The Actor and the Minister
Posted on Jul 20, 2014
By Chris Hedges
BOSTON—On June 30 I was at the First Church in Jamaica Plain, Unitarian Universalist, which had turned its hall over to Michael Milligan, traveling the country performing his one-man play about a husband and wife trapped in our dysfunctional health care system. I arrived early at the stone church, whose present structure was erected in 1853, to help set up the chairs and clear the stage. The minister, the Rev. Terry Burke, who was a classmate of mine at Harvard Divinity School, officially retired that day after 31 years as a minister at the church. Burke, a non-smoker, has been diagnosed with lung cancer, and his doctors have told him he has six to 12 months to live. He applied for Social Security disability and was denied. He consulted a lawyer. He well might spend his last months struggling to get the disability system to pay for the chemotherapy that sustains his life.
Michael Milligan confronted the callousness of our health care system when he cared for a friend with a serious illness. His play “Mercy Killers,” which he has performed nearly 200 times, chronicles the struggle with insurance companies, drug companies and hospitals that profit from medical distress and then discard terminally ill people when they no longer can pay. The hourlong drama, set in the wake of the 2007-2008 financial crisis, occurs in a police station where Joe, an auto mechanic originally from West Virginia, speaks to an unseen investigator. [To see samples from the play, click here.]
“Mercy Killers” opens with Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land” playing. The song soon morphs into the sound of sirens. Joe explains how he attempted to care for his terminally ill wife, Jane, amid crushing psychological and financial pressures that put him half a million dollars in debt. His neighbors, he tells the police interrogator, held a bake sale to help out and raised $163.
Square, Site wide
Joe tells the investigator:
Desperate to get money, he starts scamming customers at his auto shop, upending his pride in being an honest, hardworking American.
“But you get desperate, you gotta bend your own rules,” Joe says. “Pretty soon, it’s like ‘Oh, your engine’s broke? Oh, by the way, we really oughta replace those brake pads, and the filter and the fan belt, and the blah, blah, blah’ and you’re just running it up, playing on their fear. ‘Wouldn’t want your daughter to be the one brakes go out on, now would ya?’ Yeah, that always gets you an extra hundred bucks—if you want it. But no, it’s amazing how easy it is to lie—when someone you love is on the line.”
“There’s all this stuff out there and none of it’s either your fault,” he says a little later, “but you can’t help it, you start makin’ it ’bout the other person. Yeah, it’s her fault I’m fuckin’ greased up seven days a week pullin’ 12 hours a day instead of going to the lake with my buddies. It’s her fault we’re not having sex, we ain’t never gonna have any kids. So, yeah man, you feel bad for thinking any of that. And then it’s just back and forth between them, the guilt and the resentment, and you can’t talk about it, not with her. That’s all she needs to hear—you gonna make her feel bad for being sick?”
Milligan, who appeared on Broadway in “August: Osage County,” “La Bête” and “Jerusalem” and who has played many of the country’s major regional theaters, as well as performing in London with the Royal Shakespeare Company, does not need to spend nights on couches after performing in union halls, community centers and church basements, but the commercialization rampant in health care has also occurred in the arts, as in almost every other area of American life. To say something meaningful, to present theater that holds up our experiences to scrutiny and examination, often requires stepping outside the mainstream, especially given the reliance on corporations to fund the arts.
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