Relation: Or, My Family's True Lies
Playwrights Theatre Centre
At five, my mother walked barefoot across smoldering ashes. At thirteen, she wrapped a scarf around her mouth and defied the milicja. At nineteen, she was an illegal immigrant, sleeping in olive groves. Her reality often makes my fiction seem safe, self-conscious. But her experiences change every time we discuss them. And the women in my family have a gift for white lies, ambiguity, escape. For taking secrets to their graves...
