SESTERCENTENNIAL, The Bread & Roses Theatre
No matter your thoughts on the state of America right now, there is no denying that American culture, politics, style and attitudes have permeated almost every aspect of modern life. While this has been true in many respects since the nation's founding, America's global influence has only intensified in the age of the internet and social media. Here in the UK, we often know almost as much about what's happening in the United States (from presidential elections to obscure state politics and celebrity gossip) as we do about our own affairs. It is little wonder, then, that America's 250th anniversary feels like an occasion of significance here too.
It is fitting, therefore, that SESTERCENTENNIAL, the latest production from Gnomon Theatre, written and performed by Arif Silverman, is packed with in-jokes, political commentary and deeply American cultural references. While there were plenty of Americans in the audience, the play is written in such a way that anyone with much less familiarity with contemporary America can appreciate what it is saying.
This is a one-man show, with Silverman portraying every character. Much of the script is written in the second person, meaning the audience is continually addressed as the protagonist, Hamza, while Silverman simultaneously embodies him. The effect is almost like watching someone argue with their own reflection, creating an unusually intimate portrait of a man whose greatest conflict exists within himself. Hamza is a second-generation Muslim American whose parents immigrated to build what they hoped would be a better life. He jokes about seeing himself as the ‘all-American Muslim’. His closest friends are white Christians with whom he believes he shared the same upbringing. Yet, as the evening unfolds, it becomes increasingly clear that he has always occupied the edge of that friendship group rather than its centre.
His younger sister represents the opposite outlook. More connected to her family's heritage, she insists on calling their parents Amma and Appa rather than Mom and Dad. Hamza dismisses this as performative politics, blaming her white socialist friends for encouraging what he sees as unnecessary identity politics. Throughout the play, however, it becomes increasingly apparent that she is far more comfortable with who she is than he is.
Preparing for what should be a landmark Fourth of July celebration (a holiday he always spends with his friends), Hamza is desperate to prove just how American he is. He knows Christian traditions inside out because, as he explains, growing up in America meant learning everyone else's holidays. His friends, meanwhile, know virtually nothing about his Muslim background and never think to ask. The play is full of painfully recognisable moments of casual prejudice like this. Hamza's friends nickname him ‘Handsome Ham’ because he cannot eat pork, he buys halal beef burgers, only to be asked whether they taste ‘like regular burgers’ - but crucially they know so little about his faith that they do not even understand the assumptions underpinning their own jokes. As the child of two college professors, Hamza is also mocked for his intelligence; e.g. when he uses the word ‘sestercentennial’, his friends do not understand it, yet he is the one who feels compelled to apologise. These interactions reveal a pattern of casual cruelty in which Hamza is expected to minimise himself to preserve the group's comfort. He reassures himself by saying that they mock ‘everyone’. While these moments are not necessarily overtly malicious, they expose how exhausting it is to constantly be treated as an exception. More importantly, the play suggests that this kind of casual othering creates the conditions in which more explicit racism and abuse can flourish.
Silverman's writing is particularly effective when exploring the tiny, almost invisible calculations Hamza makes every day. He reflects that while he can make his friends laugh, he cannot make strangers laugh in the effortless way they can. They instinctively belong wherever they go; he feels he must earn that belonging. So when they ultimately decide to celebrate America's sestercentennial without inviting him, the rejection lands with devastating force. He realises he knows remarkably little about people he has spent years trying to impress. Watching him, you cannot help wondering why he tries so hard, but the answer becomes painfully obvious. Hamza craves acceptance.
His family, meanwhile, offer an alternative. His sister reminds him that family should come before validation from people who never fully accept him. Hamza's politics further complicate matters. He is a Republican, a conservative who genuinely believes in the American dream and desperately wants to fit its mould, even when doing so means distancing himself from his own heritage. At one point he considers cooking brisket for the celebration before imagining his mother asking why he learned to make brisket before biryani. ‘People want to eat our food on the holiday’, she would say. Hamza immediately thinks, ‘Which people?’ It is one of many Freudian slips that reveal who he is really trying to impress.
He is not particularly religious (for example he drinks alcohol) but his Muslim identity nevertheless shapes how he moves through the world. The play becomes increasingly powerful as the confident façade begins to crack.
A mosquito bite, seemingly insignificant at first, becomes a surprisingly effective metaphor. Unlike his friends, Hamza cannot simply relax outdoors; he hates insects, feels uncomfortable in unfamiliar spaces, and is permanently on edge. Early fireworks make him instinctively think of gunshots. At one moment he is shouted at in the street with racial slurs. He speaks about ‘Indian’ being used as an insult in some circles. There is an ever-present sense that danger lurks just beneath his ordinary life. As the bite grows itchier, the audience becomes almost physically uncomfortable alongside him. Eventually he cries, 'Tear the skin! Rip it off!’ It is impossible not to feel that this is not the only reason he wants to be rid of his skin.
The political backdrop gives the play additional urgency. Hamza's sister refuses to celebrate while America continues to wage wars and support conflicts abroad, particularly in relation to Iran. She argues that, as American citizens, they are complicit because ‘that's what our tax money goes to’. Hamza initially dismisses her concerns as melodramatic, but as the evening progresses, certainty becomes harder to maintain.
Some of the script's strongest moments come when Hamza accidentally reveals what he has spent years suppressing. Looking at the sea of American flags displayed for Independence Day, he remarks that people behave as though, ‘if they didn't put a flag on every inch of this land, it would cease to be theirs’ - before hastily correcting himself to say ‘ours’. That tiny correction says everything. Hamza doesn’t quite feel he belongs or has any claim to being truly American.
Throughout the play he carries the burden familiar to many children of immigrants: the obligation to be ‘grateful'. His parents taught him that America gave them opportunities unavailable elsewhere, and gratitude became inseparable from identity. Yet that gratitude increasingly clashes with the reality of never quite feeling accepted. In one particularly moving moment, he recalls a lullaby his mother used to sing and wonders what suffering inspired such melancholy songs.
There is, ultimately, a quiet tragedy in Hamza's determination to save face. He continually tells himself he is fine, that he belongs, that he should simply be thankful. But the mask becomes impossible to maintain.
Silverman's script is superb, capturing the exhausting internal dialogue of someone constantly negotiating between identities. The minimalist staging allows the writing to take centre stage, while the lighting is subtle but highly effective, with flashes of red, white and blue punctuating the play's emotional and political climaxes. His performance is equally impressive. Each character feels fully realised through subtle shifts in voice, rhythm and physicality, to the extent that it is easy to forget there is only one actor on stage. One-person shows live or die by their performer's ability to create distinct personalities and Silverman does so with remarkable ease.
SESTERCENTENNIAL is, above all, a play about belonging. It explores what it means to be Muslim in contemporary America, the complicated legacy of immigration, the pressures of assimilation, and the emotional cost of constantly trying to prove that you deserve a place in your own country. It asks whether celebration is possible at a moment when many Americans feel deeply conflicted about what their nation represents. Hamza spends much of the play denying parts of himself in pursuit of acceptance, while his sister embraces heritage, family and cultural continuity. You may not agree with Hamza’s attitudes or actions, but in the end, Silverman's play offers a poignant examination of the immigrant dream and of what happens when the dream never quite allows you to feel at home.