First Place: T'ana Thompson: Scottsdale Community College
The Only Tired I Am
by
Anonymous
An original work
Copyright @2020 tan2159841@maricopa.edu
TIME
The present.
SYNOPSIS
Mother Brawnda has emerged from the shadows to speak up for her people. She carries past and present history within her soul. Her only desire; the white man listens.
SETTING: Black box.
AT RISE: Mother Brawnda sits poised in a single chair.
(A single light reveals a chocolate woman wrapped in creamy sheer garments. A matching scarf on her head. She's stoic, yet queen-like.)
Mother Brawnda
The only tired I am is tired of giving. Averting my thoughts and eyes. Giving you the me you say I am. Lending you my chil'rens. Carrying them for nine and getting them back at six feet. Working like I wasn’t born to live. Working until these fingers bleed so bad that I have to pay attention to my heart leaking at the same rhythm. The giving. Yes, I's tired of giving.
(At this moment, she slowly rises from the chair, and makes her way downstage. She speaks powerfully, as if to question a known enemy.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
And what makes you think that the devil doesn’t reside in you? Giving you them thoughts to think. Dealings that ain’t yours and lands to ravage.
(She gazes.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
Mhmm… just three-fifths to you but I know. I know, and I hears... I feels, and sees real good through you. I sees it all. Unfasten that board and you’ll see two windows starring back into yours just as bright and twice as wide with honey streaming out of every hatch. Got flowers made of wool, truest to His image.
(She turns, back facing the audience, chin resting on her left shoulder. She seductively slides her garment from her shoulders, revealing old wounds that sparkle underneath the light, streaked across her back.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
Skin that survives underneath the sun, and every crack on my back you give! That’s what you give and I'm tired of you mister.
(She slowly pulls the garment back to her shoulders. To the rhythm of her words; it rises back in place.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
I’m tired of giving you my fight. Tired of giving the good Lord my faith only to watch ya' dust ya' feet all on it.
(She rotates back around, peers out into the audience.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
I’m tired of this order you put in place. Making me feel like it ain’t mine. Making the browns and the tans and the creams and the golds feel like we not supposed to want what’s ours. Making us hate that we love. I AM TIRED OF GIVING TO YOU MISTER! Giving you my peace.
(She drops to her knees, brings prayer hands to her face as she looks to God.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
On my knees without one word to utter, hoping them silver eyes will see the blood spilling unto the star you say was designed for me.
(Both hands slam to the floor. She speaks as if to be hit, and in agony each time she says "taking it".)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
Taking it and taking it and taking it and taking it and taking it and taking it and taking it and taking it until I can’t breathe no more!
(She pulls back to her knees. Tears are in her eyes; she pleads.)
mother brawnda CONT’D
A thousand windows have swung open to plead with the devil in you but he ain’t listenin Mister. And Mister I's tired.
(She pulls herself to her feet. Walks stage left; sweeps her way to stage right, broom in hand. She weeps hard, matching the emotion of her words.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
Mister you can’t have one more ounce of me. You call me unwilling as you harbor fruits of my labor but now Mister, I truly am. Mister you get nothing more from me. Not my tears, not my fears, not this anguish that I won’t let claim my soul. Not the stain on the riverbanks, not the child you broke me to bear or the husband you banished from my doorstep, NOT the tongue you confiscated and vended to the highest bidder.
(She slams the broom to the floor. Stands stage right.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
Mister that's all mine. I want it all. I want it all right now!
(She runs stage left. Tugging on a rope she pulls and pulls until she's back stage right.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
I want the soul hanging on that tree because it’s mine and I'mma set it free! I want my tribe scribed into all four corners of this here place. I want you to rub out all them lies. I want, I want, I want, I will not give! You hear me mister? You hear the unyielding order given unto you?
(She wipes the sweat from her face. The pain from her eyes. Hold her back as she makes her way to center stage.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
You hear the drumming of my people rising up inside of me? You see this woman you call thang reclaiming every bit of what I know I am, and telling ya what will be no more? Mister there will be no more unanswered treachery. There won't be no more hundred years of this. You ain't got to fret about the language of the unheard and you ain't got to seek another word past mine because what I say we mean.
(She walks back to the chair sitting upstage, and sits. She gazes at her enemy.)
Mother Brawnda CONT’D
And Mista'...Mista' you better take heed. we ain't askin no more.
(Stage goes black.)
THE END
Author Biography:
T'ana Thompson was born and raised in the heart of San Bernardino, California. If you know anything about those parts, you know that life there isn’t silver spoons packaged with shopping sprees down rodeo drive. For her, it’s been all about humble beginnings. As a child she experienced poverty, encountered violence, and watched her mother struggle through abusive relationships. As a young adult she found herself mirroring the generation before her, prompting the need for change.
Today T'ana is producing short films as a student at Scottsdale's School of Film and Theatre.