For much of my life, I was in one of those relationships that feels too good to be true, and I couldn’t let it go. As a writer and actress, I’ve always been great at projecting my magical versions of others onto them, so instead of scrutinizing some of the flags that were there from the beginning, I let myself believe in what has now become one of the biggest heartbreaks of my life.
But it didn’t start out that way—at first, I felt so lucky to be in the relationship that I basically pledged my allegiance to it daily. And I had plenty of reasons to feel so devoted. The love languages were there: acts of service, words of affirmation. I learned to count on all the promises I heard, that I would always have the best of everything, that there were people who would give anything to be in the position I was.
The thing is, this relationship wasn’t with a man—it was with my country. I had grown up singing about the land of the free and the home of the brave, but in adolescence, instead of stars and stripes, I started to see deep red flags. The acts of service were more available to some Americans than others. The words of affirmation turned out to be rife with fine print, or else replaced by bold capitals emblazoned on signs at hate-filled rallies. There were the protests against a woman’s right to choose, attacks on immigrants, threats to queer people—and, of course, the old standby: “N-word, go home.”
But wasn’t this home? As a young Black woman, the betrayal stung as much as a rejection by any guy.
Still, I found myself denying and bypassing the abusive parts of the relationship. Instead, I focused on the ways I could feel what was so special about my country, having grown up in a multiracial, multi-religious family, mostly in New York. The Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island. I came from proud people—African-American, Caribbean, Latine, Irish, German; both Christian and Jewish—who had built this place, in some instances with no compensation. And they believed in the promise I’d long heard about: that this was the land of opportunity for everyone.
After growing up in the unapologetic cacophony of the most diverse borough in the world, Queens, New York, I found a love for diplomacy and a foundation in feminism through my education at the United Nations School and Bryn Mawr College, respectively. And eventually, all of it spilled out of me, first on the slam poetry stage of the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, and then into the Culture Project, an off-Broadway theater devoted to social justice, where I debuted a multicultural, multicharacter show called Bridge & Tunnel. I had an extraordinary executive producer in Meryl Streep—yes, that Meryl Streep—who had seen me perform a solo piece about global women’s rights. From that already dizzying place, my “cast” of characters, all inspired by people from my real family and community, made it all the way to Broadway and won a Tony Award. Talk about an American Dream.
The parade of opportunities that followed—a Unicef Goodwill ambassadorship, TED talks, platforms at the White House and the World Economic Forum, film and television projects—all felt like gifts (another love language!) that only America could offer. I represented progress toward a truly pluralist democracy. My story proved that marginalized people could make their way to center stage and make their mark, just like anyone else.
When the Manhattan Theatre Club premiered my second solo show, Sell/Buy/Date, which explored the sex industry, it felt like confirmation of our society’s ever-deepening commitment to all of us—a signal that we weren’t just equal under the law, but that our stories all deserved to be heard too, especially those most often ignored or maligned.
