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Playwriting Lesson: Some Stories Aren’t For You To Tell

Dave Einsel/Getty Images
An evacuee surveys the floor of the Reliant Astrodome September 4, 2005 in Houston, Texas.

Playwright and Lake Effect essayist Alvaro Saar Rios has told many powerful stories through his work over the years. But it was a play he didn’t write that guides his work today:

Ten years ago, when Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, I was living in Texas working on commission for a new play. My first draft deadline was weeks away and I still had no idea what the play was going to be about.

No. That’s not true. I did have a title.

One night as I’m staring at blank word document, a friend calls me. She wanted to know if I was up for volunteering. I asked, “When?” She said, “Now.” I looked at my clock. “It’s midnight. Who needs volunteers this late?”

“The Astrodome.”

“As in the place where I would watch the Houston Astros disappoint me year after year. That Astrodome?”

She said, “Our city is taking in people who are being evacuated from New Orleans and they are going to house them there. You want to come with me or not?”

I looked at the blank document on my computer screen and the blinking cursor that would haunt me until the early morning hours. “Sure. Come pick me up.”

On the way there, I talked with my friend about what we saw on the news. The flooding. The stranded. The dead people.

When we arrived, we joined volunteers who were filling up boxes in a building adjacent to the Astrodome. Our detail was pretty easy. Pants go in this box. Shirts in this one. Shoes are over there.

Around 2 am, there were no more boxes to fill, so we were told to go check at the volunteer table if we weren’t ready to go home. We were also told, “Don’t go into the Dome unless we were assigned to go in there.” Actually, I heard this a lot of times the whole time I was there.

Naturally, this is where I wanted to go. I knew this is where the stories were.

So instead of following my friend who was looking for another detail, I walked towards the Astrodome. I stopped and watched volunteers enter and exit. When I saw a big group heading in, I joined them.

The smell. It’s the first thing I noticed. The Astrodome still had that “astrodomey” smell that it always had. Popcorn, beer, sweat, Houston.

Walking farther in, the next thing I noticed were the dome lights. They were on as if there was game to be played. Just staring up at them reminded me of those many times I came here as a kid in hopes of seeing my favorite baseball player. #25. Jose Cruz.

My trip down nostalgia lane quickly ended when I looked the playing field. Instead of baseballs or bases, there were sleeping cots. And blankets. And canned water. And people. Lots and lots of people. Some sleeping. Some walking because they can’t sleep. Some sitting around talking.

I found my friend standing in front of a corkboard with all kinds of paper messages. She was providing people with paper and pens so they could leave messages letting people know they were safe.

I immediately joined her. As I took handed out paper or wrote messages, I tried to strike up conversation. But how does one strike up a conversation about a tragedy that people are still living through?

“Hi. My name is Alvaro. I’m a playwright. Can I talk to you about what happened?"

Most of the people I encountered didn’t want to talk about the Superdome or why they didn’t leave. I’m sure some of them had already been hounded by reporters jabbing microphones in their face.

We stayed until 6 am. We went back a few more times after that.

The last time we were there, there was a point were I looked around at all the other volunteers and the people they were helping and I started to feel shame. I wasn’t there to help. I was there because I was hoping to get in idea for a play.

I never went back after that.

I did get my first draft in on time but the play had nothing to do with Hurricane Katrina. The story, the one about the Astrodome and the people living in it, was not mine to tell.

As a writer, being able to realize this is very important. There are many stories out there but not just anybody can tell ‘em.