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    A-Typical Rainbow (NHB Modern Plays)
    A-Typical Rainbow (NHB Modern Plays)
    A-Typical Rainbow (NHB Modern Plays)
    Ebook125 pages1 hour

    A-Typical Rainbow (NHB Modern Plays)

    By JJ Green

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    About this ebook

    An imaginative child's glorious fantasies – of dolphins and dragonflies, gingerbread houses and chocolate rivers – offer him an escape from hostile reality.
    When reality dictates he has to conform to the 'real world', he has to make a choice. Should he live authentically and risk stigma, or can he continue to hide?
    Based on real events from the perspective of the writer and the autistic community, JJ Green's A-Typical Rainbow is an uplifting play about the experience of growing up neurodivergent and queer in early 2000s Britain.
    It premiered at London's Turbine Theatre in June 2022, produced by Aria Entertainment, directed by Bronagh Lagan, and starring playwright JJ Green, who is a passionate advocate for autistic artists like himself.
    This edition includes the full text of the play along with testimonies about working in the theatre industry by the largely – and proudly – neurodivergent creative team.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNick Hern Books
    Release dateJul 8, 2022
    ISBN9781788506007
    A-Typical Rainbow (NHB Modern Plays)
    Author

    JJ Green

    JJ Green is an actor and writer. His plays include A-Typical Rainbow (Turbine Theatre, London, 2022).

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      Book preview

      A-Typical Rainbow (NHB Modern Plays) - JJ Green

      ACT ONE

      Scene One

      A stage resembling a small house in framework only. On the back wall are medical drawers and filing cabinets capable of being pulled out. The house has a small bed with a rainbow bedside lamp. A singular man (BOY) sits on a Victorian trunk centre stage. The house is dimly lit, and the bedside lamp is on. The stage will transform by use of puppetry and accessible projection as the BOY’s monologue progresses. MOTHER enters. She tidies the drawers at the back of the stage.

      MOTHER. Teeth brushed?

      BOY nods.

      School bag packed?

      BOY nods.

      Into bed then.

      BOY jumps into bed. MOTHER approaches to tuck him in.

      Story of choice?

      BOY looks to her. Beat.

      (Tenderly.) Fine. But quickly.

      BOY nods.

      And only one verse.

      BOY nods.

      She strokes his hair and sings the opening verse of ‘Over the Rainbow’. No instrumental. Imperfect vocally. BOY settles in bed. The lamp dims. MOTHER kisses his head and exits.

      The sound of a plane landing, seatbelt signs on. BOY sits upright in bed.

      BOY. Hi. I’m seven. Not literally. I am figuratively seven for the context of what we’re doing now. Which is here which is this which is talking. I’m literally seven in the same way that after doing your tax return you are not literally dying. You, your bank account, happiness and parents’ pride are figuratively dying. Not literally dying. You may be literally dying in a month however when a Tesco meal deal starts to feel a little bit like caviar.

      Me trying to explain the emotions I have is like taking a fourteen-day rambling holiday with your high-school geography teacher across the Himalayas equipped only with a pair of Crocs, a Lucozade Sport and a stick you think makes you look like Gandalf. I reach base camp when I realise I had the map upside down and I’m meant to be somewhere on the Yorkshire Dales. My brain to me is mundane. But to everyone else – it’s a little broken.

      I remember a child at school once bragged to me how on her last holiday she swam with dolphins. Her name was Emily and she was repellent. She was the kind of child who cartwheeled everywhere she went. She grew up into one of those people who when faced with a coffee cake stupidly staggers over to it before saying ‘Well, I shouldn’t but I will’, is drawn like a moth to a flame at the sight of a Gymshark logo and thinks Love Island is a modern-day Jane Austen novel.

      Emily made fun of me because I told her what it was like to swim with mermaids in return for her swanky tale about the dolphin zoo in Florida. She told me I was mental. I wasn’t mental. I have swum with mermaids. I didn’t know nobody else had. I still kind of don’t.

      Projection shift, BOY climbs the set and interacts with the world it becomes. Mermaid theme plays.

      A crystal-clear lavender lagoon under the shimmering light of a full moon and a million stars dotted across the dreamscape of my imagination. Sapphire tails flicked as I pulled myself out of the water, its reflection playing off my skin like the finest music so soft to sound and so vibrant to touch. I perched on the edge of a sea-moss-covered rock and picked at limpets chatting casually to my mythic company about the politics and orchestra of the ocean. A friend to sirens, salt crystalising in my hair like diamonds, watching them endlessly. I admired them dancing their aquatic waltz from crimson sunset to the birth of day behind the rainforest peaks of the nearby mountainside. I’ve ridden dragons behind my eyelids, bounced from Saturn to Venus on the great starry trampoline of the galaxy, fallen through time and ran with wolves in highland forest mists that exist no place but my imagination. But it’s real. It’s more than real, because it’s better than real. I can go there. Nobody else can. It’s mine. Feel the dirt under my feet, hear the conversational whispers of trees and smell the damp pine in the mist. I’ve fought in great battles and trapezed through the circus in the skies of my mind balancing on cloud tips and cuddling into the warmth of a thousand stars. I can change colours of objects by looking at them, hear the symphonies of household simplicities, taste the emotions in a room like sweet or bitter wine and feel life’s every heartbeat breaking through my ribcage in glorious technicolour. Just don’t ask me to make eye contact. (Beat.) I hope your dolphins were fun, Emily. Watch Blackfish. I kind of know how they feel. Also, I’m not mental. Syncing your thirty Pandora charms up with your menstrual cycle is mental.

      Scene Two

      Therapist’s Office/Airplane

      A woman, MOTHER, and a man, DOCTOR, are sat upon the trunks, now arranged like the furniture of a doctor’s office. BOY sits on the floor between them. The bed serves as a table.

      MOTHER. He’s incredibly advanced for a seven-year-old in so many ways, but in others he. He lacks.

      DOCTOR. Lacks.

      MOTHER. Considerably.

      DOCTOR (to BOY). So, tell me what these are you’ve drawn?

      BOY. Well, that’s the subconscious manifestation of all the hopes and dreams I hope to achieve in my life blended in colours that resemble eternal youth.

      DOCTOR. I see, and this one?

      BOY. That’s London city centre in the 1830s at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution.

      DOCTOR. And finally this one?

      BOY. That’s a zebra. Neigh. (He makes audible clip-clop noises. Spots audience laughter. Immediately stops.)

      DOCTOR. Well, he’s very good, does he have a name?

      BOY. No, he’s a drawing.

      DOCTOR (to MOTHER). Have you ever considered that he maybe has Asperger’s syndrome? I don’t know how much you’re aware of this disorder but judging from what we’ve seen over the last couple of weeks I would say there’s a strong chance that –

      BOY. Okay now is a really good time to talk about the word ‘maybe’… ‘Maybe’ doesn’t make sense. Something either is or it isn’t. It’s black or it’s white. You either know or you don’t. Let me show you just how ridiculous your word ‘maybe’ is.

      The cast are joined by the remaining ensemble, each with their own trunks positioned on the stage to create an airplane setting. Sound effects/lighting assist in creating the illusion of being mid-flight. MOTHER speaks in a comical peppy American accent.

      MOTHER/HOSTESS. Hi. Welcome on board this 1401 Jumbo Jet service to blatant insanity. We’ll maybe be cruising at an altitude of thirty-six-thousand feet. We may land in water at some point during our flight if a bird maybe chaotically wedges itself with all the force its tiny wings can manage into one of our jet engines so please pay close attention. Your life vest may be located in the underpart of your seat. The doors on the cabin side may open and you might be able to slide down

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