Steven Simoncic
Dramatic
D: late 20s, African American
D COLEMAN and her fiancée, HOODY, have lived in Garfield Park their whole lives. As the neighborhood gentrifies, their property taxes have increased and they can no longer afford to live in their own home. This is D’s recounting of her life and struggle for survival that continues to this very day. It is delivered to the audience.
D I am invisible. Been invisible all my life . . . spent years moving through the shadows and cracks of broken men and angry boys too proud to ask for help . . . and too arrogant to say thank you when you give it to them anyway. Fierce, black and strong, I watched the pride lion puff up and go out into the wasteland only to come home and explode. 64. Fantastic, tragic fireworks filled with bravado and machismo, his wives and daughters, circling his fire, soothing his burns, stroking his face, and whispering sweet relief between the pounding in his ears. And when the noise stops, and the darkness fills the room, I show up, like I always do . . . in the shadows and the silence, with a bucket and a mop. Bandage a baby brother’s bloody hand . . . Steady daddy as he pisses Hennessey into a jelly jar ’cause he’s too drunk to stand. I clean up the glass. Lock the door. And turn off the light. Then I wrap my feet in Vaseline and impossibly puffy white socks, and I disappear under my sheets. My ashy skin now soft and serene. Because I do not need to be seen. [Beat.] I need to be heard. From baby cry to lullaby life isn’t what you see. It is what you hear. And when you a two-month cocoa-brown baby girl left alone in a second-story walk-up, you need to be heard. So I cried until they heard me. And when your cousin takes you under the freeway, and no one can hear you over the roar of the trucks on The Kennedy, you need to be heard. So I screamed until they found me . . . until I found my own voice. Simple and clear. Louder than you’d expect. And it was fierce . . . almost beautiful. But now . . . I have gone silent once again. Six community meetings and three trips to the Cook County Assessor and I still cannot be heard. Two loan officers and a local news reporter . . . and I still cannot be heard. A half hour alone with a tax bill and an alderman . . . and I still cannot be heard. So every night I come home tired and hoarse—having lost my voice again—to say good night to a proud man who always listens but doesn’t always hear. And when the house goes quiet, and the night is silent, I whisper . . . to momma. Tiny prayers and promises of survival that sound only like me. Because I know she can hear me . . . and I know she loves the sound of my voice.