Status Updates From Zoot Suit and Other Plays

What if I disappear for a while. I go away for six months
back to Yucatan, to the sacred pyramids of the Mayan
jungle. I go through my own psychic death and rebirth
in Mexico. I plummet to the schizophrenic depths of my
own cosmic root and emerge from the dark side of my own
soul cleansed and enlightened. Would that be amusing?

You still don't get it, do you? What it's like being a Chicano at Harvard? The sense of isolation and guilt.

Here's the main event: the indispensable illiterate cholo gang member-heroin-addict-
born-to-lose-image, which I suppose could account for 99% of my future employment in TV land. Just look hostile, dumb, and potentially violent...I'm having a spiritual hernia. A cathartic outburst below the belt. I'm a scholastic disgrace. Thanks to you.
you.

Come on, Mom, Dad. You know what you are. Let's be honest. You're nothing but glorified Hollywood extras. Bit players who have managed to eke out a comfortable existence for yourselves—for me and Lucy. But, let's face it, in the larger scheme of Hollywood, you're only marginal. Atmosphere at best. Invisible, for all intents and purposes.

TIBURCIO: The evil that men do lives after them, Sheriff. The good is oft interred with their bones.

Me chingaron, ese. I went to the pinche show with Bertha, all chingon in your tachuche, ese. I was wearing your zoot suit, and they got me. Twenty sailors, Marines. We were up in the balcony. They came down from behind. They grabbed me by the neck and dragged me down the stairs, kicking and punching and pulling my grena. They dragged me out into the streets and all the people watched while they stripped me.