BlackC.A.S.T.’s blending of two single-gender plays allows male and female roles to complement each other while keeping them in separate worlds.

“I found God in myself and I loved her.”

“I felt revealed unto myself.”

These lines were repeated by the women and men, respectively, at the end of the BlackC.A.S.T. production of “when the rainbow is enuf/...& when the streets were too much.” The play is the product of extensive work on the part of director Jon E. Gentry ’07, who adapted and compressed the all-female play “for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf” by Ntozake Shange and its male counterpart “for black boys who have considered homicide when the streets were too much” by Kieth Antar Mason. This staging, produced by Miles A. Johnson ’08, Shawna J. Strayhorn ’07, and Kimberly D. Williams ’07, ran at the Loeb Ex from April 6–8.

These final lines had the feeling of a revelation—something arrived at through the characters’ struggle and growth. This was not necessarily the case: instead of presenting an overall arc, “rainbow/streets” was impressionistic, combining short scenes, monologues, song, and dance to present an image of being young and black in America.

The last scene’s lack of context highlighted the main downside of this approach: a lack of growth and a certain static quality to the characters and situations. This drawback, however, was more than offset by the play’s ability to present a wide variety of experiences and to shift rapidly between humor and pain without seeming forced, a far more difficult task to accomplish within a more traditional narrative. When less continuity of character and plot is necessary, the subject matter can shift from dancing to death without inducing whiplash.

In combining two plays written in a similar style but years apart, Gentry has created a hybrid that meshes surprisingly well. The male and female characters don’t interact directly, but their roles enhance each other, especially in segments that are parallel between the two—for example, a woman’s monologue on rape is mirrored by a scene among the men about being wrongly accused of rape.

This adaptation is so seamless that it became difficult to conceive of the two plays as separate entities.

The actors were given the difficult task of taking on all this humor, grief, and occasional didacticism, largely in monologue form without reliance on interaction between characters. By and large, they rose wonderfully to the occasion.

Among the men, Bryan C. Barnhill II ’08’s Brother #3 was mesmerizing in his rant on the assumption that young black men are dangerous, and equally so in the later scene in which he experiences its consequence. The women were consistently excellent, but the standout was Chiazotam (Cheech) N. Ekekezie ’08 as Lady in Red, who delivered a story of domestic abuse with a spellbinding intensity and anger.

The character names (all the men are “Brother #” something, and all the women are “Lady in” a color) presuppose identities, allowing the actors to shift in and out of their stories. The costuming represents this, with each woman wearing a tank top with her color, and each man a t-shirt with his number.

At its best, the play is by turns joyful, poignant, and angry as it deals with the two massive topics of love and the experience of being black in modern—or in some vignettes, 1960s and ’70s—cities. At its weakest, it is preachy, as the characters step outside themselves to deliver the playwright’s views. The monologue on acquaintance rape, for example, was reminiscent at times of a “Sex Signals” talk: long on message, short on drama.

“rainbow/streets” is a play that thrives on its inconsistencies. By varying widely in tone and subject, it achieves a broader perspective than any one narrative could achieve. Admittedly, the shortness of the scenes doesn’t always earn the emotional investment of the audience or give a deepened sense of character. But even in the less compelling scenes, the play provides a varied and fascinating cross-section of experiences.

—Staff writer Elisabeth J. Bloomberg can be reached at bloomber@fas.harvard.edu.