[redacted] Theatre Company's 'Who Told You You Were Naked?,' by E. Swift Shuker

Writer/performer E. Swift Shuker's Who Told You You Were Naked? might be easily overlooked in these last few hot August weeks before the Fringe explodes. That would be unfortunate.

Challenging choices

I took what I thought was a risky trip into unknown territory (the performance takes place in a tiny not-quite-finished Kensington Avenue gallery) and I'm glad I did.

Co-Artistic Director Josh McLucas, working the door, explained the situation. This pay-what-you-can "play" (normal terms don't apply well without qualification) is "performed" for one person at a time, he explained, gesturing to a far corner with two chairs, a small table, and a black chaise that might have come from a psychiatrist's office. I would choose options from what E. Swift Shuker, the "performer," offered.

Shuker offered my choices via Tarot cards. I would experience part of the story of a transwoman's difficult progress to adulthood, but not all of it. Of the six options, I chose a love story, but realized later that all of them (child abuse, a sister's difficult choice, and more) are represented in what I experienced.

I was offered three gradations of physical contact (the most, Shuker assured me, would be an embrace), and I took the middle option. Every time I made a choice, I weighed the road not traveled: what would be the "best"? What would be the most illuminating choice for a theater critic? I trusted my instincts, which include a definite reticence for audience participation.

The story takes over

Conditions set, Shuker shared the fascinating, often heartrending story. A young boy, Adam, realizes he's a girl, and his father allows him to live as "Eve," but at a price. Her older sister, Lilith, objects — for reasons revealed later — and leaves when she turns 18. Eve wanders, meeting spectral roommates and connects with another transwoman, called "18." Before Eve can escape her past, she must understand it.

The effects of the "performance" exceed the sum of its parts. Sometimes Shukur read from a leather-bound journal, occasionally in an almost-sung cadence that reminded me of my childhood Episcopalian priest. Sometimes she invited me to read to her. We moved from table to couch to the gallery's tiny backyard, where the loud, steamy Kensington night made Eve's isolation even starker. The 45 minutes felt like hours, in a good way: I was immersed.

I sensed Shuker made split-second decisions about what I could handle; she apparently sought not to shock or overwhelm me, but to build trust and gently include me in such a way that I could identify with Eve. The last series of questions she posed were challenging not because I pondered the dramatic quality and personal comfort of my answers from a safe distance, as I did at the beginning, but because my choices would determine Eve's path forward in life. I wanted to do right by her.

Who Told You You Were Naked? gently planted this fascinating story in my head, my heart, and finally in my hands.

I think I made good choices for Eve. I hope so. The decision to see Who Told You You Were Naked? shows me that I am capable of some.