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<div align="center"><b>TOTAL REVOLUTION OR NUTHIN’<br><br>
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(</b><i>Darkened stage. Jaunty whistling and cell-phone texting is heard,
along with the footsteps of Converse sneakers on a dusty, small-town
road. Suddenly, the screech of heavy tires, then a sickening thud and a
groan. Lights up on the original American Gothic couple, sitting on the
porch of their dilapidated house, up the hill from the road. Pa is
snoozing in his rocker; Ma puts down her knitting and looks out, in the
direction of the noise.</i><b>)<br><br>
Ma: Hey, Pa.<br><br>
Pa: Yeah, Ma?<br><br>
Ma: There’s a big ol’ anarchist lying in the
middle of the road.<br><br>
Pa: I believe I heard that one before,
Ma.<br><br>
Ma: This ain’t no joke, Pa. A cement truck done
come outta nowhere and knocked that anarchist feller down.<br><br>
Pa: How you know he’s an anarchist, Ma?<br><br>
Ma: Black jeans. Black t-shirt. Cell phone. Lack
of personal hygiene. A woman knows these things, Pa.<br><br>
Pa: He ain’t one a them hothead terrorists what
got arrested at the G-20 protest in Pittsburgh? (</b><i>Gasps.</i><b>)
Ma! You think he’s the very one whose house the police raided?<br><br>
Ma: Maybe. (<i>Pause. Ma goes back to her
knitting. Pa, now fully awake, seems troubled.</i>)<br><br>
Pa: Hey, Ma.<br><br>
Ma: Yeah, Pa?<br><br>
Pa: I feel kinda bad, sittin’ here on the porch
in total comfort, while that anarcho-terrorist’s lying down there without
his books, his computer, his notes, and all his personal belongings. You
know, them police done took everything in that raid. Maybe I ought to
throw myself down next to the anarchist in solidarity.<br><br>
Ma: Now, Pa. Don’t you go actin’ like one a them
guilt-crazed, grass-roots socialists. You just sit right here and wait
for them corporate organizers to come by and turn you into astroturf. I
swear, ever since the bank took our farm, you just ain’t been
yourself.<br><br>
Pa: (</b><i>Pa’s hands go to either side of his
head; his eyes open wide; he begins to rock back and forth
agitatedly.</i><b>) The bank, Ma! The bank!<br><br>
Ma: Oh, lord – I knew I shouldn’t a brought that
up again…<br><br>
Pa: Lookee here, Ma. The bank owned our farm,
right?<br><br>
Ma: Right, Pa.<br><br>
Pa: And the bank told us what to do,
right?<br><br>
Ma: Right, Pa.<br><br>
Pa: And the bank owns that cement company,
right?<br><br>
Ma: Probably, Pa. But –<br><br>
Pa: You know, Ma, I’m beginnin’ to see a pattern,
here … (</b><i>Suddenly rises and declaims.</i><b>) “It is organized
violence on top which creates individual violence at the bottom.” That’s
Emma Goldman, Ma.<br><br>
Ma: Pa, you’re not feelin’ well. Let me make you
some hot –<br><br>
Pa: (</b><i>Throws down his cane in
exhilaration.</i><b>) Hallelujah, Ma! I done had me a revelation! The
same societal forces what took our farm also knocked down that poor
little anarcho-terrorist feller. We have all been trampled under the
wheels of a corrupt, white supremacist, imperialist oligarchy, writhing
in the insidious throes of late-capitalist, male-dominated, police-state
surveillance. Glory be, Ma! I’m a-speakin’ in tongues!<br><br>
Ma: Why don’t we just help the poor little
terrorist up, Pa?<br><br>
Pa: (</b><i>Begins to march around the porch,
chanting.</i><b>) Gay/straight; Black/White; Together We Struggle;
Together We Fight! We gotta form coalitions with other oppressed groups,
Ma. ¡La Lucha Continua!<br><br>
Ma: Now you listen here, Pa. Either you start
talking sense, or I’m leavin’ you.<br><br>
Pa: I think what you mean, Ma, is that “A Woman
Without a Man is Like a Fish Without a Bicycle.” Oh praise Mikhail
Bakunin! He done put them holy words into my mouth!<br><br>
Ma: Pa! Don’t you know Obama wants you to talk
like that?<br><br>
Pa: Au contraire, Ma. This is what democracy
looks like! That anarcho-terrorist down yonder is making a, what you
call, protest. He’s sayin’ that, although we may be knocked down by the
Cement Truck of History – all our worldly goods repossessed and raided –
there is still hope if we but have the courage to lie there and –
(</b><i>Ma is peering out at the intersection.</i><b>)<br><br>
Ma: Uh, Pa, honey?<br><br>
Pa: Yeah, comrade Ma?<br><br>
Ma: He ain’t there no more.<br><br>
Pa: How’s that?<br><br>
Ma: The anarcho-terrorist done got up by himself
and limped away. (</b><i>Long pause, during which Pa sits back in his
rocker. He looks shaken and hurt. Finally, he regroups.</i><b>)<br><br>
Pa: Oh well. Anarchist dude has other towns to go
to, other cement trucks to meet.<br><br>
Ma: I reckon. (</b><i>Pause.</i><b>)<br><br>
Pa: You know, Ma. Maybe we should do something
nice for the little terrorist. Sort of say, “Thanks for lying
there”?<br><br>
Ma: Like what, Pa?<br><br>
Pa: Hold one of them anarchist “raves.”<br><br>
Ma: I give up. Go ahead, Pa, if it’ll make you
happy.<br><br>
Pa: Hot diggity! I’m gonna telephone the boys
down at the V.F.W. to help me get the balloons all blowed up.<br><br>
Ma: Maybe if you asked real polite, Pa, I’d sew
you some nice “FIGHT THE POWER” banners.<br><br>
Pa: And I bet we could blast the sound system all
over town from that cement truck!<br><br>
Ma: What? Work within the system for social
change? Are you crazy, Pa? This has got to be total Revolution or
nuthin’… (</b><i>They continue fomenting peaceably, rocking back
and forth, as the lights fade.</i><b>)<br><br>
<br><br>
© Susie Day, 2009<br><br>
<br>
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