Tuesday, November 29, 2011

La Oveja Negra
mixed media on paper by JL

Graciela excerpt from the play by JL
Scene 4

After Singing to Crisitina Aguilera’s“Beautiful”

Stupid. Confronting the audience
Do you know who I am? I am la oveja negra, the black sheep of the family. Ah ha! I know some Spanish. O v e j a negra. Your misguided, misunderstood, sometimes clandestine, pitiful negrita. Not your little black lovely lovely one. No, the negra nobody wants because she’s bad and she’s too black. Wears black clothes, has black shiny finger nails, listens to black music, talks black talk, curses in black, she says fuck you, fuck this, I don’t give a fuck, and she won’t tell what she really means.
She pauses and finds the scar on the back side of her right arm.

See this scar…11 black stitches…it took 11. trying to shock I threw myself out of a window…after he… punched me in the head. No. He chased me down the hallway into Nina’s room. She and mom were on the bed, huddled together, holding each other and the wall, for dear life. I couldn’t get the window open. I swear he was in the kitchen looking for a knife. Seriously I thought he was going to…the window was jammed, it seemed like it. Manny looked like one of those evil looking medieval gargoyle beasts perched at the tops of the castle entryways. They were supposed to scare off the evil spirits. I was the evil one? I slammed my wrist through the window pain then thoughtlessly pulled it back into my body. That was a mistake. Looking at arm
Everything turned black that day…She walks with a black cloud around her head. Covers all her flesh in black. She has black scars, black scratches on her neck, black bruises on her belly, and has a black crooked walk.
Martina finds a miniature black box in her pocket. She examines it, open the box, pulls out a folded faded piece of paper, unfolds and reads then smiles with irony. She then recites what she has read, a poem by Emily Dickinson 

“Much madness is divinist sense
to a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
‘T is the majority
in this as all prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur,-you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

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