Mi madre y el dinero

 

In 2018, I witnessed a piece of theater that has forever altered the way I view “realism” in theater. That play was Tijuana, a one-person show starring Lázaro Gabino Rodríguez, in which the main character travels to the eponymous border city to experience what it is like to live in poverty. You can read about my experience with Lázaro and the play in my previous blog entry. My main takeaway from that experience was that what appears as real (video recordings, pictures, testimony) may in fact be a farcical realism trying to make a different point altogether. In other words, playwrights/directors may be portraying reality while simultaneously calling into question the realities they are portraying. With that in mind, on Sunday, I traveled to the Teatro de la Ciudad Esperanza Iris to see the play Mi madre y el dinero, a “work in progress” with Josefina Orlaineta and Anacarsis Ramos, a mother-son duo. It is an intimate play about their economic struggles, as well as about the construction of the play we are seeing, told from the perspective of both. 

The front cover of the playbill.

A panoramic view of the theater I took after the performance.

This is what the playbill states: Durante más de seis décadas (1960-2020) Josefina Orlaineta, madre de Anacarsis Ramos, ejerció más de cuarenta trabajos y negocios en Campeche, uno de los estados con mayor tasa de pobreza y rezago económico en México. 

A partir de herramientas teatrales y cinematográficas, Josefina y Anacarsis reproducen algunos de estos trabajos para reflexionar sobre la crisis económica como estado permanente de vida, la expansión del trabajo a todos los espacios de una familia, la vergüenza de clase, la indefensión social de los trabajadores independientes (tanto comerciantes como artistas) y las negociaciones que se hacen al interior de un proyecto para contar la vida de alguien más. 

A map emphasizing the location of the state of Campeche in Mexico.

During more than six decades (1960-2020) Josefina Orlaineta, mother to Anacarsis Ramos, worked more than forty jobs and businesses in Campeche, one of the states with the highest rates of poverty and economic lagging in Mexico. 

Using theatrical and cinematographic tools, Josefina and Anacarsis reproduce some of these jobs to reflect on economic crises as a permanent stage of life, the expansion of work to all corners of the family, the embarrassment of class, the social helplessness of independent workers (vendors and artists) and the business deals that are made inside a project which aims to retell the life of someone else. (my rough translation)

Anacarsis speaking to the audience.

As you walk into the production, you are led behind the curtain of the theater on the stage. There, Josefina is cutting her son’s hair. There were occasional moments of dialogue between the two, as well as with the audience. Immediately, the two have established an intimate space for them and for the audience. Since we are also behind the curtain, in a non-traditional space for theater productions, one also senses the attempt to "reveal," in an intimate environment, the machinations of theater and establish a setting in which the audience feels the authenticity of those on stage. We are literally “behind-the-scenes,” if you will. The set consisted of open shelving and a long table, in which the actors on stage remained exposed during the production. Above this minimalist set was a projector screen, in which, during various points in the production, text, images, and videos were projected to the audience, providing a glimpse into life in Campeche, within the walls of their home, and the inner thoughts of Anacarsis. 

The opening of the play as Josefina actually cuts Anacarsis's hair, while a video plays the setting of the malecón in Campeche.

Anacarsis remarked, toward the beginning of the play, that audiences and producers in Mexico have a thirst for realism on stage. As such, his exposition of life in Campeche, told through the eyes of someone both in (Anacarsis) and outside (Josefina) of theater, with projected diary entries, cuts to the core of the human experience and “realism” that he recognizes that audiences desire. The exposition was divided into 7 scenes: estética, negociación, abarrotes, zapatería, chorizos, y el dinero, y actriz. Josefina started the play cutting her son’s hair while also explaining how she threw herself into opening a beauty salon—despite confessing that she didn’t know how to cut hair at first. In a later scene, Anacarsis stacks boxes on the table as they talk about opening and supplying an abarrotería (or a mini convenience store) until an Oxxo opened up next to them.

Anacarsis stacking the boxes during the segment about opening up an abarrotería. The Google maps image shows the location of their convenience store in Campeche.

In one of the vignettes, about chorizos, mother and son put together chorizo links on stage, replicating the countless hours they spent in the past. In fact, the son challenges the mother to sell some of her chorizo to an audience member, further creating a realist link between her ability to sell chorizo and convincing the audience that she in fact did sell chorizos. 

Josefina attempting to sell her chorizos to an audience member.

In each of the scenes, either videos or on-stage demonstrations proved to the audience their acquired talents in each of these stages of their family’s economic lives. Finally, at the end of the show, Anacarsis hails his mother onto the stage. She appears from behind the shelves, where she had been hiding for a little while. Now, however, instead of her simple clothes, she is dressed in a crown and cape, wielding a sword. She recounts some theatrical lines and pronounces that she is no longer scared of acting. She has culminated her abilities now with acting. Upon her final line, where she declares she is no longer scared of acting, the main curtain on the stage arose, exposing the grandiose venue’s theater, all to the reverberating applause from the packed audience. 

Josefina comes out to "act" before the audience.

The ending of the performance toward the empty theater.

And yet, I can’t help but pause and wonder aloud if what I witnessed is what I witnessed. This takes me back to my first idea, about realism on stage. The fact that Anacarsis mentioned the thirst for realism in Mexican audiences today makes me question whether he is, perhaps, trolling his audience with the appearance of realism. Is he intermingling fiction with reality? Is all that I saw a farce, real, or a mixture of both? As I stated earlier, this wouldn’t be my first experience with farcical realism. 

A list of the jobs Josefina states that she's had over the span of a few decades.

But it turns out that this type of genre in the theater has picked up in popularity here in Mexico. During my stay in Mexico this year, I have already witnessed three different performances in which the protagonists relate intimate stories of their lives. Autofiction is a genre in which the playwright finds inspiration in their own reality to retell the events of their life, but they intermingle fictitious elements into the storyline, creating a piece of theater that becomes engaging enough to sell to an audience. Thus, it is difficult, and rich, for audiences to imagine what is real and what is fiction. Blurring the lines between what is true and what is fiction is a fascinating endeavor, as those who study the genre of testimonio or those who work with memory studies may attest to. 

Curtain Call

In this way, audiences—myself—may begin to question their/my own limits between fiction and reality in life. I recently watched the series “Death and other details” on Hulu, and this element of memory recall becomes a fascinating tool to highlight that what/how we remember the past may, and probably will be, colored by our later information through hindsight. Thus, to what degree is any historical representation truly “faithful” to actual events when so many perspectives evolve and are colored by other viewpoints?

The title of the production on the screen at the end of the show.

For me, this performance made me consider not so much the economic and social ideologies inherent in the scenes themselves, but the machinations used to create the story and the idea of reality. In fact, the quest for “realism” on stage has left me wondering how possible it even is anymore. With the rise in Artificial Intelligence, the use of different medias on stage to capture reality, and the theatrical “behind-the-scenes” techniques employed in this production, I am left wondering what to believe when something occurs right in front of me. What I am saying may sound dystopic--that I struggle with accepting what I see as real--but I think it cuts at the core of what our task as scholars and humans is today: to think critically about what we consume in order to authenticate what we should believe or discard in our quest for "truth" and creating a better world based on that truth.

¿Puedes verme?

 

In México, los desaparecidos is an unfortunate reality. The United Nations announced, tragically, that in 2022, the number of those who have disappeared in Mexico reached 100,000. We’ll never forget the 43 students in Ayotzinapa, for example, who were taken and then forcibly disappeared, approximately 10 years ago on September 26, 2014. I briefly bring up the historical context to this issue because Valentina Sierra wrote and directed a play related to this horrible reality. Would it surprise you if I then say that this play is for children? 

Cover of playbill

The play, ¿Puedes verme? (Can you see me?), relates the story of a young girl named Bárbara, played by Daniela Arroio, who feels that she is disappearing from reality. At first, she thinks her feet begin to disappear, then her hands, then her legs, then her arms, then parts of her face. Her parents also recognize that she is disappearing and take her to a doctor who prescribes bright clothing so that she can be recognized. Bárbara feels that this isn’t a permanent solution, so she looks for ways to solve this issue herself—demonstrating that her own agency is perhaps better than what “experts” or “adults” can offer. 

Bárbara says she is present, but her teacher doesn't see her

One day, while she is at an art museum with her school, she sees an installation about disappearances that speaks to her. Unfortunately, the exhibition is leaving the next day. So, logically, she fits inside a luggage and is transported with the exhibition to its home—where the original artist, Azucena, resides. There, she escapes the police and finds refuge with the help of other children who “disappeared” and depend on Azucena. Bárbara is ecstatic to identify with this group of children, and after some play, they decide to look for the author of the exhibition. 

Bárbara travels to Azucena's home town

Eventually, Azucena “appears” in the form of a large, blue dress, and helps Bárbara find her voice by revealing that her real mother, her aunt, disappeared, and that people eventually gave up looking for her. With this hard truth, Bárbara, as well as the others, begin to “appear” again. They learn that if they want to be “seen” then they will need to speak up more—use their agency. Eventually, Bárbara returns home. Her “parents” apologize to Bárbara for withholding this truth. By the end of the play, Bárbara is whole again. 

Bárbara is complete again

I’d like to focus on two scenes that I found to be rich in intertextuality, especially for children’s audiences. First, in the factory, where the niños desaparecidos reside, Bárbara begins to feel at home as she identifies with the other disappearing children. There, she takes off the bright-colored clothing and embraces her new state in revelry and fun. They dance. They jump. They sing. One tap dances. It is a scene of youthful bliss. 

Having fun in the abandoned factory

However, this jubilee is broken when another child suddenly asks Bárbara “a quién extrañas más” (who do you miss the most?). This question reminds both the character and the audience that this joy is momentary. There is a deeper sadness hidden behind the jubilee of these children. Immediately, this scene reminded me of the lost boys in Peter Pan. In Neverland, the lost boys, who fell out of their perambulators, play all day and night. They live in a constant state of brotherhood and depend on each other to survive. Nonetheless, the lost boys yearn for a mother figure in their lives, which is where Wendy’s role became significant. She could read books to them and take care of them as if she were their collective mother. Their disappearances remind us of the underlying sadness upon which the children appear to be content in their new state. The connection between Peter Pan and los desaparecidos in this play could not be more obvious at this point, at least for me, and I find it super fascinating that a play for children about los desaparecidos evokes what one could argue as the first play/novel in England that was tailored for children—more than a century ago. In my opinion, this intertextuality speaks to the ongoing influence of such foundational, canonical works for children in Mexico. 

F.D. Bedford, "Peter Plan Playing Pipes," Peter and Wendy, 1911

Secondly, when Azucena finally appears in the form of an illuminated and oversized dress, the characters and audience cannot put a face to her. She is an elusive figure, much like a deity or fairy, who works beyond the realm of what we perceive as reality. Through her omniscience, she reveals Bárbara’s true identity. This revelation allows Bárbara to then see herself as her body returns to its normal appearance. After this revelation, she disappears, and the other characters begin to find themselves as well. They have learned the hard lesson of their disappearances and have, apparently, come to terms with the fact of their identities. They have also learned the importance of their own voices and that they should shout until their loved ones are eventually found. They should never stop looking for those who have disappeared. 

Azucena appears

This scene evoked yet another intertextual reference to children’s literature: The blue fairy, or the fairy with turquoise hair. In Pinocchio, the fairy aids Pinocchio during his misadventures, and eventually turns him from a puppet into a real boy. This fairy has been evoked in other forms as well. Readers might remember the 2001 movie A.I.: Artificial Intelligence in which a robot boy sought to become “real” and eventually finds a blue fairy on Coney Island, in a sunken post-apocalyptic period. This child’s quest to transform into their true or yearned-for identity is apparent in ¿Puedes verme? as well. It is only after contact with this otherworldly character that Bárbara can find herself and eventually return home in her true and complete form. 

The desaparecidos begin to see each other after Azucena's visit

In terms of the production, I hope this play finds new audiences. The direction of the play was outstanding. Every moment was full of energy—every moment. This included the transition scenes. The actors displayed a real awareness toward the audience to keep them engaged, mostly through slapstick and corporeal gesticulations that heightened their storytelling, and not once did the energy subside. I could sense how much the audience was engaged throughout the production, especially because kids tend to be real about their feelings. Through vibrant and ever-changing costumes, digital projections and black-light sets, the visual components of the play also produced a dynamic atmosphere for storytelling. There was also audience participation. For example, at one point, the desaparecidos in the factory were listening to the sounds of the ocean on the edge of the stage, listening toward the audience. Eventually, the audience began to make the sounds of the ocean, as the actors commented on the sounds they heard. 

The niños desaparecidos listening to the ocean

In this season, it is also worth noting that Valentina Sierra made the Saturday performances funciones relajadas, for autistic and neurodivergent audiences. This allowed children who otherwise would not be traditionally welcomed into the theater space, to feel a part of this vibrant community. These relaxed performances allowed these audiences to attend the theater without the constraints of traditional audience behavior, like being quiet and sitting still during the production. On another level, it is also beautiful to see the inclusion of other desaparecidos from society attending the theater as well. In all ways, this performance, and its production, are why I attend theater: the construction of an inclusive community—on stage and in the audience—and raising awareness—in creative and imaginative ways—of important issues affecting such communities. Bravo Puño de tierra!

Chilangolandia, mi amor

It is difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that it has taken me years to return to my beloved Ciudad de México (CDMX) and its vibrant and dynamic theater scene—a long-distance relationship prolonged by the COVID-19 pandemic, finishing my dissertation, and a new job/move. So, to my utter delight, the first production on this trip was Chilangolandia, mi amor at Foro A Poco No on calle de la República de Cuba. My first play back turned out to be a love letter to the city by those who live the good, the bad, and the chingado. 

The 80-minute billed production is a cornucopia of histories and experiences that help build/reflect a sense of community among those who call CDMX their home (whether since birth, by choice, or by force). The actors share stories and interact with the audience—thus creating this two-fold sense of community through stories and action. I might add that with the rise of artificial intelligence, and concerns about dwindling human contact, coupled with an ever-increasing sense of loneliness, this play reminds us of the many players that construct a community, as well as community fostered through theater experiences. This play also reminded me that I feel such a community in CDMX each time I return. It feels great to be back! 

The playwright, Mario Conde, wrote in the playbill: 

No se trata de las historias de la ciudad, sino de la historia que la ciudad misma es. El calor dentro de un taxi, el olor de una quesadilla callejera, las inundaciones en avenidas, la música del concreto: emociones que vivimos a través de personajes de papel para expresar lo mucho que se ama a una ciudad que nos da todo para odiarla” 

It’s not about stories from the city, but the story of what the city itself is. The heat inside a taxi, the smell of a street-bought quesadilla, the floodings on the avenues, the music from the concrete: emotions that we live through character roles that express how much we love a city that gives us every reason to hate it (my translation). 

The roughly 20 stories, not in chronological order, that I could count throughout the production were: street vendors, a lucha libre fight, relating traffic news from a helicopter, a female lover acting as if she were the city, relating episodes of tragedy in the city, a male calling on a prostitute, relating their run-in with the trademarked word chilango, a moment to talk about their theater, relating aspects of the city through the alphabet, the curtain call, a lamplight with skull, the dance of death, a robber with gun, the evolution of the bus, relating a story with an Aztec codex, cut-out scenes of the city, the death of a lady in a traffic accident, the representation of death on scaffolding, the suggestion of a new city crest, commuting to work late on the bus. 

The four actors, David Almaga, Abigail Espíndola, Omar Esquinca, and Erika Franco, inhabited various roles throughout each of these scenes, demonstrating their tremendous, and nimble, acting skills, and their ability to engage—in the moment—with the audience and themselves (there was a moment another actor needed help unrolling some yarn and they stepped in to help). Throughout the production, then, the fourth wall was not only crossed, but shattered. In fact, at one point, Erika Franco, who was playing the role of a street vendor, came to me and asked me to buy something from her. At first, I thought this was just part of the show and she was going to move one, but she insisted. So, I pulled out my collection of coins, and, in the dark light of the theater, handed her I have no idea how much. And then she gave me a de la Rosa marzipan.

One might argue that they know their audience (themselves?) well—the constant swiping and messaging, Hollywood, 24-hour news cycles, have all created a world in which we, as consumers, crave attention spans with new content. Our production lasted around 70 minutes, and with the inclusion of approximately 20 scenes, that means the average length of each scene lasted around 3.5 minutes. The caveat to this calculation, however, is that there were transitions and addresses to the audience that could very well have been considered a scene. All of this said, the production was a fluid tour de force of the fast-paced life that one lives in a behemoth of an urban setting like CDMX, which is the 5th largest city in the world, with over 21.5 million inhabitants, per the 2018 UN population estimates. 

The production ends today (Sunday, July 14), so if you happen to be reading this and are in CDMX, I highly recommend taking the time to do so.