The first Broadway play I ever saw was a matinee performance of David Rabe’s Streamers, a shattering tale of masculinity, racism, and homophobia set during the Vietnam War that was playing at Lincoln Center in the summer of 1976. I walked out of that theater stunned and not sure what to do next, so I walked around the city for what must have been hours, trying to absorb what I had just seen.
If Broder’s past work has been about the perversity of desire in all its forms, Milk-Fed is about its embrace—and the way that embrace can be a kind of faith in itself. But Broder is careful not to be too precious about the definition of faith. “We all have gods,” she says. “Everyone in Milk-Fed has a god, it’s just that often their denominations stray from the theological. There are gods that are made of familial approval, success, validation, money, love. We all make something into a higher power. Who are your gods?” Milk Fed ends with Lucy, healing but not necessarily “better,” grieving but upright. And what is faith, if not something that keeps us standing?
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