“That’s his love.”, my grandmother would say. “His love.” 

Like a lot of playwrights, I am sometimes asked about who I believe my audience to be. The most accurate answer I’ve come to is this: I write for a Black audience. Simple as that. Even with that being the case, any and everyone is invited to come and bare witness, engage, perhaps even participate, regardless of race. But not without first acknowledging, accepting, and (most importantly) celebrating the fact that the work was made with Black people and Black culture in mind. 

I love being Black. I love my history, the resilience of my ancestors, the joy, the pain, the endless laughter that exists in the darkest times, the songs, the language, the tastes, smells, sounds. I love it with the same passion that I love making theater. And when I think about that, I remember the words my grandmother would say whenever anyone in my family questioned my calling: 

“That’s his love.”, she would say. “His love.” 

And that is my artistic vision, above all else. Poetic, lyrical, often-times magical love stories centered around Black people and Black communities. I try to conjure my people, many of whom never imagined they would see themselves in a play, and make their existence as beautiful, as epic, and as complex as I can possibly muster. I am uninterested in the idea that it’s the Black artist’s job to save anyone, not the world and definitely not the American Theater. What I believe is my job is to center love in my work to paint truthful, complicated, humanity-forward portraits of Black people and to show us in ways that are rarely seen. 

In a world so overstuffed with “content” and people fighting to make their voices heard, it’s easy to wonder why anyone should listen to me, as opposed to anyone else. But the thing I believe makes me and my work unique is the intense, earnest desire to lead with loving kindness and celebrate us as human beings, however flawed, who on our worst day deserve as much love as any other flawed human being. And when this world and this work feels hopeless, as it often times does, I try to close my eyes and listen for my grandmother’s voice. 

“That’s his love.”, I hear. “His love.” 

- J.