War at Home (1st ed. - 08.11.

03)
Copyright © 2003 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

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Cast of Characters
Students:
ARTIST
BULLY
CHEERLEADER
FIREBRAND
FRESHMAN
GADFLY
INTROVERT
JOCK
MUSICIAN
MUSLIM
PATRIOT
SLACKER DUDE
WORRIER
ENSEMBLE MEMBERS

Others:
ANNOUNCER
ARAB MAN
ARAB WOMAN
HOLLYWOOD EXECUTIVE
HOLLYWOOD SCREENWRITER
MOTHER
NEIGHBOR
TEACHER

4
A note on royalties
All royalties from the license of War at Home will be donated to
charity. Because the events that inspired this play were inter-
national in scope, monies will be donated to one or more of the
following international humanitarian organizations:
Amnesty International (www.amnesty.org)
Doctors Without Borders (www.doctorswithoutborders.org)
The Heifer Project (www.heifer.org)
MADRE (www.madre.org)

How this play was written

Shortly after September 11th, two writers attended a peace
ceremony on the soccer field of Rondout Valley High School, 100
miles north of Ground Zero. We were moved by the students’
passion and eloquence as they spoke at an open mike, and
decided to create a theatre piece from their words and ex-
periences.
We met with the Drama & Diversity Clubs and invited the
students to participate in a series of workshops. Over thirty
writers showed up. At each session, we asked several questions,
ranging from “How did you first hear the news?” to “How do
you feel when you see the American flag?” The students wrote
their responses on the spot and turned in their writings
anonymously, so that they could feel free to express controversial
opinions and private fears. We also gave each student a folder
and urged them to bring in anything they read in the paper or on
the Internet which spoke to them. We edited these together into a
kind of theatrical quilt, organizing the material into characters
with different voices and points of view. Then we cast these roles
and rehearsed the script. Many of the student writers also
performed in the cast, but the words they spoke (and viewpoints
expressed) were not necessarily their own.
This play can be performed simply, on a bare stage with scripts
in hand, or in a more polished production. Music plays an
essential role, and live music, no matter how simple the in-
strumentation, will help to establish a rhythm and tone for each
scene. Any number of students can participate in the ensemble,

5
and speaking roles may be combined or re-divided to suit your
needs. You can use teachers, community members or other adults
as the non-student characters, or cast students in these roles as
well. Most of the roles can be played by actors of any race or
gender; the more diverse, the better.
Special thanks to Juilliard violinist William Harvey for permis-
sion to use his letter, and to all the people who worked on the
play’s first production. It was a joy and a privilege to work with
these honest, impassioned and fearless young people. We hope
that their words may be useful to others.
Nicole Quinn & Nina Shengold
December 7, 2001

6
 WAR AT HOME
STUDENTS RESPOND TO SEPTEMBER 11th

a play by
Joe Augustine, Jason Backenroth, Katie Brooks, Anna Burstein,
Deana Dor, Al Favata, Phoenix Greco, Allison LaPlatney, Jesse
Leavitt, Melissa Leo, Robin Markle-Kellar, Genni Minnisali, Dyami
Nason-Regan, Justine Nye, Sam Packard, Amish Patel, Snehal Patel,
Halley Petersen-Jobsis, Abby Pilmenstein, Elias Primoff, Nicole
Quinn, Shayla Raleigh, Joseph Reeder, Callie Rockwell, Josh
Rubenstein, Sierra Rudy, Kate Sarrantonio, Ilyana Sawka, Jessie
Schain, Nina Shengold, Michelle Shirak, Alison Sickler, Mica
Stanmyer, Raquel Steres, Tullah Sutcliffe, Jamie Wilber, Emily
Wolford, Ilana Workman, Thomas Workman, Shelley Wyant, Sandy
Zerbe, and Mike Zimmerman

(A makeshift shrine on the empty stage: an assortment of candles,

flowers and flags on a central platform, in front of two huge canvas flats
that echo the shape of the Twin Towers, with a newsprint and photo
collage of the Lower Manhattan skyline along the base.)
(STUDENTS are scattered throughout the theatre [“at home”]. Flute
music plays as the audience enters.)
P.A. ANNOUNCER. Good morning, it’s Tuesday, September 11th,
2001. Homeroom.
(A school bell rings. STUDENTS respond as if it’s their alarm clock,
with sleepy groans, stretches etc. They begin to speak from wherever
they are, slowly making their way to the stage [“school”] as the house
lights dim.)
PATRIOT. Six a.m.
JOCK. Late.
ARTIST. Too early.
JOCK / FRESHMAN / WORRIER. Late!
FIREBRAND. (Groggy:) 6:15.

7
8 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

MOTHER. Wake up, second day of school.

FIREBRAND. (Still groggy:) 6:25.
MOTHER. Wake up, time to get up.
FIREBRAND. (Yes, still groggy:) 6:35.
MOTHER. You’re going to be late.
FIREBRAND. (Rousing herself with effort:) 6:45.
MOTHER. It’s about time. What do you want for lunch?
SLACKER DUDE. So tired. Don’t want to go to school.
GADFLY. Falling asleep in the shower.
CHEERLEADER. Blue jeans, a white tank top and a long-sleeved pink
shirt with embroidered flowers along the V-neckline. I blow-dry my
hair and put on my makeup.
ARTIST. Exhausted. Wear yesterday’s clothes.
CHEERLEADER. I look cute and can’t wait to see my friends.
GADFLY. I’m mad there’s a dress code, so I wear a t-shirt with grapes
on the bust and the words, “gently squeezed by loving hands.”
BULLY. Shredded wheat sucks.
CHEERLEADER. Blueberry yogurt.
MUSLIM. Whole wheat toast with strawberry jam.
GADFLY. Doritos or Cheese Nips?
MOTHER. You’ll catch a chill if you take a shower and then stand at
the bus stop.
FIREBRAND. How will I catch a chill? I have no hair!
TEACHER. I stayed up late, so I wake up late. Don’t have time to
bathe. Gulp coffee on the way to school. I don’t spend enough time
with the kids. Hear about them second-hand. Note to self: play with
kids.
NEIGHBOR. My neighbor’s son peels out of the driveway with rap
music blaring. Teenagers! (Yelling:) It’s seven a.m.!
 War at Home 9

BULLY. (Yelling right back:) Eat my dust!

INTROVERT. I ride my bike to school, thinking it’s cold and how
dumb it is riding my bike.
ARTIST. I ride the bus as usual, listening to the middle schoolers
scream as usual.
FRESHMAN. Getting sneered at because I’m a freshman.
ARTIST. Thinking insignificant little thoughts about my insignificant
little life.
PATRIOT. Are these jeans too tight?
WORRIER. Do I have my lunch money?
ARTIST. Who’s gonna be in my study hall?
WORRIER. Can I REALLY find my classes?
MOTHER. Hey-ya! Lift that leg, Billy Blank the tae-bo king flashing a
toothy grin from the TV screen. Do I have to?
NEIGHBOR. (Shooing a squirrel:) Get out of my garden! Shoo!
INTROVERT. A regular day. Everyone saying hey and people, as
usual, having their sarcastic comments to me.
ARTIST. This is going to be a really hard year. Some of my teachers
really suck. There’s no one in my lunch.
SLACKER DUDE. Just want to go to sleep.
ARTIST. Don’t want winter to come. It feels so empty.
(School bell rings. STUDENTS disperse into “hallway” positions.)
JOCK. My first gym class. Gonna kick ass.
FRESHMAN. English.
INTROVERT. Chemistry.
ARTIST. Health, not study hall. Yuck.
WORRIER. Ceramics?
FIREBRAND. I’m sitting in the auditorium, thinking, how lame.
10 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

TEACHER. Third period prep. I walk off into the woods for a smoke,
commune with nature, solitude from the swarm. On my way back into
my room I pass a study hall. The sound of the radio catches my
attention, and I think, that’s a pretty laidback study hall, teacher lets
’em listen to the radio.
WORRIER. Two teachers are talking. They sound scared.
PATRIOT. Spanish class. Hear something about New York City, some
kind of plane crash.
WORRIER. A plane crash? That’s not too bad.
FIREBRAND. My friend mutters something about…
INTROVERT. (Freaked, to herself:) …People flying 747s into buildings.
FIREBRAND. She’s on Mars.
ARTIST. Hey, is there a fire drill today?
GADFLY. Uh, I don’t know since we’re like getting bombed.
ARTIST. What are you talking about?
GADFLY. Uh yeah, dumbwit, didn’t you hear?
ARTIST. Shut up, what are you talking about? (To audience:) I’m
thinking, what a stupid joke, ’cause I knew it was a joke.
GADFLY. Yeah, two planes bombed New York.
ARTIST. Hey, what’s she talking about? She just said we got bombed
or something.
CHEERLEADER. No, it’s true.
ARTIST. It’s true?
WORRIER / PATRIOT / MUSLIM / FRESHMAN / BULLY. WHAT??
(Lines start to overlap, building in hysteria. BULLY turns to JOCK.)
BULLY. Hey man, did you hear what happened?
JOCK. No, man, what?
BULLY. The World Trade Center was bombed!
JOCK. What the f—?
 War at Home 11

BULLY. Yeah!
INTROVERT. All of my teachers are acting weird. I’m weirded out.
PATRIOT. One of the towers collapsed!
TEACHER. Radios on. Rumors flying. Did you hear—
PATRIOT. I heard—
WORRIER. What did you hear?
SLACKER DUDE. (To JOCK:) Dude, our country just got like totally
annihilated, man!
CHEERLEADER. (Overhearing, turns:) What??
SLACKER DUDE. Yes! Dude, the Pentagon’s like the shit of our
whole country. We’re going down!
JOCK. Whoa!
CHEERLEADER. Oh my God, are you serious?
PATRIOT. Is this really happening?
MUSLIM. What’s going on?
CHEERLEADER. It’s completely crazy!
(Her boyfriend, JOCK, hugs her.)
BULLY. Who did this?
INTROVERT. We’re gonna die.
ARTIST. My dad’s in New York!!!
TEACHER. I was seven when President Kennedy was shot. Duck and
cover drills. Panic.
WORRIER. Why don’t they tell us what’s going on??
P.A. ANNOUNCEMENT. “…So if you are in need of assistance for
mental health, we want you to know that we’re here for you.”
(SLACKER and GADFLY crack up. ARTIST starts quietly sobbing.)
FIREBRAND. The world outside Rondout could blow up and we’d
never know.
12 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

(School bell rings.)

P.A. ANNOUNCER. First Period. Social Studies.
(The STUDENTS scatter across the stage. Some in small “family”
groups, with non-speaking characters acting as parents and siblings,
others alone.)
SLACKER DUDE. When I got home my mom was waiting outside, I
was like, damn it.
REBEL. Turned on CNN.
SLACKER DUDE. NPR.
JOCK. CBS.
ARTIST. The plane crashing into the building, over and over again in
endless reruns.
MUSLIM. People running, chased by a huge cloud of smoke and
debris.
GADFLY. A somber 5-year-old boy, clutching a fireman’s hat half his
size.
CHEERLEADER. This woman still covered with dust, talking about
how she saw a woman running with her baby, just being trampled. At
that point all my emotions came flowing out like a river. I just cried
and cried, and then I was angry and confused and just about every
other emotion I could possibly feel.
REBEL. We all sat down the rest of the night and watched TV. When
we ate dinner we left it on to see if anything else would happen.
BULLY. Forget homework.
FIREBRAND. Homework: Notes for English. Today is Tuesday,
“named for the Norse God of War.”
INTROVERT. When I got home, my parents were screaming at me, so
I walked out.
JOCK. My dad said that we as a country had brought this on our-
selves, and I agreed.
 War at Home 13

CHEERLEADER. My mom and I cried when we saw people sing

“Land of Liberty.”
PATRIOT. (Singing:) “God Bless America… ”
FRESHMAN. Yeah, well of course I cried!
ARTIST. Angry at myself for crying. Feeling unjustified because I’d
heard from my dad and that was my main concern. An e-mail: “Hi,
I’m okay. Love, Dad.” Well, that is simply far too real. I can’t accept
the simplicity of it.
FRESHMAN. I cried till it hurt.
BULLY. I felt nothing.
INTROVERT. Everything.
MUSLIM. I’m terrified every time someone overtly notices my brown
skin. Afraid of their anger.
WORRIER. Afraid.
CHEERLEADER. I felt very sad, and I can’t explain, there aren’t
enough words in the world to explain what my heart felt at that
moment.
ARTIST. That night the house was quiet, everyone thinking and very
sad.
GADFLY. …thinking Aaliyah had just died, and that woman got hit
on the bus to work.
WORRIER. I can’t decide if I’m more nervous with my door open or
shut.
PATRIOT. I’m one of those people that believe in the saying, “Don’t
think of it as a loss, think of this person as one more angel in heaven.”
WORRIER. Bad people. War. Bombs. War.
JOCK. My mom wouldn’t stop complaining about how she didn’t
believe my brother and I understood the magnitude of what hap-
pened. Ever since, the TV has been on, it’s like she’s obsessed.
ARTIST. My life is still unimportant compared to those who don’t
have one anymore.
14 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

WORRIER. I puked.
ARTIST. I was scared. I took the dog outside and saw two planes in
the sky. The guy next door told me it was okay, that they were sup-
posed to be there.
MUSLIM. Am I safe? I heard that someone at school was talking
about beating me up.
FRESHMAN. My mom didn’t want me to go back to school. I said,
“Mom, I’m not going to hide in fear of these people! I’m going to
school tomorrow.”
GADFLY. Food. Always comforting. Carbos and fat. Macaroni and
cheese.
FIREBRAND. I didn’t need comfort. I didn’t want comfort. There was
a candlelight vigil at the rec center. I went to the movies instead.
WORRIER. I am certain that Pakistan’s center will not hold and it will
destabilize and be overrun by Islamic fanatics, who will wield the
nuclear bomb as a catalyst for World War III, thus fulfilling
Nostradamus’ prediction of the third Anti-Christ coming out of the
Middle East. This frightens me.
SLACKER DUDE. I am unaffected. I am sadly comfortable.
INTROVERT. I went to my room and put on my favorite song to
cheer me up. The song is “The Immigrant” by the Prodigals. I only
sing one part of the song cuz it means something to me. It goes…
“You can drink when you’re dry
You can laugh till you cry
But the tears in your eyes keep on falling… ”
I love that part. Then I went to bed hoping everything would be the
same tomorrow. It wasn’t.
(The school bell rings.)
P.A. ANNOUNCER. Second period. Accounting.
(The full GROUP sits on the floor in rows, as if in a classroom, hands
raised. They lower their hands in turn as TEACHER calls on them to
speak.)
 War at Home 15

CHEERLEADER. I have friends I baby-sit for who live in the city and I
couldn’t get a hold of them for what seemed like forever.
MOTHER. I kept dialing over and over. The circuits are busy, the
circuits are busy, all circuits are busy.
ARTIST. GADFLY.
My mom called my grandmother and I talked to some friends in New York.
I found out that she watched the second They told me about being evacuated and
plane crash from her apartment’s balcony. National Guardsmen on every corner.

FIREBRAND. My friends live twelve blocks from Ground Zero.

They’re Internet shopping for gas masks.
NEIGHBOR. Whenever the phone rang, I grabbed it.
FRESHMAN / WORRIER / ARTIST. Hello?
NEIGHBOR. My mother.
MUSLIM / SLACKER / PATRIOT / GADFLY / JOCK. Hello?
NEIGHBOR. On East 93rd Street, five miles away, they couldn’t even
see the smoke.
ALL STUDENTS. Hello?
NEIGHBOR. “It’s so quiet,” she said, and her voice sounded lost.
WORRIER. My friend…
FIREBRAND. My cousin…
ARTIST. My dad…
GADFLY. My sister-in-law’s brother’s girlfriend…
WORRIER. FIREBRAND. ARTIST.
…Was crying… …Was near there. …Was supposed to be in the city.

MUSLIM / SLACKER DUDE / JOCK. I didn’t know anyone.

JOCK. So many people. Who were they?
WORRIER / INTROVERT / ENSEMBLE MEMBERS. I didn’t know
anyone.
16 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

BULLY. I know someone who died in the attacks. I don’t remember

him all that well, but his name is Gerry Nevins and he has two sons
that are seven and five.
PATRIOT. My aunt who lives in California works for American
Airlines, and a regular flight that she takes all the time is the one from
Boston to LAX. But for some reason she wasn’t on that particular
flight. All her coworkers who she is close with were killed. My uncle
wants her to quit her job. He told her he’d sell the house, the cars,
whatever it takes so she’d be there to raise their kids.
FIREBRAND. I lost a friend in New York that day, but not in the way
most would think. He was talking to me over the Net during the
evening, and he said all Arabs were stupid, so I told him what a total
moron he was and told him to fuck off. We haven’t spoken since.
SLACKER DUDE. I called my friend at 8:30 and I was like, “Are you
okay?”
ENSEMBLE MEMBER. Yeah, ha, I’m fine.
SLACKER DUDE. Man, I’m sick to death of all this death and de-
struction.
ENSEMBLE MEMBER. Oh yeah! Me too.
TEACHER. We were down in the city a week ago. Ate in an Indian
restaurant on 6th Street and took the subway to Battery Park for a
sunset ride on the Staten Island Ferry. On the way back, the Twin
Towers were lit and the harbor looked gorgeous. The kids begged me
to take the elevator up to the observation deck…
FRESHMAN / MUSICIAN. Please, daddy. Pleeeeeeease…?
TEACHER. Some other time.
WORRIER. So many people.
JOCK. Who were they??
MOTHER. Hiya! Lift that leg again! Billy Blank urging me to hurt
myself more. Make me sweat. I try to remember the order of my day.
What comes after this torture is through? Football? Dance class? Who
needs to be where when? What’s for dinner? Feed the dog. Laundry.
Christ! When do I write? Avocado. Mmm…that’s what I’ll eat when
 War at Home 17

this is over. No. Ice cream, cookies…shut up. Just lift that friggin’ leg
one more time. Phone’s ringing. Now what? Do I screen? Do I pause?
“Hello?” It’s my husband’s brother, Jake. He’s in D.C. He asks if Paul’s
in the city. “Yeah. He had a meeting this morning.” He wants to know
where. “I don’t know.” Am I supposed to be your brother’s keeper?”
His voice sounds strange. “Is the meeting at the Trade Center?” I don’t
know, maybe. Turn on my TV? I do. I see Billy mid-squat and
reluctantly watch him dissolve into a smoking tower. Voices are
saying things. Words. But I don’t hear them. My stomach goes hollow.
My legs give out. “I’ll call you back.”
Call his cell phone. I punch in the numbers. Mess it up. Punch again.
Shit!! And again. Recorded message about busy circuits. Paul’s office. I
don’t know the number by heart. Find it, his friggin’ business card. I
keep glancing at the screen. Disbelief. Horror. Another plane plows
into tower two. Fear. My life. My family. Too much death already.
Mama. My brother. My sister’s cancer. Not my husband too! Please
god, not that! Oh…the phone, someone’s talking. It’s Eric in the office,
“I don’t think he’s there. But, shit, Nico, we’ve got a crew on the 103rd
floor in tower one. I’ve got them on walkie. They’re stuck in the
stairwell. No way down. One guy made it to the roof. Nothing there.
Am I saying the right things? I don’t know what to do.” I’m thinkin’,
Jesus, Eric, I’m having my own fucking crisis here. But instead I say,
“You’re doing great, Eric. Just stay calm, they need you to stay calm.”
It’s 9:30 a.m. I hang up. I call the cell. I call the cell. I call the cell. I’m
now intimate with the series of tones. The annoying sameness of the
message. I call the office. “Eric…” Before I can say anything he’s
launched into it, “I lost them. They were crying. It was too hot. The
line went dead. I think they jumped.”
It’s 9:45 and my panic level is at an all time high. I have reached target
heart rate without even one Billy kick. “Eric? Are you okay?” “…No,”
he says. “I’m not.” “Go home,” I tell him “Go home and kiss your
son.” I hang up.
The towers have collapsed! How many people were still in there? And
on the planes? Where is my frickin’ husband?! If he’s not dead, I’m
going to kill him for not calling. Where is he?! It’s 10 a.m. I’m
punching the air in pure frustration. The phone rings. “Hello?!” I try to
rein in the hysteria which has risen in my throat. “Hi, Neeks, just
18 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

thought I’d check in to let you know I’m okay. I’m with this guy who’s
called everyone he knows to let them know he’s alive. Can you believe
that?” I smile. I nod. I cry.
(The bell rings.)
P.A. ANNOUNCER. Third Period. Creative Writing. “Somewhere in
Hollywood… ”
(Snot-nosed STUDIO EXECUTIVE sails on in a rolling office chair,
followed by opportunistic SCREENWRITER. Very L.A.)
EXECUTIVE. We love sequels! Action movie sequels. Horror sequels.
This sure feels like a movie, doesn’t it? I kept expecting to see Bruce
Willis jump out of the Twin Towers, machine guns blazing, carrying
stranded victims to safety. Die Hard 9, or 10, or whatever it is now, I
lost track. So what have you got for me?
SCREENWRITER. “Gulf War 2: Operation Infinite Justice… ”
(EXECUTIVE grimaces/groans.)
…OK, er, “Enduring Freedom.”
EXECUTIVE. Better.
SCREENWRITER. It’ll be great! Just like “Gulf War: Operation Desert
Storm.” Same plot points, same themes, same characters, same
ending…we hope.
EXECUTIVE. Tell me more.
SCREENWRITER. The hero. Literally, George Bush 2. Same advisors,
same politics, same name, same charming accent, but new
catchphrases! Like “This is a war between freedom and fear.”
EXECUTIVE. Love it.
SCREENWRITER. The villain, Osama bin Laden, is Saddam Hussein
2, Hitler 3. “He’s worse than Hitler!”
EXECUTIVE. Isn’t that the tagline we used last time?
SCREENWRITER. Osama’s just like Saddam: powerful, cruel, in-
telligent, sneaky, he doesn’t like us but people like him. We armed
Saddam. And we made Osama: the CIA trained him to fight the USSR.
 War at Home 19

EXECUTIVE. Massive plot holes. One of the biggest being, why do

they hate us?
SCREENWRITER. …They hate freedom?
EXECUTIVE. Please, no complex answers that cause us to look into
ourselves or our foreign policy, not in an action movie.
SCREENWRITER. Oil.
EXECUTIVE. Oil…
SCREENWRITER. …Oil! We’d be building a pipeline through Af-
ghanistan if they didn’t hate us.
(EXECUTIVE nods, interest piqued.)
EXECUTIVE. Collateral damage?
SCREENWRITER. Plenty. Civilians get killed while the bad guys hide
in bunkers, caves and palaces. Oops. We all make mistakes. Our
intentions are good.
EXECUTIVE. The Gulf War was cool, wasn’t it? Like a video game.
Think of the licensing ops. Lots of great visuals: violent, though
sanitized.
SCREENWRITER. Right. We don’t see the villagers getting killed, the
desperate people stepping on land mines in attempt to reach the food
we drop, or the rations landing on people, since we don’t attach
parachutes to them.
EXECUTIVE. Every movie needs comic relief.
SCREENWRITER. What we do see are big, cool explosions. We win!
We go in, blow a bunch of stuff up, we get out with just a few
smudges.
EXECUTIVE. So did Saddam.
SCREENWRITER. And so will Bin Laden.
EXECUTIVE. We’ll bring them both back for “Gulf War 3: Operation
God Is On Our Side!”
(They shake on the deal and drag-race offstage in their rolling chairs.)
(School bell rings.)
20 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

P.A. ANNOUNCER. Fourth Period. U.S. History.

(MUSICIAN carries on an American flag and all STUDENTS line up
in rows for the Pledge of Allegiance. GADFLY and ARTIST stand in
semi-respectful silence with their arms at their sides. FIREBRAND
folds her arms and glowers aggressively.)
GROUP. I pledge allegiance to the flag
Of the United States of America—
(GROUP freezes as each steps forward to speak to the audience in
turn.)
PATRIOT. A patriotic tingle surrounding my skin.
GROUP. And to the Republic for which it stands—
JOCK. Softball fields. Cheeseburgers. I feel, American.
GROUP. One nation, under God—
ARTIST. My allegiance doesn’t lie in a piece of colored cloth.
GROUP. Indivisible—
CHEERLEADER. Seeing all those flags on the cars makes me think,
“Wow, we’re all in this together.”
BULLY. United we stand!
GROUP. With liberty and justice for all.
GADFLY. But only if you fly the flag, toe the line, keep your mouth
shut.
GROUP. (Faster:) I pledge allegiance to the flag
Of the United States of America
(Lower volume and continue under the following speeches, repeating as
needed.)
NEIGHBOR. You know what, though? I’m worried because I don’t
have a flag on my car. I’m afraid somebody will shoot me. I went into
three stores to buy one and they were sold out.
FIREBRAND. What I want to know is who’s selling these things? They
are everywhere. And where are they made? Sweatshop labor in where,
Indonesia, Hong Kong, Detroit?
 War at Home 21

FRESHMAN. I want to be a proud American.

ARTIST. I’m not proud of muscles flexed with megaton warheads.
PATRIOT. The flag represents our country. Even through the worst
tragedies we can survive…make a comeback and show everyone that
we’re strong.
WORRIER. I heard that a man burned a flag in the street, yelling,
“Allah! Allah!” while people got out of their cars and beat him to the
ground.
BULLY. He deserved it!
(Group pledge comes to an end, getting louder on the last phrase.)
GROUP. …with liberty and justice for all.
(MUSICIAN carries the flag back out as STUDENTS remove hands
from hearts, relaxing, addressing each other as well as the audience as
they move into their next position.)
CHEERLEADER. When we started bombing Afghanistan, I was glad
we were doing something.
FRESHMAN. Some people, my dad for example, say war is the best
and only solution sometimes. I don’t want to believe that.
SLACKER DUDE. Dude, America is so fucked up, man. I can’t believe
we’re bombing!
BULLY. Bomb them all.
ARTIST. Now we’re terrorists too.
BULLY. Blow them off the face of the earth.
ARTIST. We’re just asking for more.
MUSLIM. I’ve never had so many nightmares in my life as I’ve had
this past month. Worried about my family.
BULLY. Nuke ’em.
ARTIST. It isn’t worth killing civilians to make us look strong.
INTROVERT. I have no opinion.
22 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

FIREBRAND. Have you noticed how much less news coverage there
is of us bombing them?
GADFLY. The crater formerly known as Afghanistan.
FIREBRAND. Ash-ghanistan.
SLACKER DUDE. I mostly don’t talk about it. It’s just in my head.
FRESHMAN. I’m glad that we’re bombing. I think.
JOCK. I don’t want to be drafted.
(School bell rings.)
P.A. ANNOUNCER. Fifth Period. Foreign Language.
(A Middle Eastern instrument plays a muezzin-like call. A MAN in
traditional Arab robes, a head wrap covering most of his face, walks
slowly down the aisle of the auditorium. STUDENTS cluster to look.
MUSLIM hangs back from the rest of the group.)
CHEERLEADER / ARTIST / WORRIER / BULLY. Who is he?
MUSLIM. What is he thinking?
CHEERLEADER. What does he believe?
WORRIER. Whose side is he on?
BULLY. Them.
ARTIST. I look away, then feel guilty and give him a smile.
INTROVERT. Who are they??
ARTIST. (Smile still pasted:) I hope he won’t think I’m a racist. He
looks like Muhith’s father. Muhith Mussabir, my best friend in 5th
grade. What happened to him?
MOTHER. I jump to conclusions based on appearance. My whole life,
it’s been people doing that to me. And yet…
NEIGHBOR. I don’t exactly want to accuse anybody who looks
Middle Eastern, but who can you trust now?
JOCK. Celebration in the streets of Nebula.
CHEERLEADER. Little children throwing candy.
 War at Home 23

JOCK. People chanting:

MUSLIM / JOCK / PATRIOT / CHEERLEADER. “God is good.”
BULLY. They’re Muslims.
MUSLIM. Why do they hate us so much?
(A heavily veiled WOMAN joins the MAN.)
GADFLY. The women of Afghanistan.
FIREBRAND. Buried alive in mass graves.
GADFLY. Raped teenagers.
FIREBRAND. Flies inside diseased homes.
GADFLY. It’s illegal to smile in public.
FIREBRAND. Women killed for exposing a wrist.
BULLY. We should just bomb them all.
ARTIST. Maybe I shouldn’t smile.
JOCK. I heard that the gas station guy was arrested.
BULLY. Hey man, you’re making money on the American dream! We
deserve it!
PATRIOT. I’m buying American gas!
MUSLIM. I’m scared for my family.
INTROVERT. I’m scared.
WORRIER. Biological warfare. Anthrax.
PATRIOT. I mean, I have plans and stuff for my life. I really don’t
want to get some stupid disease and die before I have a chance to do
anything.
ARTIST. I hate not knowing.
PATRIOT. I heard there was a bomb on the Mid-Hudson Bridge.
FIREBRAND. A bomb threat.
PATRIOT. Whatever.
24 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

ARTIST. Scary shit. Everybody’s so paranoid, and I guess they have

some right to be.
FIREBRAND. Timothy McVeigh was a typical American boy and look
what he did!
GADFLY. Anyone can be a terrorist.
FIREBRAND. Timothy McVeigh. So now do we beat up all skinny
white guys?
GADFLY. Like you?
MOTHER. The reservoir…the orange plastic cones look so flimsy.
NEIGHBOR. Our water.
MOTHER. Right where our kids ride their bicycles.
NEIGHBOR. It’s 11 a.m. and I’m still in my PJs, okay? I’ve got work
I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t sleep anymore. I’m in the vanguard
of the freaked-out.
So on Sunday I’m down at Emmanuel’s, buying some shrimp for my
dinner, and this man at the fish counter is saying the Citgo in town is
shut down, and five other Pakistani-run gas and convenience stores, in
Shokan, Rosendale, Ellenville. Why? So the FBI can investigate links to
the Taliban. The fish guy goes off on a racist rant and I walk away
with my jaw dropped. Then I drive by the Citgo, and it is closed. And I
think, the world as I know it is over. I live in this safe little haven, I
don’t lock my house, I leave keys in the car overnight. And now that’s
all over. It’s here in my yard.
I mean, let’s say Osama Bin Laden is buying up gas and convenience
stores all around the New York City water supply. They’re drivable
bombs. You get a gas truck into your station, you hit the driver over
the head and drive away with a movable bomb. You can blow it up,
ram it right into the reservoir, poison the water. And the guys in those
stations, they’re not friendly, they’re not even neutral, they’re actively
hostile. It’s not like the Greek deli owners or Korean grocery stands in
New York—these guys don’t want to fit in, they give you an attitude.
And they’re all men. Where are the women??
Okay, now is this racist caca? If so, how awful of me to buy into it. My
mother was in Auschwitz; how dare I? I don’t want to be blaming, the
 War at Home 25

way that the Jews have been blamed. I don’t want to spread fear. On
the other hand, if it is true… And this is why I can’t get out of bed in
the morning.
(She looks directly at Arab-dressed MAN and WOMAN.)
If this is terrorism, it works. I’m terrified.
(School bell rings.)
(Arab-dressed MAN and WOMAN exit with graceful dignity.
STUDENTS move back into “classroom” formation as SLACKER
DUDE and WORRIER rise to give a report.)
P.A. ANNOUNCER. Sixth Period. Modified Math.
SLACKER DUDE. OK, so the date of the attack is, like, 9-1-1? The
emergency number, how weird is that??
WORRIER. And it’s all 11s:
9+1+1= 11
September 11th is the 254th day of the year: 2+5+4=11
The first plane to hit the towers was Flight 11
Flight 11: 92 on board. 9+2=11
New York was the 11th State in the Union.
New York City, 11 letters
The Pentagon, 11 letters
Afghanistan, 11 letters
SLACKER DUDE. Whoa, man, my NAME has 11 letters. How scared
should I be? I’m going into hiding, like NOW. The terrorists are after
me! There must be someplace on planet Earth I can hide…but no,
“PLANET EARTH” has 11 letters! Maybe Nostradamus can help me—
no WAY, he’s got 11 letters too! The Red Cross? T-H-E R-E-D C… 11
letters! Somebody help me. Send me e-mail! No, don’t—“SEND ME E-
MAIL” has 11 letters too!!! Will this never end? I’m going insane!
“GOING INSANE”… 11 letters! Noooooooooooooooo!!!!!!
(He sinks to his knees. WORRIER leans in close.)
WORRIER. How many letters in “RONDOUT HIGH”?
SLACKER DUDE. ELEVEN!!!
(The bell rings. STUDENTS exit, except for FRESHMAN.)
26 Nicole Quinn and Nina Shengold

P.A. ANNOUNCER. Seventh Period. Music In Our Lives.

(A STUDENT MUSICIAN enters, tuning and warming up as the
FRESHMAN steps up to the microphone.)
FRESHMAN. I read this last night on the Internet. A letter from a
Juilliard student, Monday September 17th.
(Reading:) Yesterday I had the most moving experience of my life.
Juilliard organized a quartet to go play at the Armory. The Armory is a
huge military building where families of people missing from
Tuesday’s disaster go to wait from their loved ones. The entire
building, the size of a city block, was covered with missing posters.
Thousands of posters, spread out to eight feet above the ground, each
featuring a different, smiling face. I made my way into the huge
central room, and found my Juilliard buddies.
(MUSICIAN plays a brief classical excerpt.)
For two hours we sight-read quartets (with only three people!). I’ll
never forget the grief counselor from the Connecticut State Police who
listened the whole time, or the woman who listened only to “Memory”
from Cats, crying the whole time. At 7, the other two players had to
leave; they’d been playing since 1 and couldn’t go on.
I volunteered to stay and play solo. A man in fatigues who introduced
himself as Sergeant Major asked me if I’d mind playing for his soldiers
as they came back from digging in the rubble at Ground Zero.
Masseuses had volunteered to give his men massages, he said, and he
didn’t think anything would be more soothing than getting a massage
and listening to violin music. So for the next four hours, I played
everything I could do from memory: Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Silent
Night, My Country ’Tis of Thee, Eel in the Sink.
(MUSICIAN will pick out stray phrases of various pieces as listed
[titles may be changed to accommodate his/her repertoire].)
Never have I played for a more grateful audience. By the end, my
intonation was shot and I had no bow control. I would have lost any
competition I was playing in, but it didn’t matter. The men would
come up the stairs in full gear, remove their helmets, look at me and
smile.
 THIS PLAY IS NOT OVER!
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