T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

I don’t know not all ’bout no complete second and third plans. We had considered some field modifications, but it weren’t like we were plotting a revolution. We ain’t a terrorist cell, Sheriff.

How about explaining that performance of inter-what again? Is that some private school high-jinking? You done any others?

It’s not our idea. We learned about performative interventions in school. It’s the theater of the real. Like holding a magnifying glass to life. It can be critical remixes, too. Someone in our class took a scene from Seinfeld and the dialogue from All in the Family and mixed them to prove that the shows were not much different. All in the Family Seinfeld . I think they call it that. Someone else updated Peter Pan . You know how Peter Pan flies? That’s where we got the harness. [Pause] It was a mash-up of Brit-kid-lit — Peter Pan leads the Hobbits on a revolt in Narnia, but he is captured, and while he’s imprisoned, rumors about his sexuality are spread, like Sir Roger David Casement in the Tower of London, and the Hobbits desert him. They call it The Killer Mockingbird . Another group did a project called Frankenmime, and acted out how Big Pharma creates and feeds addictions. One performance artist lined up ten kids in white suits with red dots on their butts to truck through communion. Sometimes it’s the only way to expose how accepted wisdom reinforces normative middle-class Christian values and sexual mores to our common detriment. According to Judith Butler, even gender is a performance, a real prison for us women. You have to call a spade a spade.

Well, Sir, the concept is not our creation. It’s a form of 4-D art. It’s activism. It’s the way of the future. No one writes letters anymore. Mass marches are inherently exclusive because access is restricted by geography and mobility, thereby fortifying the enduring social asymmetry they seek to undo. Instead, imagine a thousand performative interventions wherever injustice occurs, whenever it occurs. Social justice meets vaudeville. Or the troubadour. It’s the poetry of performance. Me, you, black, white. It’s all an act, Sir. Vershawn Ashanti Young says even race is a performance, Sir.

I didn’t make it up, Sheriff. It’s a theory. It means we’re all made up. There’s other words for it — big ones I don’t recollect right atop this moment — but in the end, it means to say we’re all made up. All of us.

How ’bout that. All made up? I still can’t figure out the sense in any of it. Whose idea was this again?

After Daron told us about it in class, everyone wanted to come here. We all did. We don’t do this in Iowa or California. Reenact, that is.

Well, Sir, the professor was extraordinarily enthusiastic, Sir.

They were talking about reenactments in class, and I mentioned our Patriot Days Festival. All I did was mention it, though. Like to defend the idea. We done reenactments since I don’t know when.

Young miss, are you telling me it was Daron’s idea?

No. He just mentioned it. We immediately thought about YouTubeing live to compare it to Mark Tribe’s Port Huron Project. But Louis had a good point — if we broadcasted it and left it at that, that would be too hipster-cool, just finger pointing.

How ’bout that! It’s the dead boy’s fault, now. That’s convenient.

No. Daron told us about it. He was a cub scout or junior ranger or ROTC or something, didn’t look like it when I first met him, but he was something like that and bragged about knowing knots and how he could make it look real. But it wasn’t supposed to be real. First, we’re not even black, right? We don’t even have real slave outfits. All I had were Uggs, which would make me look like a Flintstone, so I went barefoot. It wasn’t supposed to be real. If Charlie was the master, how could it be real? The irony, right? You see what I mean?

Not sure I do.

Before Daron backed out at Waffle House—

— Waffle House? How about telling me what… transpired at Waffle House?

We ate breakfast there. When Daron backed out, I kind of got pissed and decided to go with my original plan. Louis carried our costumes in the duffel bag. We took turns changing behind the tree. Then Louis showed me the shoe polish. Louis asked me to help, made me, really. I didn’t want to, but when he started smearing it on himself and trying to use the inside of the lid for a mirror, I had to do something, otherwise it was going to look like war paint instead of blackface. I don’t know why I agreed. I told him that every college student who uses blackface regrets it. He was so stubborn. A Virgo that acted like a Taurus, he always joked. [pause] I helped him put it on, and then he was like, Loose Chang in the big house! Who’s the realest? Who’s old school, now? [wet laugh] [sigh] He was always making a joke. [pause] By this time it was getting windy and the sun was coming up and I was disgusted already, but it was only a performance, like Frankenmime. Louis put on the wig, and that was it. He told me the night before it might be just the two of us. He sensed it somehow.

Well, Sir, way before the restaurant, I’d already changed my mind, Sir.

Part of me was hoping they’d back out, too. But I never figured anything could go wrong, least not these ways, Sheriff.

Go on, miss.

After he put on the wig and we hooked up the harness… What?… Okay. It looks like a dog harness because it has two straps that cross your torso and a middle strap that runs along the spine, with a hook at the top, just below the back of the neck.

[long pause]

Go on, miss.

Yes. I tied his hands, but loo— [pause] loose— [pause] not tight.

Go ahead, miss.

When I was seven, I chased my jacks ball into the street and looked up to see cars coming right at me. I froze. One of the drivers had to get out of his car and walk me back to the sidewalk and up to my porch. This was the same, but worse. Worse because I knew they were far enough away and walking slowly enough that I could run. This time I wasn’t frozen, I knew I could run, but I couldn’t leave Louis. Louis started braying and kicking and yelling, Sorry massuh, please don’t whip me.

I yelled for him to shut up because we had to get out of there. I tried to unhook the pulley cable, but I couldn’t. [Long Pause] That’s the only reason I yelled like that. I couldn’t concentrate.

So, you were the first to adjust the pulley?

Yes.

Before anyone else even got up close, you’d already tinkered with the pulley?

Yes.

And what was the deceased saying at the time?

I don’t remember.

You don’t remember what he said, or you don’t remember if he said anything?

Both.

[Long Pause]

You didn’t have no help with that pulley, getting it up or over or nothing? He didn’t help you hoist his weight?

Maybe. I’m not sure.

[pause]

Go on, young miss.

I tried to run. I felt myself backing away without wanting to, and by the time they were fifty yards away, I was, too. There were just so many of them, and all the guns and everything. And this one guy, the captain maybe, asks what’s going on here. We had practiced what to say. It’s 1865, what do you think is going on here? This negro tried to run away. I couldn’t say the other word. This negro says he don’t want to work for free anymore. So, we got to make a lesson out of him.

— Don’t worry, I can focus. Not thirsty, thanks.—

Loose was supposed to wiggle and yell that he was sorry, and he wasn’t human, and he couldn’t think real good on account of his being black. He wrote that line out, and rehearsed until he was satisfied that it sounded right. I was dressed like a man. We didn’t think women did much of the whipping back then. That might make it too erotic.