Then, in a sense, I revived my Own past. A square platform a few inches high covered by a white rug, with a couple flats behind, defined a stage, with three or four wide rows of folding-chairs wrapped around one edge. People are encouraged to bring fresh ideas to this open space, to try new things and, as with any experiments, to break fresh ground and to succeed or to fail. This was a blast from MY past. The same shoestring production values, the same unpretentious presentation to an audience in your laps, the same willingness to try new things was present then as now.
Theater is alive and well and living in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts.
Here we had another play of ideas, another reassessment of the past, another challengingly human appraisal of what history overlooks. In this case the play concerned a family of Americans swept from their homes and imprisoned in American concentration-camps for the duration of World War Two because of their Japanese ancestry. Again, a new play, a play of ideas. And, wonder of wonders, even though this was a two o'clock performance on Sunday afternoon, the capacious old theatre, orchestra and balcony, was jam-packed. Not only that, a healthy collection of patrons stayed on after the show to hear more about the internment and the treatment of Asian immigrants in the years before that.