essential dichotomies
by Douglas Messerli
Amiri Baraka The Toilet, first presented in New York at St. Mark’s Playhouse, on
December 16, 1964; reprinted from Douglas Messerli and Mac Wellman, eds., From the Other Side of the Century II: A New
American Drama 1960-1995 (Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1998)
On the surface, Amiri Baraka’s short
play of 1964, The Toilet, appears to
be nothing but a documentation of a bullying incident in a high school, with a
majority of black boys beating a frail white boy, Karolis, who has apparently
written a kind of love letter to the head of the black gang, Foots (or Ray). It
might be superficially represented as a kind of abbreviated “rumble” scene out
of West Side Story.
But the authenticity of Baraka’s language and his briefly catalogued
“types” at the beginning of the script, quickly—and the play is performed,
surely, at nearly lightning speed—transforms this work into a drama which,
quite subtly, explores a whole series of dialectical issues: masculinity and
its inverse, weakness, power and powerlessness, futility and hope, justice and
brutal punishment, leadership and rebellion, and, most importantly, love and
hate.
The play begins, strangely enough, somewhat offstage, as several members
of the gang, the “short, ugly, crude, and loud Ora” (a.k.a. Big Shot), the
“tall, thin, and somewhat sensitive,” Willie Love, and the “big, husky, somber,
and cynical” Perry report to each other that their would-be victim is upstairs
hiding in various classrooms as others of their group attempt to seek him out.
Like young, angry youths everywhere, these boys not only report the goings on,
as they meet in the stinking, high-school boy’s bathroom, but swear at each
other, and pretend to battle, all the while showing off their supposed virility
and strength through their acts of urination and other uses of their sexual
members. The following “attack” on Karolis, accordingly, is not only a response
to his homosexual challenge to their leader, Foots, but is to be a kind of
proving of the only thing these desperate kids have left, their “manhoods.”
Through their jests with each other, we quickly learn that several of
these young men do not even have parents, others live lives of destitution, and
nearly all of them are doomed to failure in their future lives. They describe
each other the way the society around them has, with words like “bastid,”
“punk,” “muthafucka,” “sonofabitch,” and, yes, “nigger.” These are the lost
boys of the street, forced to gather in the institution which they so detest.
Only Foots (Ray) seems to have any intelligence, as he reports that the
authorities, evidently, think highly of him, and hope that we will prevent any
attack of another student. Baraka describes him, quite poetically, as “short,
intelligent, manic,” a “possessor of a threatened empire.” That empire, of
course, is a mean-spirited gang, ready to implode or explode, depending on
which series of emotional responses they take. They have already exploded by
the time they bring Karolis to their lair, having beaten him so badly that for
much of the play he cannot even talk.
Foots wisely refuses to beat him any further, insisting that to do so
would be meaningless, since the white boy is already sprawled out upon the
floor. But the others, particularly Ora, are determined to see more blood in
revenge for his daring. Another white boy, Donald Farrell (“tall, thin, blonde,
awkward, soft”)—who seems tangentially part of the gang, but is not very
welcome in its midst—tries to talk them down from doing any further damage,
bravely refusing to leave the toilet unless Karolis goes with him. He fails,
and is literally physically expelled from their group.
Foots, accordingly, is in a difficult position. If he does not show
enough outrage for Karolis’ challenge, he will be seen as weak, possibly even
in cohorts with the boys offer to “blow him.”; yet he rightly sees no pleasure
in fighting someone who has already been felled. A lesser playwright may have
had this character throw a couple of more sucker-punches and left it at that.
But Baraka intensifies the situation by suddenly having Karolis demand a fight
with Foots, a fight he knows he cannot win. It may be that the gay boy has even
a lower self-esteem than the blacks in this work; or, at least, in fighting he
might have some sort of physical contact with Ray, whom he describes as
“beautiful.”
Foots, now gradually being described by Karolis and the others by his
ordinary name, Ray, continues to refuse to fight. But Karolis, quite eloquently
(described by the playwright as “Very skinny and not essentially attractive
except when he speaks”) continues to challenge his “rival,” bragging that he
will “kill him.” Suddenly everything changes, as the gang members, eager to see
the fight, move in on the two, egging on the fight Ray is trying to prevent.
When the fight does get underway, it is Karolis who gets Ray into a
stranglehold, while the gang head is rendered inoperative; when his power is
suddenly thrown into question, the others, in response, enter into the fray,
beating Karolis again into submission, as Ray lays also flattened across the floor.
Finally getting their revenge, the others move off, as Karolis drags
himself into a toilet cubicle to recover. And, here again, Baraka surprises us,
as with the last of his stage instructions:
After a moment or so karolis moves his hand. Then his head moves
and he tries to look up. He draws his legs up under him and pushes
his head off the floor. Finally he manages to get to his hands and
knees.
He
crawls over to one of the commodes, pulls himself up, then falls
backward awkwardly and heavily. At this point the door is pushed
open slightly, then it opens completely and foots comes in. He
stares at karolis’ body for a
second, looks quickly over his shoulder,
then runs and kneels before the body, weeping and cradling the head
in
his arms.
I don’t know how this scene is
represented in the stage production—I’ve never seen the play performed—but the
way the scene is written seems more appropriate for film than for stage, simply
because we are, at first, not told that it is Foots who is about to enter the
cubicle, the fact of which is kept from us, in the directions, until the very
last moment. Similarly, his actions—reminding us of both a kind of crucifixion
and pietà , as well as an expression of sorrow and, finally, homosexual
love—startlingly reveals that the young “skinny” white boy has won this battle,
at least, that the bullied has defeated his tormentors through his
unconditional love. What we might have perceived as a set and predetermined
series of events is, in fact, flexible. The realities of youth, as we must
always admit, are never quite what they seem to be. And with one fell swoop,
this gifted playwright dispenses with the very essential dichotomies which he
seems to have created. Everything in this play, we suddenly recognize, is not
so “black and white” as it originally seems.
That the angry revolutionary of 1964—by this time Baraka had already
traveled to Cuba, arguing that art and politics should be indissolubly linked,
the same year as The Toilet writing
his screed of white and black hate, Dutchman—is
equally surprising—unless you know the Baraka I and others knew—a man who might
continually be seen, as The New York
Times obituary yesterday reiterated, as a “provocateur”—but as a true
“optimist,” even though he admitted his optimism was “one of a very particular
sort.”
Los Angeles, January 11, 2014
Reprintted from USTheater, Opera, and Performance (January 2014).
