Aw Hell Nah! I'm Stuck In An August Wilson Play And I Can't Get Out!

I’m a 20 year old boy from the Black parts of America, studying acting at a PWI in NYC. My dean, a White man with a nasty scarf collection, came to me and said we’re doing a play from his favorite writer, August Wilson. Now, ion know who the hell August Wilson is, but I’m just happy my teacher is finally letting us do scenes from a Black playwright. If I have to do another scene from Death of a Salesman, I will find a way to kill myself.

I wanted to learn more about August Wilson, so I got a copy of one of his classics to read. But then… shit got fucking weird. Really weird. As I opened the play, my body got pulled out of my chair. I was scared.

I closed my eyes in order to hide from the unknown. Then I felt my body drop hard. I opened my eyes…and oh my god…I’m in an August Wilson play.

I was trying to be comfortable at first because it’s hella Black people. Something I’m not really used to seeing as a PWI Student. Then I realized this shit is really not what I’m used to. Like at all. Everything is different. It’s not like NYC a bit. The town is bare, old. Something like a city in an old Western movie, and every nigga there is dressed like it’s their first day outta slavery.

I looked around the town and thought, “Damn this time period is ass. They got no drip.” But then I saw my reflection, and realized I was wearing the exact fit everybody has on.

Shit!! I’m dressed like White people’s John Henry.

Now I’m panicking. I want to get back home, and I definitely don’t wanna lose myself in this town at all. So I decide to go up to local townspeople to ask for help.

I went up to one guy, but he swiftly cut me off and replied with a three minute monologue about his family history, while strongly extending his vowels. I tried to ask him another question, and suddenly found myself using the exact same dialect he was using!!!

Oh hell no! I done caught the August Wilson voice!! Shit!! Now I look 20, but sound 56! Shit!!!! Now everytime I speak I sound like I’m the first Black man to ever express his emotions. Shit!!!!!!!

I assumed that if I talked to men in this universe, I’d catch the voice. So I decided to switch it up, and only ask Black women for help. And nigga, that woulda been a good idea. But, everytime I asked a woman a question, every single woman, without a second thought, would start crying a solo tear, and say, “My name is Bereatha, and you’re gonna respect it Clyde!” While furiously pointing her Index finger into my chest.

Now, I don’t know who the hell Clyde is, but he needs to chill. Because every time I argued back, “My name isn’t Clyde!” every woman, without a second thought, would start crying harder, and throw their snot on me. Obviously leading me to run away bewildered, confused on why we couldn’t have more developed conversations than this.

I was lost by the townspeople. So I decided to go to the top. Aka, the mayor’s office. Cause shit, somebody with power must have an answer for me to get back home. But as I entered the office, the unexpected events continued. Everybody who worked in that fucking office was White. And then the mayor arrived. And he was White. A tall White man.

He said, “Hello. I am White Man, and I am the head of August Wilson town. I bought the rights to this world, and I am in charge of it now.”

I said, “You can’t do that. This is a place for Black people, by Black people! Just because you bought the rights doesn’t mean you can force Black people to act like this!”

The mayor looked at me and laughed, and then clapped twice and yelled, “Action!” The lights flickered in the office. The room started shaking. I started to yell out for help, but I noticed that my voice wasn’t my voice. It was the vowels again. The stretching vowels that had overtook my throat before! Shit. The White Man’s claps summoned the August Wilson voice.

I closed my eyes again to hide from ignorance. And suddenly… the shaking stopped. Everything was silent. As my eyes fluttered open, I looked and saw I was in a small dark room, with black curtains, and black floors.

I looked around yelling for help, but nobody answered. The only thing I heard was my own echo calling back for me. Suddenly, the Black curtain opened. It was a framed picture of me, in that White people’s John Henry outfit on a stage. Written below said, “You, in an August Wilson play.”

I stared at the picture for 10 minutes. And thought, damn, at least I’m in play by a Black playwright.

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