By Sarah Flaherty
A static noise permeates the room as a hand turns on the power knob of a new 1959 RCA Victor television set. The screen emits grainy gray and black dots as an image fights its way to emerge. As the hand moves the tuner in search of a clear signal, an unsettling sequence of high-pitched notes erupts from the speakers. Moments later, a star-scattered space scene materializes. A standard white panel door takes shape within the void and the music subsides. The door opens and random objects float in and out of the screen as the narrator’s voice becomes audible. He says,
You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension–
a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind.
You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas.
You’ve just crossed over into the Twilight Zone. (Donner).
The screen goes black and the physical environment around you blurs. You are now simultaneously watching the screen and standing outside of a modest white Cape Cod-style house. Light blue shutters line the symmetrical windows and at the center point is a crisp white door. The entire block is composed of the same style house, each with a perfectly mown lawn contained in an undersized white picket fence. The only variation is seen in the colors of the shutters and the models of automobiles resting in the driveways. The narrator, now visible, strolls into the scene. He wears a generic black suit with a white Oxford and a skinny black tie. His dark hair is neatly parted at the side and his face is cleanly shaven. He is, in a sense, a default: a nonspecific archetype of the all-American man. He stops directly in front of the door, staring deeply into our souls. He narrates: “Ladies and gentlemen, you have entered a place built upon ideas of self-determination. A place that, over time, has failed many. A place that covers up its monumental lack through an obsession with order and appearance. It is a place of control and limitation: a place of conformity. This house is no different from the rest on the block, in the neighborhood, and the town. However, within the Smith’s home, we will uncover how the acts of creation and self-expression allow one to be liberated from constrictive societal power structures.”
The door slowly opens, revealing a catalog-like open-concept seating area and formal dining room. Everything stands perfectly still: linear and symmetrical. Over the mantle is a sizable portrait of a man, woman, and child: all perfectly posed. You move through an arched doorway and arrive in the kitchen. There is not a speck of dust upon any surface, no wrinkle in the curtains, the glass in the windows is flawlessly transparent, and there is not a single shoe imprint on the carpet.
Charlene Smith, about twenty-five years of age, sits rigidly at the breakfast table. She wears a tea-length solid pink dress and a white waist apron. Her hair is neatly held up in a tight French twist. Her nails are perfectly manicured and her lips are impeccably lined. One of her hands rests on the yellow Formica tabletop, clutching a glass of gin. She has just sat down after sending her husband to work with a wave and pleasant smile as he pulled out of the driveway and headed towards the train station. Afterward, she walked her son Andrew to the bus and sent him off to school with the same rehearsed wave and smile. Now, she sits in an empty house with nothing to do.
Everything around her is neatly in order as if someone could appear at any time to scrutinize the house. Charlene stares emptily into the artificial yellow space before her. There is a heavy silence throughout the house. Only the distant clicking of a lawn sprinkler breaks it. Tick, Tick, Tick. Ceaselessly, it moves. Tick, Tick, Tick. With a shaky hand, Charlene lifts the glass to her poppy red lips with an anxious exhale. Tick. Her eyes dart around the room–Tick–searching for a task–Tick, Tick, Tick–but finds nothing. She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Tick. Then, mutters to herself: “I must find something to do. Maybe I can tidy little Andy’s room–oh, but I already did that yesterday…Or maybe, I can press the linens–I did that yesterday also.”
She runs through an endless list, each time realizing that everything had been done.
“Oh! I’ve got it.” Charlene hops up from her seat like a sitcom actress who has been given a cue. “I can go through that old family trunk in the attic that Duke keeps pestering me about throwing away!”
Eagerly, yet still composed, she exits the kitchen, walks upstairs, and pulls down the attic ladder. Stuffy stale air pours down into the house as she climbs up. The room is small and dark except for a single window at the far end. Golden light glares through it, so Charlene does not bother turning on the light. The glowing beams create abstract shapes across the floor and faded boxes. In the middle of the room rests the trunk. A ray of sunlight illuminates it like a spotlight and reveals a thick layer of condensed dust. It must have belonged to a distant relative of the Smith family–one who would have used it to pack up an entire life and come to America. Charlene carefully unbuckles the weathered leather straps and lifts the lid. Dust flies out and off of the trunk, making wave-like patterns within the light beams. Charlene looks around, mesmerized by the mystical aesthetic of the light and dust whirling around her. For a moment, she revels in the visual pleasure of her observations.
Then, she turns her attention back to the trunk. Inside there is a lightly stained crocheted blanket, various knick-knacks, old photographs torn at the edges, and a collection of leather-bound books. She gingerly moves the relics around and notices a glint of light peek out from underneath the pile. Her hand digs down and pulls it from the depths of the trunk. It is an emerald-green leather-bound book and what caught her eye is the gold detailing of the title: Leaves of Grass.
Charlene opens the cover and begins to steadily flip through, the pages rustling as she moves. She stops at a random page and reads aloud, “I celebrate myself” (Whitman 1).
Her voice resonates throughout the room. A breeze brushes against the back of her neck. She freezes, realizing that the window behind her is shut. Then a soft drawling voice moves through the room like wind rustling through switchgrass. The voice whispers back to Charlene: I celebrate myself. A tingling sensation overcomes her body and she becomes aware of every inch of her flesh. Aware of the blood rhythmically pumping through her veins. Aware of the dust swirling through the light beams: traveling up through her nose, down into her lungs, then out again through her mouth. For the first time in a long time, she feels awake: feels alive.
Although she is filled with a sense of unease at the unnatural occurrence, she is drawn to the enlightening words. She proceeds to read on: “And what I assume you shall assume, / For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you” (Whitman 1).
The uncanny voice and wind return, this time with more force: We are all one, We are all equal. As Charlene hears this, a chill runs through her and she is overcome with the urge to snap the book shut, throw it in the trunk, and pretend she never saw it. She feels as though she is encountering forbidden words. Her breath quickens, her hands tremble, and her cheeks turn red with shame. Charlene recognizes how patriotic these words are, yet she cannot ignore the implicit connection to the modern taboo subject of equality. While she registers the sensitive nature of these ideas in her society, the power of the voice strikes her core. Deep inside, she acknowledges that there is an undeniable truth that she is engaged with here. A truth that she has always felt, but pushed aside because she was afraid of saying something contrary to those around her. Countless memories of moments where her gut had urged her to disagree–but she remained silent–swarm her mind. Again, Charlene is overcome with shame. Only this time it is because she knows she has been denying her own thoughts. As she realizes this, she decides to not ignore the curiosity within her. For the first time in a long time, she allows her mind to think.
She continues to read, pausing at these words: “Urge and urge and urge, / Always the procreant urge of the world” (Whitman 2). Her nerves are overwhelmed. She thinks of her husband, feeling a glimmer of the love they shared when they were newlywed and seeking to create new life. Her eyes lower as she visualizes the two twin beds that rest on opposite walls in their room. She thinks to herself that maybe there is more to creation than procreation. The voice dances around her urge, urge. An urge to make something…she imagines Andrew in her arms as an infant–Is this all that I have made? she asks herself. Charlene thinks about the monotonous chores she runs through numbly each day. Chores that she feels no urge to do. Exhaling firmly, she searches the page: “Always a knit of identity… always distinction… always a breed of life” (Whitman 2). Do you know who you are? The voice whispers in her ear. She freezes nearly wanting to snap the book shut again, scurry back to her kitchen, and never hear this strange voice again. Truthfully, confronting this question is painful for her. While she is an individual, it is heartbreakingly easy for her to define herself. She is a carbon copy of the all-American woman: a wife and mother who sits in a house all day, alone. It pains Charlene to actively admit this within her conscience, it has always lingered in her mind going unsaid. She reflects on how numb her consciousness has been. It is easier to navigate life on autopilot than acknowledge how the choice of purpose and identity has been stripped from a person. Her stomach churns, is this who I want to be? she asks. It is a question that no one has ever bothered to ask her. As Charlene repeats Whitman’s words in her mind and revisits how the procreant urge is not just directed at offspring. She realizes that it is also an urge to create one’s own identity and determine their own destiny. Her heart pounds and she desires to further expand her mind.
She reads, “And that all the men ever born are also my brothers… and the women are sisters and lovers, / And that a kelson of the creation is love;” (Whitman 4). “…among black folks as among white” (Whitman 5).
Charlene ignores the anxious urge to discard the book as the voice cries out: creation is love! Love everyone as you would love yourself! The initial fear she felt has all but disappeared. Her mind now dives into the words; she repeats all the men and the women. Black and white. She envisions women whom she observes in the grocery and department stores. The ones who gossip about what others are wearing and their personal affairs. The ones who regurgitate what they gather from their husbands’ conversations about the white folk slowly fleeing nearby cities. The things they say have always unsettled Charlene, but she never said a word. How could I be so thoughtless?! she questions herself. Those people are my sisters and brothers–and I sold out, shut my mouth, denied myself, and allowed those individuals to be disregarded as people worthy of everything I am worthy of–There is something wrong with this world.
For the first time in her adult life, she feels motivated to do something, to continue reading and thinking. Charlene resumes reading, absorbing each and every word like drops of water hitting a thirsty desert. Accompanied by only the distant ticking of a sprinkler and the whispers of the great American poet, Walt Whitman. Tick. Tick. Tick. Urge. Urge. Urge.
“Honey, I’m home. Honey?… Darling, where are you?” Duke’s booming voice invades the house, snapping Charlene out of her trance.
“I am up here, Duke. In the attic. I’ll be down in just a moment!” Panicking, she shoves the book back into the trunk and quickly shuts the lid.
“What on Earth are you doing up there?”
As she descends the ladder and stairs: “Oh, just trying to sort through that old trunk you keep worrying about.”
She enters the kitchen out of breath and briskly smooths her hair.
“Oh, sweetheart! You have dust all over you. All over your white apron! You really should do something about that.”
“Yes dear,” she says politely, with a feeling of irritation, swiftly removing the waist apron. Duke proceeds to sit at the table, appearing vexed.
“You know, I am used to my drink right when I get home, honey. It was an awfully long day at the office. These New Yorkers really know how to keep you on your toes.” He shakes his head slowly. “Oh! Do you know who I bumped into at Penn Station? Good old John Williams! You know, the guy who works at our rival firm on 34th street? Anyways, we got to talking on the ride back towards Madison an–Dear, I could really use that drink–”
Charlene shifts cautiously from the kitchen doorway towards the Frigidaire.
“–and he was telling me all about how he and his family are looking to move out of Newark. All because of the influx of negros! I swear, once it happens in one town it’ll seep to the next and the next. Something really ought to be done about it. They need to be stopped!”
Charlene sets down the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. A breeze flows around her and the voice seeps through the room, Among Black folks, as among white. Duke is unphased. The voice repeats with a booming tone and Charlene discards her filter.
“Duke, I don’t think that is right to say.” He stares at her, astonished. The air becomes thick. She stiffens and backs up to lean against the kitchen sink. Her lip trembling and her heart pounding. She continues, “Who are we to tell someone what to do? They are all God’s children–We are all God’s children.” Duke peers at her from the table; he is motionless. “We are all humans, Duke. Humans who deserve to choose our own homes, our own lives, our own futures. It is wrong to try and take that away from someone.”
“Where is this coming from? I am really surprised a–”
“I just think that God loves us all and that no one is less than another.” She interjects for the first time in their marriage.
After an excruciatingly long moment, Duke responds with airs and graces: “Do you even understand what you’re saying?” He scoffs. “Actually, I don’t think you do. How could one expect you to understand the gravity of devaluing property close by–among other things–when all you do is tend to the house and chat with the ladies at the grocery store. I really shouldn’t even be discussing such matters with you.” He glares. “Sweetheart, you just busy yourself with the cleaning and I will concern myself with what is important in the world.”
Dead silence fills the room. The two stare at each other as an intense green light seeps through the closed window above the sink. Before anyone can speak, little Andrew busts through the kitchen door.
“Hey, Dad!–Oh, hi, Mom–Look at what I made at school today!” He eagerly places a partially wrinkled piece of paper on the table. “Mrs. Johnson asked us to write what we wanna be when we grow up, and then paint a picture, and guess what?” He is beaming. “I chose a lawyer, just like you, Dad.”
Duke looks at his son with an eyebrow raised. “Well, I don’t know about this painting that they’re having you do at school.” He stands up, walks over to Andrew, and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But son, I am proud that you want to be a lawyer. You are going to grow and become strong and successful. And one day you will be just like me with a loving wife and family to support, isn’t that grand?”
“Yes, Dad.” The two gaze at each other with pride.
Ignoring the intimate father-son moment, Charlene pulls the painting closer to her. She examines the sloppy abstract brushstrokes. Her eyes register every color, every detail, and her heart begins to buzz. The voice whispers in her ear, urge, creation, urge. She focuses her studying eyes on the entire picture. The strokes work together to produce a blurry image of a man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. Charlene realizes that no one had ever asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. Everyone around her had always told her what she was going to do and how she was going to lead her life. It was always about what she was going to do for others, not who she wanted to be. She was never given a choice.
A tear forms in her eye as she remembers her childhood dream. Her dream of being an artist. As a child she used to lose herself in painting. She could spend hours and it would feel like minutes. She could not get enough of it, it consumed her every moment. When her family noticed her spending too much time making art and not enough time learning how to be a respectable young lady, they threw her supplies away. She was able to salvage one paint set, but after enduring all of the limiting lecturing and suppression of her passions, she put it away, never to be used again. Charlene’s head swarms with hurtful words said to her throughout her life. Then she reflects upon her experience in the attic. Who am I? Who do I want to be? She repeats this over and over again.
The next morning, after Duke and Andrew have left, Charlene quickly returns to the attic. Again, she opens the trunk and retrieves Leaves of Grass. This time, she sits down carelessly on the trunk and begins to read: “Where are you off to, lady? For I see you,… / The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them” (Whitman 9).
I see you, Charlene, the voice declares. I see YOU! For the first time, in probably her entire life, she does not feel alone. For the first time, she feels important–significant.
“What is that you express in your eyes? / It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life” (Whitman 10). Charlene, I see you, now what do you want to express? The voice questions. Charlene ponders this as she continues to read. “conformity goes to the fourth-removed, / I cock my hat as I please indoors or out” (Whitman 17).
As I please, Charlene repeats. These words sink into every pore of her skin. This man does not conform: he wears what he desires, in the way he desires. Do as you please, the voice encourages. Charlene looks down at the plain blue dress she wears, it is the same length as all of her others. Each morning she systematically walks from her vanity over to the closet and simply grabs the nearest garment. She realizes that she has never actually chosen what she would like to wear. Every decision she has made in terms of clothing has been based on expectation; Duke’s favorite color, the models on the cover of Vogue, and what all the other mothers in town wear. Her life is a default. But it does not have to be this way, Charlene declares. This man, who lived about a hundred years ago, disregarded what anyone other than himself said or did. He chose his own path, his own identity–just like the Americans who founded this country in the first place. Charlene becomes frustrated. What happened? How did we come to this place where so many of us are forgotten in that cry for self-determination? They claimed liberty and freedom for themselves, why can I not do the same?
As her conscience runs through these revelations, she simultaneously questions herself. Who am I? Who do I want to be? An urge comes over her: an urge to create herself.
At once, she recalls another faded box in the attic. One stuffed with artifacts from her childhood. She scans the room, following the rays of light that stream through the solitary window. There it is! She drops the book and hurries over to the box, unpacks it, and removes her salvaged paint set. It is still wrapped up tightly in the original packaging. Charlene rummages through the box until she finds some paper. She plops down onto the ground, lays the paper out in front of her, and rips open the paints. Her heart pounds. Eagerly, she fishes the brush out of a jar and begins to paint herself as she wants to be. The voice circulates the room, I see you, I see you, I see you.
When she is done, she gazes at her creation. The portrait reveals her with no makeup. Her hair appears loose and naturally falls to her shoulders, with wispy brushstrokes. A vibrant and multicolored garment shrouds her body. She wears no jewelry. The only accessory is the paintbrush held firmly in her hand. Her eyes move up the portrait to her face where her lips smile genuinely. Her heart stops pounding and she is washed over with an immense sense of peace. She listens to the birds outside of the window and imagines flying with them out of this suburb, into the city, and across the world. She breathes in deeply then exhales. She is free. Her placid moment is broken by the sound of Duke entering the house:
“Honey! I’m home.” Silence. “Are you up in the attic again?”
Charlene briskly moves to the ladder and scurries down the stairs, meeting Duke at the bottom.
“Gee wiz, Sweetheart. Slow down, I really can’t understand what has gotten into you lately.” He says as he shakes his head. They move into the kitchen and Charlene notices a copy of The New York Times in Duke’s hand. He walks over to the garbage can and tosses in the paper. Charlene follows, opens the garbage can, and pulls out the paper. Then, she sits down at the table and begins to read.
Duke gawks at her. “What are you doing?” Charlene, keeping her eyes fixed on the page, answers matter-of-factly: “I am reading the paper.”
Shocked, Duke inches closer and stands above her. “What could possibly concern you in the paper?” Silence. He backs away, “Sweetheart?” Silence. “Ah, never mind.” He swats his hand in her direction and sits down across from her. “You go ahead and read. And while you’re at it, solve all of the world’s problems, too.” Silence. He leans back and stares. “Also, you have a couple of hair strands loose–you oughta fix that.”
Charlene continues to ignore him. The paper is filled with articles on politics, science, and finance. She flips through the pages and stops at the Arts. She scans across articles about prominent male artists and museum shows. Then she sees it. The Theater: A Raisin in the Sun. A raisin in the sun? She thinks to herself. What a peculiar phrase. She focuses her attention to the advertisement, it reads: “Hansberry’s play pulls upon the heartstrings of every viewer. It is the first of its kind: a creation that places the colored community on stage. It is a story about finding roots, finding oneself, and where one belongs in the world. It defies all standards: emanating self-determination and self-expression….Matinee shows are held in the Ethel Barrymore Theatre: 243 West 47th Street, NY, NY.”
The voice blows into the room, it shouts nonconformity, equality, and identity. Duke remains deaf to this otherworldly presence and he sits vacantly in his chair. Charlene reflects back on all that she has discerned from her experiences in the attic. For once, she will do something for herself, she determines that she will see this play.
In the morning, Charlene sends Duke and Andrew off in her usual robotic manner. Then, she grabs her coat, walks down the driveway, and ventures across town to the train station. When she arrives at the platform, she notices that only men accompany her. They stare at her, perplexed, but say nothing. The train pulls into the station, opens its doors, and Charlene boards. She sits down comfortably in a chair. But, when she looks around, she realizes that nearly every person on the train is a man. Her heart races. This is the first time she has gone anywhere by herself other than the grocery store or downtown. She is mixed with fear and excitement.
The train pulls into Penn Station, and the people chaotically disperse. Even though she has never been to New York City before, she moves with confidence. As she enters the flock, no one stares at her. Each person moves along with purpose. Countless shades of colors blur her vision as each person moves across her field of sight. She seeks out the subway map and routes her journey, tracing the color-coded lines with her finger until she finds 50th street. As she follows the signs to the 1 train, she observes the people around her. Each one of them is distinct. She imagines herself stepping into their shoes and experiencing their lives. She thinks: That could be me (Whitman). Suddenly, the voice whispers in her ear, repeating that could be me. Although she is confused as to how and why the odd voice is there with her without the book, Charlene embraces its guidance.
She arrives at the theater just in time. An enormous sign reads A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry. At the ticket booth, she makes her purchase. Then, she enters and tiny warm lights along the floor guide her to her seat. People shuffle in: both black and white among the crowd. Everyone finally settles, and after a moment the lights dim and the curtain rises. The stage is revealed. There before them is a small, modestly furnished, rundown interior of a home. The only light comes from the solitary kitchen window. Lamps slowly turn on as the younger family sleepily emerges from their makeshift bedrooms. Each of them determines to utilize the communal bathroom before the neighbors come to hog it.
Charlene watches the opening in awe. As the scenes carry on, she imagines herself as each character in the early morning struggles to stay awake. She imagines herself as the boy, Travis, confined to sleeping on the sofa. She sees the cramped space in front of her where five people live and she thinks about her four-bedroom home. Her home–that only houses three.
Charlene’s cheeks, once more, turn scarlet. Oh, how America has failed this family. Duke’s cruel words about the Black community flood her head. She is filled with intense anger, as she registers that the world has misled her. These people are not free, not equal as the law claims. They are five in a space meant for one. One space barely larger than a cabin.
The daughter, Beneatha, enters. She encounters her brother, Walter, and uncomfortably makes small talk. As the two gradually become combative, Charlene attentively leans in her chair.
WALTER (Defensively) I’m interested in you. Something wrong with that? Ain’t many girls who decide–
WALTER and BENEATHA (In unison)–‘to be a doctor.’ (Hansberry 36).
A doctor. Charlene repeats to herself. This girl dreams to be a doctor! This girl, who comes from a one-room home, is choosing who she wants to be. Charlene’s heart races with excitement and imagines herself as Beneatha. At the same time, the voice returns and distantly chants: I see you. Charlene looks around to see if anyone else hears the voice, but everyone seems unaffected.
As the play moves forward, each of the characters is revealed to have a dream–a dream that expresses who they want to be in the future. Beneatha: a doctor, Walter: a successful businessman, Mama: a homeowner, and Ruth: a home builder. Although Travis does not specify his dream due to his age, Charlene sees that all his family wants is for him to make his own way in the world. She reflects on the only dream she ever truly had: to be an artist. Why could she not become her dream now?
Another scene strikes Charlene deeply. Beneatha emerges onto the stage, shrouded in Nigerian robes and a headdress that completely hides her hair. She runs over to the radio and turns off the pop music that had been playing. Then, she moves to a record player, the needle scratching as she places it onto the vinyl. Suddenly, there is an eruption of sound. A Nigerian tune fills the room and permeates the theater. She begins to dance, swaying her entire body, letting go of all limitations. She transcends space and time, discovering her roots: her identity.
Beneatha’s dismissive boyfriend George enters the Younger’s home, and Ruth stops the music. Beneatha stops where she is:
GEORGE (To Beneatha) Look honey, we’re going to the theater—we’re not going to be
in it… so go change, huh?
(Beneatha looks at him and slowly, ceremoniously, lifts her hands and pulls off the
headdress. Her hair is close-cropped and unstraightened. George freezes mid-sentence
and Ruth’s eyes all but fan out of her head)
GEORGE What in the name of— (Hansberry 80).
Charlene gasps. The uncanny voice recites Whitman’s words, I cock my hat as I please. Suddenly, she sees Duke standing on the stage where George was. Beneatha fades away and she sees herself standing in her place. She wears cropped bright-orange pants and a blouse with vibrant yellow flowers. Duke’s stare is fixed on her. Her auburn hair is loose. Her revelations of creation and self-expression dance in her mind, this is how I could be, I can do and be as I please. She looks at herself with Duke and sees only limitation. All of a sudden, Beneatha reappears and Charlene sees liberation. At this moment, Charlene reaches up and pulls the pins out of her French twist. Her auburn hair falls upon her shoulders. She closes her eyes and releases her breath. She keeps them shut for a moment and listens:
GEORGE What in the name of—
…
GEORGE What have you done to your head–I mean your hair!
BENEATHA Nothing–except cut it off. (Hansberry 80).
Cut it off, the voice exclaims. Let go and live for yourself. Charlene’s eyes snap open. She cannot tell if the voice is outside or inside of her. As the play moves onward, she slowly comes to the realization that, like Beneatha cutting off her hair, she must cut off her old self. Doing this means cutting off her old life. As painful as this cognizance is, Charlene knows it is the only way that she will be able to live for herself. However, she remains apprehensive of the consequences of her crisis moment.
As the final curtain falls, the audience rises in a standing ovation. Charlene is dizzy from the thoughts running through her head about the play and about herself. A spotlight turns and shines in her eyes for just a moment. People steadily make their way to the exits. The room is alive with the buzz of conversation. Charlene ruminates about what she must do: I cannot live this way any longer….but where will I go? How will I survive? She bites her thumb. As she makes her way through the exit; powerful sunlight distorts her vision. Then, as she steps into the street, everything becomes clear. The warm rays engulf her body, she stands still absorbing them. People file around her. After a moment, she begins to soak in the scene in front of her. As people weave in and out of her sight, she notices a woman sitting on the sidewalk. Lady…I see you, the voice utters. The woman leans back on her palms with her legs extended out in front of her. She wears white slacks and a men’s pale-blue dress shirt. Her dark hair is short and her head is tilted up towards the sky. That could be me, Charlene thinks. Some invisible force seems to pull her towards the woman.
“Hello,” she says, as she approaches. “I noticed you from over there, and I am just curious what exactly you are doing down there on the sidewalk?”
“I am soaking in the sunlight as I please.” The woman says with her eyes still shut. Charlene’s stomach drops, as I please, is this voice working through this woman? After a second, the woman opens her eyes, leans forward, and extends her hand to Charlene.
“The name’s Judith. Judith Godwin.”
“Charlene. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The women’s hands meet. “Marvelous play, wasn’t it? So raw–so rich with life…truly a work of art!” she smiles broadly.
“That it was!” Judith hops up and leans against a garbage can. “I’m an artist, and I’ll tell you, I saw myself on that stage today. My whole life, I have been questioned for being a female painter–looked at funny in art galleries and even ignored! But I never let them limit me, I kept pushing onward.”
Charlene stares at Judith in amazement, this could be me! Eagerly she asks: “Judith, how did you do it? How did you make it work?”
“I just retained my hope and realized, much like that family on stage, that if I gave up, if I suppressed my true self, my dignity would vanish. My life would be half-lived. For me, ‘painting is an act of freedom and a realization that images generated by the female experience can be a powerful and creative expression for all humanity’” (Peters).
As these words flow from Judith’s mouth, Charlene begins to see the bigger picture. For Whitman and Hansberry, purpose extends outside of our homes. Purpose is found in interacting with all humanity; men and women, black and white. It is about both interaction and respect–communal and individual. Charlene continues to absorb Judith’s speech. “As humans, as people, we must have purpose. I did not want to spend my life living for someone else. That is why my purpose is to ‘emphasize what is important by painting the image of my feelings on canvas—to accept my feelings honestly, and not [to] falsify’ (Peters); To live for myself!”
“Yes, Judith. I think we all need to live for ourselves.” Charlene says with an understanding nod. “Today, in that theater I realized that I have been suppressing my dreams and living a life that I didn’t even choose!” A tear rolls down her cheek, yet she smiles. “I am so tired of not doing anything meaningful.”
Judith gives her a knowing look. “Charlene, not too long ago I went to Columbia University to hear a lecture by German-American Professor and Philosopher Herbert Marcuse. What he said has stuck with me as it reminds me of my experience. And today, on that stage, I saw even more clearly what he meant. Especially in the scene where Beneatha artistically expresses and liberates herself by revealing her cut hair. He claimed that art is ‘the absolute necessity of liberation. The work of art must, at its breaking point, expose the ultimate nakedness of man’s (and nature’s) existence’ (Marcuse 29). Marcuse also expressed that ‘art and love are among the most radical oppositional forces since they produce an alternative reality completely at odds with an oppressive reality’” (Marcuse 29).
Judith pauses. “You see, Charlene, Art is truth, it is not denying who you are. It releases us from the constrictive power structures that attempt to organize and compartmentalize our lives. To be an artist is to be free.”
Charlene meets her eyes and Judith smiles. A glint of light flashes in her eye and wind whirls around them. The voice returns. Create and be free, it says. Suddenly, Judith looks down at her wristwatch.
“Well, I better be on my way. I have an appointment downtown. But I am sure our paths will cross again.” Judith says in an unexplainable tone. Charlene watches her as she turns and walks down the street. At the corner, she stops and turns around
“Charlene!”
“Yes?”
“Always remember: limitation is death” (Mindt 2021). And with that she disappears, her voice lingering like the after ring of a bell.
Charlene begins to make her way back to Penn Station. Stores pass her in a blur as she walks. She reaches her hand into her pocket and a penny falls out. She stops to pick it up facing a storefront. As she stands back up and comes face-to-face with a mannequin. I see you, cries the voice. She steps back. There, before her, stands a mannequin dressed in cropped bright-orange pants and a blouse with vibrant yellow flowers. The same ensemble she had imagined herself wearing on the stage. Charlene runs into the boutique, buys the outfit, and swiftly changes. She grabs her dress and coat, smushing them into a ball as she exits the shop. This was no accident. Further down the street, she pauses next to a garbage can. She looks down at the dress in her hands, exhales, and shoves it into the trash.
Charlene stands on the front steps, staring at the doorknob in front of her. The sky is mostly dark, except for the light from the sunset poking out from behind a set of clouds in the distance. She shifts her hand onto the knob, pauses, then pushes the door open.
“Honey? Is that you?––Where have you been?” Duke calls from the sofa. He is turned away from the door, reading the paper, and holding a glass of scotch. He slowly rotates to face her.
“I’ve been–What have you done to your hair?! An–and your clothes?” She remains in the foyer with the door open and stares at him.
“Wha–what has gotten into you? I think you’ve lost your mind, Sweetheart, I really do!—Where are you going?”
Charlene begins marching up the stairs. When she reaches the top, she pulls the attic ladder down and climbs. She approaches the trunk and stops to look out the window before opening it. She gazes at the sunlight outlining the clouds in the distance. She then bends over, lifts the trunk lid, and pulls out Leaves of Grass. She turns and makes her way back down the ladder, not bothering to shut the lid on her way out.
“Honey, why don’t you come in here for a minute and sit down. I think you need to calm down–here, I am pouring you a glass of gin. Jus–just come sit,” Duke pleads anxiously.
Charlene once more stands in the foyer.
“Sweetheart, just sit down and I’ll telephone Dr. Schnieder. He will help figure out how to fix whatever is wrong with you. Just sit down!” he demands firmly.
“No! No, Duke. I will not sit down,” she asserts. She waits for the voice, but it is silent.
“What?” he gasps, astonished.
“I will not sit down! And I will never sit down again. I am tired of being suffocated, tired of living a life half-lived.” With this, Charlene turns on her heels and steps out of the open door, not bothering to close it behind her.
“Charlene? Charlene! Where are you going?—Get back here right now!”
Duke is now yelling from the foyer. He remains stationary, as he watches the back of Charlene disappear into the night.
You are now floating above a brick loft somewhere in New York City. Steadily, you descend and arrive at an industrial-sized window. Light illuminates the modest studio apartment before you. You inch closer and move through the glass. Inside, it is a kaleidoscope of color. Paintings and materials fill every inch of the space. There, below you, Charlene sits sprawled out on the floor. She wears a paint-stained, oversized, white Oxford and her hair is cut short. As you come closer to her, you see that she is painting. Her arms move loosely, yet with purpose. Suddenly, she rises and heads toward the area where her bed is located. She moves to her nightstand to retrieve another tube of paint from the drawer. As she leaves, you see her copy of Leaves of Grass resting on the top. The gold embossed foliage sways back and forth in the breeze on the cover. You turn and continue to watch Charlene paint.
The narrator joins her in the room. He speaks: “Ladies and gentlemen, what we have seen here is a perfect example of how the acts of creation and self-expression allow one to be liberated from constrictive societal power structures. The world in which Charlene lives is filled with order and control. There is a dualism between conformity and self-determination: a paradoxical existence of two opposing definitions of the all-American woman. Charlene has embodied both. She was once a faceless nonspecific housewife, but now she charts her own path. She has broken the mold in the Twilight Zone.”
Works Cited
Donner, Richard. “The Twilight Zone.” IMDb, IMDb.com,
www.imdb.com/title/tt0052520/characters/nm0785245.
Hansberry, Lorraine. A Raisin in The Sun. Vintage Books, 1958.
Marcuse, Herbert, and Douglas Kellner. Art and Liberation: Collected Papers of Herbert
Marcuse. vol. 4, Routledge, 2007, monoskop, https://monoskop.org/images/1/11/MARCUSE_Herbert_-_Coll._papers_4_-_Art_and_liberation.pdf
Mindt, Alex. “Spoken Word.” Fall 2021.
Peters, Lisa N. “Judith Godwin: Press Release.” Berry Campbell Gallery, 2021,
www.berrycampbell.com/exhibition/66/press_release/.Whitman, Walt. Song of Myself. Dover Publications, 2001.
Works Referenced
Sheets, Hilarie M. “Female Artists Are (Finally) Getting Their Turn.” The New York Times, The
New York Times, 30 Mar. 2016, www.nytimes.com/2016/04/03/arts/design/the-resurgence-of-women-only-art-shows.html
ZERO ALFA. “The Twilight Zone Opening Credits HD.” YouTube, YouTube, 28 July 2013,
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORbseYAkzRM.
