My Name is Rachel Corrie, the British play about the American girl who was killed by an Israeli tank defending a Palestinian’s house—oh you globalized globe!—has found a New York theater.

The text is drawn from Rachel’s journals and lashed together by Alan “why-hasn’t-anybody-made-a-Macbeth-movie-starring-me?” Rickman and Katharine “why-doesn’t-anybody-know-I’m-an-editor-at-the-Guardian?” Viner and made news in March when it was scheduled to open at the New York Theater Workshop and suddenly scuttled. The theater said something about offending the Jewish community, Rickman and Viner called censorship (I call cowardice), and the Seattle Rep scurried to nail Corrie into next year’s season.

Instead, Corrie went to London, had a successful run, and will open in America, at the Minetta Lane Theater, in October. The play sounds artistically shaky, like a bowl of theater-of-Good-Intentions gruel, but it’s gotten rave reviews. And it certainly deserves better than to be cancelled by gutless theater bureaucrats. So fuck you New York Theater Workshop and hooray for the Minetta. (And, surprise surprise, the Seattle Rep.)