My career has taken many roads and turns, but I know that my path is to tell stories about those who have faced life at its ugliest—and moved through it. I was raised by women who had been abused, physically and mentally, in a household with a history of addiction and mental illness. I speak of these things to bring healing to others, to create solidarity and hope. The best compliment I have ever received is: “I saw myself, my family, in your story.” I will cherish that genuine reflection over any accolade.

Moreover, as a minority woman playwright, my voice has been marginalized and silenced. When I write, I bring into the room a history of torture and brutality. That history—even if I never wrote about it explicitly, is under the pain of each of my characters. They grapple against unspeakable atrocities, and they also share joy and laughter—because they are full human beings. It is essential that minority voices be cultivated.

I am inspired to be a playwright because theatre is a necessary ritual. To come into spaces with other humans is a necessary act. One of the interviews I completed this year was with Niegel Smith (Artistic Director of the Flea). And I asked him “why theatre?” And his response was poignant: “Because we aren’t very good at being human. When we go to the theater, we are able to practice. To watch other people doing it badly. And to remind ourselves about that.” With the increase of technology and isolation, we need theatre more than ever.

My sustenance as a playwright often comes through working with youth and developing artists. I look to the youth to remind me what our legacy will be. What will we leave them? How will we prepare them for a new world? How can we inspire them to their creative best, to better themselves and the future generations? I have been blessed to work with youth for many years and it is one of my great joys.