I was good at school.
Really good.
I had the academic essay down. My introductions would start with attention-grabbing hooks and end with debatable claims. My body paragraphs had clear topic sentences, solid textual evidence to back up my ideas, and transition sentences that proudly connected paragraphs. And of course, my conclusion would bring it all home: convincingly, convinced, about the larger implications of the very niche subject of my essay.
When I discovered theatre, my drive to be “good at school” continued. I excelled at analyzing Beckett and performing Shakespeare. At making the darkened proscenium my holy ground. At defining my success as an artist by the greatest number of spectators I could reach. Even when I started making theatre in conflict and post-conflict zones, I followed the rules. A version of Romeo and Juliet that was set in _______. A touring festival that aimed to reach hundreds of spectators in __________. Performances and scripts with messages and plots and rising actions and climaxes and all the things that I had been taught narratives should look like. Rule-following, good-at-school works of theatre that I would then write about through rule-following, good-at-school academic essays.
Then… life happened.
There was the actor in ________ who spoke of wanting to use violence against someone from the Other side, right after finishing a play that glorified reconciliation.
The writer in _________ who forced his affection on me despite being a self-proclaimed feminist.
The _________ director who believed in revolution but refused to pay his actors a living wage.
When enough of these contradictory, dissonance-inducing encounters happened — when simultaneous engagements with Thiong’o and Gambaro and Fanon and hooks and Roy and Marquez and Rushdie and Puig happened — when enough time had been spent in spaces like _________ and __________ and __________ and __________, directing scripts that had moralistic messaging became impossible. Advocating for young, ill-fated lovers to overcome generational trauma through nothing but the power of their connection felt idiotic. Creating plays that mostly catered to an audience that already agreed with what we were saying: futile.
I felt the need to dig deeper. Dig differently. To not only create writing and performances with/for/about those who were unanimously classified as “victims” or the “oppressed,” but to access spaces where the lines were blurry. Where the actor performing for peace could also sometimes believe in engaging in acts of violence. Where the somewhat-predatory writer in spaces of intimacy could just as well be a somewhat-feminist in spaces of protest. Where the authoritarian director’s financial stinginess could exist side-by-side with his zeal for a revolution.
Digging in this way meant I could no longer create works where there were Romeos and Juliets in proscenium auditoriums for hundreds of spectators. Instead, the work because about crafting and sharing messiness: flawed people whose voices were staged in toilets and kitchens and barns and bedrooms for no more than — at most — twenty audience members at a time. Once, there was piece that I co-created in _______ for which we only wanted an audience of two.
That’s the thing about grey zones.
Once you start pulling at one thread, the tapestry begins to unravel.
Once I started questioning the content of what I was creating, there emerged an inevitable questioning of form.
Why did drama need to look like this and fiction, that.
Why did theatre need to happen here, and not also there?
Why couldn’t introductions start with thesis statements and end with hooks, and why couldn’t body paragraphs revel in being flow-less?
Thinking in the grey zones has not only allowed me to consider human experiences in all its glorious and nauseating complexities. It has also inspired me to become a more intentional creator who digs into the whys of the whats and the hows that emerge.
That’s the thing about grey zones.
Once you start pulling at one thread, you might find that there was no tapestry to begin with.