Still skin sensitive (I have thin white skin)
After reading an article from Americaland or its cleaner cousin Canada
Where black theatre makers asked that white reviewers
refrain from reviewing their work – they don’t know what we are talking about –
I asked permission to write a review.
This was new.
Who the fuck am I, right? I had never thought about it before.
Oh the sneaky insidiousness of white privilege.
I sat in the close heat of the unairconditioned, semidecolonised, renamed and reframed
I watched purity and purpose and word and movement
On stage, like a duet dance.
In the audience
We watched, heard, laughed, shivered and shook.
Women and GBV and #menaretrash and our worlds at war and words at work.
We rose and applauded. Such good, powerful, clever stuff.
And then a Q&A crept into the room
As I was getting ready to make my exit.
There were 7 white women in the room last night. Including me. I say it to make it clear.
And with the ease of a tide coming in, as we know it must, and does,
White women spoke. First, and loud, and freely.
Sitting at the back I got shy, and then frustrated
By the size of the demographic compared to the space it was comfortable to take up.
By the unconscious, unselfconscious, unilateral hierarchy of colour and gender
And come on. Racism.
There were no white men in the room last night. But, next on the list,
White women. Then black men. It was black men who spoke next.
And the black women on stage, at the Q&A, were the ones who were
Asked, interrogated, questioned, like the representatives of the whole wide west and east.
That’s quite a big burden.
Out of the theatre
And into the world.