my older brother told me a story once
By: Isaac Gómez
Tags: Writer, Chicago, Anti Racism, Theater, Theatre

about how he and his older brother would steal pocket change from our father. Day after day, they would steal a little at a time so he wouldn’t notice. I couldn’t imagine the sight. My father, a Mexican man with calluses on his hands so big that his palms felt like sandpaper, being duped by his mischievous sons. But like most Mexican fathers, he found out eventually. And he burned their hands on the stove so they’d never steal from him again. And they never did after that.

Cause and effect. That’s what this story taught me. Cause. And effect.

My father never burned my hands on the stove because he didn’t have to. This story coupled with the visible scars on both my brothers’ tender hands was all I needed to see to walk away from the comal unscathed.

Until I didn’t.

Until despite their warnings, I found myself trapped in the same loop as the two of them — stealing money that my parents didn’t have because I wanted more than the very little they could give. Because I knew more was possible. Because I saw other kids getting more without getting their hands burned on the stove.

I got bold. Bolder than my brothers. Stealing from my mother’s purse as she slept. A twenty dollar bill that was supposed to last her two weeks until direct deposit dutifully did what it does. The last bill she had after paying our utilities in cash was now a heavy rock in my cargo pants from the dollar store.

And she smacked the shit out of me when she found out.

I escaped the heat of our third generation stove by walking right into the heat of my Mexican mother. I’m not sure which one hurts more. But the sting of her thrash didn’t stop or change my behavior. Paycheck after paycheck, I snuck back into my mother’s purse time and time again, taking whatever she had. And when she’d find out? She’d smack me again.

And again.

And again.

I think it’s fair to say I’ve spent most of my life loving my parents, and being angry with them. This is still true. I love them for nourishing me. I love them for believing in me. I love them for putting a roof over my head. But also? I’m angry with them. I’m angry that they didn’t see me when I asked to be seen. I’m angry that they didn’t protect me when I was vulnerable. I’m angry that they didn’t love me the way I needed them to love me.

Even typing this out, I know if they ever read this they would disagree with every word I’m writing. I can feel my mother burning holes in every vowel. “It didn’t happen like that.” “Why are you being so dramatic?” “There are two sides to every story.”

Stories are complex. I mean, why am I talking about my parents when I came here to write about theater? Because much like my parents, I love theater as much as I am angry at it.

I love it for nourishing me. I love it for believing in me. I love it for being a home for my stories to live and breathe with people who live and breathe. But also? I’m angry with it. I’m angry theater didn’t see me when I asked to be seen. I’m angry that theater didn’t protect me when I was vulnerable and needed its grace. I’m angry at theater for putting buildings before people.

For better and for worse, I’m really good at talking to white people. Like… really, really good. The shape of my tongue was strategically formed by my parents as a response to their own displacement, to their own genocide, to their own painful recollection of the ways in which they, too, have been violently harmed by white people.

And so because of this skillset, I’ve had the privilege (read: ‘privilege’ as in ‘access to resources’ not ‘privilege’ as in ‘honor’) of working in several predominately white institutions throughout my career. And every single one has caused me great harm and trauma that I’m still healing from. Some more than others. All of them the same story as the one before. To bring a few into this conjuring — Victory Gardens Theater, Northlight Theater, Writers Theater, Goodman Theater, South Coast Rep, Denver Center for the Performing Arts, Audible Theater, and, of course, Steppenwolf Theater Company.

I could say a lot about each of these institutions, but I won’t. For the context of this prayer, all you need to know is that each of these companies took a piece of my spirit that I’ve been trying to get back. My healing is a very private process. I don’t need anyone to bear witness. I don’t need anyone cancelled or fired or dragged through the mud. Public shaming does nothing for me. It doesn’t heal me, which is all I want.

It’s wild to me how I know I’m not alone as I type this. It saddens me to say that I wouldn’t be surprised if every person of color I know (artist or arts administrator) has experienced harm that mirrors mine or parallels it — not just in predominately white institutions but predominately so.

More than anything, I want to move on. I want to heal. I want to feel better. I want to be whole. After my time at Victory Gardens Theater, I quickly learned that institutions weren’t for me when I became part of a machine of employees who were responsible to repair harm we never caused on behalf of the institution and its leaders, when the change we fought tirelessly to see stayed nothing more than empty promises and language for grant applications.

Which is why Lowell’s post regarding his departure at Steppenwolf resonated with me so. I believe him. Because I’ve been there. I have been there time and time again. As an artist, as an arts administrator — I have been there. And every damn time, I go back for more. Why? Why do I put myself through that? Why do so many of us? Perhaps it’s because I do believe systemic change can happen, with the right infrastructure in place to ensure its sustainability. Maybe I’m a masochist for believing that I could burn it all down from the inside and build something beautiful and communal and sustainable from its ashes. Perhaps, I’m just naive. But I do believe it’s possible. And I have hope for it.

Yesterday, April 26, 2021, my audio adaptation of Erika L. Sánchez’s brilliant book I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter dropped to thousands of Chicago students (for free), and will be available to the public via Steppenwolf’s digital season programming in the coming weeks as well. The same digital programming that wouldn’t exist without Lowell’s innovation and brilliance. With the same institution that wronged him and harmed him in so many ways it forced him with no other option than to leave his job in the middle of a pandemic.

Let that sink in: it forced him with no other option than to leave his job in the middle of a pandemic. I don’t take his departure lightly. I hope you don’t either.

I thought about pulling the play. Many times. I thought about pulling the play when Steppenwolf first approached me about the audio adaptation when I learned the time and support originally allocated wasn’t going to be enough. But then, thankfully, additional resources were provided so we could have the process we deserved — but only after myself, Karen Rodriguez, and Sandra Marquez advocated tirelessly for what we knew we needed. And in speaking for myself — needing to open scars to understand that we weren’t asking for more money; we were asking for our humanity to be seen and valued in the same way as our white colleagues and peers. Our work was also able to be buoyed by the work of our brilliant and fearless artistic producer Kenya Hall — her first go at being lead producer. Who, curiously, has also chosen to leave the institution.

So why do I keep coming back? Why don’t I just pull the play?

Because, ultimately, that’s not my decision to make. Because that decision doesn’t solely affect me. Dozens of staff members of color, queer folks, teaching artists, femmes and women have worked tirelessly to bring this audio play to life so that Chicago students can see themselves in Erika’s incredible world at a time where catharsis is desperately needed.

So many who, like our protagonist Julia, are struggling with their own mental health while attending school at home in the middle of a pandemic while Black and brown CHILDREN are being killed by the police. IN OUR OWN CITY. Divestment is absolutely necessary for systemic change to happen. And also? I’m tired of being the person who has to divest where in the wake of my removal, my white colleagues and friends will talk about how sad the circumstances are while continuing on, business as usual. Most systemic change is often lead by those who need it the most. And it often comes at a great cost. Does that have to be the case? I don’t think so.

I don’t think a show about a Mexican daughter, a child of undocumented immigrants, should be the martyr towards a movement of change for a predominately white institution and their inability to live up to their word. And it makes me wonder… what might happen if white people divested first? What happens, white colleagues, friends, leaders — if you divested first? So that re-investment can be allocated to those who historically need it the most? So that the institutions we both love can evolve and be as great as we know they can be and should be?

Working on I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter has been the greatest joy of my life and career. There was nothing like the feeling of seeing Mexican mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends — experiencing Erika’s beautiful world right in front of them. I don’t think I’ve seen that many brown people inside that theater at one time, at every performance, EVER. And that’s not because of Steppenwolf. It’s because of us. Because of this beautiful team and this brilliant story. And the team that kept it alive throughout this entire pandemic, fighting to ensure its visibility in one way or another. I hunger for the reaction of those audiences again. I want to experience it again.

Steppenwolf has, and remains to be, for me, one of my greatest artistic homes. It’s where I learn the most, grow the most, and do my best work because of the collaborators and staff I’m able to work with. But like the home I was raised in, it’s a home that also sometimes causes me great pain. And with love comes great questioning because that’s what I do with the things I love the most. It’s who I am. How I was raised. How I live my life and create my art every single day.

So with that, I have one question for Steppenwolf — where do we go from here? What will you do, now, to prove that actions speak louder than words? I’m listening. We all are.

My older brother told me a story once. About how my father burned his hands on our stove. I’m not sure what that has to do with Steppenwolf, but I think there’s a metaphor there somewhere. I’m just too tired to find it.