The freedoms of a.k. payne's award-winning abolition play ‘Furlough's Paradise,' onstage and off

Los Angeles Times

17-04-2025

Among the notes included in the 'Furlough's Paradise' script is an etymology of the word 'furlough' — as in, 'permission, liberty granted to do something.' Its various definitions throughout the history of language make clear that, whether by going away, retreating from or abstaining from having to do with, to leave is, essentially, to allow to survive.
This idea is at the core of a.k. payne's moving two-hander, which stars DeWanda Wise and Kacie Rogers as estranged cousins — one on a three-day furlough from prison, another an Ivy League graduate on a break from her tech job — who reunite in their hometown for a funeral. They begin to process their conflicting memories, clarify their respective resentments, share their dreams of freedom and, in the safety of each other's company, they each allow themselves to let go of everything to just be who they are, wholly and fully, alongside the one person in the world who sees them in their entirety.
The West Coast premiere of 'Furlough's Paradise' — which just won the Susan Smith Blackburn Prize, the prestigious international award that honors women+ playwrights — is directed by Tinashe Kajese-Bolden and runs through May 18 at the Geffen Playhouse. Between rehearsals, payne tells The Times about the real-life inspirations for these onstage cousins, the necessity of a choreographer for this production and the lessons learned from their graduate school professor, Geffen Playhouse artistic director Tarell Alvin McCraney. This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
What inspired this play?
The play first was conceived when I was in grad school, but I was thinking about it for years before then, without the language for it. The initial impulse came from my own curiosity around the ways that incarceration impacts families. Where I'm from, everybody who is Black in our city has a reference point to the Allegheny County Jail, which is in the middle of Pittsburgh. My earliest memories are writing letters to family members who were incarcerated; as a young person, seeing family who was in that place transformed how I saw the world.
I also wanted to write a play that was inspired by the relationship between my cousin and I. We're both only children; we're almost siblings. And though the play traffics realism and has an illusion of realism, I'm really passionate about it not being a living room play; it's a play about the Afro-surreal and the ways that Black life is always a little bit askew, like our experience of it doesn't always match the way people perceive it or understand it.
Who are these two characters to you?
Frederick Douglass talks about being free in form versus free in fact — the idea of seeking a freedom in your mind and how you see the world, and the fact that systems of oppression and power don't get all of us because we're able to imagine alternative ways to exist. Both of these characters are wrestling with real instances of denials of freedoms, and I want this play to invite us to see the ways that these different systems have impacted both of them.
Because Sade's body is physically incarcerated, she really fights for her mind to be free. She stands on business, she speaks truth and names things as they are, and she doesn't shy away from that. There's something honorable about her absolute refusal to lie or cheat, even in the midst of what this world has deemed criminal, and the ways in which people who have committed crimes are not always seen in their full humanity or in their integrity. That's why Sade is so clear about what her dreams are. I wanted to really center that in the play because it's important to listen to folks who have existed inside and honor the dreams of those who are most affected by these systems.
Mina is trying to be free in many different ways. The life she's lived has colonized her mind, her body, everything, and she's fighting to let herself feel comfortable in a space for a few days. She can't even find the language for what her dreams are because she's trying to free her tongue from these institutions. So though the play started as a love letter to a lot of my family who've been affected by incarceration, I wanted to also draw a love letter to versions of myself and my friends who have been in academic institutions, and have really suffered as Black and brown people and people of color in these spaces.
What do you hope audiences experience during these three days with Mina and Sade?
Sometimes it's hard to sit in the rehearsal room with this play, because I want another world for these characters; I want to just get them out of this room and get them somewhere else, away from everything. Who were they before all the stuff they put on each other, and how can they be able to just not have to carry all of that?
To me, that's evocative of what abolition means; it's the capacity to exist together, and to break apart the rigid ways that we contain and police ourselves. So my hope is that audiences watch the play and want to create alternative spaces for Black people to actually be and exist and care for each other, and cherish being present with each other without being confined.
Geffen Playhouse's artistic director Tarell Alvin McCraney, also the chair of playwriting at Yale School of Drama, described you as 'one of the most powerful writers I've encountered in my time as a professor.' What was it like to be taught by him?
Tarell is an extraordinary teacher and mentor, as well as artist, of course. I started at Yale School of Drama in 2019 — I had gone straight through from undergrad, which was really difficult because of the elitism, the white supremacy and all the things. Tarell was extraordinary at crafting an oasis and fugitive space within an institution that honestly had caused a lot of harm for so many people who looked like me.
Grad school had its challenges, but the community I found in the playwriting department was such a gift. Our entire nine-person cohort was students of color, and Tarell created a horizontal leadership model in the program that allowed me to feel supported as an artist and a full person, where you can really listen to your own voice as a playwright and trust that voice. He created such fertile ground for exploration and play.
'Furlough's Paradise' made its world premiere at Atlanta's Alliance Theatre last year. What did you learn from that staging that you're integrating into this one?
One of the biggest things is embodiment — it's an endless question and the conundrum of being a Black writer in America and writing in English. I love this quote by Ntozake Shange: 'i cant count the number of times i have viscerally wanted to attack deform n maim the language that i was taught to hate myself in.' That feels so relevant to how I think about language — there's the constant awareness that this is a colonial language that my people were forced to speak, and so much that we do and experience just cannot fit into English.
So in this rendition, I've been thinking more about the body. Mina and Sade keep doing these comparisons [of each other] where, in all of that language, there's no space to actually fully see both of them. But in these dream sequences at night, we see what they're wrestling with outside of language. My hope is that those allow us to go to the limits of language, and see what our bodies do when language isn't enough. There were movement consultants for a few gestural beats in other renditions, but having choreographers from day one of this process has been incredible.
How did you first start writing plays?
I grew up doing some musicals and operas in Pittsburgh, and my mom is a music teacher so I was always in her choirs. When I went to an arts magnet school, I majored in literary arts, and I wrote my first play in seventh grade. I entered it in City Theatre's Young Playwrights Contest and I remember being in rehearsals for my play and thinking, 'I love making stuff, being with people and imagining stuff together. I just want to do this forever.' Theater making for me is not just about my own little independent vision; there's so much collaboration that goes into a show and I love making space on the page for other artists.
In undergrad, I directed a lot because I didn't see the spaces that I wanted to create work in and I didn't feel comfortable acting. I didn't really feel there were structures for the work I wanted to write. But I fell in love with the practice of making theater and building ensemble to support that — specifically Black theater, the histories of Black theater and the ways that Black theater artists have imagined alternate worlds.
What structures can theater institutions prioritize to encourage more of the work you want to make?
Institutions are trying to improve things — even Tarell being here [at the Geffen] and being deeply committed to the work of Black and brown people and bringing in voices that are not traditionally in white American theater spaces.
But I find it critical to create alternative spaces entirely, because there's always going to be a limit to what institutions that are not owned by us can do. I love the concepts of fugitivity and how people have created spaces that are not always visible to the institutional or public eye, that go deeper and aren't necessarily trying to be big or fit into the systems. I wonder if there are ways that larger institutions can support many different kinds of theater making, like pouring into smaller artist collectives in a way that enables them to create with autonomy.
I'm also obsessed with maroonage, a Black cultural tradition in which people who were enslaved would escape to the mountains and form independent communities. In a theatrical tradition, what does it mean to create our own stuff and center our own gaze in our making of things? I've been building a theater collective in line with these things, and it's Black folks who gather by bodies of water and just make experimental stuff. This past summer, we gathered in New Rochelle and did double Dutch lessons, clowning classes and Pilates.
Spaces like that are so critical to creating community and ensemble, which is hard when working on a small play like 'Furlough's Paradise.' So for the next renditions on the East Coast next year, I'm hoping to gather all the artists working on it [at the various theaters] and spend three days mapping out freedom dreams.