Taylor - Dead White Writer on the Floor

Introduction Dead White Writer on the Floor was perhaps the most difficult play for me to write. It certainly took the longest. I must say that it was also one of the most fun projects I have ever had the pleasure to work on. And work on it I did. Its hard to say when I actually put fingers to keyboard, but I do remember the first workshop taking place during my tenure as artistic director of Native Earth Performing Arts, back in the mid-1990s. After that, it went through a few more workshops (including one at the Bluewater Theatre Festival in Kincardine, Ontario) as I tried to nail down the story, characters, and themes, but it was a tough battle.

It seemed the overall picture eluded me. I tend to be what could be called a kitchen-sink dramatist, but I was having trouble finding the kitchen sink in this one. Especially in the second act. That one was a bugger. I wrestled with it repeatedly. I think I rewrote it completely, turning it inside and out maybe five or six times, which is unusual for me.

I always prided myself on never starting to write a play until I knew exactly what I wanted to say and how I was going to say it. The first act pretty much stayed consistent, other than the elimination of the opening monologues. Yes, the play originally started with each character coming out and establishing their character with a two- to three-minute monologue, brilliantly and hilariously written. Unfortunately, as it was pointed out to me, with six characters delivering a monologue each, Act One would run twelve to eighteen minutes right off the top. And I repeated it in the second act with the new versions of the characters. During yet another workshop, Richard Rose, Tarragon Theatres artistic director, pointed out that if I kept all the monologues, the play would be a tad long and a tad static.

And most of the information in the monologues could be seeded into the text anyway. So out went my beautiful monologues. A very painful cut, let me assure you. Late at night sometimes, when Im drunk, I take them out and reread them. And weep. Why this play took so long to finish, I am not positive.

Maybe I wasnt sure exactly what I wanted to say. I mean, I dont usually write postmodern theatre (I am not even sure what it is), let alone one influenced by Pirandellos Six Characters in Search of an Author . I just wanted to write something fun and different. And these six characters in the first act are such icons in the world of native literature (as written by white authors), who wouldnt want to put them all together in one room and see what happens? Being a writer, I could do this. But what they ended up morphing into, in the second act, was the problem. At one point I had Tonto running a gay dude ranch (yikes!) and Pocahontas becoming a feminist lawyer specializing in sexual harassment cases (double yikes!) It took a quiet moment of reflection, of trying to find the essences and irony of what this play was about, before I came up with who the characters became.

And to quote a book I once read, it was good. The only major change, other than the metamorphosis of the second act, was the creation of Kills Many Enemies. He was not one of the original characters until, in the mid-2000s, Torontos Centre for Indigenous Theatre wanted to mount a student production of the play and requested to add more characters, if possible. It was then that the obvious occurred to me. How could I have overlooked such a potentially great character as the bloodthirsty warrior? You may have noticed that he is the only character not given a name from an actual novel or movie. I think I wanted him to represent a range of similar characters, unlike the others, who represent very specific identities.

But, if pressed, I guess you could call him Wind in His Hair from the film Dances with Wolves . I also got to play with the way worlds and boundaries crossed over and imprinted themselves on the characters. I would give each character a bit of information or understanding that he or she would not normally have. I mean would Injun Joe really know what a personal pronoun is? Maybe it was a bit of the dead white writer coming through in his character. Who knows? I dont. Normally it takes me two weeks to write a first draft, and maybe two or three (occasionally four) more drafts afterwards to make everything work properly.

Not this time. This play would not be told before its time. So all in all, this play had a gestation of about thirteen or fourteen years altogether, with one more kick at the can every couple of years, before the illustrious Magnus Theatre saw fit to pluck it from the wastelands of unread, unproduced scripts and give it life. Mario Crudo saw the potential, and the rest, as they say, is history. With the fabulous cast he put together, it was one of the most amazing productions I have ever been a part of. It was one of those rare instances of something being funny but actually having a lot to say and comment on.

Since then as I have tried to have it produced elsewhere, Ive noticed a disturbing trend regarding this play. Although Mario loved the play and loved the title, not everyone does. In fact, Ive received kind words of concern from people who think the title Dead White Writer on the Floor is perhaps a little too aggressive and not very consumer friendly. One artistic director told me she thinks it would alienate her audience and was reluctant to even read it. Years ago when my play Only Drunks and Children Tell the Truth toured British Columbia, several performances were cancelled because local people objected to the title. What an odd world.

I find titles like this very provocative and interesting. I guess thats why I create them. Oh well, thats theatre, I suppose. In the end the only thing that matters is the product, which you hold in your hands. Enjoy the play, and be wary of locked rooms and dead white writers. Drew Hayden Taylor
Curve Lake First Nation, 2010 Act One Silence, then the sound of a computer powering up.

Then fingers on a computer keyboard. They start slowly, then speed up. Somebody is typing. The lights come up and we are in a large study, the office of a writer, with a large desk centre stage and bookshelves stuffed with books. A man sits at the desk, typing on a computer. His back is to the audience so they are unable to see his face.

Lights suddenly flicker, and the stage turns dark. In the dark void, there is a lone anguished cry, then something falling and being dragged. Silence. The lights come up to reveal the entire stage. The lighting and atmosphere are dark and mysterious, ethereal and surreal. Standing around the desk are TONTO , BILLY JACK , KILLS MANY ENEMIES , INJUN JOE , POCAHONTAS , and OLD LODGE SKINS .

Surprised to find themselves here, they look around at their strange surroundings . TONTO This not desert! KILLS MANY ENEMIES Wheres my horse? My teepee? Who are you? POCAHONTAS What a strange place. INJUN JOE Oh fuck! OLD LODGE SKINS This is a bad omen. BILLY JACK I dont know this place. Or any of you. A drunk INJUN JOE runs to the door and tries to open it, but its locked.

INJUN JOE Let me out of here. I gotta get out of here. God help me, let me out! POCAHONTAS Im scared. Do do any of you know where John my John is? BILLY JACK John?! POCAHONTAS John Smith. Hes sort of my boyfriend. Hed know what to do.

BILLY JACK John Smith that is that was you look Pocahontas POCAHONTAS Yes, that is what my father calls me. Do I know you?! BILLY JACK But thats impossible INJUN JOE pulls out his knife and tries to pry the door open, with no luck. TONTO sits down comfortably in a chair, waiting. He grabs a magazine and idly thumbs through it. INJUN JOE ( at the door ) You son of a bitch OLD LODGE SKINS Why are you so angry, my son? INJUN JOE I aint angry and I aint your son. This aint right.