I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to write about this play. By the time intermission hit, I thought to myself, what can I really say about a play written so skillfully by Dominique Morriseau, whose work leaves no stone left unturned and no question unanswered (except those you’re meant to sit with yourself)? Everything was intentional: the opening announcements were first in Kreyòl, a fabric screen featuring a rainbow of houses sitting on a hill disguised an equally colorful set revealed in the first moments of the play. Every quietly poignant moment after moment that filled the story displayed each character’s care and love for the others. I left in tears (as one wants to leave a theater) and in a tizzy, because what is there to say about a play so perfect?
A day later, I had just returned from the grocery store, having been in the market for flowers for my home (stay with me — I promise this comes full circle). While I might be a flower girly, I’m sorry to admit that I’m not a fan of roses. I think they’re expensive and they actually don’t smell great (cue Roses by Outkast), and the ones I picked out were this bright pink that, while cute, is not my favorite by any means. And yet, something about them was sparking my joy. I took them home, put them in a little vase, and it wasn’t until I set them up by my window that I realized they were the exact same shade as the rosebush growing outside of my childhood home. It hit me that while I don’t have a connection to Haiti specifically, there is something universally complicated and demanding-to-be-dealt-with about Home and how it can have more power in our lives than we may think. Personally, absolutely nothing would ever induce me to buy a bouquet of roses except a bout of homesickness not only for Delaware, but for the feeling of digging a kickball out of thorns, of sitting on the porch and spitting cherry seeds with my dad. That’s what I felt was at the center of this play. The way that our relationship to the idea of home influences our actions, our self-perception, and whether or not we feel that we belong in the spaces we occupy.
Audiences are greeted with a sign entitled “Playwright’s Permissions for Engagement” immediately before entering the theater. “God bless” was all I thought, because if there’s one theater practice that I cannot stand is the expectation of a quiet house. It makes me itch. In a medium of entertainment where artists and audiences get to share a space, engagement is a gift. It creates a sense of community and comfort, leaning into the joy of a shared experience instead of what can sometimes become the version of theater-going that feels like I might get publicly shamed for laughing at the wrong joke. The Permissions were full of encouragement to “be your full and un-restricted selves,” to laugh or shake your head, to participate as you so choose. Further down the sign, Morriseau writes, “the theatre can be church for some of us, and testifying is allowed.” Amen.
We follow Simone (Kelly McCreary), a Haitian American woman who grew up in the U.S. with her father–her only parental connection to Haiti–having never taught her a word of Kreyòl. After the passing of her grandmother, goes home to Haiti for the first time since she was twelve to reunite with her cousin Gigi (Pascale Armand), at her grandmother’s request. She hoped that returning to the land of her family would finally give her a sense of wholeness, and heal the identity crisis she was experiencing. Arriving with big dreams of “helping Haiti” and “leaving her mark,” she quickly learns that trying to fix what she doesn’t understand is not as noble a task as she thought, and that her American lens may be hurting more than helping her intentions. Reconnecting with the little family she has left and a nation she seeks to call home but has little practical understanding of, she and Gigi are faced with opposite but parallel struggles of what Home might look like.
In the final moments of the play, as Simone prepares to depart for America and Gigi admits that she’d like to teach Simone their family’s recipes, Simone sets down her bag and says simply, “teach me.” While we don’t leave these two characters with any identity crises solved or relationships entirely healed, we do leave them with a little bit of hope. Maybe Simone still doesn’t feel entirely Haitian enough, but she’s willing to learn. And Gigi might not have found the best friend in her cousin that she was hoping for, but they’re taking a step in the right direction. We don’t know if they’ve found a real sense of home yet, but they can put aside their differences, their insecurities, and listen to each other; learn from each other. They find in each other a sense of the family that they both lost, and find themselves a step closer to a feeling of belonging, that elusive idea of home, that they both seek.
At the root of Bad Kreyòl, the relationship between these two cousins who try and fail and try again to understand each other is a beautiful reminder that loving someone may not be easy, but that doesn’t mean that they’re loved any less. With Morriseau’s virtuosic language led by actors as dedicated and honest as McCreary and Armand, rounded out by the dynamic and vibrant Jacquet, Tibeau, and Andy Lucien, Bad Kreyòl leads audiences through a heartfelt and history rich story, gently encouraging us to reflect on our own relationships to family, identity, and what it means to belong.
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Bad Kreyòl is currently running at the Pershing Square Signature Center.
