Randi and Shane disagree about next moves as they deal with the consequences of Roderick’s letter.
Cast
Randi Halle Millien
Shane Mark Millien
Helen Philips Ko Forte Sonubi
SFX and Music Contributors
SFX
Q Tone [Query]
Tone 4.wav by patchen of freesound.org
Q Tone [Response]
Tone 3.wav by patchen of freesound.org
Sirens
Futuristic_Alarm4.mp3 by 13NHarri
Emergency_Traffic-1.mp3 by 911elearning
Music
Helen’s Letter Theme
Trap Ballad Piano Lead Hook 128 by stalebrick of looperman.com
Created by Mark and Halle Millien
Cover Art by Halle Millien
Written, Directed and Produced by Mark Millien
Thank you to everyone that has supported us during this difficult time. Thank you to the protesters risking their bodies and health. Thank you to the medical professionals who are healing bodies or granting them peace. Thanks dad. Love you Mitch.
Glossary
allocated: an arrest that exists outside of the framework of the legal system for individuals considered to be too dangerous to place in common detention frameworks, usually due to their haz status.
retro-tagged: the pejorative term for someone being assigned a lower haz status and corresponding haztag for fraudulent reasons. Many citizens consider this to be an unsubstantiated claim akin to how systemic racism was argued about in years past.
Helen’s Letter:
"But if the unbelieving partner separates, let it be so. In such cases, the brother or sister is not enslaved. God has called you to peace." First Corinthians chapter 7 verse 15. That sounded to me like absolution. Not that I needed any. My children. My babies. I substitute no one’s judgment for my own in pursuing your survival. Not your father’s. Not his surrogate’s. Not God’s. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that when I read that I felt unburdened by some of the tougher decisions I’ve made and the consequences that will come from them. Roderick is a good man but he is lying. To us. To himself. And I understand that. Selfishness sometimes requires a bit of self-deception. When I was a child, there was this commercial, I don’t remember what they were selling, but Kelly Lebrock was in it. For a fleeting tick of time, she was the most sought after woman on Earth. The only thing I remember about it was the line “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful”. I’d never imagined anyone could stand so casually proud in their own skin, even if it was flawless. You could tell that she believed, KNEW, she was different, better, and made no apologies for it. An angel asking the mob for grace. I knew I was pretty as a child. It was obvious. I was 15 when I realized that I was beautiful. Happily, I can say that it didn’t come from any man’s validation. One day I simply became acutely aware of the shape of me, the songs written in the notes of my features. It gave me a voice, especially when I was silent. The space between mysterious and withdrawn is separated by beauty. At times it has allowed me to escape deeper scrutiny while remaining in the spotlight. There have been times in my life when I could shed the disadvantages charred into my syrupy skin and walk among the free folk as an honored guest. It’s never been a source of guilt. If I had been born porcelain and ivory with a mastodon’s strength, I’d persuade with menace. Instead, I was born molten honey and aromatic cocoa so I negotiate my existence through sweet intoxicants. At birth, none of us are armored or clawed and what we do not learn will surely kill us because unlike other animals we must be taught survival. My first lesson was the police. My mother’s beauty was a curse. It brought her too much attention in her time, in that place. She told me that people with small power will always use it to remind you of how small YOU are, if only to distort the size of their reflection. She taught me to run. To apologize. To bow. And to pray. When I came into my voice, I left all her lessons behind. That husk no longer suited me. Everything she taught me played to my weaknesses and not my strengths. It wasn’t her fault. You can only teach what you know, and she knew nothing else. I look at you, my two children, and have decided what will be your armor and what will be your claws. Neither of you are, or ever will be, beautiful. Not in a way that will matter. And it is an imperfect set of tools with little room for error. If I had a choice, I would have made a different one. Harrison. You are precious. Funny. The stories you read are relentlessly optimistic, promising happy endings, defeated monsters, and cheaply bought adoration. They speak to you. It would be counter to your nature to rehabilitate you to a world where your brothers are being hunted, where the monsters wear tin stars, where your naiveté is a rope they will string you from. A black man was murdered for the world to see, a blue demon smugly kneeled on his windpipe until he was beyond stillness, and today, four days later he was arrested. Jesus rose from the dead in three. And yet, we the hungry, so starved for justice, swallowed THIS as a wonder. So your claws, my featherless son, will be forged from miracles. No reason to reinvent the wheel when there are miles and miles of track already laid. You are sincere. You are just. And you are susceptible. They will believe you. Thousands of years of well tested lies will serve you just as it has served all of the prophets that have come before you. A procession of sincere and just fairytale fed innocents, or better, ruthless opportunists. You may never mature into the latter, but you can become the best version of the former. And you will live. Randi. You see everything. Every detail. Every gap. You reason your way to the end of every maze unaware that there were traps and tricks laid, not because you could not see them, but because they were prepared by such clumsy hands you assume it was part of the game to sidestep them. It sets you apart and invites loneliness. So. Your armor will grow from your spine, like the tortoise. Your father left you to fight his noble crusades. I have left you to prove that you do not need me. You do not need anyone. I am playing to your strengths. Breonna Taylor’s murderers walk free! No one has been arrested. No one has been accused. No one has been fired. No one has done anything wrong. As a black woman, you will always matter less. As a black woman, you must prepare for solitude and abandonment. Relying on yourself is your greatest gift so I have accelerated it so that you may become not only proficient in its use but prodigious. Your mind is a blade and it must stay keen my daughter. The fool in the White House said just yesterday that when the looting starts the shooting starts. It’s hunting season and everyone gets a license, an orange vest, and the blessings of his evangelical purists. No one will question. The bodies can be hidden among the diseased dead. But YOU will live. You will live. Mr. Ko could see it. He was right, about so many things. About your father leaving. About the protests. More. None of this was his fault. I do not know what his plans for you are. He wouldn’t tell me. He said he couldn’t and still have them come true. But he has plans. And I believe them. He told me what the choices were, but they were my choices. Mine. I am no pawn. I am a queen. And a queen makes sacrifices.
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