfortable talking about people. 

It matters that many of us speak with disgust in our voices about “immigrants” who are black and brown—when all Americans are actually immigrants.  It also matters that the word “criminal” has a hard time clinging to white offenders, even though crimes against the environment and crimes that have cheated thousands out of their life savings are widely publicized.  The nation consistently demonizes black and brown citizens, but the stakes are becoming even higher with the growth of the prison industrial complex.  As legal scholar Michelle Alexander has shown in The New Jim Crow, the privatized prison system offers incentives for creating “felons” with laws that essentially target those who are black, brown, and/or poor.  However, laws addressing crimes mostly committed by whites, especially moneyed whites, ensure that they receive mild punishment and relatively little stigma.  Meanwhile, the “felons” become an underclass that cannot vote and is otherwise ostracized and excluded. 

The reactionary, sometimes violent politics that now coalesce around labels like “immigrant,” “criminal,” and “terrorist” resemble those justified by the earlier “black rapist” myth—especially because, when actual immigrants, criminals, and terrorists are white, they are somehow not known by those labels.  Though not equivalent, the situation was similar at the last turn of the century:  hysteria regarding the mythic black rapist made the documented rape of black women by white men a non-issue in mainstream discourse and public policy.   

Because By Hands Unknown begins and ends its engagement with lynching by raising questions about basic rights, it urges us to think seriously about who comes to mind when we say “citizen” today.

More about By Hands Unknown:
A Brava Company/Chelsea Rep LAB Production
Conceived by Kym Gomes
Directed by Harvey Huddleston, Kym Gomes
Associate Directors: Carmen Balentine, Ravin Patterson
Music Director: Bruce Baumer
Costumes by Jennifer Anderson

Ensemble Cast: Carmen Balentine, Michael Bunin, Valerie Elizabeth  Donaldson, Safiya Fredericks, Kym Gomes, Matt Hammond, Phil John, Nancy Keegan, Jamil Moore, Brett Pack, Alison Parks, Ravin Patterson, Jihan Ponti, Rick Schneider, Stefania Diana Schramm, Vonetta Steward, Temesgen Tocruray, Nathan Yates


watson408 said...

Hello Professor Mitchell,

"However, laws addressing crimes mostly committed by whites, especially moneyed whites, ensure that they receive mild punishment and relatively little stigma. Meanwhile, the “felons” become an underclass that cannot vote and is otherwise ostracized and excluded. "

What are these crimes? Could they be crimes of poverty instead of crimes of race? I understand that historical ramifications of slavery and reconstruction but doesn't poverty fit a wider swath of individuals? Is there a clear distinction between crimes of impoverished whites and impoverished African Americans?

Koritha Mitchell said...

Thanks for your question. It's nice to know that people are reading and finding some of what I'm saying thought-provoking. I have to admit, though, that your wording "crimes of poverty instead of crimes of race" demonstrates that we were not on the same page. To my mind, "crimes of race" exist only in that racism leads the nation to criminalize black and brown people while not criminalizing whites, even whites who terrorize and murder--because whites so often do so with the sanction of the state. (No need to name names because examples abound throughout U.S. history.) Still, my answer to your question is this: I have in mind examples like the well known policy of light sentences for powder cocaine and hard-core prison time for crack cocaine. It took years of tireless effort by activists and civil rights attorneys to begin overturning these blatantly biased sentencing practices and that just happened in 2009--after thousands of black and brown lives were destroyed while white offenders could pick up the pieces of their lives. We need to pause and ask, if drugs are destroying our nation and must be stopped, why is it important to make sentences for powder cocaine light? Why does the system build in leniency there and show no mercy elsewhere? Similarly, why is it that when we want to see drug abuse as a disease that deserves our sympathy, we put a white face on it but when we want to drive home the message that drugs are a menace that will destroy our nation, its face is black and brown? These are things that we need to think about. Otherwise, we will believe the hype: that the reason prisons are full of black and brown people is that they commit the most crimes. Simply not true. As Michelle Alexander shows in *The New Jim Crow*, "contrary to the prevailing 'common sense,' the dramatic explosion in black imprisonment cannot be explained by crime rates. Nor can it be explained by poverty, bad schools, or racial segregation – all of which have existed in the black community in various forms since slavery but have not resulted in the mass incarceration of people of color. The sobering reality is that, during the past three decades, rates of imprisonment have moved independently of crime rates and poverty rates. Rates of imprisonment have continued to climb regardless of whether crime rates have been going up or down." What's really at work, then, is a system that allows some to get richer off of imprisoning others. And it's more than possible to imprison large numbers of black and brown people without creating an uproar because we are all taught to devalue this segment of our population. (This phenomenon has been studied by many. Michelle Alexander's book is a recent example. See it for more details about privatized prisons and the money they make--with the government's help.)

Koritha Mitchell said...

Of course, my post is about not just crimes but perception. The reason I qualify my assertion (in the original blog post) by saying "especially moneyed whites" is that I recognize that poor whites can experience some of the same disfranchisement that African Americans do. But, in spite of that reality, another fact remains: a poor white man or woman can walk through life and NOT be read as a criminal as readily as a black person--of any class--can. The fact that the criminal label sticks to me without my doing anything suspicious is part of what I'd like us to grapple with--the fact that our society feeds us biased messages so consistently that my simply being black creates suspicion. Few black and brown people can say that they have never been watched as if they were shoplifters whose pictures were featured on Crime Stoppers, but many whites shop without ever feeling like they are under surveillance. This is a very old example; its relevance today says something about our society, yet Americans habitually pretend that it's not a reality or that it doesn't happen often enough to matter or that people of color make up these stories to "play the race card" or that it's just our imagination.

So, part of what I'm trying to get at in this post is why certain labels stick to black and brown people but not to whites. If we can deal with that, we can begin to see how our institutions are set up to perpetuate racial (and other) hierarchies. If we continue to ignore these issues, we keep thinking that whites are generally in power because they "deserve" to be or because they've made better decisions, and black and brown people generally have made poorer decisions. If we're honest, we have to admit that this is what we believe if we think that the current inequities are the natural result of people's merit.