I've been in a committed relationship with a man for 19 years. One of my siblings, whom I like to describe as a “Crazy Christian” (we weren't raised Crazy, just Christian), has never acknowledged my partner publicly - as my partner. Our most recent Christmas gifts were given only to me by my nephews and labeled “To Uncle Kevin & Carl.” Carl doesn't get to be an uncle to the Crazy Christian’s kids. I was as upset about it as my partner was until I realized that by not acknowledging Carl, my brother was finally acknowledging me in all my audacious gay glory. I was real to my brother, even if Carl was not. And that added a whole other dimension to my success.
When I was 26, I moved to New York from North Carolina to be a big, black, gay success, and I do feel like a success. I’ve made my living as an actor since 2004, and I have been writing plays and webseries and commentaries steadily since 2000. I used to believe that slow and steady wins the race, but now I know that there is no race to win. In 2017, I acted in 2 world premiere plays and 1 world premiere musical, recorded 12 audiobooks, made my regional theatre directing debut, wrote and performed three new short monologues, and saw an AEA showcase production of my play Am I Dead? The Untrue Narrative of Anatomical Lewis, The Slave. In all of the work of 2017, my expression was unabashedly black and queer (even in the work I didn’t write). In the midst of it all, I celebrated my 48th birthday. I am looking at 2018 with just as much work - all gay and all black - on my plate, and I love it. But knowing that I am finally visible to my brother has given me the greatest love of all - and I definitely want more of that.
I have struggled with being invisible as a gay black man my entire career. Not gay enough as an actor, not black enough as a writer, too gay to be black enough as an actor, too black to be gay enough as a writer. Even with all of this, I have been able to carve out a great career. The toughest nut I've had to crack in this has been my feelings about The August Wilson Century Cycle, in which the only queer character is Ma Rainey, who uses her power to rob her girlfriend, Dussie Mae, of her agency. I saw those plays, auditioned for those plays, but I never saw myself in them. I used to fly into a rage when I heard people refer to the Century Cycle as the definitive chronicle of African-American life in the 20th century. And then I read them all as I wrote my solo play, Balboa Is Not Drowning.
Set in 1997, it inserts a queer character - Balboa, the greatest blues singer in the world - into the August Wilson Century Cycle (and yet his story stands alone). If I am chosen for the Jerome Fellowship, I’ll work on two more plays that include queer characters in The Hill of Pittsburgh in 2010 and 2025.
I don't have a personal connection to The Hill (other than how I’ve grown to love the nabe through Wilson’s Cycle), but I’ve lived in New York City longer than I lived in my hometown, and I'd love to leave my art making comfort zone and write the rest of this mini-cycle in the Twin Cities, where Mr. Wilson created most of the plays in his Cycle. The object of writing these plays is not to protest the work of the greatest American playwright of the 20th century, but to add characters who are slowly becoming more visible in the African-American community and in the community-at-large. I concluded while writing Balboa that Mr. Wilson wasn't maliciously omitting queer stories. He just didn't have the right words to write them. How amazing would it be, too, if these works would help my brother really see me and finally see my partner? That's the kind of poetry I'd like to see in my art and in my life for my next 48 years.