Mojada: A Mexican Medea

Luis Alfaro’s Mojada is a true testament to the universality of the classics, while also expertly illustrating his ability to transpose the ancient tales into a context readily accessible to a Chican@ audience. Ironically, at the performance on September 17, 2015, at the Getty Villa in Los Angeles, most of the audience were Caucasian couples who invariably fell under the term “Senior.” While that isn’t surprising for many theatre performances across the United States, it does raise an important question: who is Alfaro writing for? Everything about the script would suggest that it is written for a Chican@, or at least someone from “el barrio” or Boyle Heights, where the play takes place. Yet the production is staged in Malibu, across town from the place it brings to life, and at an unaffordable price for the people it depicts.

So if the playwright identifies as Chican@ and knows our culture, why has he removed his work from those it hits closest to? Alfaro made Mojada about his people, and he made sure the cast consisted of his people, but the staging fails to allow access to his people. Almost all of the characteristics of a Chican@ piece are present; it is political, it represents the hybrid of Nahuatl/Mexican culture and the American dream, and it celebrates the depth of our culture. But alas, when it was performed, it was not performed for our people, and that is a disservice. This disservice quickly becomes apparent when the actress playing the role of Tita (the Greek chorus) begins her first monologue by addressing the audience and yelling “COMO ESTAS?” She is full of old world Mejicana pride, duende, and disregard for the politics of contemporary respectability. The predominantly anglo audience gave a relaxed “bien/good” in response to her question. Tita quickly rebutted the less than stunning response with a demand for more by shrieking “I asked, COMO ESTAS?” The second time she was met with a slightly more boisterous “bien,” but it was still not how a Chican@ audience would have

Tita addresses the audience. Photo: Craig Schwartz, J. Paul Getty Trust

responded. She sought the soul of La Raza, her people. And it was not there. It was not there because her people were across town in Boyle Heights, where the character Tita lives. She then continued her monologue with a Nahuatl ritual that was generally lost upon the audience, and the show began. Tita proceeds to tell us that she is a curandera, a healer, and introduces us to Medea. Medea is a seamstress with the presence of La Virgen. She is saintly, beautiful, diligent in her service to others, and above all loving. Even knowing the story of Medea, the image that Alfaro, the director (Jessica Kubzansky), and the actress (Sabina Zuniga Varela) create makes such a tragic outcome seem impossible. Alfaro then introduces the character of Acan, Medea’s child, using him to illustrate the core identity issue of the Chican@: where do I belong in this society, what do I wear, who do I strive to be?

Alfaro makes all of his classic characters Chican@, and in doing so makes them contemporary, but also dynamic and human. Even knowing the cruelties Hason will commit, the audience feels compelled to empathize with him. From a Chican@ position there isn’t a single character you couldn’t weep for. They’re tragic. Not only are they tragic, though; when you’re Chican@, they’re also your relatives and loved ones. Alfaro’s female characters are especially interesting. While they still have aspects of “La Virgen, La Madre, y La Malinche,” none of them are stereotypes. Tita is hilarious, and the much needed comic relief of the piece. She is part of the mother archetype, as all the women are, but she ironically has no biological children. Just Medea. Tita brings the old world and the comedy of the chicana woman. She is the embodiment of mothers and tías sitting around a table, making tamales, and speaking irreverently of everyone and anyone they can. It’s...