Steffany

I’ve been using the time away from school to put myself first. I scraped together some Christmas money and created an itinerary. I wrote a bunch of incoherent things in a new notebook. I always feel like I need a notebook whenever I’m starting anew. I wanted to shake off the bad vibes of the year before and immerse myself in the things that made me happy. It was little things, like buying a comb attachment for my blow dryer so I could be assured of maximum volume in my afro. That was only $7.99. I bought myself a black see-through turtleneck, a fresh pack of silk underwear, a pair of wheat double-soled Timbs, and a bright blue hat. I want to wear the hat all the time because vibrant blues are a major key (they just make me feel good). I signed up for the Manhattan Theater Club’s 30 under 30 program, so I could see more plays. And I wrote down all the films I wanted to watch before I went back to school. Some for research (I help curate some of the movies for a Black film series), but most for pleasure.

I went with two of my friends to see Jitney using my $30 tickets. I was so close to the stage, my knees were damn near pressed against it. My mom joked that Andre Holland would think I was stalking him, as I’d met him at a screening of Moonlight earlier that year. (I hope he didn’t remember me, but I’d be OK if he did.) He plays Youngblood in the play, and I was so close I could smell his cologne. I loved the call and response aspect of seeing a Black play with a partially Black audience. When Youngblood tells Rena about the home he buys for them, she remarks on the size of the kitchen. “What about the kitchen?” A Black woman’s voice cried out, “Bathroom?!” and Rena goes, “And the bathroom?!” It was funny and made the room feel communal. It was less about the amenities of the house—it was more of a “What about what I want?” akin to Rose’s monologue in Fences. This play takes place 20 years later but involves much of the same language. Language I’d imagine is native to Pittsburgh but universally Black in what it’s trying to convey. “I ain’t studying you!” could easily be the equivalent of me giving a strong “boy, bye” to someone who deserves it.

Lastly, I shook the hand of the director, Ruben Santiago-Hudson. I casually mentioned the importance of Lackawanna Blues and its narrative structure to my mother and me. We use movies as a form of bonding and make subtle references to them in our day to day. One big inside joke for only us to partake in. He looked tired and overworked, but I thanked him for what he’d brought into my life with Jitney. I loved the way he brought cinematic techniques to the stage—moments where actors reenact slow motion sequences with their bodies, creating a heightened level of drama and emotion. I felt inspired to do something, who knows. It made me think of how I practiced for years to cry on command because I thought that’d make me a better actor. Being an actress has always been a super top-secret, low-key dream. I’ve always been a dramatic li’l shawty.

I have a few more things to do before I re-enter school on January 24. I want to see Kerry James Marshall’s “Mastry.” I want to go dancing. I’d like to get some acrylics, get my hair braided, and bask in the community that raised me. I plan on seeing Suzan-Lori Parks’s Venus or Branden Jacob Jenkin’s Everything, especially since I now know how to better pick seats. (Front row is too close.) I’ve reaffirmed what I’ve ALWAYS known: Black art is restorative and dynamic. When I quietly think to myself, What a time to be alive!, it isn’t hyperbole. ♦