Dear Caryl,
I know, I know, it’s been far too long. I think I was sixteen last time we saw each other, and then briefly two years ago in a dramatic literature class. And each time, young people aren’t quite sure what to do with you, but they’re fascinated.
After having explored the world of love and storytelling, I will admit you’re my type. I have a thing for British women writing in the 80s. Both of our horizons have cracked, and come crashing down. Luckily you’re around to arrange the pieces in aesthetically pleasing patterns.
I’ve been lucky enough to be a part of one of your works this past quarter, primarily as an observer, and I’ve fallen for you once again.
The environments you create are taut and dynamic: there is no refuge in your plays where everywhere is a battleground.
When your ideas are so big that characters are at risk of becoming mere metaphors, you entwine idea and situation so closely that they blossom into full, compelling people.
Your ruthlessness in form, in character, in content continues to inspire anyone standing before the monolith of the white supremacist patriarchy. As Vicky says in Cloud 9, “You can’t separate fucking and economics.”
The sniffles of overly-sensitive white people are drowned out by the demons of empire you summon to investigate imperialism and whiteness long before it was trendy. While we youngins are just beginning to discover our inner Beckies, you’ve found yours, pulled her out and performed open-heart surgery on her for the world to see. You inspire me to be diligent with challenging the structures that I take for granted.
Much love,
A
First Date Reading: A Number, Love and Information
Second Date Reading: Top Girls, Cloud 9
Third Date Reading: Serious Money, Softcops
Drama Lit Blog 2.0: BU School of Theatre 