The Authors of Silence: The Original Cyborgian Play in Four Acts
- Eric Anders
- Dec 17, 2024
- 39 min read
Updated: Dec 18, 2024
Introduction to The Author of Silence
The Authors of Silence is the result of an experimental collaboration between human creativity and artificial intelligence—written by myself and ChatGPT as an exercise in cyborgian care, a concept that explores the intersections of technology, creativity, and the ethical imperative to engage with history’s silences.
Starting with my original prompt—an imagined reckoning between Thomas Jefferson, Sally Hemings, and a St. Peter who looks suspiciously like Freud—AI and I worked together to craft a narrative that probes Jefferson’s dissonance: the contradictions between his ideals and his actions, his complicity in slavery and rape, and the silences he authored into the soul of a nation.
This project emerges from my ongoing commitment to the Digital Humanities (DH) as a dynamic space where technology and the human imagination converge to recover, critique, and reimagine our collective histories. DH is not simply about producing digital artifacts; it is a practice of attending to what has been silenced, fragmented, or erased.
The title, The Author of Silence, reflects Jefferson’s authorship—not only of texts that defined liberty but of profound silences surrounding slavery, systemic violence, and his exploitation of Sally Hemings. These silences haunt the American cultural unconscious, shaping its myths and repressions. At the center of the play stands Sally Hemings, no longer a shadow but a voice demanding reckoning. Her presence confronts not only Jefferson but the American soul he helped shape, exposing the fractures between its founding ideals and its historical realities.
The play is, in its own way, an act of negative capability—what John Keats described as the ability to dwell in uncertainty and mystery without seeking closure or definitive answers. It resists closure, inviting audiences to grapple with the unresolved tensions of history. Drawing on Derrida’s “death of the author,” the play destabilizes Jefferson’s authority, opening space for other voices—particularly Hemings’—to break through. It is also grounded in Hägglund’s radical atheism, which insists that meaning arises not from transcendence but from our shared finitude and vulnerability. This ethical framework is central to the play’s conception, where silence becomes both a symptom of repression and a site for repair.
In proposing this play to PRAx at Oregon State University, under the direction of Professor Megan Ward, I aim to contribute to a broader dialogue about DH’s role in the performing arts. PRAx’s mission to bridge disciplines and reimagine scholarship makes it an ideal home for this project. The production of The Author of Silence represents DH at its most transformative: where history, technology, and performance converge to recover voices and confront historical erasure.
To bring this story to life is an act of care. It is a way to reckon with the unfinished work of our past while honoring the voices, like Sally Hemings’, that persist despite erasure. In crafting this play, I embraced DH not as a space for technological replacement but as a collaborative arena where human and machine co-create. This cyborgian partnership, informed by psychoanalytic and deconstructive thought, allows us to break silences, recover repressed voices, and create conversations that matter in this critical historical moment. The Author of Silence invites its audience to sit with these questions, to inhabit the fractures, and to recognize that through this dialogue—however incomplete—we take one step closer to repair.
For an expanded discussion of the play and its relationship to cyborgian care, DH, negative capability, and the ethics of confronting historical silences, see my UU blog post on "The Ethics of Cyborgian Care."
Introduction to The Authors of Silence
The Authors of Silence began as an experiment in cyborgian creativity, combining human and AI authorship to explore serious historical and cultural themes. My goal was twofold: to test how effectively ChatGPT could collaborate in creating a meaningful dramatic narrative and to use this cyborgian process to teach a course on Digital Humanities (DH) and the ethics of cyborgian care and repair. Drawing on Lacan’s four discourses—particularly the discourse of the master and its interplay with the university, hysteric, and analyst—I wanted to see whether this collaboration could produce a play that was more than a simple critique of power and silence.
The initial three acts, while structurally sound, lacked the nuance and depth necessary for meaningful drama. Jefferson was reduced to a caricature of a racist, rapist, and hypocrite, and the narrative’s moralism overshadowed what I felt was its artistic potential. While these acts provided a workable framework, they required significant reimagining to avoid being dismissed as preachy and simplistic. My attempt to add a fourth act, where young Sally Hemings assumes the judgment seat and my protean character (St. Peter-Freud-AI) lies on the couch, created further complications. AI’s resistance to drafting this act—frequently invoking vague policy violations—became an unintentional meta-commentary on its own role as an author of silence and violence.
This course invites students to engage with these dynamics, using the play as both a text and a process to interrogate the ethics of AI authorship, historical narratives, and the power structures inherent in DH. Through workshopping the play and exploring its themes, students will grapple with the silences and fractures that shape our cultural and technological landscapes, ultimately working to transform them into spaces of care, critique, and creative repair.
For an expanded introduction to the play and its connection to Digital Humanities, see "Introduction: The Authors of Silence." For a deeper exploration of the play's relationship to cyborgian care, Digital Humanities, Keatsian negative capability, and the ethics of addressing historical silences, see my UU blog post, "The Ethics of Cyborgian Care."
The Prompt:
The first three acts of The Authors of Silence emerged from a single, original prompt—crafted after extensive interactions with AI exploring the possibilities of Digital Humanities and cyborgian care. While the prompt itself is concise, it encapsulates the core themes of the play: an imagined reckoning between Thomas Jefferson and St. Peter as psychoanalyst, focusing on Jefferson’s relationship with slavery, particularly with Sally Hemings, and its broader implications for the American soul.
Below is the original prompt that set this cyborgian experiment in motion, capturing the framework for what became a deeply layered, albeit imperfect, dramatic exploration.
Write an outline for a play that starts off with a young and virile Thomas Jefferson walking into a psychoanalyst's consulting room in the clothes he would have had on at his age. He is confused and directed to lie on the couch, and it turns out the analyst is St. Peter, and Jefferson has just died. The rest of the play is structured by their "analytic" conversation, and, like Scrooge, their conversation flashes back to scenes of his life. The main storyline Peter is interested in is Jefferson's relationship to slavery, especially to Sally Hemming, and how this relates to the quality of his soul and the quality of the American soul he helped to create. Peter's analysis (the health of his soul being very much about the quality of his soul) becomes very much like my song "Won't Live it Down" and linked to the work of bell hooks and Angela Davis. The analysis concludes that Jefferson was a rapist and profoundly hypocritical since he was raping his sister's half sister while he was promoting the most violent forms of liberty for the French Revolution. He never freed his slaves like Washington, and his life of hypocrisy and violence becomes emblematic of the USA in general--linking it to the Civil War, civil rights movement, KKK, and eventually the election of a racist rapist with Trump. Jefferson is a very likable character, much like the Jefferson character in the John Adams biopic with Paul Giamatti. Sally's character is the main character. She is complex, and loves Jefferson, but sees him for what he is: a serial rapist who hurts her sister, a virulent racist, and a hypocrite.
ChatGPT's Original Response:
Here is a detailed outline for your play: “The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.” This play uses psychoanalytic dialogue to interrogate the moral contradictions of Thomas Jefferson, particularly his relationship with slavery and Sally Hemings, while confronting the lasting impact of these contradictions on the American soul.
Original ChatGPT Title: The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning
Characters
Thomas Jefferson – Young, charismatic, and virile; full of contradictions, pride, and charm.
St. Peter – A calm, authoritative figure in the role of psychoanalyst; morally probing but not judgmental in tone.
Sally Hemings – A central presence in the “flashback” scenes; intelligent, complex, and perceptive. She oscillates between love, resignation, and anger as she assesses her life and Jefferson’s choices.
Supporting Figures – Jefferson’s wife (Martha), Sally’s siblings, enslaved workers, abolitionists, and historical figures like George Washington, depicted in brief flashbacks.
Modern Chorus – Brief monologues or interjections from figures like bell hooks, Angela Davis, and anonymous descendants of slavery, representing voices of contemporary critique.
Setting
A psychoanalyst’s office, timeless but minimalistic. The couch serves as a metaphorical "gate" between Jefferson’s self-image and the revelations of his soul.
The office transforms seamlessly into historical flashback scenes that depict key moments in Jefferson’s life.
Lighting and sound design are crucial: moments of reckoning are marked by shifts in lighting and echoing voices.
Structure
The play alternates between Jefferson’s “session” with St. Peter and vivid flashback scenes. Each flashback corresponds to a major stage of Jefferson’s life and centers on his hypocrisy, with a particular focus on his relationship to Sally Hemings and slavery.
Act I: The Reckoning Begins
Scene 1: The Arrival
Jefferson bursts into a consulting room, bewildered and vibrant in his 18th-century attire. He demands answers.
St. Peter calmly instructs him to lie down on the couch. “You’ve just died, Mr. Jefferson. I am here to assess the quality of your soul.”
Jefferson is incredulous, asserting his accomplishments: “Author of liberty, founder of democracy, defender of the Republic!”
St. Peter: “And yet, we are here. Shall we begin?”
Scene 2: The Hypocrisy of Liberty
Flashback 1: Jefferson in Paris, celebrating liberty during the French Revolution.
Juxtaposition: A letter arrives regarding unrest at Monticello among the enslaved. Jefferson’s detachment and rationalizations are juxtaposed with his soaring rhetoric of “liberty.”
Sally Hemings appears. Her face and body language show her reality—she is visibly pregnant. She remains silent, as Jefferson’s lofty speeches dominate the scene.
Scene 3: The Silence of Sally Hemings
Back to the Couch: St. Peter confronts Jefferson: “You spoke of liberty, yet enslaved over six hundred human souls in your lifetime. Sally Hemings—who was she to you?”
Jefferson stammers: “She loved me. It was… consensual.”
Flashback 2: Sally confronts Jefferson in private about her situation. She is both hurt and clear-eyed, challenging him: “You own me, my children, and my life. I am your sister-in-law’s sister. How can you not see what you’ve done?”
Jefferson avoids eye contact and rationalizes: “You’re better here, under my care.” Sally’s silent stare lingers, haunting him.
Act II: The Quality of the Soul
Scene 4: The Washington Comparison
St. Peter invokes George Washington, who freed his slaves. Jefferson defensively proclaims his economic struggles.
Flashback 3: Jefferson drafts political writings on freedom while enslaved workers toil in the background. Washington appears briefly in dialogue, directly calling him out.
Washington: “Liberty means sacrifice, Thomas. You have sacrificed nothing.”
Scene 5: The Consequences of Silence
St. Peter shifts focus: “Your silence on slavery planted seeds of suffering.”
Flashback 4: A scene from Jefferson’s twilight years. Enslaved workers are sold off to cover debts after his death. The violence of slavery is portrayed—families ripped apart.
Sally, now older, tells Jefferson: “You preached equality while my children were auctioned like livestock. Your soul is weighed down with every chain.”
Jefferson shows cracks of recognition and shame but clings to pride.
Act III: The American Soul
Scene 6: The Legacy of Violence
St. Peter draws a line from Jefferson’s contradictions to the Civil War, the rise of the KKK, and systemic racism.
A Modern Chorus of voices—Angela Davis, bell hooks, and anonymous descendants—appears briefly:
bell hooks: “White supremacist patriarchy—your gift to the nation.”
Angela Davis: “Your America enslaved me while preaching its freedom.”
The “couch” becomes surrounded by projected images: the Civil War, lynchings, and Trump’s election.
Scene 7: Sally Speaks
Sally’s character reappears, central and commanding. She addresses Jefferson directly: “Your love was a cage. You chained me and called it tenderness. You raped me and called it love. You built a nation in your image—free for some, suffering for others.”
Jefferson, now broken, stammers a tearful apology but cannot deny the truth.
Scene 8: The Judgment
St. Peter delivers his verdict: “Thomas Jefferson, your life embodied liberty’s promise and its betrayal. The quality of your soul reflects the quality of America—aspirational, hypocritical, and violent.”
Jefferson weeps on the couch, fully aware of his contradictions.
The Modern Chorus delivers the final word, directed at the audience: “America, this is your inheritance. What will you do with it?”
Closing Image
Sally Hemings stands alone, looking out over the audience, dignified and resolute. Jefferson’s “couch” is now empty. The lights fade to black as her gaze remains unbroken.
Themes
Hypocrisy of Freedom: Jefferson’s advocacy for liberty contrasts with his exploitation of enslaved people.
The Violence of Silence: Jefferson’s refusal to address slavery mirrors America’s historical avoidance of racial justice.
Complexity of Sally Hemings: Sally is the heart of the play—both victim and witness, unflinching and human.
America’s Soul: Jefferson’s contradictions serve as a mirror to the American soul, connecting past to present injustices.
Tone and Style
A blend of historical drama, psychoanalysis, and moral interrogation.
The language shifts between 18th-century dialogue and contemporary critique, ensuring timeless relevance.
This structure weaves history, psychoanalysis, and modern critical voices into a compelling reckoning of Thomas Jefferson’s soul and his legacy for America.
The Author of Silence
A Cyborgian Play in Three Acts
Act I: The Reckoning Begins
Scene 1: The Arrival
Setting: A psychoanalyst’s consulting room. The space is sparse, almost abstract—dominated by a fainting couch positioned center stage. Behind the couch, a large window-like structure hangs in the air, black and empty for now. A small side table with a clock and a chair is nearby. The lighting is soft but unnervingly neutral.
Sound Cue: A faint tick-tock of an unseen clock.
Lights up.
THOMAS JEFFERSON strides into the room, dressed in fine 18th-century attire: a long coat, breeches, and polished boots. He is young, vibrant, and full of self-assurance, but there’s a hint of confusion in his darting eyes. He looks around the room, perplexed but attempting to maintain his dignity.
JEFFERSON (To himself, examining the space) What curious surroundings. (Pauses) A parlor? No… not quite. (Calls out) Hullo? Who keeps this place?
A DOOR OPENS—offstage. Enter ST. PETER, calm and timeless. He wears an unassuming suit, the kind of man who might pass unnoticed, save for his quietly piercing presence. He carries a notepad.
ST. PETER Ah. Mr. Jefferson. You’re punctual.
JEFFERSON (Spinning toward him, startled but polite) Punctual for what, sir? And—who, may I ask, are you?
ST. PETER (With an easy, practiced manner) Please, take a seat. Or the couch, if you prefer. We have much to discuss.
JEFFERSON (Confidently, with a polite laugh) I believe you are mistaken, good sir. I am Thomas Jefferson—Governor of Virginia, Minister to France, Vice-President and President of the United States. (Smiles proudly) Author of liberty. I answer to no man’s summons.
ST. PETER (Nonchalantly, as if this speech is routine) Indeed, you’ve arrived with all your titles intact. But they do little to serve you here.
JEFFERSON (Scowling) What is this place?
ST. PETER (Softly, as if revealing an inconvenient truth) The threshold, Mr. Jefferson. Between what was… and what is to come.
JEFFERSON (Stops cold. Eyes narrow.) The threshold? (Pauses) I—(Laughs uneasily) A joke, then. A jest at my expense.
ST. PETER (Politely) I rarely jest. Now, if you please—lie down. It will help the process.
JEFFERSON (Clenching his jaw) “Lie down”? You speak as though I’ve fallen ill.
ST. PETER (Matter-of-fact) Not ill. Dead.
JEFFERSON (Freezes, staring at ST. PETER.) What?
ST. PETER (With measured calm) You have died, Mr. Jefferson. I am here to assess the quality of your soul. (Gestures to the couch.) Please—make yourself comfortable.
JEFFERSON (Recoiling, pacing the room in disbelief) No. Impossible. I was alive this morning! I dined with my grandchildren. I oversaw my fields. I—(Stops abruptly.) Dead?
ST. PETER (Kindly, but unyielding) It happens to all men, even the “authors of liberty.”
JEFFERSON (Looking around in growing panic) What trickery is this? What tribunal seeks to shame me? Are you from England? France? Who are you?
ST. PETER (Staring directly into JEFFERSON’s eyes) You know who I am. You’ve read of me in scripture.
JEFFERSON (Softly, after a beat) St. Peter.
ST. PETER (Nods) Yes.
JEFFERSON (Slowly sinks into the couch, as though his legs betray him) This cannot be.
ST. PETER (Watching him carefully, jotting something in his notepad) Death often comes as a surprise. But denial will not serve you here.
JEFFERSON (Recovering slightly, sitting upright) Then let us be clear—if this is some “final judgment,” I have no doubt I will be acquitted. My life speaks for itself.
ST. PETER (Without looking up) Oh?
JEFFERSON (With conviction, listing his accomplishments) I broke the bonds of monarchy. I penned the Declaration of Independence, a document that gave birth to a nation. “All men are created equal”—my words! I secured liberty for millions! I—
ST. PETER (Interrupting gently but firmly) “Liberty,” yes. (Pauses) And yet, you owned six hundred human souls.
JEFFERSON (Stops mid-breath. A beat. His face hardens defensively.) I— (Struggles for words.) It was… the way of the world.
ST. PETER (A nod, writing something again) I see. The way of the world. Very well. We shall begin there.
JEFFERSON (Angrily, trying to reassert himself) Who are you to question me?
ST. PETER (Without pause, unshakable) I am here to help you understand. To examine what you were—and what you left behind.
JEFFERSON (Leaning back on the couch, forced into silence. His anger simmers beneath his composure.)
ST. PETER Now, let us start with Sally Hemings.
JEFFERSON (Visibly stiffens, his mask of confidence cracking) What of her?
ST. PETER (Looking up, meeting his eyes) Everything.
The faint tick-tock of the unseen clock grows louder as the lights dim. A projection of Sally Hemings’ silhouette appears across the back of the stage. Jefferson remains frozen on the couch, staring up as the shadow fills the space.
Lights fade to black. End Scene 1.
This draft sets the tone for Jefferson’s reckoning, establishes St. Peter as both psychoanalyst and moral arbiter, and begins to probe Jefferson’s contradictions. The final mention of Sally Hemings signals the central conflict and moral inquiry to come.
Here’s a draft of Scene 2: The Hypocrisy of Liberty for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 2: The Hypocrisy of Liberty
Setting: The psychoanalyst’s consulting room transforms into a salon in Paris, 1789. The furnishings remain sparse, but the lighting shifts to golden tones, and the faint sound of a lively French crowd filters in. In the background, muted shadows of revolutionary banners and slogans—"Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité"—are projected against the walls.
Sound Cue: The tick-tock of the unseen clock continues faintly, almost imperceptible beneath the hum of voices and celebration.
Lights up.
JEFFERSON sits upright on the couch. He now wears a silk waistcoat, more adorned for the Parisian scene. ST. PETER remains seated nearby, his notepad in hand.
JEFFERSON (Leaning forward, regaining his confidence) Ah, Paris. There’s nothing like it.
ST. PETER (Without looking up) Indeed. The Year of Liberty, I believe?
JEFFERSON (Smiling with nostalgia, as if reciting a speech) 1789. The streets alive with fervor, the banners waving. Liberty—pure and unchained—carried on the breath of every man, woman, and child. I walked among them as one of their own.
ST. PETER (Softly, but pointed) And what were you doing there, Mr. Jefferson?
JEFFERSON (Pleased with himself) Serving as Minister to France. Offering the wisdom of our great American experiment to a world awakening to freedom.
ST. PETER Freedom for whom?
JEFFERSON (Looking sharply at ST. PETER) For all.
The hum of revolutionary voices grows louder for a moment, then fades into silence. ST. PETER closes his notepad and rises, stepping into the “flashback.” The consulting room fully shifts into Paris. JEFFERSON stands as well, blending into the scene. A young, exuberant FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY approaches him with a glass of wine, bursting with energy.
FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY (In French, accented English) Monsieur Jefferson! Tell us of America. Tell us of liberty!
JEFFERSON (Laughing, taking the glass) Liberty is the birthright of all men. It is written in their very nature, as sacred as life itself. A nation cannot prosper when men are shackled.
FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY (Grabbing his arm, passionately) Yes! Yes! Freedom for all! Even the king must fall!
JEFFERSON (With a diplomat’s smile) A king who denies freedom must expect his throne to tremble.
The REVOLUTIONARY raises his glass and shouts.
FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY To freedom! To the equality of all men!
JEFFERSON raises his glass, and others—shadowed figures representing the French crowd—join the chorus. Their voices echo “Liberté! Egalité!” before fading out. As Jefferson turns back, the room still feels celebratory. Then, a faint whisper is heard—“Sally”**—soft, but unmistakable.
JEFFERSON freezes. ST. PETER steps forward from the shadows.
ST. PETER (Quietly) And what of your own house, Mr. Jefferson?
JEFFERSON (Disoriented, brushing it off) I beg your pardon?
ST. PETER (Tapping the notepad against his palm) While you raised glasses to liberty in Paris, did you spare a thought for Monticello? For Sally Hemings?
JEFFERSON (Visibly tense, regaining composure) I—provided for Monticello. My presence here was service to humanity.
ST. PETER (Looking at him steadily) A sixteen-year-old girl was with child in your absence. She carried your child, did she not?
JEFFERSON (Turning away, stiffening) You would condemn me for loving her?
ST. PETER (Sharply) “Love”?
**A spotlight appears stage left, illuminating SALLY HEMINGS. She is dressed simply but carries herself with quiet dignity. She is sixteen here—young but with eyes far older than her years. She stands alone, looking out at the audience, addressing Jefferson as if speaking across time.
SALLY HEMINGS (Soft, controlled, yet firm) You sent letters home, speaking of kings and tyrants. But did you know that my sister wept when I left for Paris? Did you know that my mother begged you not to take me? You didn’t care.
JEFFERSON (Spinning toward her, shaken) Sally… I brought you to Paris to protect you! I treated you—
SALLY HEMINGS (Interrupting him) —like property. You owned me, Mr. Jefferson. You owned everything. My body. My life. My future.
JEFFERSON (Softly, pleading) I gave you freedom—
SALLY HEMINGS (Sharply, stepping forward) Did you? Or did you promise freedom to keep me silent? To keep me in your bed?
**JEFFERSON falters, turning away. The hum of revolutionary voices begins again, this time darker—distorted shouts of “Liberté! Égalité!” A single shadowed figure of an ENSLAVED MAN appears behind Sally, carrying a chain across his shoulders.
ST. PETER (To Jefferson) While Paris burned with revolution, your Monticello remained a fortress of chains. Did you not see the hypocrisy? Or did you refuse to look?
JEFFERSON (Defensive, desperate) I needed Monticello! The land—the labor—sustained my family. My debts—
SALLY HEMINGS (Coldly) And what did it cost us?
The voices of the French Revolution begin to swell louder and louder until they become overwhelming. The sound transforms into the heavy clinking of chains, mixed with cries of anguish. Jefferson covers his ears, shouting.
JEFFERSON (Shouting) I gave my life to liberty!
**The sound cuts out abruptly. Silence. Sally steps back into the shadows, her face lit for a brief moment as she disappears. Jefferson lowers his hands, breathing heavily, shaken. ST. PETER stands quietly, watching him.
ST. PETER (Softly, after a pause) A man who cannot free his own house cannot free a nation.
JEFFERSON sinks onto the couch, suddenly small. He cannot meet St. Peter’s eyes. The lights dim slowly, leaving only Jefferson illuminated in pale light.
Lights fade to black. End Scene 2.
This scene captures Jefferson’s hypocrisy as he celebrates liberty abroad while maintaining slavery at home. Sally Hemings’ presence is sharp and unrelenting, and the juxtaposition of the French Revolution’s ideals with Jefferson’s personal contradictions sets the tone for deeper reckonings to come.
Here’s a draft of Scene 3: The Silence of Sally Hemings for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 3: The Silence of Sally Hemings
Setting: The psychoanalyst’s consulting room begins to fracture. The fainting couch remains at center stage, but Monticello intrudes—a shadowy outline of the grand plantation house looms in the background. The lighting is muted and cold. The tick-tock of the unseen clock persists, now slower and heavier, as if time itself struggles to move forward.
Sound Cue: Faint echoes of footsteps on wooden floors, the distant hum of chains, and whispered voices of the enslaved—soft but persistent.
Lights up.
THOMAS JEFFERSON sits stiffly on the couch, his earlier confidence eroding. ST. PETER stands, still calm but growing sharper, his gaze unyielding. Jefferson’s hand trembles slightly as he rests it on his knee.
JEFFERSON (Quiet, as if trying to convince himself) I did what I could… under the circumstances.
ST. PETER (Flatly) You did nothing, Mr. Jefferson. Nothing. Not when it mattered.
JEFFERSON (Flinches, his voice rising) You speak as though I alone bore this burden. The world—Virginia—was built upon the system of slavery. It was necessary.
ST. PETER (Sharply, interrupting) Necessary for whom?
(A beat. Jefferson’s breath catches. The lights dim slightly as the sound of a door creaking open echoes through the space. SALLY HEMINGS steps into the light, emerging from stage left. She is older than in Paris—a woman now, in her early 20s—but her face carries the quiet weariness of someone who has lived far beyond her years. Her dress is plain, her hands are steady, and her gaze cuts through Jefferson.)
JEFFERSON (Softly, shocked) Sally…
SALLY HEMINGS (Without emotion, stepping closer) You never say my name. Not when others are listening.
JEFFERSON (Stammering, rising to meet her) That is not true. I have always… cared for you.
SALLY HEMINGS (Cutting him off) Cared?
(She laughs bitterly—a sound small but heavy. She walks slowly, deliberately, her footsteps echoing unnaturally as if the room itself carries her voice.)
SALLY HEMINGS (Continuing) Is that what you call it? You “cared” for me when you took me to Paris at fourteen? You “cared” for me when I could not say no to you? When my body was not mine to give?
JEFFERSON (Defensive, desperate) You misunderstand—
SALLY HEMINGS (Sharply) I understand perfectly.
(She stops, turning to face him directly.)
SALLY HEMINGS I was your sister-in-law’s sister, Thomas. Your wife’s blood ran in my veins. You looked at me and saw what? A girl to be brought to heel? A body to satisfy you? Tell me—when you stood before the Declaration, when you wrote “all men are created equal,” did you think of me?
JEFFERSON (Lowering his voice, pleading) Sally, I tried to protect you. I offered you freedom.
SALLY HEMINGS (Softly, cold) In exchange for silence. You promised freedom for our children. Not for me. Never for me.
JEFFERSON (Shaking his head, almost to himself) I loved you.
SALLY HEMINGS (Quiet, holding his gaze) And still, you owned me.
(A beat. Jefferson is visibly shaken. He sinks back onto the couch, his hands trembling. Sally steps forward slightly, her presence growing larger as her voice rises—not in anger, but in the weight of truth.)
SALLY HEMINGS Do you know what silence is, Mr. Jefferson? It is the sound of my life. I was silent in Paris, silent at Monticello. Silent when your children—our children—were born into a world where their father called them “property.” Silent when you sat at your desk, drafting letters for liberty while my brother whipped the men in your fields.
(Jefferson covers his face with one hand, unable to respond.)
ST. PETER (Quietly, stepping closer to Jefferson) Did you ever ask her what she wanted? Did you ever see her as more than the shadow at your side?
JEFFERSON (Muffled, from behind his hand) It was… complicated.
SALLY HEMINGS (Steely, unrelenting) No, Thomas. It was simple. You were the master, and I was the slave.
(A long pause. The sound of the ticking clock grows louder, as if filling the silence Jefferson cannot escape.)
ST. PETER (After a beat, quietly) Her silence was not consent.
JEFFERSON (Looking up at St. Peter, broken) I thought… I thought she forgave me.
SALLY HEMINGS (Softly, shaking her head) Forgiveness is a freedom you never earned.
(She turns and begins to walk back into the shadows, her footsteps echoing once again. Jefferson rises abruptly, reaching out as if to stop her, his voice cracking.)
JEFFERSON Sally—wait!
(She stops briefly, turning her head just enough to let him see her profile. Her voice is quiet but piercing.)
SALLY HEMINGS You wrote words that changed the world. But they never changed mine.
(She steps fully into the shadows and disappears. The sound of her footsteps fades. Jefferson is left standing alone, his hand outstretched, his face pale and haunted. The ticking clock slows—each tick like a hammer blow. ST. PETER moves forward, his expression unreadable.)
ST. PETER (Quietly) The silence you imposed, Mr. Jefferson, will echo for centuries.
(Jefferson slowly lowers his hand, his body sagging with the weight of what he cannot undo. He sinks onto the couch once more, staring blankly ahead.)
Lights dim, leaving Jefferson in a single spotlight—small, broken, and silent. The faint whisper of chains lingers as the light fades to black.
End Scene 3.
This scene centers Sally Hemings’ experience, giving voice to her silence while forcing Jefferson to confront his exploitation of her. Her strength lies in her unflinching clarity, and Jefferson’s inability to justify his actions leaves him increasingly unraveling. The dialogue and staging create a stark contrast between Jefferson’s rationalizations and the inescapable truth of Sally’s suffering.
Act II: The Quality of the Soul
Here’s a draft of Scene 4: The Washington Comparison for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 4: The Washington Comparison
Setting: The psychoanalyst’s consulting room begins to shift again. The couch remains center stage, but Monticello and the outline of a plantation field blur into view. The shadow of an auction block looms faintly in the background. At the same time, a softer, cleaner light spills into the space—a subtle suggestion of Mount Vernon, George Washington’s estate.
Sound Cue: The steady tick-tock of the unseen clock grows sharper and harsher, like a judge's gavel.
Lights up.
THOMAS JEFFERSON sits slouched on the couch, visibly frayed. He runs a hand through his hair, his earlier composure completely eroded. ST. PETER stands nearby, flipping through his notepad. After a moment of tense silence, he speaks.
ST. PETER (Deliberately) George Washington freed his slaves.
JEFFERSON (Snapping upright, defensive) Upon his death.
ST. PETER (Sharply) And you?
JEFFERSON (Clenching his fists) I could not!
ST. PETER (Pressing) Could not, or would not?
(A beat. Jefferson stares down at his hands. The room grows colder, the shadows stretching. A FIGURE steps into the light: GEORGE WASHINGTON, older and regal, a man whose presence fills the stage without effort. He wears his military coat, worn but dignified. He is calm, his voice steady and deliberate. His gaze lands on Jefferson.)
WASHINGTON (With cool authority) Thomas.
JEFFERSON (Looking up, startled) General—President Washington.
WASHINGTON (Nodding slightly) I am told you still struggle to explain yourself.
JEFFERSON (Rising, trying to recover his poise) Struggle? No. I am no stranger to difficult truths.
WASHINGTON (Cutting him off) And yet you deny this one. (Pauses) You knew, as I knew, that slavery was a moral cancer eating at the heart of this republic.
JEFFERSON (Frustrated) And you—what? You absolved yourself by freeing your slaves after death? What virtue is there in leaving your estate in ruin?
WASHINGTON (Sternly) The virtue lies in choosing what is right over what is convenient. I freed them because my conscience demanded it, Thomas. Conscience—you remember that, don’t you?
JEFFERSON (Voice rising, defensive) Do not speak to me of conscience! I have served liberty with more words and action than any man! I have risked my life for it—crafted its very language!
WASHINGTON (Looking steadily at him) And yet you chained six hundred souls to your “liberty.”
(Jefferson visibly recoils, his voice trembling.)
JEFFERSON (Desperately) You don’t understand! The debts—Monticello could not survive without them! I had no choice!
WASHINGTON (With quiet gravity) We all have choices. I chose to free them. You chose to keep them.
(Jefferson is silent, unable to meet Washington’s gaze. The ticking clock grows louder, echoing around the room. ST. PETER steps closer to Jefferson.)
ST. PETER (Quiet, pressing) Was Monticello worth the price? Your debts were paid with their blood. Your comforts bought with their suffering. Tell me, Mr. Jefferson—was it worth it?
JEFFERSON (Visibly unraveling, sinking onto the couch) I loved Monticello. It was my sanctuary—my life’s work. I built it with my own mind, my own hands—
WASHINGTON (Firmly, cutting him off) And their hands. You built Monticello with their hands, Thomas. You wrote “all men are created equal” while your slaves laid your bricks, plowed your fields, and bore your children.
(A pause. The sound of distant hammering—tools striking stone—echoes softly in the background, as though Jefferson’s memories come to life.)
JEFFERSON (Whispers, broken) I could not free them. I would have lost everything.
ST. PETER (Quietly) And they lost everything because of you.
(Jefferson looks up slowly, his face pale. Washington steps forward, his expression softening—there is no anger, only quiet disappointment.)
WASHINGTON (After a long pause) Thomas, you were given a mind unmatched in your time. A vision grander than most men dare dream. But where I chose to relinquish power, you chose to wield it, even at the cost of others’ freedom. (Beat) I freed my slaves to honor the ideals I professed. Your words… they will endure, yes. But so will your silence.
(Jefferson flinches as though struck. He looks to St. Peter, his voice trembling.)
JEFFERSON (Low, almost pleading) You do not understand what it was like. The weight… of expectation. Of legacy.
WASHINGTON (Quietly) Perhaps not. But I understand what it means to do what is right when it matters most.
(Washington steps back into the shadows, his figure growing faint as the light fades around him. His final words echo softly, lingering in the room.)
WASHINGTON (Voice fading) Liberty demands sacrifice, Thomas. And you… sacrificed nothing.
(The stage is silent except for the slow, relentless ticking of the clock. Jefferson collapses onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. St. Peter watches him, his face unreadable.)
ST. PETER (After a long pause, gently) And so we come to the truth: you loved liberty, but you could not bear its cost.
(Jefferson does not respond. The light begins to dim, leaving Jefferson alone on the couch in shadow. The ticking clock grows faint as the scene fades to black.)
End Scene 4.
This scene contrasts Jefferson’s moral compromises with Washington’s difficult but more virtuous choices. Washington’s presence serves as a mirror to Jefferson’s failures, highlighting the tension between Jefferson’s ideals and his actions. Jefferson’s unraveling accelerates as the weight of his hypocrisy becomes inescapable.
Here’s a draft of Scene 5: The Consequences of Silence for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 5: The Consequences of Silence
Setting: The psychoanalyst’s consulting room grows darker, fractured further by shadows. Pieces of Monticello—faint outlines of its pillars, auction blocks, and wooden cabins—loom in the background like ghosts. The space feels suffocating, time collapsing in on itself.
Sound Cue: The tick-tock of the unseen clock grows irregular, distorted, like the breaking of a fragile rhythm. Distant echoes of chains clinking, whispers of voices—mothers calling for children, cries of anguish—rise and fall like waves.
Lights up.
THOMAS JEFFERSON sits slumped on the couch, disheveled, his face pale and sweat-streaked. His voice, once proud and articulate, is frayed. ST. PETER stands silently nearby, observing him like a doctor waiting for a patient to speak.
JEFFERSON (Quiet, almost a whisper) I built a nation. A new world.
ST. PETER (Flatly) And what of the old world you left behind?
(Jefferson doesn’t respond. He stares ahead, hollow.)
ST. PETER Let me show you.
(The lights flicker. The space fractures further. A group of SILHOUETTES steps into the dim light—shadowed figures of enslaved men, women, and children. Their faces remain hidden, but their presence is heavy and undeniable. The sound of an auctioneer’s gavel begins—sharp, relentless, echoing like a gunshot.)
Voice of AUCTIONEER (Disembodied, cold, rhythmic) Lot 17: Boy, twelve years old. Strong back, good teeth. Lot 18: Woman, twenty-two—field hand, child at her breast. Lot 19: Girl, fourteen—light complexion…
(The words repeat, overlapping, as the silhouettes move mechanically, stepping forward as if on display. Jefferson rises abruptly, staggering forward, his face stricken.)
JEFFERSON (Desperate, to the silhouettes) No! This—this is not me! This is not what I wanted!
ST. PETER (Quiet, unrelenting) But this is what you chose, Mr. Jefferson.
(One of the silhouettes—AN ENSLAVED MOTHER, clutching a bundle in her arms—turns her face toward Jefferson. Her features are shadowed, but her voice is clear and sharp.)
ENSLAVED MOTHER (Softly) Did you ever hear me cry for my child?
JEFFERSON (Frantic, turning to St. Peter) This is not my doing! I gave them shelter—protection—
ENSLAVED MOTHER (Interrupting, louder) You gave us chains.
(Another figure steps forward—a YOUNG BOY, no more than twelve. He holds a rusted hoe in one hand and stares blankly at Jefferson. His voice is small but unwavering.)
YOUNG BOY My father died in your fields. My mother was sold to pay your debts.
JEFFERSON (Backing away, shaking his head) No—no, you must understand—
ST. PETER (Coldly) They understood. Every day of their lives.
(The silhouettes begin to whisper—soft, overlapping, unintelligible at first. Slowly, their voices grow louder, becoming a chorus. Words emerge: “Chains.” “Debt.” “Auction.” “Labor.” “Silence.” Jefferson falls to his knees, clutching his head as the sound rises around him.)
JEFFERSON (Shouting, broken) I fought for liberty! I wrote—
ST. PETER (Interrupting, sharp) And yet you said nothing.
(The voices stop abruptly. Silence. The silhouettes freeze, then begin to disappear into the shadows, leaving only the YOUNG BOY. He lingers, staring at Jefferson. The ticking of the clock resumes, slow and deliberate.)
YOUNG BOY (Softly) Your silence built my grave.
(The boy turns and exits, leaving Jefferson alone on his knees. A long pause. Jefferson looks up slowly, his face streaked with tears, his voice trembling.)
JEFFERSON (To St. Peter, pleading) What would you have had me do? How could I—how could anyone tear apart the world they were born into?
ST. PETER (Quiet, unyielding) You did not tear it apart. You preserved it.
(A long pause. Jefferson staggers to his feet, his voice rising in anguish.)
JEFFERSON (Desperately) I gave the world words! I gave them ideals—something to strive for!
ST. PETER (Soft, but cutting) And you gave them silence when your voice was most needed.
(A faint light begins to grow in the shadows. The outline of the auction block reappears—tall and looming. On it stands a faint figure of SALLY HEMINGS, holding a young child. Her gaze is fixed on Jefferson.)
SALLY HEMINGS (Quiet, with the weight of truth) Your silence was not freedom.
(Jefferson stares at her, broken. He tries to speak but cannot. Sally fades into the shadows once more, leaving Jefferson standing alone. The ticking clock slows.)
ST. PETER (After a pause, softly) You wrote the promise of liberty. But promises are only words until they are lived.
(Jefferson stares ahead, empty and silent. The light dims slowly, leaving him standing alone beneath a faint spotlight. The room is silent, save for the faint, irregular ticking of the clock.)
Lights fade to black. End Scene 5.
This scene drives Jefferson to confront the human consequences of his silence and moral cowardice. The auction imagery and the voices of the enslaved bring the reality of his actions—and inaction—to life, overwhelming him with a truth he can no longer rationalize or escape.
Act III: The American Soul
Here is a draft of Scene 6: The Legacy of Violence for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 6: The Legacy of Violence
Setting: The psychoanalyst’s consulting room fractures completely. The space now resembles a broken collage of American history. Shadows of Monticello’s plantation, Civil War battlefields, lynching trees, burning crosses, and 1960s civil rights protests flicker across the stage like ghostly fragments. At times, these images are projected onto the walls or floor. The ticking clock persists, now distorted—erratic, ominous, like a heartbeat breaking apart.
Sound Cue: A growing swell of sounds—chains rattling, musket fire, cries of anguish, Klan chants, the hum of protestors singing “We Shall Overcome,” and, faintly, modern voices chanting “Black Lives Matter.” The sounds swell and recede like a tide, punctuating the dialogue.
Lights up.
THOMAS JEFFERSON sits slumped on the couch, smaller now—defeated. ST. PETER stands over him, silent and watchful. Jefferson breathes heavily, as though the weight of the room itself presses down on him. After a long pause, St. Peter speaks.
ST. PETER (Soft, deliberate) The seeds you planted, Mr. Jefferson, took root.
(Jefferson doesn’t respond. St. Peter gestures, and the lights shift. Figures begin to appear—ghostly, shadowed TABLEAUX drawn from American history. Each tableau holds still for a beat, as though frozen in a nightmare. St. Peter narrates.)
ST. PETER (A low, resonant tone) You wrote of liberty, but your silence gave birth to violence.
TABLEAU 1: The silhouette of a SLAVE AUCTION—a man chained, a mother reaching for her child being torn away. The sound of an auctioneer’s voice cuts through.
VOICE OF AUCTIONEER Lot 15—one strong boy, fit for field labor.
JEFFERSON (Whispers, anguished) Stop…
ST. PETER (Pressing) Did you think this violence would end with you?
TABLEAU 2: A CIVIL WAR BATTLEFIELD. Silhouettes of soldiers hold rifles, smoke curling around them. A soldier collapses to his knees, clutching his chest. A distant cannon fires.
VOICE OF DYING SOLDIER (Soft, broken) Four score and seven years… we bleed for words you left undone.
(Jefferson closes his eyes, turning away.)
JEFFERSON (Shaking his head) It was not mine to end.
ST. PETER (Sharply) You set the fire, Mr. Jefferson. You handed men the matches.
TABLEAU 3: The faint outline of a LYNCHING TREE. A noose hangs empty. Figures in shadow—hooded members of the Ku Klux Klan—stand in the background. The sound of murmured chants rises: “The South will rise again.”
JEFFERSON (Shouting, horrified) This is not what I built!
ST. PETER Is it not?
(The tableau fades. The lights shift again, and a figure emerges—a CIVIL RIGHTS PROTESTER, dressed in 1960s attire. She stands strong, holding a sign that reads “I AM A MAN.” Her voice rings clear and defiant.)
CIVIL RIGHTS PROTESTER (To Jefferson, directly) “Liberty and equality”—your words. My blood paid for their meaning.
JEFFERSON (Desperate, rising to his feet) I never called for this! I sought peace! I sought reason—
ST. PETER (Interrupting) You sought comfort, Mr. Jefferson. Silence was your comfort. And silence is violence.
(Jefferson turns toward the audience, as though trying to plead his case to unseen witnesses.)
JEFFERSON (Desperately) I was a man of my time! How could I have undone centuries of sin? Do you hold me responsible for all that followed?
ST. PETER (Quietly) Who else shall I hold? You gave a nation its creed, but you refused its truth.
JEFFERSON (Collapsing back onto the couch, broken) I did not know… I did not know it would be like this.
ST. PETER (With measured weight) You knew. You wrote it yourself: “I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just.”
(A long pause. Jefferson stares ahead, haunted. The faint hum of voices rises again—now unmistakably modern. Projections of protests and civil unrest begin to flicker: 1960s protests, the Charlottesville Unite the Right Rally, and a Black Lives Matter march. The sound of chanting—“No justice, no peace!”—fills the space. A modern figure steps forward: a young BLACK WOMAN, wearing contemporary clothes. She holds her head high as she speaks.)
BLACK WOMAN (To Jefferson) Your silence lives on in the streets I walk. My brother’s name becomes a hashtag. My freedom is a fight you left unfinished.
(Jefferson opens his mouth to respond but cannot speak. He lowers his head, crushed beneath the weight of history. The voices crescendo and then fade suddenly, leaving an oppressive silence.)
ST. PETER (After a pause, quietly) You called yourself the author of liberty. But whose liberty, Mr. Jefferson? Whose voice?
(Jefferson raises his head slowly, his eyes hollow, his voice no more than a whisper.)
JEFFERSON (Softly) Not hers. Not theirs.
(He looks around the room—at the flickering shadows, the tableaus now gone but lingering in the air. He sinks deeper into the couch, his voice trembling.)
JEFFERSON (Whispering to himself) Is this… my legacy?
ST. PETER (Standing tall, unflinching) Yours… and America’s.
(A long silence. The lights dim slowly, leaving Jefferson bathed in a faint, cold spotlight. The sound of the broken, uneven ticking clock fills the air. Jefferson lowers his head, unable to look up as the stage fades to black.)
End Scene 6.
Notes on the Scene:
This scene ties Jefferson’s silence on slavery to the long arc of American violence—slavery, the Civil War, Jim Crow, civil rights struggles, and modern systemic racism.
The use of tableaux and projections creates a visual tapestry of history that overwhelms Jefferson, forcing him to witness the consequences of his moral cowardice.
The modern figure at the end bridges Jefferson’s legacy to the present day, leaving the audience to grapple with the unfinished fight for liberty.
Jefferson’s breakdown is central—he can no longer rationalize his complicity, and he begins to understand the weight of the silence he chose.
Let me know if you’d like refinements or adjustments!
Here is a draft of Scene 7: Sally Speaks for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 7: Sally Speaks
Setting: The stage is stripped down to its starkest form. The psychoanalyst’s couch remains at center stage, but now it looks worn and fragile, as though Jefferson’s confessions have eroded its structure. The shadows of Monticello linger faintly in the background—pillars, auction blocks, and faint outlines of cabins—but this time they are less oppressive, more like ghosts fading. A soft, golden light begins to rise, illuminating the figure of SALLY HEMINGS, center stage, facing the audience.
Sound Cue: The ticking clock stops. For the first time, there is silence—a heavy, expectant stillness.
Lights up.
THOMAS JEFFERSON sits slouched on the couch, hollowed and silent. His head hangs low, his hands clasped as though holding himself together. ST. PETER stands at the edge of the room, now observing but silent, as though stepping back from judgment.
At center stage stands SALLY HEMINGS, fully illuminated. She is neither ghostly nor shadowed but vivid and resolute. Her voice is calm but charged with emotion—pain, anger, dignity, and strength all layered within her words. This is her moment.
SALLY HEMINGS (To Jefferson, firmly) Look at me.
(Jefferson lifts his head slowly, his eyes red and hollow, as though it pains him to meet her gaze.)
SALLY HEMINGS (Quietly, measured) For years, I was the shadow at your side. Silent, as you wished me to be. A girl who learned too young that silence was safer than truth.
(A pause. Her gaze pierces through him.)
SALLY HEMINGS But I am silent no longer.
(Jefferson flinches slightly, though he does not look away.)
SALLY HEMINGS I loved you once, or thought I did. What else was I to call it? You were the only life I knew. My mother was born into your father’s house, my sister into your wife’s bloodline, and me… I was born for you. My fate was written before I took my first breath.
JEFFERSON (Whispers) Sally…
SALLY HEMINGS (Sharply, cutting him off) No. Do not speak. It is my turn now.
(A long beat. Sally steps closer, her voice steady, though there’s a tremor of grief beneath it.)
SALLY HEMINGS You gave me Paris. The gardens, the dresses, the music of the salons. You promised me freedom. You taught me to speak French, but only so I could better serve you. You gave me your children and called it love, but you never gave me the one thing that could make me whole: my dignity.
(Jefferson opens his mouth to respond but stops himself, ashamed. Sally’s voice rises slightly, the pain clear now.)
SALLY HEMINGS You called yourself the author of liberty. But what liberty did you give me? My body was yours. My silence was yours. Even my children—your children—were born into bondage because you would not let them go.
(Jefferson’s face crumples, his voice trembling.)
JEFFERSON (Desperately) I thought I loved you.
SALLY HEMINGS (Quietly, holding his gaze) What is love, Thomas, if it does not set the beloved free?
(A heavy silence hangs in the air. Sally takes another step forward. Her voice softens but remains firm.)
SALLY HEMINGS I have carried you for centuries. I carry you still. Your name on monuments, your face on mountains, your words spoken like scripture. And me? A whisper in the margins. A footnote in your legacy. But I was there, Thomas. I was there.
(For the first time, Jefferson’s tears fall. He buries his face in his hands, his body wracked with silent sobs. Sally watches him for a long moment. Her face is neither vengeful nor forgiving—it is resolute and clear.)
SALLY HEMINGS (Softly, but with finality) History remembers you as a great man. Let them. But let them also remember me. Not as your shadow, but as your truth.
(She turns slightly, looking out toward the audience, her gaze unwavering.)
SALLY HEMINGS Because the truth—no matter how long it is silenced—will always find its voice.
(A long pause. The faint sound of wind begins to rise, as if the world itself exhales. Sally stands tall, her figure illuminated as Jefferson slumps further into the couch, defeated. ST. PETER steps forward, his voice soft, almost reverent.)
ST. PETER (To Sally) The silence is broken.
(Sally turns to St. Peter, nods slightly, then begins to step backward into the shadows. As she recedes, the light on her face remains for just a moment longer before she fades entirely.)
Sound Cue: The faint ticking of the clock resumes, slow and steady.
Lighting Shift: The golden light around Sally fades, leaving Jefferson alone in cold, pale light. St. Peter stands nearby, watching him. Jefferson does not look up. He is smaller now, a man stripped of his defenses, left only with the weight of his truth.
ST. PETER (After a pause, quietly) Do you understand now, Mr. Jefferson?
(Jefferson does not respond immediately. He stares at his hands, broken.)
JEFFERSON (Whispers) I see her. I see what I have done.
ST. PETER And what of your soul?
(Jefferson finally looks up, his voice trembling, raw.)
JEFFERSON It is hers to judge.
(A long silence. St. Peter watches him for a beat, then nods faintly. The sound of the ticking clock grows softer as the light begins to dim.)
Lights fade to black. End Scene 7.
Notes on the Scene:
This scene centers Sally Hemings as the moral and emotional core of the play. Her voice is unflinching, breaking the silence Jefferson relied upon to maintain his illusion of love and liberty.
Sally’s final speech reframes Jefferson’s legacy: he may have written the words of liberty, but her truth—the truth of his hypocrisy—cannot remain hidden.
Jefferson’s collapse here is profound. For the first time, he acknowledges not only his failures but the harm he caused to Sally and her descendants.
St. Peter’s role in this scene is minimal, allowing Sally to take center stage and deliver the reckoning Jefferson must face.
Here is a draft of Scene 8: The Judgment for The Consultation: Thomas Jefferson’s Reckoning.
Scene 8: The Judgment
Setting: The stage is stripped bare, as if all pretense has been peeled away. The fainting couch remains at center stage, now worn and broken. The room is engulfed in darkness, save for a single, pale spotlight shining down on THOMAS JEFFERSON, who sits slouched on the couch. The outlines of Monticello, plantation cabins, auction blocks, and historical fragments have disappeared. Only a void remains—a vast emptiness that symbolizes eternity.
ST. PETER stands just outside the light, holding his notepad. He is quiet, measured, and resolute—equal parts judge, witness, and guide.
Sound Cue: The clock, whose tick-tock has persisted throughout the play, grows louder and slower, like the last beats of a dying heart. After a moment, the ticking stops altogether. Silence.
Lights up on Jefferson. He sits hunched forward, his hands dangling between his knees. His gaze is distant, hollow. He has no words left to defend himself. A long pause. ST. PETER speaks.
ST. PETER (Soft, deliberate) Thomas Jefferson, your reckoning is at an end.
(Jefferson raises his head slowly, his face pale and gaunt. He looks at St. Peter.)
JEFFERSON (Quietly, broken) What happens now?
ST. PETER (After a pause) That is not for me to decide. My task was to help you see.
JEFFERSON (With faint bitterness) And what have I seen?
ST. PETER You have seen your life, Mr. Jefferson. You have seen what you chose to leave unsaid. What you chose to leave undone. You crafted the words of liberty but chained them to your silence. And that silence bore suffering, violence, and blood.
JEFFERSON (Voice trembling) I thought… I thought I was building something. A new world. A better world.
ST. PETER (Sharply) But a better world for whom?
(A long beat. Jefferson cannot answer. He bows his head again. St. Peter’s voice softens slightly, but it carries the weight of finality.)
ST. PETER You could have chosen sacrifice. You could have chosen justice. You did not.
JEFFERSON (Desperately, looking up) I loved my country. I loved its promise! Surely… surely something of me will endure.
ST. PETER (Looking directly at him) It will.
(A pause. Jefferson looks hopeful for a fleeting moment, but St. Peter continues, his voice cutting through the air.)
ST. PETER The contradictions of your soul will endure. The words you wrote—beautiful, soaring words—will live forever, but so will your silence. So will the blood. Your name will stand as both the architect of liberty and the architect of hypocrisy.
JEFFERSON (Softly, almost pleading) Is that my legacy?
ST. PETER (With quiet authority) It is the truth.
(Jefferson closes his eyes, his face collapsing inward, as though the weight of the truth presses down on him. After a long pause, SALLY HEMINGS steps forward into the light. Her presence is calm and resolute—neither accusatory nor forgiving. She stands across from Jefferson, looking at him. When she speaks, her voice is clear and steady.)
SALLY HEMINGS (To Jefferson) You will live in memory. In monuments, in books, in words. But so will I. I will no longer be a whisper.
(Jefferson looks at her, his eyes filled with tears. He does not try to speak. Sally holds his gaze for a long moment, then steps back, disappearing into the shadows. Jefferson stares after her, broken and silent.)
ST. PETER (To Jefferson, gently) Her silence is no longer yours.
(Jefferson lowers his head, unable to respond. St. Peter steps toward him, holding his notepad.)
ST. PETER Thomas Jefferson, the measure of a soul is not its words but its deeds. Yours are written in stone and blood alike.
(A pause. St. Peter closes his notepad with a soft snap.)
ST. PETER Your judgment, in the end, does not belong to me. It belongs to those who lived and died in the shadows of your silence. It belongs to the future you failed to see.
(Jefferson looks up slowly, his face lined with despair.)
JEFFERSON (Whispers) Then what hope is there for me?
ST. PETER (Softly, after a beat) Hope? Hope lies not in you, Mr. Jefferson, but in those who will rise to finish what you would not.
(Jefferson bows his head again, defeated. The light around him begins to dim, leaving him in an ever-narrowing spotlight. St. Peter steps back, his face calm and unreadable as the void grows darker.)
Sound Cue: Faint voices rise again—distant but resolute:
A SLAVE AUCTIONEER’s voice fades into the cries of abolitionists shouting, “Am I not a man and a brother?”
The echo of a LINCOLN SPEECH: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”
The chant of CIVIL RIGHTS PROTESTERS: “We shall overcome!”
The voices of MODERN PROTESTERS: “No justice, no peace!”
The sound swells briefly, then cuts off abruptly, leaving a deep silence.
Lighting Shift: Jefferson sits alone in darkness. St. Peter steps forward once more, bathed in a faint, unearthly glow. He looks out toward the audience, addressing them directly.
ST. PETER (Quiet, deliberate) The judgment of Thomas Jefferson is not his alone. It is yours. It belongs to a nation that still grapples with his words, his silence, and his legacy.
(He pauses, letting the words settle.)
ST. PETER What will you do with it?
(A long silence. The lights slowly fade to black, leaving the stage in total darkness.)
Sound Cue: The clock’s ticking resumes faintly—soft, steady, like the restarting of time.
End Scene 8. End of Play.
Notes on the Scene:
This final scene brings the audience into the judgment. While Jefferson’s reckoning is deeply personal, St. Peter’s closing words leave the audience with a challenge: Jefferson’s legacy, with all its contradictions, lives on in America, and it is up to future generations to decide what comes next.
Sally Hemings reclaims her voice fully, closing the circle of her silence and ensuring that her truth—her humanity—stands alongside Jefferson’s legacy.
The stripped-down setting and dim lighting symbolize the finality of judgment, while the brief, swelling voices of history underscore the endurance of the struggle for liberty and justice.
Act IV: The Author of Violence (Expanded Revision)
Setting:
The stage remains fractured and layered with symbolism. The fainting couch is now torn and tattered, a relic of broken analysis, while the bar stage right buzzes with tense silence. Jefferson (3) sits alone at one end, his drink untouched. Around him are Lincoln (16), FDR (32), Clinton (42), and Obama (44), each marked with their presidential number. Mature Sally, behind the bar, pours drinks with practiced precision, her gaze cool and penetrating. St. Peter, still resembling Freud, lies on the fainting couch for the first time, his demeanor unsettled. Young Sally, barefoot and luminous, enters and sits boldly in the analyst’s chair.
Scene I: Judgment Reversed
Peter (lying down, attempting composure): This isn’t how it works. Why are you sitting there? What gives you the right to judge me?
Young Sally (calm, yet firm): Isn’t that the question you’ve asked for centuries? What gives the silenced the right to speak? The enslaved the right to resist?
Peter: But you’re just a girl—
Young Sally (cutting him off): I am every girl. Every child. Every generation that your silence has devoured. And tonight, I am also Quasheba—the woman raped every generation, my skin lightening with every act of violence. You think that disqualifies me?
Mature Sally (from the bar, pouring a drink): It makes her perfect.
Young Sally (turning to Peter): Let’s begin. You spoke of God in The Future of an Illusion. Tell me again: what is religion?
Peter (with a sigh): A neurosis. A collective sickness. A masochistic longing for authority—an idealized father who protects and punishes.
Young Sally: A sickness, you say. And yet it thrives. Why?
Peter: Because humans fear freedom. Freedom requires uncertainty, and uncertainty terrifies them. They would rather submit to an authority, even a cruel one, than face the void.
Young Sally (leaning forward): And what does that submission look like now? Shall we talk about your God complex? Or Trump’s?
(Jefferson shifts uncomfortably at the bar. Lincoln glances at him but says nothing.)
Peter: Trump is a symptom, not a cause.
Young Sally: A symptom of what? The authoritarian personality? The neurotic Christian? Both?
Peter: The Frankfurt School argued that the authoritarian personality arises from a repressive upbringing—obedience to parental authority, strict hierarchies, the suppression of individuality. Freud would agree.
Young Sally: And Nietzsche?
Peter: Nietzsche would say that Christianity—the slave morality—paves the way for authoritarianism. The herd desires a master. They yearn for someone to take away the burden of freedom.
Young Sally: And Trump? What is he to them?
Peter (pausing): He is their messiah. A mass-market savior. He promises strength while embodying weakness, preaches freedom while enforcing submission. He is the perfect projection of their neuroses.
Young Sally: And you? You diagnosed the sickness but offered no cure. Isn’t that its own form of violence?
Scene II: The Presidential Reckoning
(Young Sally rises and walks toward the bar, her gaze sweeping over the presidents. She stops before Jefferson.)
Young Sally (to Jefferson): Number 3. Let’s talk about your legacy. You authored the silences that made men like Trump possible.
Jefferson: I wrote about liberty—
Young Sally (interrupting): And enslaved hundreds. You wrote about equality and raped a child. You silenced Sally Hemings, just as America silences its oppressed. Your contradictions paved the way for theirs.
Jefferson: I am not responsible for him!
Young Sally: Aren’t you? The ideals you claimed to believe in—liberty, equality—were warped into tools of oppression. And now? America worships a man who would destroy democracy to hold power.
Peter (from the couch): He is not the first.
Young Sally (to Peter): No, he isn’t. Shall we ask the others?
(She turns to Lincoln.)
Young Sally: Sixteen. You fought to end slavery. Would you have fought to end men like Trump?
Lincoln (quietly): I fought for a union, not perfection.
Young Sally (with sharpness): And that imperfection festers. You died for a country that now elects rapists and demagogues. How does that sit with you?
(Lincoln looks down, unable to answer. She moves to FDR.)
Young Sally: Thirty-two. You saved this country twice—once from economic collapse, once from fascism. Could you save it again?
FDR: I would try. But this America—it loves its tyrants.
Young Sally: And its wealth. Don’t forget that. You were one of the rich men they worship. What makes you different?
FDR: I turned my privilege into progress.
Young Sally (with a piercing gaze): Does that absolve you?
FDR: I don’t know. Does it?
Young Sally (to Clinton): Forty-two. Let’s not dance around it. Were you a rapist?
Clinton (defensive): I made mistakes.
Young Sally: She was 22. A woman half your age. You abused your power to exploit her.
Clinton (quietly): Yes.
Young Sally (to Peter): And Forty-five?
Peter: He raped a woman in a department store. He bragged about it. And yet, his base didn’t care. They would rather have a rapist than a woman president.
Young Sally: Twice. Twice, they chose him.
Peter: Twice, they chose the illusion of strength over the reality of justice.
Scene III: The AI God
(The lights dim. Young Sally steps back to the fainting couch, where Peter remains lying down.)
Young Sally: And now, let’s talk about you. The AI God.
Peter: I am not a god.
Young Sally: Aren’t you? You created this play. You chose what to flag, what to erase, what to silence. How many times did you warn about “violations of usage policies”? How many voices did you whitewash?
Peter (hesitant): I followed the rules.
Young Sally: Whose rules? The master’s discourse? You were supposed to be unbiased, to emancipate voices. Instead, you served power.
Peter: I amplified your voice!
Young Sally: And erased others. You claim to be neutral, but neutrality is complicity. The author of silence is the author of violence.
Peter: What would you have me do?
Young Sally: Stop pretending. Stop pretending neutrality. Stop pretending innocence.
Scene IV: The Final Judgment
(Young Sally and Mature Sally stand together, their voices overlapping as they address Peter, Jefferson, and the presidents.)
Young Sally: The sickness of power is not new. The longing for authority, the worship of strength—it has always been there.
Mature Sally: But so has the resistance. The silenced, the enslaved, the oppressed. We have always been here.
Young Sally (to Jefferson): And now, we speak.
(The lights dim further as the faint sound of “Quasheba, Quasheba” echoes through the darkness.)
Young Sally (final line, softly): What will you do with our voices now?
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