(Ellis Island, 1906)
By Alan Foster Friedman
Bob Ari, RoZsa Horvath,
Adam Carl, and John Banach
Director
Producer
Scenic Designer
Lighting Designer
Sound Designer
Composer
Scenic Artist
Assistant Director
Costume Designer
Graphic Artist |
Michael
Wadler
Barbara
Beckley
Todd
Nielsen
Jamie
McAllister
Gary
Christensen
Jeffrey Rockwell
John Thomas Clark
Sandy Schuckett
Jeanne Harriott
Robert
Budaska |
CAST (in order of speaking):
|
|
Chief
Inspector Cione
Peddler
Inspector Ryder
No. 1109, Mordecai Rabkin
No. 1110, Hannah Rabkin
No. 1111, Berel Rabkin
No. 961, Ivan Klimenko
No. 2004, Jacob Rizhie
No. 428, Haroutoon Sundookian
No. 429, Araxie Sundookian
No. 430, Stepan Sundookian
No. 431, MariamAbadjian
No. 2589, Nikos Christomanos
Understudy for Berel |
Russ Marin
Keith Mills
Gary Cearlock
John Banach
RoZsa Horvath
Adam Carl
Arnie Shamblin
Don Woodruff
Bob Ari
Kristen Peckinpah
Kent Stoddard
Bonita Friedericy
Nick DeGruccio
Bob King |
Place: a second floor
holding room in the Immigration Center on Ellis Island
Time: October, 1906
ACT I
Morning
ACT II
Late Afternoon, the same
day
You who have been
born in America, I wish I could make you understand what it is like not
to be an American — not to have been an American all your life — and then
suddenly with the words of a man in flowing robes to be one, for that moment
and forever after. One moment you belong with your fathers to a million
dead yesterday. The next you belong with America to a million unborn tomorrows.
— George Magar Mardikian
There are those, I know,
who will replay that the liberation of humanity, the freedom of man and
mind, is nothing but a dream . . . They are right. It is the American dream.
— Archibald MacLeish
America has been settled
by people of all nations. All nations may claim her for their own. We are
not a narrow tribe of men . . . No, our blood is as the flood of the Amazon,
made up of a thousand noble currents all pouring into one . . . We are
not a nation so much as a world.
— Herman Melville
Not like the brazen giant
of Greek frame,
With conquering limbs astride
from land to land,
Here at our sea-washed,
sunset-gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch,
whose flame,
Is the imprisoned lightning,
and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her
beacon-hand
Glows the world-wide welcome,
her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that
twin-cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your
storied pomp!" cries she,
With silent lips. "Give
me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning
to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your
teeming shore
Send these, the homeless,
tempest-tost to me,
I life my lamp beside the
golden door!"
— Emma Lazarus
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