A NOTE FROM THE DIRECTOR,
KEVIN R. FREE
Dear Reader: I used to curate a blog called “Holy Sh*t! I’m Black.” It was a lighthearted look at all of the times in life when Black people realize exactly how different they are from the people with whom they are living, talking or collaborating. The blog was my attempt to use humor to explain my existence. Why don’t I understand why my friend shaves his face in the shower without a mirror? Ohhhhh, right. Right. Because I’m Black. When I saw the first version of Pass Over at Steppenwolf Theatre Company in Chicago, way back in the Before Times, my partner and I left the theatre in silence. We passed by patrons expressing outrage and grief, walked down a set of stairs and through the lobby. We walked towards the elevated train, and he broke the silence. He said, “Wow.” I said, “Yeah.” Then he said, “that may have been the best play I’ve seen since… ever.” Then I exhaled. Because I agreed. I was moved and frightened and outraged by this play. It spoke to me through all its layers of grief and dread and anger and even joy, and I was so nervous that my partner, a white man, would not be able to appreciate the play’s protest or its assertion of the truth about
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