Growing up in the 1960s and 70s the familial and societal traumas post Holocaust and Vietnam gnawed at me. Self-punishment and guilt were woven into the cultural and my personal zeitgeist. My parents were determined to re-populate the Jewish race. I am the fourth of five children. It was hard to be heard so I listened. To my parents’ dinner table conversations. Grandma Bertha and Papa Joe speaking Yiddish. My older siblings’ talking on the phone. I learned about Water Gate, electric shock treatments, and how to straighten your hair with orange juice cans. For years, we were the only Jewish family in our predominantly Irish Catholic neighborhood. I gained acceptance through dare devil pranks and pinky swears. I went to school with WASP, Italian, Latinx, Black, and Asian kids. My nickname was “Dirty Jew.” I noticed the only times we stopped fighting were when we engaged in collaborative creation: singing in the holiday assembly, collaging a mural for peace. Or the class play. When we performed “A Good Man Charlie Brown,” I played Linus and we became the Peanuts. After school, I took dance and drama classes at the YWCA. At home, I wrote stories, made puppets, and memorized my favorite record albums. I experienced safety and joy during these times and wondered why school or the playground wasn’t the same. Meanwhile, change was in the air. I witnessed both the Women’s Liberation and Black Power movements unfold. These ideologies filled me with wonder and hope; much as I felt when I created. Horrible things happen. We hold divergent beliefs. As a playwright, I invite my characters, as they navigate their struggles, to listen, make space, and open their hearts to allow healing and transformation to occur.