Gag Order
ext. daybreak star indian cultural center — morning
Two angular, concrete wings and a wooden canoe. The stage is empty but for the gravity of this building. Resurrection City presides.
Red double doors open. Reveal ANGENI “GEN” (20s), a statuesque Anishinaabekwe with hair past her hips. Her clothing in earth tones and red. She touches the wall underneath the sign and lowers her head.
GEN
Sing, Muse, of all unspoken.
Of it can’t be and never was.
The “didn’t see,” “it isn’t me,”
not him, not her, not I, not we,
knotted eyes and buried tongues.
Sing in the mud-slinging right
now, all takes and no give, sing
though I’ve cut your mouth
and drawn a line in the sand,
blood red on white, O Muse,
sing the blues.
A blues lick.
GEN
I was just remembering when we were little and you got us in big trouble with...
GEN
No. No, I won’t name him. He was a good man, though. I never saw him get angry before or since. This was his place. He loved it. He loved it. He took care of it. He took care of us.
He wears the mask of a blackbird and his outfit is mostly black and blue. When he moves, bells jingle on his ankles and knees.
GEN
Do you think he knew?
Gen pulls a face and shakes her head. She puts out her cigarette.
GEN
Asiginaak.
SIG
Knew what?
GEN
Knew about us. Do you think he looked at us—any of us, really—and tried to guess what we’d become?
GEN
No. Useless train of thought. What I should be asking is who loves this place now? Who takes care of it like he does? Did. Not me. Not you. We’re not even here.
SIG
We’re not here?
GEN
We’re not here.
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