She pauses for 22 seconds. A lifetime on stage.
The Trials of Ms. Americana.127 , the latest installment in a staggering, multi-decade performance-art-cum-constitutional-crisis series, opened last night at the Shed. But the stage is not merely a stage. It is a congressional hearing room. A TikTok comment section. A suburban kitchen floor at 2 AM. A fertility clinic waiting room. A corporate boardroom glass ceiling, shattered and then weaponized. The Trials Of Ms Americana.127
The second witness is a former Ms. Americana from the 87th trial (2019), now a 44-year-old librarian in Ohio. She testifies remotely, her face pixelated by choice. She is asked: “What is the single greatest trial you faced?” She pauses for 22 seconds
That silence is the genius of the entire series. Ms. Americana cannot defend herself, because the moment she does, she becomes the thing they’ve accused her of: defensive. Hysterical. Too much. Margaret Chu delivers her closing argument without notes. She is 72. She has done this 127 times. She is dying of a cancer she has not told anyone about, which will be revealed only in the program notes of Trial 130, after she is gone. Americana
One hundred and twenty-seven iterations. One hundred and twenty-seven distinct charges. And the verdict, each time, is the same: Not guilty of what they say. Guilty of what they don’t say. Hung jury on her own existence. The series, conceived by the elusive artist-jurist collective known only as The Venire (a Latin term for a jury pool), began in 1999. The first “Ms. Americana” was a pregnant Staten Island waitress named Desiree Falco. She was tried for “excessive hope.” The prosecutor: a disembodied voice modulated to sound like every male news anchor from 1987. The defense: a single, looping voicemail from her mother saying, “You could have been a lawyer.”
She is played by a different actor each night, chosen from a lottery of audience members who self-identify as “having judged another woman harshly in the last 30 days.” The lottery is not rigged. It is, according to the program notes, “almost always full.”