ABSTRACT
Over ten years ago, when my first play was produced in New York City, I dragged my whole family down to a dank basement in the Lower East Side to see it. My mother, who never really understood what I did in the theater, said to me after the show was over: "Todo estuvo muy bonito, m'ija, pero, en todo eso que yo vi, ;_que fue exactamente lo que tU hiciste?" I explained to her that I had written the play, that I was the dramaturga. She just said, "Ahhh," and shook her head. 1
I fantasized about her, next morning, telling her coworkers at that factory in Brooklyn where she used to sew sleeves onto raincoats all day long, ";_Oye, Rosalia, tU sabes que mi hija, Ia mayor, es dramaturga?" And Rosalia answering, ";_Dramaturga? jAy pobrecita! Y eso, ;_tiene cura?"2
