Afrikan Centered Theatre is living in two worlds. There is the element that concerns itself with the traditional purposes of ritual in Afrikan society. This is our relationship to Divinity/God! This is our relationship to each other. Then there is the element that is concerned with the Diaspora's experience in the Americas : "How did I get here, Who is God to me in this world. Why didn't you have my back when all the ugly shit went down?"
Then there are the meta-issues... The issues that truly encapsulate the agenda of Afrikan Centered Theatre. Namely: We are community, "Together, we are at the center of the relationship between humanity and Divinity/God. The community is an extension of God. There is no distinction, whether in language or thought, between the community and God. No matter what has happened before, I am you, you are me and we are Divinity/God. All forms of Afrikan Centered expression, whether theatre, film, music, or dance, are concerned with this meta-issue: How do we get back to the you and me of God and community. How can we be whole again?
This is why we are not driven by marketing and commercialism, why our material is often challenging, even difficult to work through. Why in fact you can't shake a show for weeks or months or ever. We are not trying to entertain you... we are trying to reconnect with you. As artist we have no other objective.
This is a far cry from the notion that our generation is only concerned with money, status, and notoriety, because these things seldom accompany our chosen path.
Upon hearing that August Wilson has left this earth today on October 2, 2005, I am reminded of the passing of the most important era in African-American dramatists history. Certainly the completion of his cycle of plays is momentous. The celebration of the decades of African-American life in the larger theatrical Diaspora is unprecedented. The voice of August Wilson, although sometimes gratuitous, and always packed with emotional clarity and spiritual truth, has changed the face of national and international drama forever.
Although Mr. Wilson's life is a powerful example of the beginnings of the changing of the guard, at this time I am reminded of August the man. I had the pleasure of sharing dinner with him one night about 12 years ago at the Goodman Theatre where I was interning in arts-education and dramaturgy. I was only 20 years old, a young, African-American woman studying playwriting at DePaul University's Theatre School. The occasion was an arts education banquet with Chicago Public School teachers where August was to give a talk on his latest play, then TWO TRAINS RUNNING.
Mr. Wilson gave his talk to the group of eager teachers, and I was completely enamored. His easy demeanor and captivating smile made you feel at ease. He was the complete gentleman, and was way more interested in hearing about you than in talking about himself. He appeared to have a secret just behind his eyes which made you feel as if he were sharing it with you without having any words pass between the two of you at all. His speech to the teachers was intimate at best, and it certainly felt like he was only speaking to you, even though the room was filled with about a hundred souls.
In spite of this intimacy, sitting across the dinner table from Mr. Wilson after his talk session with the teachers was not something I expected. It just so happened that there was extra space at my table, and he walked in last. He came and he sat down across from me, and all the sudden all the teachers in the room suddenly perked up to see who Mr. Wilson had decided to spend his Thai food meal with.
I was nervous, too nervous to even open my mouth. August saw this, and made it his mission to make me feel as comfortable as possible. He asked me what my name was and how I happened to be at the event. I answered him in my most shyest of voices. He asked me to repeat my name. I spoke up. "Nambi." He said "What a beautiful name," it was and if it meant something. I told him it meant, "First Woman," He asked me where my name came from, and I proceeded to tell him the creation story from Burundi behind my name, how very recently I'd just found the story in the library at school, how happy I was to finally find where my name came from. He told me it sounded like a play, and that I should write it. Which in subsequent years, I did.
The conversation progressed, and as it did, I began to feel more at ease. He continued to ask me questions about myself, my life, what I was learning about in school, what kind of things I was writing about. At the time I was writing a play called MiLK. He asked me to tell him in one sentence what it was about. I couldn't do it. He explained to me about being able to speak articulately about your ideas, and how important that was for a playwright. He then asked me again what the play was about. I told him that the play was about a young girl growing up in the projects of Chicago who becomes separated from her soul because she is raped by the neighborhood junkie, that her soul is embodied in a character on stage that is invisible to every one in the play except the girl. He then asked me tons of questions about the play. We must have talked for about 45 minutes just on the play. He finished up the conversation by telling me how excited he was about the piece, that I should send him a copy when I get a draft. He then told me to get his address in Seattle from the Arts Education director, and to please follow up with him.
Years later, I was at the opening night of JITNEY at the Mark Taper Forum in Los Angeles. Just before the lights went down to begin the play, I found myself wondering if August was in the room and would he remember me from having had dinner together nearly 7 years earlier. The first act completed itself and the intermission lights came up. I began speaking to my companion about the play and how much I was enjoying it. The man in front of me turned around from hearing my voice. It was August! I said, "August!" And, then he looked at me at said, "I heard your voice and then I turned around to see your face. I remember your face, but I can't remember your name. We met at the Goodman, right?" Well, I was floored! Here was this huge mega-star playwright who'd met me once as an intern at the Goodman Theatre in Chicago, and he remembered meeting me 7 years later! He asked how my writing was coming and we talked briefly. I congratulated him on his success and he gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. I'm sure I blushed.
I saw August once more at the opening of GEM OF THE OCEAN in Chicago at the New Goodman, but didn't really get to chat. He was cordial, convivial, and generous as ever. Walking with an incredibly well carved cane, I was afraid for his health, but then just figured it was a "style" thing. August was a man of great class and style, so what did I expect? This was the last time I had the pleasure of seeing him alive.
August never went to college. If I'm correct, he didn't even graduate high school. But he made his living as a writer, the most important black writer of our time. In spite of all his accomplishments, accolades, and plays, I am left with what an incredibly humble human being he was. What an inspiration he was to me as a young playwright. How kind it was of him to spend 45 minutes hearing about my play and how he tried to help me get clarity on it from a writing perspective. How meeting him and spending a meal with him made me believe that I could make a living doing the very thing that he does.
I have gone on to become a playwright; published, produced and building work nationally and internationally. Maybe if I'd never had the chance to meet August and speak with him one on one I might be a carpenter now. If August were sitting before me right now, I would just look into his eyes, share a smile with him and say "thank you". Thank you for opening the door at the most prestigious and respected theatres in the world for the rest of us to share our voices. Thank you for saying what you wanted to say and living your life to say it. Thank you for taking the little people like me under your wing and infusing us with light and energy and faith that what we have to say is important to the rest of the world. We are better for having shared the planet with August. Not only because of his plays. But, because he was kind. He was very, very kind.