(Xavier is silent as Omari glares at him. Tries to breathe. Can’t. He tries to speak.)
XAVIER: You know son, I …
(But the words fail him. He tries to breathe again. Like someone is stepping on his chest.
Mountains and walls and miles between them.
Xavier is defeated.)
When the doctor comes out …
…
…
Text me.
…
…
I’m stepping out. Need air.
…
…
And off.
I’m going to step off. Need air from all of this. You don’t want me in your life. And I don’t …
…
…
I don’t know what to do about that. I wish I …
…
But I don’t even know what else to do.
(Xavier walks away. Dumbfounded.
Omari sits in the hospital chair. And waits.)
10
Jasmine in undefined space. Maybe her dorm.
JASMINE: I was gonna leave you this long-ass message, but I’m not sure you’ll even get it. And if you do, I’m not sure you’ll even respond back. I think we’re over and it kills me in a thousand ways. Not because I’ll never find love again. I know we’re young. I know I’m cute and I’ll find somebody else. It’s a lot of fish in the swimming pool or whatever. But I’m just sad that this is the end of an era and it’s over before it really began. I don’t think I got enough chances to fuck up and get mad at you and yell and then make up. I hate that. Every relationship deserves to go through all the colors of the rainbow. That’s how you know you had something. Deep. Ugly. Beautiful. Whatever. We didn’t get to give all our shit a try. But for the little parts we did have … For the parts that made me want to cut a chick’s face for you turnin’ your head in her direction, I want to thank you. For giving me that space. For making me feel room enough to be jealous and mad and whatever. Because I also got to smack you and get it out and then that made me free enough to tell you that I love you. I just really really love you. And I hate you for leaving me and breaking it off and not knowing yourself. I really hate you for being so beautiful and confused. But I’m really glad you aren’t coming back here anymore. Because this place can’t hold you. This place can’t hold none of us. For reals. (Beat) And I guess I kinda did leave you a long-ass message anyway. But fuck. You know?
(Lights cross-fade to images of school fights; kids going through metal detectors; police handcuffing teenage boys, stopping and frisking.)
PA: Today, students, we have a special poem being read by our Oratory Speech Winner—Carolina Valdez. Go ahead, Carolina.
(A voice clears its throat.)
PA (Student’s voice): “We Real Cool,” by Gwendolyn Brooks.
(Lights up on Nya in undefined space.)
NYA: I almost lost it. I almost broke down and stayed somewhere in the between. Nervous breakdown is what most folks call it. Doctors call it panic disorder. I call it my moment of revelation.
(Omari in undefined space.)
OMARI: I’m sorry, Ma.
NYA: All my son’s life, I thought there was space for him. A little opportunity and education and he’d be complete. But, members of the board, I’m here to tell you that I miscalculated. Omari’s actions aren’t his bag alone. They’re mine. All of ours. We didn’t carve out enough space. He doesn’t belong anywhere. There is no block. No school. No land he can travel without being under suspicion and doubt. No emotion he can carry without being silenced or disciplined. He needed more space to be.
(Student’s voice continues underneath. Slow and not necessarily spoken where marked. Just trailing as background music.)
PA (Student’s voice):
We real cool. We
OMARI: I messed up, Ma. I think there’s something wrong with me and I ain’t sure what it is …
PA (Student’s voice):
We left school. We—
NYA: I want my son to belong.
OMARI: I want to turn myself in, Ma.
PA (Student’s voice):
We lurk late. We—
OMARI: I wanna take responsibility. I wanna make you stop smoking and drinking and crying.
NYA (To Omari): No. That’s not your—(To the board) I want my son to have another chance. Be born again with a slate clean of the baggage. Our baggage. MY baggage.
PA (Student’s voice):
We strike straight. We—
OMARI: I want to be better.
NYA: Sometimes I look into his face and I get stuck staring. As if I can see what he will become and the longer I look, the longer his life will be. I want him to find space for his anger. Where it isn’t quelled but put to good use. Where he isn’t a product of bias or low expectation. I want him to know love.
OMARI: They see me as a monster.
NYA: To feel love from all places.
OMARI: Online, I’m a monster. The people made comments. Say I should be kicked out. Locked up.
NYA: He is a man. Young. Still growing. Not fully anything.
OMARI: Like I’m an animal.
PA (Student’s voice):
We sing sin. We
NYA: He’s not an animal.
OMARI: Like they expect I would be.
NYA: You’re not an animal. No more than the rest of us are. And if so, we built the jungle.
OMARI: I disappoint you.
NYA: I disappoint you.
PA (Student’s voice):
We thin gin. We
OMARI: I can do better, Ma.
NYA: So, if you please, let me take him from here. Let me find him a different school. Reset and try again. But please don’t … … … don’t press charges. Don’t lock away what hopes he can become. This rage is not his sin. It was never his sin.
PA (Student’s voice):
We jazz June. We—
NYA: It is his inheritance.
OMARI: I know I can do better.
NYA: And I am here before you to say that I take the blame. It is me. Send me away. Punish me. But my son??? … … … Not my son.
PA (Student’s voice):
We die soon.
NYA: Not my son.
(Lights isolate Omari and Nya. They are now looking at each other.)
OMARI: I been thinkin’, Ma. About instructions. About what you said.
NYA: Yes.
OMARI: I wrote ’em down.
NYA: Instructions.
OMARI: Yeah.
NYA: For me?
OMARI: For everybody.
NYA: Like a list?
OMARI: Like a scripture.
NYA: Oh. Wow. I see.
OMARI: You wanna hear?
NYA: I’m dying to hear.
(As Omari speaks: images of young men in handcuffs, walking to school with book bags; school fights begin to blend into a wash of colors.
Gwendolyn Brooks’s poem overrides the images. It is a collage of chaos.
Omari’s words override them all.)
OMARI:
One: Hear me out.
Two: Let me chill sometimes.
Three: Know when to back off.
Four: Know when to keep pushing.
Five: Let me have some space.
Six: Don’t assume me for the worst.
Seven: Show up. In person.
Eight: Be fair.
Nine: Forgive that I’m not perfect.
Ten—
NYA: …
What’s ten?
OMARI: …
I don’t have a ten yet. I’m still working on it.
…
…
…
These good so far?
NYA: …
…
…
Yeah.
…
…
…
So far …
(Nya touches Omari. She grabs his face and looks into it deeply. Studies him for all the answers.
The mo
ment lasts a lifetime.)
END OF PLAY
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