Hally does not know who he is. The single white character on stage in South African-born playright Athol Fugard’s one-scene work is the friend of his mother’s two black employees when they tend to St George’s Park Tearoom in her absence. But he is also their ‘Master Harold’-reluctantly but inevitably-when the stress of his crippled, alcoholic father’s homecoming impels him into an emotional space that one simply does not share with black folks. Perhaps is it the burden of dealing with human beings on the multiple levels that racism forces upon those who resent but ultimately accede to their required roles that embitters Hally beyond redemption.
Hally doesn’t know several things. He is ignorant of the nobility with which Sam and Willie have battled for his dignity over the years of service to his family. He doesn’t understand that even this virtue has its limits, beyond which dignity weighs more than the possibility of continuing friendship.
Hally doesn’t understand that a night of dancing at the Eastern Province Open Dancing Championships is a thing of beauty rather than of entertainment, nor the hope that is nurtured in a space where for one night people never bump into each other.
‘Master Harold’, the title upon which he insists at the cost of everything that matters, will never know because he cannot learn. He is a million times more the victim of the 1950’s racism in the land of Fugard’s birth than any black man whom, when pushed beyond his modest emotional means, he shoves around. They, at least, leave this dark, sad drama with something.
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