I think there were three of them. Latino, had no idea what specific ethnicity.
“But our friends are in this,” as my boyfriend and I, late, white, purchase our tickets.
“I’m sorry,” as if we don’t exist, “it’s policy – we don’t sell tickets after the play starts.”
“Then why is the window still open?” Legit.
We make eye contact. I know it’s fucked up. I say nothing.
I get to see my favorite play – and a silly little thing like “a person who actually worked at this getting to have a support system” isn’t going to risk me losing my tickets.
After all, I might never get another chance to see it live.
If you ever do ‘West Side Story’, see it in the Theatre.
You see, the movie makes the white guys look better.
In reality, Riff never dies – he’s the one telling everyone to play it cool.
Consuela gets raped while grieving Bernardo and shoving down her racism to facilitate her gentle, naïve friend’s happiness – she knows better, and she gets sucked up into this fantasy, before cursing them whole lot, like Benvolio and the Nurse rolled into one.
I refuse to be complicit in a racist system. Hoorah. Namas-fucking-te.
Thank you for reading. Please – if you see bullshit, say it’s bullshit. It’s not worth whatever little trinket you think it is, in the long run. After it’s all said and done, all you have is your own soul. For Eternity.
…if you believe in that sort of thing.