I grew up being pulled in opposing directions: one toward toxic-masculinity where feelings and communication have no room to exist, and one toward art, and empathy, and the intense need for intimate connection. In my work, I hope to explore the stories of the many generations of black lives forced to live in two worlds but feeling comfortable in neither. I grew up with an almost paralyzing loneliness, and finding the theater taught me that I am not now, nor will I ever truly be alone. On my lowest days of wondering if my voice will ever be heard or understood, the words of August Wilson constantly ring in my ears: “I am not a historian. I happen to think that the contents of my mother’s life—her myths, her superstitions, her prayers, the contents of her pantry, the smell of her kitchen, the song that escaped from her sometimes parched lips, her thoughtful repose and pregnant laughter—are all worthy of art.” So, here I am. Attempting to uplift, challenge, and make art from the dreams and fears of my people. In the hopes that my words can shine so bright that they pierce through the darkness and embrace a young black soul like mine, whispering every so often “You are not alone”.