Dee Dee Batteast is a six-feet-tall, African-American, heterosexual female actor—traits making her the perfect candidate for stereotyping by clueless directors still mired down in outdated social tropes (but quick on the dialect humor). Her thin, white, gay male actor chum fares no better. The ubiquitous Jemimas-in-the-kitchen, Mamas-on-the-couch, and Sissy-boys-on-their-deathbed may have retired after their day in the sun, but the stock types replacing them continue to be as annoying as they are persistent. By way of proof, she cites the abundance of narratives featuring characters (known in the trade as the “magic negro” and “magic queer”) who, while not technically servants, exist solely to answer the needs of the introspective, backstory-endowed, fully-realized protagonist. These offstage-impaired facilitators are never too busy to comfort their morose besties, always impart wise advice even on matters beyond their own experience, and do not hesitate to sacrifice—even die—to protect their beloved (usually white) heroes. "Observation is NOT accusation" Batteast assures audiences fearing excoriation for their ignorance. Having said that, however, our guide presents us with a gallery of examples from “Gone With the Wind” to “Sex and the City,” before taking up her active-duty responsibilities for this solo show—at one point, re-enacting an audition for a role that morphs from a white-collar ad-agency copywriter to a pink-collar potty-mouth hairdresser in a mere three sentences, or, at another, donning Bojangles garb to sing a chirpy-cheerful vaudeville ditty. You can argue that this is just show business, but Batteast asks what happens to an actor forced to don the same persona repeatedly over decades—especially when that disguise offers no challenge, no humanity and no reward? How many talented Black/Gay artists abandon hope of a career after thirty years of playing slaves and convicts, prostitutes and druggies? "This is not just about race," she reminds us—other demographical groups have their own soul-stifling counterparts —“but we only have an hour.”
