SECRETS OF A BLACK BOY by Darren Anthony, directed by Kimahli Powell, with Anthony, Samson Brown, Shomari Downer, Eli Goree, Al St. Louis and DJ O. Presented by Trey Anthony Productions at the Music Hall (147 Danforth). Previews tonight (Thursday, September 24), opens Friday (September 25) and runs to October 3, Tuesday-Saturday 8 pm, matinees Tuesday and Wednesday 1:30 pm, Saturday 2 pm. $20-$68.50. 416-778-8163, themusichall.ca, secretsofablackboy.com.
Trey Anthony helped reveal Secrets of Black Women to the world in her groundbreaking ‘Da Kink In My Hair. The grassroots phenomenon started off as a reading in the NOW Lounge before three bigger-than-the-last-one productions and a still-running Global TV series.
[rssbreak]
Now her younger brother Darren’s giving black men a voice, too.
“I think I saw ‘Da Kink about 110 times,” says Darren, an actor and child/youth worker who never thought he’d write a play like his big sister.
“The stories were so captivating – real and genuine. I’d been through that or knew a girl who’d been through that. It got to the point where I knew all the characters’ lines. I could tell if someone forgot a cue. I wanted Trey to write a play about men, but she was too busy. She told me to try instead.”
We’re sitting in a room in Trey Anthony Productions’ busy, light-filled office, which takes up a whole floor on a prime slice of Queen West.
Rehearsals for Darren’s Secrets Of A Black Boy are going on a few rooms away, the testosterone-charged sounds of five black men echoing in the halls. A cellphone rings constantly. A child’s being passed around between women, voices cooing. And directly outside the door, someone’s chipping away at a block of ice for a party tonight marking the finals of a talent show that Trey’s been producing all summer.
“I thought it’d be a challenge and that he wouldn’t do it,” she giggles. “But he’d brought his friends to Kink at the Princess
of Wales, and most of them had never gone to theatre. All of them thought theatre wasn’t accessible and wasn’t speaking for them. So when Darren said, We need to get another generation, one excited by hip-hop and music, excited about theatre like this,’ I listened.”
At first Trey was skeptical. She’d only been involved with female-driven stories. She was queer. What did she know about men’s stories?
“I also didn’t know whether women would like it. It’s very raw, truthful. I’m used to how women express themselves. I said to Darren, Is that really how you guys talk?'”
Darren smiles and mentions rehearsals.
“It’s like a brotherhood,” he says. “We push each other around. We fight for no reason and shout each other’s names. They’re my brothers, I love them to death, but it’s like sibling rivalry. You want to one-up. Oh, you killed that monologue? Wait till you hear mine!'”
It’s not all bravado. Trey got Darren to dig deep into himself to find the kind of truths audiences could connect to. The play’s set in the recreation centre of a Regent Park public housing building about to be torn down (sound familiar?), displacing whole families and identities. It’s the same kind of rec centre Darren frequented when the two were growing up in a public housing project in Rexdale.
“Trey told me you can’t go in there and fake the funk,” he says. “If you’re going to write something, you need to write without fear.”
For the play, Darren drew on his work experiences in delinquent centres, community living projects and Good Shepherd, where he helped schizophrenic and bipolar patients. But he also drew on his own stories and his friends’ – without telling them.
The work deals with hot-button issues like gun violence, sexual abuse and the absent father in the black family.
“This is the first time I’ve actually been passionate about something,” he says. “I played high school ball, soccer. I was known as an athlete growing up, not a student. I failed a grade. I was in special ed through high school.”
Trey interrupts, the clarifying older sister. In the single-parent home where their mother worked two or three jobs, she was a second mother to Darren. It’s easy to see that dynamic now.
“He’s always struggled,” she says. “In early childhood he had dyslexia. For him to accomplish this was quite a feat. Everyone’s always judged him by his looks and athleticism. I think this has taken him to another level of self-confidence. But how often does this happen to black boys in the school system? People write them off.”
In a way, the social message has influenced the show and its marketing. Trey’s been adamant about hitting inner city schools to make sure black male youth get to the show.
“I just went to Central Tech and gave 100 tickets to the principal, asking to please bring young black men,” she says. “They have to see this. They don’t see themselves represented properly. Seeing someone like Darren struggle through the system and achieve something like this opens up a whole world of possibilities for them.”
For his part, Darren wanted to keep the show current. He knew he wanted a hip-hop vibe and a DJ from the start.
“Hip-hop was always a huge influence on my life, and different artists – Kanye, Common, Jay-Z – always spoke to me. I’m in the club scene. I always felt like my generation is really connected to music. I want people to feel good and bop in their seats.”
He’s also behind the show’s grassroots marketing campaign, which includes clever Facebook and Twitter teasers as well as homemade videos that resemble trailers for a Hollywood movie (see secretsofablackboy.com and @black_secrets).
He’s come a long way, but still remembers sitting in the theatre cheering on his big sis for ‘Da Kink.
“I’d never seen so many black faces onstage,” he says. “And when you looked out at the audience, it really was this rainbow. The show held everyone’s attention. That’s when I thought, I want that. I think I can do that. I think I have relevant stories to share.'”
Trey on the differences working in TV and theatre:
Trey on authenticity on the TV series, Da Kink In My Hair:
Darren on the recreation centre in the play:
glenns@nowtoronto.com