Brandy Victoria is a playwright whose work has been seen at the Southern Repertory Theatre of Louisiana, Little Theatre of Alexandria, Obsidian Theatre Festival, Fade to Black Reading Series, Barter Theatre, and Abingdon Theatre Company. In 2023, Brandy was named a Hurston/Wright Foundation Fellow and was a featured playwright in the literary publication, Obsidian Literature and Arts in the African Diaspora. Brandy is a graduate of Temple University earning degrees in Film and African-American Studies. Hobbies include traveling, reading, hiking, visiting museums, and trying new restaurants. Follow Brandy on Instagram.
Aroace
an excerpt
CAST OF CHARACTERS
JONQUIL. 40, woman, African-American, Maxine’s daughter. Bohemian in nature. Beautiful. Wry. Sarcastic. Snarky. A defense mechanism. She is a non-conformist, anti-groupthink, Afrocentric. The type to own a holistic shop or marijuana dispensary. Spiritual, but not religious. All about revolution and hookah and poetry and good vibes.
MAXINE. 58, woman, African-American, Jonquil’s mother. Also beautiful, looks like she could be Jonquil’s sister. Theatrical. She is a newly devout, newly saved Christian. It is important to resist the temptation to portray Maxine as a matronly “church lady,” as she was a young mother who is still shedding her storied past. She was “that gurl” back in the day and it shows. Glimpses of the old, “unsaved” Maxine occasionally make an appearance.
Note: As mother and daughter there is a highly familiar push and pull between the two. Almost playful. They almost know each other too well, test each other’s boundaries, push each other’s buttons. They invade each other’s personal space often. A constant dance. A taut choreography from start to finish. They deeply annoy each other more often than they incite to real anger, but the latter does happen. This is the next chapter of an issue they’ve been avoiding for some time.
*Prop Bibles only. Don’t want to attract any bad vibes.
SETTING
Washington, D.C.
Jonquil’s apartment. Clean. Neat. Modern. Small. All rooms overlap/are in view. The living room blends into the kitchen which blends into the dining room, etc. Somewhere a full length mirror. Evidence of afrocentrism. Black art.
JONQUIL is dressed for vacation, shorts and a t-shirt, or perhaps a maxi dress. She is attempting (mostly in vain) to pack and close her suitcase. She smokes a joint. She never quite gets the suitcase closed, sits on it. A knock at the door.
JONQUIL
Uh uh not today.
Another knock.
JONQUIL
(yells at door)
I’m not home.
A turn of the door knob.
JONQUIL
Ah hell naw.
Jonquil snuffs out the joint, searches the room for a weapon. Settles upon a frying pan. The sound of slow steps inching closer to the door. Jonquil raises her arm, frying pan in hand. The door opens.
MAXINE
Minnie? Minnie? Grandma’s here baby. Where are you?
MAXINE enters carrying a box - shiny, a huge bow, a gift. Jonquil lunges toward Maxine, frying pan hand raised high. Screams.
MAXINE
(eyes the pan, surveys the room)
You making omelets or something?
JONQUIL
Mother? That key is for emergencies only.
MAXINE
What are you doing here? Where’s Minnie?
Maxine immediately dominates the space, inspecting this, adjusting that, checking for dust. Jonquil trails behind undoing Maxine’s spontaneous feng shui.
JONQUIL
I live here and she’s at the kennel.
MAXINE
You sent my baby to a kennel? My only grandbaby to puppy prison?
JONQUIL
I’m going on vacation, mother. A girl’s trip.
MAXINE
Another girl’s trip. Still no honeymoon. Hmph.
JONQUIL
Did you need something?
MAXINE
Just stopped by to drop off your birthday gift. I didn’t forget. The big 4-0. I know you thought I forgot, but I remembered. Always will remember no matter how very old you–
JONQUIL
You’re welcome to stay, but–
MAXINE
(hands Jonquil the box)
Open it.
JONQUIL
(sets box on table)
I’ll open it when I get back. Don’t want to miss my flight.
MAXINE
Open. It.
JONQUIL
Mother, my flight—
MAXINE
—is six hours from now. Flight 2257. DC to Montego Bay, Jamaica.
JONQUIL
How did you–?
MAXINE
Got a direct line to God, himself. I ask. He answers.
Jonquil notices her itinerary and passport on the table. Picks them up. Waves them at Maxine.
JONQUIL
My itinerary. Very funny.
Maxine hands Jonquil the gift for the second time.
MAXINE
Open it, Jonquil. Now.
Jonquil reluctantly unwraps the box. Retrieves first a Bible and then a white veil.
JONQUIL
A bible I expected, but a wedding veil, mother?
Maxine places the veil on Jonquil’s head. Conceals her face with it.
MAXINE
It’s called manifestation. Speaking it into existence. How I landed the man I got now. Third time’s a charm. Wear it around the house while you’re doing the dishes or something, until God picks up the phone and sends you a good man. A protector, someone handsome, God-fearing, a husband.
JONQUIL
Manifestation, huh? How millennial of you. That line of thinking in line with the Bible?
MAXINE
How ‘boutchu read the one I gave you and you tell me.
(pause, admires)
Yeah, marriage looks good on you.
Jonquil throws the veil backwards, revealing her face.
JONQUIL
No, mother.
MAXINE
No?
JONQUIL
No.
MAXINE
What do you mean no?
JONQUIL
You know what I mean “no.” No to a boyfriend, no to a husband. No to a man. No to any man.
MAXINE
I hate it when you talk like that. Like you choosing the hard way when easy is right there staring you in the face.
JONQUIL
I am not “choosing” anything.
MAXINE
It’s unnatural and it’s ungodly.
JONQUIL
Understood. I’m a heathen, a sinner, a failure for, I dunno, rejecting the patriarchy.
MAXINE
Well it’s good to be self-aware.
JONQUIL
I’m out.
Jonquil removes the veil, reaches for her suitcase. Maxine retrieves Jonquil’s new Bible. Flips effortlessly, confidently to her desired passage. Jonquil freezes in her tracks when Maxine speaks.
MAXINE
(reads)
Leviticus 18:22 You shall not lie with a male as with a woman. It is an abomination.
JONQUIL
Wait a minute.
MAXINE
(reads)
Romans 1:26-28. For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged unnatural relations with women–
JONQUIL
You think I’m a lesbian.
MAXINE
(continues)
–and were consumed with passion… You’re not?
JONQUIL
No.
MAXINE
(elated)
So you’re straight?
JONQUIL
Not exactly.
MAXINE
(braces herself)
You something new?
JONQUIL
It’s complicated.
MAXINE
God made it pretty simple actually. You are a woman, right?
JONQUIL
(a joke)
For now.
MAXINE
(inspects Jonquil’s face closely)
You aren’t transsexual. I know what that one means. Got it. You’re bisexual. Playing for both teams. Greedy little buzzard.
JONQUIL
I’m asexual, actually. Technically aromantic too, but one orientation at a time.
MAXINE
Asexual. You know the “A” used to stump me until just now. LGBTQIAaaaa.
JONQUIL
I guess, mother.
MAXINE
Asexual. What exactly does that mean? Aaaa-sexual. All of a sudden nobody does it for you? Not Idris. Not Brad. Not Denzel. Not the UPS delivery man with the muscles and the little brown shorts. Coochie coo don’t work? You want to be alone, Jonquil? For the rest of your life? Alone?
JONQUIL
Maybe. Not necessarily. Wouldn’t be the worst thing. You see, it's a spectrum. Sexuality is a spectrum, you know?—
MAXINE
Having a regular, normal, happy family too much like right?
JONQUIL
-there’s graysexual and demisexual and—
MAXINE
Bullsexual. Sooner or later every woman gets “the urge.”
JONQUIL
Not me.
MAXINE
As many boys I caught you humping back in the day?
JONQUIL
I was sixteen.
MAXINE
You were fast.
JONQUIL
I was a child.
Maxine puts on the veil, face exposed and admires herself in the mirror. Primps.
MAXINE
You were a straight woman is what I’m getting at. A whore perhaps. But above all, a straight, heterosexual woman.
JONQUIL
I was only following your lead.
MAXINE
Turned my life over to God since then.
JONQUIL
We’ll see.
MAXINE
You already seen. You seein’ right now.
(circles Jonquil, a hint)
Got right with my maker. No more alcohol, no drugs, No pork - now that’s a hard one to give up - no blaspheming, no lewd and lascivious conduct. So far so good.
JONQUIL
Devil’s got his favorites.
MAXINE
Not me. Not the way I been prayin’. First thing in the morning. Last thing at night. Fiercely, feverishly. I pray for you. Even when you don’t deserve it.
JONQUIL
(sarcastic)
Must pray all the time, then. I mean all damn day. And all damn night. Jesus must be tired of hearing from you about me. Weary from all that prayer. God must have aaalll the free time all that praying you doing for me.
MAXINE
Alright, keep playing with the Lord. See what happens.
(pause)
So who are you this month? A Buddhist? Hindu? Muslim? Anything, but like your mama?
JONQUIL
(scoffs)
Like you.
MAXINE
All women dream of having “the life,” Jonquil—
JONQUIL
I am not all women.
MAXINE
—a husband. A house. Children who adore her. A family of her own. Grandbabies one day. If you valued anyone besides yourself, you’d understand that. Asexual.
(sucks teeth, rolls eyes).
Bullsexual.
JONQUIL
I’m sorry if my lifestyle isn’t— I can’t help it that I— Mother, I am not your second chance to get it right.
MAXINE
Of course you’re my second chance. You owe me my second chance to get it right you forty year old, petulant, little snot. You’re past due, in fact. I don’t know who told you different, but children owe their parents everything.
JONQUIL
Because we exist?
MAXINE
Yes, goddamnit because you exist. You owe me for existing.
JONQUIL
Dreams be damned?
MAXINE
Not if you got ones worth chasing. But Jonquil your dreams are… they’re… small. Secular. Childish. Uninspired. Beige. Can tell by the way you walk you got beige dreams.
(primps in the mirror)
Just like me when I was your age. When I didn’t know who I was either. When I drank too much,
(smells Jonquil’s hair, looks into her eyes)
walked around high in front of my mama. When I was loose. When I was lost. When I was damaged. Just. Like. You.
JONQUIL
I am anything but lost. I am soooo found. Damaged? Hell yeah. Where would we be without our painful childhoods? But you know what puts me back together, what keeps me whole? Knowing who I am. What I am. There’s an actual word for it. Slithers off the tongue. Asexual. Asexual. Aaaaassssexual. Asexual. A-fucking sexual. And do you know what that means? For me? It means I’ll pass on all of it. Boyfriend dick. Side-piece dick. Husband dick. Dick sucks. Which I’ll never do again by the way. Same goes for fucking. Never liked it. Hate it in fact. Faked it every single solitary time. Just fucking over and over like a robot for twenty years until I finally went numb on the inside searching for that feeling, that feeling everyone talks about. That explosion. That flutter. Butterflies. Nothing. Some say it’s because I’m different… in the head. Therapists say so. Some say that it’s all because I’ve never been in love. Never been loved in that way at least. Never craved it though. Never hoped for it. Never fantasized. That’s the funny part. The important part. Only dreamt of small, quiet intimacies instead. A hand at the small of my back. A hug on a really bad day. A foot massage. Breakfast in bed. A surprise phone call. Flowers. A funny conversation. An inside joke. Sharing the last piece of chocolate cake. That’s enough for me. A different kind of love. Platonic. Safe. No husband necessary.
MAXINE
(reads)
Mark 10:6-9 “From the beginning of creation, God made male and female. And the two will become one flesh.” One. Get it? It’s not up to you.
Jonquil smacks the Bible out of Maxine’s hands and onto the floor. A deafening silence. Tension you can cut. Lines crossed.
###
Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats.
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