This transcript was automatically generated and might contain errors.

[0:08] Iyvon Edebiri: Hello, everyone.

[0:10] Audience: Hi, yes, thank you.

[0:12] Audience: Hello, thank you.

[0:13] Iyvon Edebiri: Um, welcome to The Parsnip Ship. My name is Iyvon Edebiri, and tonight is the sixth episode of our fifth season, which is featuring only female playwrights and bringing their dynamic stories to you in your ears.

[0:28] Iyvon Edebiri: And we are recording tonight's reading at the Mark O'Donnell Theater in the Actors Fund Art Center in downtown Brooklyn.

[0:38] Iyvon Edebiri: Tonight we are hearing "A: What the Black Girl Found While Searching for God" by Taji Senior.

[0:47] Iyvon Edebiri: Yes.

[0:49] Iyvon Edebiri: Directed by Matrex Kilgore.

[0:52] Iyvon Edebiri: And we have the very talented Alwyn Robinson and Andrew Ibanez as our musicians for the night.

[1:25] Iyvon Edebiri: So let's get this evening started with music by Alwyn and Andrew. Take it away.

[1:31] ♪ Musical number: "Unholy" — performed by Alwyn Robinson and Andrew Ibanez ♪

[5:47] Iyvon Edebiri: "A: What the Black Girl Found While Searching for God," written and performed by Taji Senior.

[5:54] Kelsey Anyá: Stage Directions, read by Kelsey Anyá.

[5:58] Kelsey Anyá: Cast of characters.

[5:59] Kelsey Anyá: A black girl, neither, both.

[6:06] Kelsey Anyá: Narrator, ageless shapeshifter, as ubiquitous, constant, present, and persistent as life itself.

[6:15] Kelsey Anyá: God, reference your own belief or non-belief regarding this character.

[6:21] Kelsey Anyá: Close your eyes, deliver your tongue from the roof of your mouth, let your jaw go slack, part your lips just a little, and inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

[6:53] Kelsey Anyá: And are you reminded now of the blackness that came before you?

[6:58] Kelsey Anyá: And of how the star that hangs directly above you now, it's really just the wound from which you stepped out of the sky and into yourself.

[7:09] Kelsey Anyá: And do you remember how you felt seeing her for the first time?

[7:14] Kelsey Anyá: The shimmering summation of everything black in the universe.

[7:20] Kelsey Anyá: And you thought, because her universe was so big that she had forsaken you.

[7:25] Kelsey Anyá: But if she had, why would she be here now?

[7:29] Kelsey Anyá: Oh, yes, she's here.

[7:31] Kelsey Anyá: And if you open your eyes, you could see her.

[7:35] Kelsey Anyá: But if you open your heart, you can hear her.

[7:47] Kelsey Anyá: Somewhere in some dark room on some forgotten shelf, there is a Bible with my name and the day I was born written in it.

[7:56] Kelsey Anyá: Before all of creation, there I am.

[8:01] Kelsey Anyá: Before Genesis, before Eve or Ecclesiastes, Matthew, Mark, Luke or John, before the serpent or the storm, the wail or the weeping, Job or Jezebel, there I am.

[8:18] Kelsey Anyá: Me before black, me before woman, me unburdened and untethered, letters and numbers coalescing to create me, whomever she is.

[8:40] Kelsey Anyá: Guide me, O thou great Jehovah, pilgrim through this barren land.

[8:53] Kelsey Anyá: Me, oh that.

[9:00] Kelsey Anyá: Oh through this.

[9:24] Kelsey Anyá: Time.

[9:25] Kelsey Anyá: Well, let's see.

[9:27] Kelsey Anyá: That's kind of hard.

[9:29] Kelsey Anyá: We are somewhere between every moment that has been and every moment that will be.

[9:36] Kelsey Anyá: Not exactly now, but something like it.

[9:40] Kelsey Anyá: A suspension of sorts.

[9:43] Kelsey Anyá: Place.

[9:45] Kelsey Anyá: Well, that's kind of hard too.

[9:48] Kelsey Anyá: You ever been to Philly?

[9:50] Kelsey Anyá: It's kind of like that.

[9:52] Kelsey Anyá: A big city that feels like a small town.

[9:55] Kelsey Anyá: And the blood of the place runs so deeply in the veins of the folks who are from there.

[10:00] Kelsey Anyá: I mean, really from there.

[10:03] Kelsey Anyá: It can't help but make itself apparent every time they speak.

[10:07] Kelsey Anyá: Only let's say Philly is situated somewhere between Jupiter and Venus.

[10:15] Kelsey Anyá: And when our sweet baby sings and hums her songs, they hear it all the way over to Pluto.

[10:21] Kelsey Anyá: And don't get hung up on us being someplace with which you may not be familiar.

[10:28] Kelsey Anyá: Where we are and where we are going is just as beautiful and brutal as any earthly black girl's life.

[10:45] Kelsey Anyá: Just as one voice comes to a calm, another begins as a whisper so tender that it's nearly deafening.

[10:55] Kelsey Anyá: The strings are real.

[10:58] Kelsey Anyá: The machinery is real.

[11:00] Kelsey Anyá: You are not crazy.

[11:02] Kelsey Anyá: You are not crazy.

[11:04] Kelsey Anyá: Let them see the labor.

[11:07] Kelsey Anyá: Make them acknowledge the work.

[11:09] Kelsey Anyá: That's it, girl. Work.

[11:10] Kelsey Anyá: They wouldn't see you as human, so you made yourself more than you became black, mother, sister, queen, goddess, fierce, a take no shit kind of bitch, but even with all that might, all that magic, all you really wanted was to be called by your name.

[11:39] Kelsey Anyá: The Lord is my shepherd.

[11:42] Kelsey Anyá: I shall not want.

[11:44] Kelsey Anyá: He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside still waters.

[11:53] Kelsey Anyá: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his namesake.

[11:57] Kelsey Anyá: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.

[12:04] Kelsey Anyá: Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

[12:08] Kelsey Anyá: Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.

[12:12] Kelsey Anyá: Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over.

[12:17] Kelsey Anyá: Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

[12:31] Kelsey Anyá: The reckoning, we'll call it, began on the brightest of Monday mornings, with the sun still rising and the rest of the world still sleeping, slack jawed and shut-eyed.

[12:43] Kelsey Anyá: Me and God got up and started walking.

[12:47] Kelsey Anyá: And on our walk, we saw buds opening to greet the morning sun, and dew falling from blades of grass into the earth.

[12:56] Kelsey Anyá: Then me and God, we laughed, big barrel laughs of joy as crickets and cicadas started their morning symphony and lightning bugs dimmed their glow.

[13:09] Kelsey Anyá: We heard children, potbellied and wild haired, stirring before waking, doors creaking, lovers sighing.

[13:20] Kelsey Anyá: And on our walk, God asked, What do you want to be?

[13:26] Kelsey Anyá: To which I replied, All that I am.

[13:30] Kelsey Anyá: Then me and God sipped tea, black, with cream and honey, a toast with butter and sugar, and we sat silently across from one another before I asked if we could hold hands.

[13:42] Kelsey Anyá: And somewhere between the first bite and the last sip, God asked, Who do you think you are?

[13:49] Kelsey Anyá: To which I replied, All that you have made me, and that seconds gave way to minutes to hours to night.

[13:56] Kelsey Anyá: Me and God talked in tension, what it means to miss someone even when you are not lonely, what it means to love and still bruise, longing and letting go, suffering and surrendering, reconciliation, Christ and capitalism, the difference between criminality and crucifixion, survival and selection.

[14:16] Kelsey Anyá: We talked burden of being, of blackness, of breaking and rebuilding, of belonging to no one, and the bounty for belonging to oneself.

[14:26] Kelsey Anyá: And God, how do you know you're you? How are you sure? How much of who you are is who you choose to be? And do you ever get to be more?

[14:58] Kelsey Anyá: It's gonna be like your ancestors said, even though they're cold and the dead, even though cold and the dead, if you run to the rock to hide your face, the rock is out your hiding place. If you run to the rock to hide your face, the rock will cry out, no hiding place. If you run to the rock to hide your face, the rock will cry out, no hiding place. It's gonna be like your ancestors said. It's gonna be like your ancestors said, It's gonna be like your ancestors said, even though they're cold in the day, even though they're cold in the day. Even though they're cold in the dead, if you run to the rock, it's gonna be like your ancestors said, even though they're cold in the dead, it. It's gonna be like your ancestors said, even though they're cold, didn't you dead. And if you're under the rock to hide your face, the rock will cry out, no hiding place. And if you run to the rock to hide your face, the rock will cry out, no hiding place.

[16:14] Kelsey Anyá: I know you hear me, girl. Who you be for? What a marvelous thing is you. What is you? Where you come from? Where you going, girl? What you want? Oh. Questions, questions, questions. And it never really is as quiet as you need it to be, hung girl. Quiet enough to think. Every hall of your mind occupied. And all the time there is a clanging and clattering. Each thought slamming into the next.

[16:47] Kelsey Anyá: This just in research from the Georgetown Law Center on Poverty and Inequality says adults view black girls as less innocent, needing less nurturing, less protection. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Survey says black girls are more likely to be more independent. Know more about adult topics. And certainly they can't be talking about you like that, could they, girl? No, no, no, no, no. Jesus loves the little children, all the children in the world, and you are precious, aren't you? Created in the image of the Almighty, Jehovah, the Elohim, the I am, the I am. Oh, there it is again. More thoughts, so loud. It's too much. You are just a baby girl. But you know what they say. We love our sons and raise our daughters. Ain't that the sin of the mother? One step ahead, one step ahead, one step ahead, one step ahead. Be better, girl. And in the midst of all this noise, there's one question you are searching for. Isn't there, girl? Well, now that the quiet has come, how will you answer it?

[18:09] Kelsey Anyá: Do you remember this one? God said to the white woman, what kind of hair do you want? She said, God, give me something long, silky, and straight. God said to the Latin woman, what kind of hair do you want? She said, God, give me something wavy, beautiful and dark. God said to the black woman, what kind of hair do you want? She said, Oh, you can just boss something up and throw it at me.

[18:45] Kelsey Anyá: Dear God, I won't be mad anymore. I won't yell or scream or curse or fight. So, God, will you keep me? If I am good and quiet and not too much trouble, will you keep me? If I bury it all inside of me, the things that hurt and burn and make me angry, if I chew them up and swallow them so they can't escape. Will you keep me? And girl, you pray, don't you? To a God given to you. What were you? Seven? Putting one foot in front of the other, feeling that cool metal underneath your feet as you climb the ladder into the baptismal pool, and you weren't even sure, was you? When you nodded your head, yes, after the pastor say, Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior? How could you know such a thing?

Could you even hear him, girl, with your ears tucked underneath the plastic shower cap on your head? Cause water and ammonium and lie don't mix, even though your auntie said you maybe didn't even need a perm because your hair used to get a little curly when it was wet. But before you could draw breath, his hand was over your nose and your mouth and your eyes slammed shut, and you let the water wash away the sin of being born a girl, black, and the arrogance and unmitigated gall to actually look it. And somewhere between the yes, Lord, and God bless it, you went down so gently and emerged with more questions than you had before, and an undeniable knowing that you could never ask them.

[21:01] Kelsey Anyá: To them who are called according to his purpose, dear God, I know I am not good. I'm sorry. Are you still there, God? If you've gone, will you come back? Do you still remember me? If it's quiet where you are, I'll try to be more quiet too. And I can be smaller too, just in case it was more space that you wanted, and that's what sent you away. What do you need from me, God, that I haven't already learned to be? Are you mad at me? I know I get in trouble at school, and the teachers say I talk too much, and that I don't always do my homework or thaw the chicken, and that I'd kiss Dominic on the mouth after seventh period. And I know I was getting on your nerves because I kept asking you if you thought I was ugly.

Because Romika said I was, and I kept asking you if you thought my lips were too big, because Rolanda said the bottom one was so big that the corners of my mouth folded out. And then I kept asking if I learned to love real, real good, starting with you, that someday I'd get to love me. And I don't mean to ask so many questions or bother you. All I know is that when you're not here, I don't know quite how to be me. You say loving things to me, God. And I could really use a loving thing.

[22:42] Kelsey Anyá: And trouble is a constant companion. And I'm not saying sorry. Oh well. Man, this is some bullshit. I swear, man, I shouldn't even be in the principal's office. Whatever. Call my mother. I don't care. Miss Lombardo, can you just write the suspension? Or if that's what y'all gonna do, so I can just go home already? Because I'm not about to apologize to him. So you can call my mother or suspend me or call Officer Rickles or do whatever you gotta do, because I'm not saying sorry. It's my hair, my head, my body, and I told him not to touch me. He does not have permission to put his hands on me ever. Point blank period. I don't ever bother nobody when I'm writing. All the other times, y'all always wanna get on me for speaking out, or if I'm asking a question or something, you always talking about how I'm I'm talking back or trying to be smart or whatever.

But when I just sit there quietly and do my work and somebody start bothering me, y'all don't say nothing. You just let them do whatever. No, you don't care about me, Miss Lombardo. You just sent me down here last week after I told Don Demarcus, yes, you did send me down here just for telling on him. And when I told Don DeMarcus last time, you're gonna say that I had to be the bigger person because girls are more mature than boys. Whose fault is that? Oh my God. How is that being disrespectful? Y'all always wanna give me ISS or kick me out of class, but y'all don't ever want to say nothing to the boys, right? Because y'all so scared somebody gonna call y'all racist. I swear to God, man, all I want to do is go back to class and finish writing.

This is not fair. Miss Lombardo, he spent the whole class sticking pencils in my hair right in front of your face, and you didn't do nothing, and I got tired of it. Oh well. What else you want me to say? Why I gotta keep my hands to myself, but he don't gotta keep his hands to himself? How come he's not in trouble? All I was trying to do was write, man. That's the only time I ever get to be in class when it's quiet. This is not fair. If I say sorry, will you let me go back to class? That's all I'm trying to do. I'm just trying to get back to my work.

[25:03] Kelsey Anyá: And you always have been warned about that mouth, hadn't you, girl? Always bumping them lips. Your grandmother and auntie called the bottom one a landing strip. Gone ahead, that's it. Press it inward against your teeth. And don't you remember, girl, when you was going under, you let your tongue thump, thump, thump against them and lick the fleshy part where it was just a little bit more pink than the rest of your mouth. That part. And don't you remember, girl, or at least you thought you remembered someone saying something about your body being the Lord's, and wasn't this the glory of it all? To be a vessel, a home for the Holy Spirit to dwell, a body to be preserved and served solely at the pleasure of the Lord.

And just when you thought to yourself, then how is this body mine? The water swelled underneath you. First Corinthians 3 19. Do you not know your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit? Haha, who is in you, whom you have received from God. You are not your own. You were brought at a price. Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it. Romans 8 10. He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his spirit who dwells in you. The water stills. In an instant, the memory of that baptismal pool and that water, deep enough to drown her body, but not wet enough to quench her thirst, turns our sweet baby A loose, and she commences to searching for her dear friend.

[26:54] Kelsey Anyá: Dear God, what makes a person love another person? Do you think someone could ever be in love with me? Dear God, I let him touch me. Am I going to hell? Dear God, I had sex. Am I going to hell? Dear God, I had sex and I wanted it. If he breaks my heart, is it what I deserve? I know when people ask what I want to be when I get older, I'm supposed to say a lawyer or a doctor or like some sort of occupation. I want to be a writer. But that's what I want to do, you know, not necessarily who I want to be. Really, what I think I want to be more than a writer. I mean, I want that too, but I think really what I want to be is in love. Like for real, for real in love. Because I think there is freedom in that too. Love, real love, means no guards, no barriers, no protecting myself from my own heart.

[28:25] Kelsey Anyá: Just love with reckless abandon. I want love like when grandmommy worked in the fellowship hall and slips me an extra piece of yellow cake after she done told everybody else they can only get one. And I want love like, did you sleep all right? Or call me when you make it to the house. I want someone to love me the way God loves babies, mercifully. And I know of all the pretty girls, I am not among them. Teeth not boned bright white, hair not particularly long, waist not particularly thin, no evidence, even with your head tilted and eyes squinted of miscegenation, just regular black. And still I want love anyway. You can consult the universe or soak the body or stretch the limbs, or shuffle the deck, or extend the palm, or burn the leaves, or welcome the silence, or build the boundaries, or recite the incantations, or summon the spirits, or sing the hymns with great fervor, or cut the hair, or tattoo the flesh, or greet the lovers, or curse the self.

But ultimately and impossibly, the work, the healing, the quelling of the longing, so to speak, is yours and yours alone. I know so because it has been said for centuries, repeated to black girls broken by their search for solace and secular spaces, the it, of course, being if you do not love yourself, no one else will. And this loving of oneself is real only if you are obedient. There is no sex with boys, not lest there be consequences and the subsequent silent suffering. Volume is a vulgarity and to be managed at all times. The body is to be straight and curved, contained and expansive. Should the body blossom into a fullness beyond the mind's own consciousness and comprehension of it, the onus lies within the owner to protect boys from it.

It is dangerous, and they could hurt themselves. The hair is to be meticulous, lest it be soft, loose curls and at least shoulder length, and then and only then shall fall freely to frame the face. A never ceasing routine of mounting and then untangling. It is to keep constant vigil over one's warmth and light. It is the pruning of one's hopes and expectations in order to fit the reality of one's existence. It is the turning your brokenness into a kaleidoscope of affection for him, for whomever, kissing him, or whomever, as softly as flesh will allow, and knowing making him or whomever come will not make him stay, and meeting the obligation of doing it anyway, because our sweet baby A then got a little groan now, and in that grownness, she grew tired, no longer calling out to God, well, only sometimes.

Mostly she just asked questions of herself now. In this moment between every moment that has been and every moment that will be, never expecting a voice to answer, only hoping to keep that other voice at bay. But even in this place in Philly, not Philly, somewhere between Jupiter and Venus, a question asked is a question answered. Question. How do you pronounce N-I-G-G-E-R in the South? Answer, nigger. Question. How do you pronounce N-I-G-G-E-R in the North? I'm sorry, ma'am, there are no vacancies here. Aha. All right, girl, come on now. You remember this, right? Don't you, girl? Can't you see them, girl? Don't you feel it, girl? That freedom you felt watching your mama and your daddy and your aunties and your uncles and your cousins and them in the midst of their unbecoming.

They looked like miracles to you, didn't they, girl? Woo! After all, it was a sight to behold, wasn't it? Watching a body deconstruct itself. Legs and arms and titties and hips and feet and elbows and knuckles, all the time throbbing with grief. Now they're in the present hour, pulsating with joy and cutting through time and space like a machete. What? What on sugar cane. The fingers unfurled and the jaws unclenched and the back straightened and the lips loosened and the joints softened like melted butter. Oh, oh, oh, yes, yes. And then the next thing you know, somebody, probably your cousin who used to spin you around by your arms till you couldn't tell the sycamore from the sequoias or the street lights from the cement screamed out, throw on P Funk, and this shit will come on.

Oh yeah. Cause see, your mama, your daddy, your aunties, your uncles, and your cousins and them, they were no sci-fi types, but they could dig an intergalactic groove. Cause see, even if they didn't want to admit it, it didn't look like Jesus was in no hurry to make his way back across the water no time soon. Hunger. And maybe, just maybe, being black on this land on this planet was already hell. And if the praying couldn't get them to paradise, maybe the dancing would. And they danced, didn't they, girl? Till it was all gone. The dogs barking, the dead teenagers, the bombed girls, the orange water, the crumbling buildings, the flesh rotting in cells, the pissy hallways, the dirty leases, the caged faces, the shackled ankles, the polluted air, the murdered leaders, the families burst apart and ruptured.

Please. Don't take my baby. The snapped necks, the smell of burnt skin and twisted rope, it all gave way to peace, and the hard R became a soft. Ah. And you and your infinite awe were surrounded by niggas who had managed to dance it all away till there was nothing left but blackness. For it was inescapable even in outer space. You tired yet, girl, of protesting and proselytizing, beseeching and borderline begging your people for mercy. You are relentless, ain't you, girl? Summoning the power of your Almighty God, righteous in all of your indictments. Wasn't that how they said, Daniel beat the devil? That's it, girl. Work. You resigned yourself to become the reckoning, would write a new gospel for them to spread.

They're gonna have to greet you with cracked tongues, splintered by redemption, rearrange the language in their mouth, so even their contempt sounds like respect. And when you rise, they bow, lest they not be called blasphemous. But in the house of worship, they building for you. The glass is stained, and you still cannot see all of yourself. Darkness, as certain as death, falls over our sweet baby A. And a hurt as sharp as fear sets in. All that wandering has made her wander. With no way back and despair caught in her throat. Our sweet baby A wets her lips, stretches her mouth, and where there should be sound comes light. Blue. And all at once, gorgeous and terrific. Lord, they could do anything to you.

Ten and two. Ten and two, ten and two, ten and two, ten and two, ten and two. And Lord, what is they gonna do to you? What is they gonna do to you? Straighten your back, boy. Come on, boy. Straighten up that back, boy. If you don't straighten up that goddamn back. There you go. There it is. Mm-hmm. Just like that. You are right, you are right, you alright. That's it. Easy now. Breathe. Here he comes. Here they come. All right, that's all right. Just shh shh shh shh. It'll be over soon. All right. Here we go. Smile now, real big. Mm-hmm. And yes, sir, you do have your license and registration. And yes, sir, you do know the speed limit was 35. And no, sir, you did not realize you were going 40.

And no, sir, you don't normally drive this fast. And no, sir, you don't mind stepping out of the car, but you are just well, you are just a little unsure. Why that would be necessary. No, sir. There is not a problem. And no, sir, you did not know that this is usually where they bust a lot of folks with something on them that they're not supposed to have on them. And no, sir, you are not clinching your jaw, but you are just well, you are just wondering what any of that has to do with you. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. You are getting out of the car now. You just need to unbuckle your seatbelt. Easy. There it is. Nice and slow. Easy. And yes, sir. You did know that you'd got in a speeding ticket for going 38 and a 35 two months at the intersection one block one municipality over.

But no, sir, you did not know that there was now a warrant. And no, sir. You would never intend to not pay. It's just that, sir, and no, sir. You are not clenching your jaw. And no, sir, your fist is not bald. Yes, sir. You will turn around and you do understand that they could take you in. And sir, sir, sir, you do know who the fuck you are talking to, sir. No, sir, no sir, no sir. Bashing your fucking face in would not be necessary. And no, sir, you do not want to die tonight. And sir, sir, sir, sir. You are not a boy, sir. You are a man. And sir, you didn't do nothing, sir. You wasn't saying nothing. And sir, sir, is that my blood on your badge? No, sir. You do not want more. And no, sir, you are not reaching for your belt.

And yes, sir. You will be still. Yes, sir. You are still. You are still. You are still, sir. You are still. Yes, sir. Shh. You ain't no nigga. You are man. Brother, I could imagine that fear you feel when you see those lights in your rear view. Or when you just stand in there being, trying to be, and they look at you, stare you down like a little child, make you feel low. Brother, I can feel your sweat turn cold when you lock eyes with them, because you know and they know and we know, and you want so desperately to be a man. Tell them to get the fuck out your face, right? Cause who do they think they are? Who do they think you are? Cause that shit is over. Them days is over and they got you fucked up.

Man, they always coming around with that shit like you owe them something, and it don't matter what you do. If you stay, or if you run, or if you polite, or if you talk back, they got power and they know it. You know it and they know you know it, but you ain't no nigga. And that is your body. And brother, they don't have no right. But what is a body if the bones can crack under the weight of a billy club? Or if the flesh can't announce its innocence before a bullet breaks the skin. This is the natural order of things. What they have been doing to black men for centuries. If they not breaking your body with nights, they doing it with legislation. To be a black man in America. And brother, you ain't no nigga.

You are a human being. Even still, you stand there and you take it, cause ain't shit you can do about it that won't get your black ass killed. Shit, and if they do kill you, what do it matter? You know what it is. We know how it goes. It's always gonna be some questions. Didn't you have a record? Or where was your father? Or why wasn't your pants pulled up? Or if you wasn't doing nothing wrong, then why did you run?

[42:42] Kelsey Anyá: And brother, can I ask you something? Well, I'm just I'm just wondering where were your boots when they body slammed that girl one week, one month, one year ago. Where is the wreckage in the rubble for Rakia? No anger for Atatiana. Your picket signs are peculiarly particular, brother. They lock us up too. Ask Sandra. And it ain't no presidential programs for us. Brother, when you scream for Malcolm Martin and Mumia, do you also war cry for Corinne? Brother, they break your body and shatter our hearts. Ask Erica and Miss Vanita. And I could go on and on and on and on and on and on and on, because the number of curved, not straight, not male, not remembered, never recognized, non vigiled, nor vigilanted, unnamed, unknown, never uttered, nor memorialized bodies, brother, is a limitless, stunning number.

And the death, as pervasive and prevailing as it is, isn't even the worst part. It is the way we make living ghosts of the ones we can still see, still touch, still acknowledge, yet never do. Have you never stopped to wonder, brother, whose perfumed flesh has fashioned itself into a footstool for you to hoist yourself into humanity? Through whose bowed heads and bent knees are you changed from property to person? And now that I'm here thinking more about it, I don't think it's that either. Maybe it's the way my body, the things I hope for, the love I offer are all a kind of currency that buys freedom for you and bondage for me. And brother, the way I love you, I don't even mind bending over for you. All I ask is from time to time you say my name.

[44:51] Kelsey Anyá: All at once, gorgeous and terrific. Blue, red, congeal like broken blood under the skin, and our sweet baby A drifts into the blue blackness of her lightless Philly, not Philly, somewhere far Jupiter or Venus, arms outstretched, eyes shut, a drip, then another, then another, then another. The drips become a voice. The voice becomes words. The words become a recognition. And you want to believe, don't you, girl? And that great something in the deep dark distance. You stand on your tippy toes, raise your arms, open your palms upward, trying to feel the warmth of a light you cannot see. This would make you whole and holy. Oh, and how they would marvel at the scripture on your skin. And who among them that did not see his working within you could call themselves righteous?

There, in the quiet hours of day becoming itself, you crack yourself open, pull all of the sin out of you, bind your breast, asking your God to make a new girl child of you, waiting for a divine suturing. It was only when the stitches didn't come that you remembered that old thing they said about Ham's progeny. Lowered your hands, open your eyes, and licked the sea salt from your fingers. I asked for my God, not you. Who are you? I asked for my God. Why have you come? What are you? Mother God, where are you? Have I displeased you? What more could you ask from me? How many more ways could I serve you, glorify your name, magnify your blessings, God? With great pleasure, I am permanently bowed at the waist, doubled over in respect.

Your name is in every beat of my heart, deep in the curvature of my mouth. Mother God, Mother God, I have done all that has been asked of me, been faithful and obedient, not perfect but pious. Did not do it. Worshiped in the ways I was commanded, pushed past exhaustion, swayed from sin Monday through Saturday, and sang the song of the psalmist on Sunday. I will meditate also of all thy work and talk of all thy doings. No one could possibly love you harder than I have, prayed more than I have. My voice has sang your praises through shackles, even from the floorboards of ships in the bottoms of oceans. I got to be here in this world without you, God, with no hand to hold or keep me steady. God, I have never been good enough for anything but you.

Who am I if not yours? God, why have you left me here with no way back to you? Just tell me what you want me to do, who you want me to be, and God, I will not question or wonder. I know that there is only you, God. I belong to you. You are the only home I have ever truly known. Isn't this body yours? Isn't this a life of your choosing? I ask for freedom, yes, but not from you. From what I am not sure. I just did not want to be bound endlessly, God, to what the world said I had to be. Did not want to be all weeping and wailing and long-suffering for my salvation. Wanted to be whole and ripe, if only to be your instrument. God, I am so tired. But I will walk a million miles more if only to feel the comfort of your presence again. Please, God, say something to me.

[48:57] Kelsey Anyá: And you know there is a reason, don't you, girl? That you can no longer hear your God. You tried to hide that doubt, didn't you, girl? Said it behind your right eye, but it was so big it pressed against the socket and wouldn't let you sleep at night. So you moved it to the base of your throat, but it keeps sneaking into your words. Then you moved it to the pit of your stomach. The quietest, darkest place you could find in you, but in that place was already a knowing you'd been ignoring. Inhale, inhale, inhale. Heat as undeniable as hunger humbles our sweet baby A. And in this moment, the only moment that ever mattered, she is reminded of the waters from the baptismal pool. And the questions still caught in her throat, and the answers that once evaded her flicker, flutter, fixate all around her.

When God would no longer answer, I got up and started walking. One step ahead. One step ahead, one step ahead, one step ahead, one step ahead, one step ahead. Hung itself on me, and there, with no knowledge of a new day, I began to weep. Be better, girl. Be better, girl, be better, girl, be better, girl. I wept for all the things I could not be, for my jagged edges and the softness I could not bear. I wept for the work that had not made me whole. I wept for my non-whiteness. I wept for my unworthiness. I wept for my hunger. For all the times I could not eat. How could I consume the fruit being fed to me by those who'd made me starve? I wept for all the ways I could not mute myself. I wept for my not knowing.

I wept for my uncertainty, for my dis for my disobedience, for my disbelief. One step ahead. Be better, one step ahead, be better. Not good enough. Be better, better. Come on, girl. And who am I in this darkness? Who do I have to be to have a body made of light? And the grief? Evergreen and abundant? Where will it live now? Am I to be a faithful gardener to the weeds of discontent? What wicked flowers peddle themselves in the shadows of my sunless soul? Come on, girl. Please. Be better, feel better, laugh harder, be quieter. Wrong way, wrong way, wrong way. Where are you going? What are you doing? Everywhere, a wall, a trap, a fun house mirror. I am but a little child trapped in the labyrinth of all the lies I told about myself to make it safe to survive.

What if I just when I could no longer hear God? I heard myself and was ashamed. I wiped whatever words were left in me from my mouth, hung my head, and wished for a rapture. Instead came stillness. Dear God, I know where you are now, and I am not afraid. And after all of my wailing and weeping through the night, I found my joy in the morning. And God, I will not be downtrodden or discouraged. I will be wide-nosed, fat-lipped, nappy headed resplendents, and it will be an honor to see me and marvel at your presence. God, I will not be what this world says I am, I will be the world itself. And the universe will not be a thing that contains me. I will contain it. And the thing they call loud is but a mere whisper of your voice.

And God, when they try to destroy my body, there will be no flesh for them to tear into, for I will have broken myself for them, loving them all the while like wayward children, offering myself as salvation, saying, Take, eat, for this is my body, do this in remembrance of me, understanding that this is what happens when they have forgotten your divinity and mine. And God, amidst the sorrow of their transgressions, I will remain full with all that you have given me and all that you have blessed me with. God, I will be human, neither sub nor super, just human. And before they see my blackness, before they see what it means for the lens to be free, but feel the weight of bondage, what it means to be the source of everything and belong to nothing, to make a joyous life with the bones of lies and broken promises, for an existence to be brutal and beautiful, before they see me as woman, both the healer and the whore, the prostitute in the Protestant, the mother and the miscreant, a continent never truly conquered, because no humanity can exist without mine. God, before they see me as any definition they've created for me, they will see me as I see myself as all that you have made me, and they will know my name forever and ever. Amen.

[57:03] ♪ Musical number ♪

[59:53] Alwyn Robinson: How y'all feeling?

[59:56] Audience: Good, yes.

[59:57] Alwyn Robinson: I'm gonna try that again. How y'all feeling?

[1:00:00] Audience: Thank you.

[1:00:02] Iyvon Edebiri: How are you feeling, Taji?

[1:00:04] Taji Senior: Um, thank you. Uh thank you, Matrix. Um, good, yeah. Very good. Ask me tomorrow.

[1:00:13] Iyvon Edebiri: Yeah.

[1:00:14] Taji Senior: Thank you. Um, yeah, I know this play is really special and has been super important um in your life. So, what is the inspiration for this play?

[1:00:28] Taji Senior: It's a good question. It's a great question. Um, so about three, four years ago, my mentor and friend Adrian Dawes, who is an incredible playwright and um writer, was like, yeah, so when you write your solo show, and I had no intention of writing a solo show. And she just kept being like, Yeah, when you write your solo show, when you write your solo show. And um, I was like, mm-hmm. And so then a theater company in Austin, Texas, was like, hey, um, Adrian said you were writing a solo show. And um, we have $500 for you to develop it. I was like, right, the solo show that I am writing. Yeah, that's what I think. Yeah, what? I hear her correctly. Yeah.

[1:01:20] Taji Senior: So, what that originally started out as like this kind of exploration of like, I was really curious to dig into the ways in which the constitution defines humanity for a person. Like it's really interesting to me, just legally speaking, who gets to be a human and who doesn't. Right. And what does personhood mean? And so I wrote this piece called Amendment, and I did a little workshop of it, which Matrix also directed. And um we did that, and I kind of stepped away from it. And then somebody was like, Yeah, so when you bring your work to New York, and again, no intention, but I was it was literally this kismet thing of um I was getting ready to do Romeo and Julia, and I was stealing from my job a copy of Romeo and Julia and right next to Shakespeare was George Bernard Shaw's um The Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God.

And um I read that, and it was a bizarre experience because really, even though the way that short story ends is pure and utter garbage, um shout out to George Bernard Shaw. You could tell them I said it. Um but it really was kind of the first time that I saw or read anything where there's kind of like where there's a black girl at the center of an ontological questioning.

[1:02:52] Taji Senior: And so I was like blown away by that. And in you know, as a black American trying to reconcile blackness against Christianity, against womanness, against all of those different things. Um, and that's where A came from.

[1:03:05] Iyvon Edebiri: Yeah. It's beautiful. And uh, and so to dig into that deeper, so like listening to the play, I was jotting down a bunch of like ideas and questions. And so one thing that is that you that your play brings up a lot, and you spoke about touched upon in our first question is black girlhood and black womanhood. And I want to ask, why do you think that that idea of black womanhood and black girlhood often gets negated even by black women and black girls? Why do you think that is? And I guess not to say you're the end all be all for this answer, but like how do we um move forward as black women with protecting black girlhood because it's so important and it lasts such a short time if it lasts for people at all.

[1:04:08] Taji Senior: Yeah, I mean I love that question. You know, I don't know, Ivon. I think I'm currently in an independent study course right now in school, and I was just earlier today reading about fugitivity and the fungibility of black flesh, and this idea that when you leave Africa, you're a person, and then somewhere over the mid-Atlantic you become property or you become ungendered, you become ungendered, and then once you land in America, you become um property. And I think it's this idea that blackness doesn't really fit into whiteness's ideas of gender, and I think that we have yet to reconcile that. And because we don't really know how to reconcile that, like it's hard to be like, this is girlness, this is boyness. Like they're codified, you know, behaviors and things like that that we can point to and say that that's gender. But I don't think that blackness and what it has to be in order to exist fits into that construct.

[1:05:18] Taji Senior: Um and you mean like a gendered construct. Right, yes, into a gender. Correct. Yeah, I think we are um really um disserved by binaries, and um I think that that lends itself uh on a macro macro level. Um I don't know why the burden of adulthood falls so squarely on the shoulders of black girls. But I mean it's certainly a thing that I felt as a black girl. I you know, is that that thing of like you have to take care of everyone? You have to take care of everyone, you know better. I don't I don't give a shit that that grown man um said something sexual to you or something sexual to you if you didn't have the body that you had, if you didn't have the skin that you had, if you didn't have like I remember, and I think about this often, I feel like I was hit on more by adult men as a teenage girl. As a precubescent than as an adult woman, yeah, yeah.

[1:06:22] Taji Senior: Yeah, you know, and it and I remember apologizing, you know, and being like, oh no, I'm sorry, I'm only 14. I remember not going out. That's just staying home. That's it, yeah. And I I mean, I think it's a fascinating question. And and I don't know, and and as far as, you know, why black women, you know, sometimes negate our own experiences is I think part of that is survival, you know, and you do what you gotta do to make it through, right? Um, and I think another part of that is you know, internalized misogyny, internalized misogyny are yeah, I think I think all of those things, and and I for me, I wrote this. I'm you know, everything I write is I don't mean for it to be self-aggrandizing, but there's this incredible writer named Virginia Grice who talks about she writes to make sense of her own life, she writes to understand herself, and it's really the only way I can understand my own existence is to like write it out, yeah.

[1:07:28] Taji Senior: Um and for me that's how I recognize my own black girlhood, yeah. And and it's wild too. Um, I should say, when I walked out, I don't I don't know if he's still here, I saw a friend of mine who I literally haven't seen um since I was in middle school in Philly, and sometimes I don't trust myself to be the narrator of my own story, um, because that's what it is to be in the world is to be constantly gaslit and be like, is this am I experiencing this? Is this real? Is that is that right? Did that happen the way that I think that it happened? And um I grew up partially in Philly, partially in Texas. Um, and seeing him was like, no, yeah, you live there. That was your life. That's a real thing. Here's evidence, and that's a wild thing to kind of always be searching outside of yourself for validation of your own existence. But I think writing helps me sort my way through that.

[1:08:27] Iyvon Edebiri: Yeah, yeah. And uh when it comes to uh black girlhood and womanhood, do you think it can exist within the construct of Christianity and religion and the concept of God?

[1:08:44] Taji Senior: I do. I do. It did for me. Um, as much as Christianity and church was a burden, I also learned so much about life and and just you know, I the Robert Pruitt is says, has this quote like church is the first place that black people contemplate existentialism. Um and I'm like, yeah, that's right, because it's the first time you're thinking about like, yeah, so the institution itself is flawed, most certainly. But um, yeah, I do. I do think you can be a little girl and be the Sunday school secretary and you know, go to vacation Bible school. Those are fun times. And um, you know, I I do think I I don't think I think black girl could can exist in any circumstance. I think it will always look differently, it has to, or else we wouldn't be here, right? It has to, yeah.

[1:09:47] Iyvon Edebiri: And who or what is God for you, Taji?

[1:09:54] Taji Senior: Oh man, God is other people, always. God is God is you, God is me, God is everyone here, God is God is everyone. I believe that deeply and fully. I do. That's what God is to me, and to be in community and to be in connection and be in relation to other people, that's God for me.

[1:10:19] Iyvon Edebiri: And um what was this process of writing this play for this iteration for audio? And this is our I will say this is our first, this is the smallest recording we've ever done. Yeah. This is the closest to a solo that we've ever done before. So I'm really interested with just you being there. What was this process like?

[1:10:40] Taji Senior: Well, I am remarkably blessed to um know some incredible black women writers, including Leah Braithwaite and um SB Proctor, who I got partnered with uh SV through this process, and one of the first things we talked about was like, Well, how do we adapt this for radio? And she was like, Well, girl, these stage directions talking about go left, go right, and nobody's gonna be able to see it, so you're gonna have to fix it.

[1:11:08] Taji Senior: But that is how I was like, all right, all right. So I can attest to that. Yeah, she's she's yeah, but that is how I translated it. Um, and so it really just became like, okay, if I'm only listening to this, what do I want people to hear? And I stepped away from like the last time I performed this play was in 2018. And um, since then I've started grad school and a number of other things have happened. And so I was approaching it with a different self. Right. You know, I was like, yeah, just a lot about myself and my life and my circumstances and everything that I known has changed. And so um, yeah, I that was the first thing. And then I was, yeah, so sound. Um, what is this world sound like?

You know, what do I hear when I'm when I'm writing it with a lot, a lot of Frank Ocean. I don't say. I kind of feel that kind of seeps out. Yes. You heard it? Right? A little channel orange in there. Yes. You know? Also, um, a lot of Sun Ra um and a lot of Pharaoh Sanders. Oh my lava, Pharaoh Sanders. And oh my gosh. Yeah. Um, so just a lot of like listening to things. Also, I got a little crazy at one point. I was like, what if I go to a sound bath and that'll that was not helpful. Um, so really, really, it just became about the first step was was sound and looking at the stage directions. And then it was like, well, what do I know now that I didn't know then? And what did I say then and what did I mean to say, and how can I cut through with what I meant to say?

Like, we don't need to, I don't, I don't, I'm no longer in the business of like so let me package this nicely or comfortably for any preference for you. And like I think in earlier versions of the text, um, I was afraid to call a thing a thing because I didn't want to be too critical, but it's like we don't get anywhere unless we like call it out. Unless you, unless you say this is it. You, you know what I mean? Like, ouch, that hurt. That's fucked up, that's wrong. That's you know, um, and so I was a a lot less uh scared or fickle about that this time. And I think trying to imbue the work with that new, let me tell you something, child, be an only black female graduate actor in a in a grad acting program will bring out will bring out the fierceness in you. Um and so, yeah, coming to the work with that was just like this is where I'm at now, and this is what I have to say.

[1:13:52] Iyvon Edebiri: That's great. So we're gonna start wrapping up with our last few questions. Um, which are so uh am I asking this question to all of our playwrights this season, which is uh a hundred years ago, uh uh white women specifically were given the right to vote. So looking ahead 100 years from now, where do you see the future of all women?

[1:14:20] Taji Senior: Ooh. That's a really good so it'll be 2120. No, no, no, it won't. Right, it will, it will be, it'll be 2120. Yeah, okay. Yes, I I wanted to make sure I didn't like hit like a 30,000 and something. I didn't want to say okay. Great. That helps me answer this question, not at all, but it was good to like get it out there. Um, a hundred years from now, that's a really great question. Where do I think all women will be? Um, you know, uh from my vantage point, women seem to be a little tired right now in the best way possible. Yes, like women are sick of the shit. Um, and I my my hope, I can tell you what I hope. I hope that um we lean into lean into the things that restrain us and like embrace them.

Like internalize those things. Internalize all the things that they say that you can't be that you can't do, and we will have crafted some new thing out of it. Because I think that's the only way. That's the only way anything can survive. It's like you have to like any marginalized body can survive. It's like you have to take, you have to hear it, you have to take the shit, and then you have to make something new out of it. And I think a hundred years from now, I'm I'm willing to say now, my white women, I love y'all. Y'all gonna have to start voting differently with us. I hope that happens. Yeah, we're gonna have to start thinking about other people sometimes. Um yeah, I'm gonna say white women will vote differently.

Um, and in in their own best interest. Um, and then I'm gonna say that women in general will have crafted c crafted, created some new thing out of woman-ness. Yeah, yeah. It's like a diamond, like a like the pressure. Yeah, it's like bam, yeah, now we're worth a million dollars. Yeah, come on, VBS. Yes, we're gonna sound good.

[1:16:26] Iyvon Edebiri: Yes. Um, if Trump were in this room and you had 60 seconds, what would you say to him?

[1:16:33] Taji Senior: Take it or leave it, it's up to you. I'm asking everyone. I think I would be like, nigga. Are you and I see it? Like, are you are you fucking kidding me? I think that's all I could say. Like, bruh, what's gonna actually where is Deja? Deja would have to get me because I would got my hair braided too, baby. These hoops can come out, it'd be some Vaseline. All I need is 60 seconds with Trump. I don't know. I don't know if it would be no talking. We might just be getting the squabbing. Yeah. Yeah. Yes, the squabble. Yes. Yes. You have a good shot. He don't exercise. He don't do nothing. So he did a good shot. And I'm in sage combat right now, and I will tell you, I will tell you that the power comes from the hip. Shout out to C Fuette. Also, I grew up street fighting in Philly. Shout out to Justin if he's still here.

[1:17:39] Iyvon Edebiri: Um, last question. What did you have for breakfast this morning?

[1:17:48] Taji Senior: I had um a bacon, egg, and cheese one and everything, bagel, and um breakfast blend tea. Yes. Amazing.

[1:18:04] Iyvon Edebiri: Um, so before we wrap up and hear our last song by our musicians tonight, um, we just have some special thank yous for the artistic collaborators who are part of this episode. So wanna give major love and shout out to our cast tonight, which included Kelsey Anyá and Taji Senior. Dramaturgy by SB Proctor. Yeah. This episode was directed by Matrex Kilgore. Yeah. Our musicians tonight are Alwyn Robinson and Andrew Ibanez. And obviously, our wonderful playwright tonight, Taji Senior. Wanna say thank you to Luke DeCola, our sound engineer and editor. And a thank you to uh the TPS team in Business Lunch Productions. Business Lunch Productions is a leading creative agency based in New York City, working with creatives all over the world.

Thank you to the Mark O'Donnell Theater for having us in their space. The Mark O'Donnell Theater at the Actors Fund Arts Center is a state-of-the-art black box performance venue and rehearsal space located at the lobby level of the Skirmahorn in downtown Brooklyn. It's a program of the Actors Fund, whose mission is to foster stability and resiliency and provide a safety net for performing arts and entertainment professionals over their lifespan. For more information on how the Actors Fund helps people in every area of the performing arts nationwide, please visit actorsfund.org.

[1:19:45] Iyvon Edebiri: I want to let y'all know that if you have loved what you saw tonight and what you are listening to, we have submissions open for next season, and it's all queer playwrights and musicians. If you are a queer playwright, especially if you're a queer playwright of color, if you are non-binary, if you are trans, please, please, please submit. And I'm saying that directly to you. I know that there's a fear that you won't get chosen. You never know. Please submit to us. We want to hear your stories and put it out in the world because they matter. Um thank you. Y'all better tell people too. Um, and so thank you for listening to The Parsnip Ship. Please follow us on Facebook and Instagram at The Parsnip Ship NY.

If you'd like to help support The Parsnip Ship to keep this program free. Please help us grow and reach new audiences by sharing your experience and episodes across social networks. So again, that's at The Parsnip Ship NY. Tag us, hashtag The Parsnip Ship. You can listen to our first four seasons of The Parsnip Ship on iTunes, Spotify, Stitcher, and Podbean, wherever you get your podcasts. Our season five episode of Abraham's Daughters by Emma Goldman Sherman is now available. And Mauricio Sonhando by Erlina Ortiz and The Last Ring by Ashley Lauren Rogers will be available soon. Join us for our next live recording on Monday, March 30th, here for an eco fable, A Wolf, a Rabbit and a Crow, Walk Into Tomorrow by Robin Rice, directed by Melinda Hall with musical guest Benjamin Wiener.

This episode was produced by The Parsnip Ship and Business Lunch Productions. The Parsnip Ship is a fiscally sponsored project of Brooklyn Arts Council. New plays, new music, this is how we hear theater.

[1:21:30] ♪ Musical number ♪