I went to the theatre knowing what had happened.

Like many people, I knew the story of Emmett Till. I knew the facts in the way history books and documentaries present them. I knew the names, the verdict, the unfairness. I knew the headline version of the injustice. What I didn’t know, or maybe hadn’t fully absorbed, was what it would feel like to sit in a room and listen to the trial unfold word by word.

“Trial in the Delta: The Murder of Emmett Till” does something deceptively simple and incredibly powerful. Adapted from 400 pages of long-buried trial transcripts, the play reconstructs the courtroom using the actual language spoken in 1955. There is no commentary layered on top, no modern framing telling you what to think. You are asked to listen. That’s it.

And listening—truly listening—changes everything.

Knowing this happened is one thing. Hearing the exact words spoken in that courtroom is something else entirely. The cadence, the evasions, the casual cruelty, the moments where the truth feels just out of reach. It’s immersive in a way that’s hard to describe without sounding overstated, but I won’t soon forget the feeling of sitting there, aware that these words once shaped a verdict and a life and a version of justice that failed spectacularly.

The production is exquisitely acted. Every performance carries weight without theatrics, restraint without distance. You never forget that these are transcripts, real testimony, real questions and answers that once existed outside of a stage. That tension between performance and documentation is where the play lives and does its most important work.

The show was adapted by my friend Gary Mills and his writing partner Willie Round, and there’s a particular care in how the material is handled. Nothing feels sensationalized. Nothing is softened. The restraint is part of the point. This isn’t about recreating violence. It’s about examining the systems and language that allowed it to be dismissed.

What struck me most is how relevant it still feels—terrifyingly relevant.

This trial took place in 1955, and yet the questions it raises about race, power, credibility, and whose voices are believed do not feel safely tucked away in the past. If anything, the distance between then and now feels uncomfortably thin. The play doesn’t argue that point. It doesn’t need to. The words do that work on their own.

The run has been extended at Collaboraction in Humboldt Park, which feels fitting. This is exactly the kind of work theatre should make room for. Theatre that doesn’t just entertain, but asks us to bear witness. Theatre that trusts an audience enough to let silence and listening do their job.

The ride home from the theatre was quiet. Heavier, but also clearer about why stories like this must continue to be told, not as history lessons we check off, but as experiences that demand our full attention.

Some words—once heard—don’t let you go.