by Rosie Chadwick
Recently a burst of spontaneity while in Manchester saw us heading to a preview performance of Lynn Nottage’s prize-winning play, Sweat at the Royal Exchange Theatre, itself an icon of reinvention and creativity.
Based in a steeltown in Pennsylvania in the mid 2000s, and with deep undetones of race discrimination and worker oppression, the play tells the story of three factory worker friends, Tracey, Cynthia and Jessie, whose decades-long relationship is fractured when one friend gets promoted to management and managers lock the workers out in a bid to cut the cost of labour.
Bad turns worse when Oscar, the Columbian-American barman at the women’s ‘local’ breaks the picket-line, attracted by the better money. In an ensuing bar-room altercation violence erupts with tragic results. Stepping in to protect Oscar, bar manager (Stan) suffers traumatic brain injury. Jason and Chris, sons (respectively) of Tracey and Cynthia and perpetrators of the assault each receive an 8 year prison sentence.
The words ‘restorative justice’ don’t feature in the play. Facilitation there is none. But watching the powerful closing scenes I was struck by several themes that are central to restorative justice, among them a deeply human need to be seen and heard, the destructiveness of shame with no way back, and the freeing potential of face-to-face encounter.
Newly released from prison, both Chris and Jason feel stuck. Chris describes waking every morning ‘with the same panic. All I see is a closed door, and when I finally get the courage to open it, it leads to yet another closed door.’ Jason keeps replaying what happened. ‘I ain’t thought about that day in the bar in a long time. Now I can’t get away from it. Every place I walk in this city reminds me of that day, it’s like the whole city was in that bar and got turned upside down in the same way I did.’ Jason also talks about how the blind fury he felt that day is still with him. ‘Someone looks at me wrong, I wanna bash them in the face, and I don’t know why.’ Probation officer Evan puts this feeling down to the crippling effect of shame. ‘Most folks think it’s the guilt or rage that destroys us in the end, but I know from experience that it’s shame that eats us away until we disappear.’ Both young men are also thrown when they bump into each other, hard to avoid in small town Pennsylvania.
A glimmer of progress only comes when Chris and Jason face their deepest fears, visiting the bar where the assault took place and coming face-to-face, first with Oscar then Stan. In an edgy but deeply touching closing scene, Oscar expresses his surprise when Chris calls him by his name, recognition he craves from a lifetime of feeling invisible: ‘Didn’t know you knew my name.’
Through a series of small but symbolic gestures – Oscar’s offer to turn on the game on TV, comments on the new, and better beer and how the bar’s been smartened up, picking up a dropped cloth, kneeling in front of the severely crippled Stan, appreciation of Oscar’s care for Stan and Oscar’s reply ‘that’s how it oughta be’ – small steps are made towards repair. There is still a chasm to be crossed but a start has been made, underlined by the closing stage directions: ‘There’s apology in their eyes, but Chris and Jason are unable to conjure words just yet. The four men, uneasy in their bodies, await the next moment in a fractured togetherness.’
If you are interested in further exploring restorative justice themes in theatre, please join us at these upcoming events:
Twelfth Night Charity Performance
27 June 2024, 7:30pm
All of Us Film Screening
27 July 2024, 7:00pm
All of Us follows a family fractured and torn apart by violence and incarceration. As one family member comes to the end of their prison sentence, each of them explores how to move on and heal.
“All of Us is a compelling story with plenty of humour and great dramatic writing.” – Theatreview