The Coherence of Fiction

My response to this last PB show I attended felt all over the place—from the ping of recognition when Bill described the way the “whole world was choreographed” as he drove along listening to Beethoven’s 7th, to the pang of sorrow when Simone spoke of learning of a special needs child who was restrained for the teacher’s convenience, to my wince as my husband narrated the mutual avoidance of him and his former U of M student whose name he couldn’t recall—and who probably couldn’t recall his.  But in its refusal to hew to one obvious course or theme, this evening at Playback showed the fiction of coherence shattered again and again only to be revived at the strangest moments and in the strangest ways.

An African-American student leader, seeking help with a problem with some committee members, had been told that she was “unrelatable” by another black student; according to this adviser, she wasn’t “black enough” because her background as a “military brat” had exposed her to so many different ways of life.  Virginia asked what her plan was, and her answer, “seek to understand them as people, not as constituents,” seemed preternaturally wise.

A social worker described seeing people building their families through interracial adoptions, saying “this could change the face of Memphis.”

Julie told about her husband's belch in response to a romantic-minded friend who asked her what is was like being married to an artist.  This devolved into hilarious Playback built around “the musk of an artist.”

The student whose groceries were stolen by a fellow shopper from Wisconsin, then had them replaced by the cashier, yields a playback with Portia flying free and Josh muttering “I can’t do this…”

In the break before the big story, I talked to a woman who had met with two traumas here—in one, her partner was beaten with a pole—and said, “I hate Memphis.”  But then she backed off.  “I’ve had bad luck.”

In the playback of Leah’s story of having to turn away the knock at the door she’s been hoping to hear, Ondine’s commanding “tick, tock,” transformed into the voice of guilt: “I don’t think they believe you… you ought to be ashamed of yourself…”

The wonder of it is that I feel the weight of so much conflict lifting with every tick, tock.