It's Later
This is a mother-daughter play. Author does not write father-daughter plays because Daddy’s presence is suffocating. Daddy is impenetrable, Daddy cannot be hurt. Author has written many, many mother-daughter plays (one of them ended up as a script that was performed by actors; one of them ended up as a fake play—a prose-y, poetic thing they called flash autofiction; one of them a poem about art and killing the mother (in art); another one—a pantoum addressed to Mother’s lesbian lover from her childhood; many, many before that were gross and trauma porn-y and respectable). Author will write mother-daughter plays until they come up with a more gut-wrenching subject matter (((((not yours, their guts)))).
Lights up on MOTHER and DAUGHTER. Maybe they are two bodies weaving in and out of each other. Maybe they don’t touch. Maybe there is a large cast of them, a whole chorus of mothers and daughters. Maybe there is one actor reading both parts (because one of the two has cannibalized the other). Maybe they’re ghosts. They only live on the page.
ALL
MOTHER
There is a photo of our family: your father and I, you a little bundle of white tulle and a bald head. It was your first birthday. You wouldn’t remember. We threw the party more for ourselves—a piece of evidence to show our love. We took a lot of photos. People do the same when they fake-marry for green cards. Here, officer, we’ve loved her since the beginning.
DAUGHTER
ALL
MOTHER (at a young age)
Actually, it’s the second life. The first one snuck out prematurely and died.
After the first one grew and escaped me, I felt even emptier than before. I ate the placenta. Now, I think, maybe I should keep you inside me
for
ever.
MOTHER becomes bedridden. She is possessed by the life inside her. Her body is not her own. And yet, she is happy.
DAUGHTER
Sometimes, cannibalism is okay.
Was that a joke? A meme? [Looks around] No one laugh––
MOTHER
MOTHER rocks her adult daughter in her arms. Adult DAUGHTER swings helplessly from side to side.
MOTHER
I know you, better than you know yourself. Little , my magnum opus, my most prized possession, con cái là tài sản vô giá của cha mẹ. You’ll understand me later when you have children of your own. It’s later. Thoáng đây thôi mà con đã thành cô thiếu nữ rồi. You tell me you don’t want children of your own. You little , I was counting on you to love me. I kept telling myself, she’ll know, she’ll know, in a tongue I can’t explain, in blood utterances, she’ll understand the precise way I have loved her. Daughter, choosing to not have children is choosing to misunderstand me
for
ev––
DAUGHTER
I want to rage-fuck a hole, want to ejaculate. I imagine it’d feel pretty spiritual. A cleansing of sort, like a shaken soda can making a mess. I want my liquids to run everywhere, colonize everything.
MOTHER
In ice-cold logic that takes my breath away. My heart knocks like a fist on a door.
You mean for this to be a punishment. You mean to make me regret my life. My second life, you should NEVEr have left my womb
DAUGHTER
...
...
Art critics always want to kill the author. The artist’s intent is always irrelevant––
MOTHER (shaking her head)
Daughter, I’m dying
DAUGHTER
YOU"VEW BEEN
DYING SINXIE THE
DAY I WAS BORNNn
You’re always dying when I want to live.
...
MOTHER
...
...
Every day is a new day :)
Ta tu mấy kiếp mới được làm mẹ con nhau. Please don’t render me obsolete. I would like you to respond to my letters. The pigeons are waiting. I’m excited to teach you many things. I still see it sometimes—your bald head, your baby smell, coarse pitch-black hair sprouting like grass. I still run my fingers through it
DAUGHTER
(I can't imagine myself growing old)
I’ve scrapped everything she said. Now I have nothing.
DAUGHTER walks thirty minutes to Baskin Robbins to buy an ice cream cake. She pre-makes a batch of fifty waffles to freeze. She starts growing green onions in a tiny glass jar that used to contain chili oil. She buys a floor lamp that looks like a barren, black tree. Her forehead is still bruised. Later, maybe she will regret it. It’s later.
End of play.
![]() Gin To (she/they) is a writer, theatre and visual artist based in San Diego. They are currently a first year MFA in Writing student at UCSD. You can check out their visual art or say hi on Instagram @gintonic2912!
|
THE AUTHOR ON MUSCLE MEMORY
It's Later meditates on Motherhood as the original site of love, intimacy, trauma, and selfhood. When I hear "muscle memory," I think of knowledge that bypasses conscious awareness and is internalized in the body. Detaching from Motherhood feels like unlearning something you know your body will never forget. & ON WHAT IT MEANS TO BE KALEIDOSCOPED To put yourself through play, to diverge and transform and come back to the starting point ad infinitum. |