Even Flowers Bloom in Hell, Sometimes

Synopsis

An examination of the inmates within a system trying to discover meaning in the face of isolation and doubt in one’s own worth over a 25-year bid. The play explores familial ties, love, race, inmate-correctional officer relations, the passing of time, and the succeeding generation of individuals who deal with the challenges of trying to avoid a life of crime or resigning oneself to becoming a part of the system that swept up previous generations.

Playwright Perspective

Nineteen years passed before the nightmare ended. We got the call that release—and deportation— was imminent. We didn’t have a chance to see him and say goodbye, but to A______, that was for the best. He didn’t want to be seen like this. I don’t remember if it was directed to my mother or myself, but he sounded sad as he wondered aloud what the last nineteen years meant at the end of it all. He was the last one to be released.

As of this writing, I haven’t seen him face to face since before then.

…

There are better, more stable careers out there, but writing is what I decided for myself. Their reactions surprised me. S____ was proud. W______ thought it was better to be a writer than a cog in some corporate machine. A______ told me to read Márquez and Shakespeare to learn how to write. Both A______ and S____ would ask about the meaning of the stories they had me read. I remember talking about Kafka’s Metamorphosis. I don’t remember with whom. I remember crying from hearing they supported me. Don’t tell them I said that.

…

I don’t get nervous at readings. The anxiety disappears about an hour before. I find peace. There’s nothing more I can do. What will be, will be. But, the reading at the Lark during Playwrights’ Week was different. Not only because it was the Lark, but because a few rows down from me sat S____, the inspiration behind the Prisoner. The man who encouraged hope when there was no reason for it. It didn’t matter that the industry people or the people who would become my agents were there. All that mattered was S____; I was terrified it wasn’t good enough. I was paralyzed with fear at the idea that he wouldn’t like it. But after the reading, he pulled me into a hug and told me I did a great job and he was proud. I think he cried. I know he’d deny it.

He called a week later: he couldn’t stop thinking about the play. He said it was really good.

…

We were asked in class to name our heroes. I wanted to tell the truth. I said something banal like policemen. Nobody wants to hear that a child’s heroes are the three men he visited in prison.

…

When I said I wanted to be a playwright, S____ asked me if I’d write about the phone calls and time spent in visiting rooms. A______ asked if he’d be a character in one of my plays one day. W______ asked when I’d be on Broadway. They were happy to see me get an arts degree. After all, a degree in theatre was better than a warrant for my arrest.

…

I got asked why I wrote this play. I said it was a tribute, a love letter.

…

I hadn’t been told that W_____ had been deported until months after. He preferred to move on and not make a big deal about it. He was just gone.

…

A few months after the reading, S____ told me, as we walked along Times Square at 2:30 am, that he was sorry he wasn’t better family to me. A lump caught in my throat. I said, “You good, man.”

…

I want you and the world to know: You were more than good. You were the best family, S____. You and A______ and W______. The years of phone calls and visitations, the hug you gave me at the Lark, everything you’ve been to me. That’s worth more than a Pulitzer to me. You three are my heroes. It doesn’t make up for what was lost and the 19 years of nightmares for all of us, but the lessons you three shared with me became this play that people are listening to now. I hope that means something, because it’s everything to me.

This play is dedicated to the three flowers that bloomed in hell. All the time. Forever. Always.

…

I pray every day that I made you guys proud.

…

I love you.

Who

Where