It began with fun ‘n games and ended in blood and murder. That is the essence of The Bitter Game, Keith A. Wallace’s performance piece which had an all-too-brief run at The Wallis, but made its mark nonetheless. Staged by Malika Oyetimein outdoors in The Wallis’ promenade, the play commenced in a folksy, cheerful way, with kids shooting hoops, girls jumping rope, hip-hop blaring over the p.a. Wallace, a youthful, charismatic black actor, was there working the crowd, handing out popcorn and soda, cracking wise with members of the audience. Then, at the sound of a buzzer, the play got under way, unfolding as if it were a basketball game (with four quarters and overtime). Wallace started talking about his old neighborhood in North Philadelphia, where holidays were celebrated with block parties something like the one that just took place. Second quarter dramatized Wallace’s relationship with his mother, who sat him down at the age of eight and tried to teach him some life lessons. “In the ‘hood, every day is like a day at war,” she told him. “As a young Black boy you need to learn how to stay alive in this jungle.” In the third quarter, Wallace, at eighteen, tried to remember everything she taught him when he is tailgated by a police car. Although he’s driving a rental car and has all his papers in order, he still experiences a moment of panic. But he fights to stay calm, be polite, obey all orders, “show his hands.” That he is also well-dressed and on his way to his mother’s fiftieth birthday, doesn’t help him with these racist Philly cops (who grew suspicious when he zigzagged around some potholes). They insist that he stay in the car while backup is called. Fifteen minutes go by, fifteen minutes of silence from the cops. At that point in the performance I attended, a Black guy in the audience yelled out spontaneously, “They kept me waiting for half an hour!” Then, when more cops arrived, Wallace was searched and pushed around by them, in such a hateful, rough way that he couldn’t help but protest verbally. Next thing you know, shots rang out and he fell dead. This prompted the same onlooker to cry out, “The police are KKK with badges!” In quarter four, Wallace took on the persona of a Black father whose teenaged son has just been murdered by the police (think Michael Brown in Ferguson, Mo). “Don’t send me your prayers and condolences,” he howls. “Take action. See that cops who kill innocent kids are put on trial and sent to jail!” In overtime, Wallace put the coda on his powerful and relevant performance by making a fervent plea for justice and racial equality. He sent everyone into the night feeling challenged and perhaps even changed.
