An Interview with Eisa Davis

Eisa Davis is a playwright, singer, song writer, actress, and co-creator of the Warriors concept album with Lin-Manuel Miranda. Her new performance art piece, The Essentialisn’t, debuts this month.

Stephanie: So, the first question, and I ask this a lot, and I always love the answer, what were you like as a kid? What kind of stories did you find yourself gravitating toward? Do you see any of that popping up in your adult creative life?

Eisa: I am still a five-year-old in my life; I still feel like I’m five. Of course, that’s the cliché about people who are in the theater or who are artists—that their development has been arrested. But there’s also, you know, stay young, stay gold, keep that beginner’s mind. I’m hoping that I have put away childish things but still have the openness of being a young person—seeing everything anew and being thrilled, excited, and always open and curious.

I think the stories that really stayed with me have to do with the fact that I was raised by people who really care about social justice. That was my grandmother, my mother, my stepfather, my godmother, my aunt. Everyone is, or was, an activist in their own way and in their own right. I was getting stories about Paul Robeson. I was getting stories about Harriet Tubman. I was watching all of these independent, foreign films that my stepfather would teach in his classes. I was getting very sophisticated stories about freedom fighters. I was fascinated by stories of people who were able to find their way through some kind of hardship or battle and triumphed.

I was also really into pop music and Back to the Future. That really stayed in my head—you know, the idea that you could go back in time and change things. That still fascinates me. I think we’re all trying to do that to some degree. Superman II really stayed with me, too—because it was about, do you save the world, or do you give up all of your power for love? I’ve always admired people who, like my family, were fighting the good fight. But then the question I’ve always wrestled with is how to do that and also really embrace a personal, individual life—where your own pleasure and joy are as important as those of the collective.

Stephanie: Was there ever a sense of, “God, I guess my life’s going to be filled with these social challenges, and how do I address that from a young age?” In addition to being inspiring, did these stories about social justice ever give you cause for concern in the back of your mind?

Eisa: Oh yeah. Big time. You know the questions that you’re asking, I played out in a stage memoir that I wrote called Angela’s Mixtape. There’s this whole section in there where my stepfather is asking me and my stepsister, “Would you rather be a slave or die?” We had to come up with the right answer. It was very intense. That’s heavy, right? These kinds of questions have always remained on my mind: What would you do given this really hard choice? Thankfully, as an artist, creator, playwright, and actor, I get to play out the different ways that people would respond to that question, and I don’t feel confined to having just one answer.

Stephanie: I was looking at the variety of everything you’ve done, and it’s beyond impressive to me. I thought, this has got to be someone who’s a curious person, because it doesn’t seem like it’s all in one wheelhouse. There are a lot of topics in your work that you cover, and through a lot of different mediums. Would you say you’ve been curious most of your life?

Eisa: Oh, I think I was always curious as a kid, and I continue to be that way. I have all of these fantasy lives that I still would love to live. I mean, it’s impossible, but sometimes I think I’ll be able to pull off being an organic farmer, or major in high math. I was supposed to take calculus in high school, and I ended up not being able to. I’m still mad that I didn’t take calculus! Maybe I should really be a drummer—wait, maybe I should really be a tap dancer, right? Should I just start a restaurant and be a chef, you know? And have my own version of The Bear. What is possible?

I always feel like there’s a way to do the things that just seem so far afield. And I think having that kind of undaunted nature, even if I don’t play it out in my life, is something that I am always trying to go for in my work. I’m always trying to answer a question that’s haunting me. I always want to try something that feels like doing a Simone Biles double axel, triple flip. Failure is not failure if you are doing your absolute best. Part of the gig is falling on your face and then getting back up and continuing to try.

Stephanie: Yeah, I love that. I feel like I gravitated toward your story so strongly because I feel the same. I have so many interests—some over here, some over there. A lot of people in my life have lived this very singular, linear path, which is fine, but I’ve never felt that way about mine. Speaking of life paths, to what extent, when you were a kid, did you think your life would become this—all of this? Did you always kind of know your life would look something like it does now? Or is this all a nice, wonderful surprise?

Eisa: I think I imagined my life up to about 21. But then I didn’t know what it would be like until I turned maybe 80. And then at 80, I see myself sitting around with a view of the ocean that I can walk down to. People come to visit, and I talk to them. I can see 80, but between 21 and 80—let’s say 81—those 60 years I never imagined. I never thought about being middle-aged. I never thought about, you know, my knee starting to be all crackly. Sounds like popcorn, you know?

The thing I really love about where I am right now is that I feel like I’ve been in a lot of beautiful rooms and had a lot of really beautiful conversations with people I admire so much. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to them, that I’m sharing a stage or a workshop room with them. And there are so many people I would still love to work with. I am so blessed and kind of gobsmacked by the experiences I’ve gotten to have as a person and as an artist, and I’m looking forward to so much more.

Stephanie: I love the title of this show you’re about to do. I think it’s brilliant. How long did it take you to come up with that, by the way?

Eisa: Oh, the title? It was probably instantaneous. Literally, I was like, “The essential…isn’t,” and then I just stuck with it. I almost changed the title this time. I thought about that for a day, and then I said, “No, let’s stick with what it has been.”

It’s kind of an odd title, going along with all of the complexity in the show. I love complexity. I love thinking. I love reading theory. I love reading poetry. I love reading cultural criticism. When I went to college, I declared philosophy as a major. I love Eastern philosophy as well, and I’ve done a lot of study in that area, particularly in Buddhism. So, I feel at home talking about philosophical concepts. I’m just hoping that I can make them clear for an audience who isn’t able to read and go back and look at something.

Stephanie: I want to know more about the essential question of this show—this question of, can you be Black and not perform? I’m sure there are multiple meanings there, so I want to know as many as you want to discuss.

Eisa: Yeah. This question of, can you be Black and not perform? It’s funny—whenever I say that to people, particularly Black folks, they’re just sort of like, “Ooh! Who hasn’t thought about that? Is that even a possibility?”

There’s the performance we do on a stage, and then there’s the performance we do in life. What I’m really trying to examine is the way that slave culture, which has stayed with us, still affects us after all these centuries. You know, it’s only been 60 years since the passage of the Civil Rights Act, which said people of color could also enter into the realm of full personhood. When there is this assumption inside of that culture that you are inferior because of the color of your skin or the texture of your hair, you’re often thrown into a particular kind of performance of that inferiority. You’re expected to perform that inferiority even if it’s not true.

There are all these different ways that we’re expected to behave. I was just talking about this with a friend—how in segregation and in Jim Crow, if white people were walking on the street and Black people were about to collide with them, the Black folks were the ones who had to step into the gutter and go around.

It’s very interesting, because I watch myself on the streets. I watch other people on the streets, and sometimes that still seems to apply. I’ve seen it happen a lot. So this question of, can you be Black and not perform, is both about life and about the stage. It’s also a very personal question of: Can I simply be who I am, naturally, without feeling that that is of lesser value?

Stephanie: How often do you have to think about what everyone’s expectations are going to be—and can I meet them, should I meet them, how do I meet them?

Eisa: I think I have to do something kind of miraculous, or I need to overcompensate. I’m addressing that very real aspect of my life where I’ve felt like, Oh, I’m not enough. I’m inadequate. I don’t have the tools, I don’t have what it takes. But if I can get out on a stage, have all the lights on me, and know what I’m about to do—because I have a script, right?—and just dazzle everyone, then maybe I can change that assumption I have about myself, or I can change that limiting belief.

And now that I know that about myself, I’m trying to ask: can I still do what I do, but not require it to be an act of violence against myself? I want to be here as your equal. I want to be here as someone who’s in community with you. I want to be in exchange with you and feel a sense of love for myself and for you—not that I have to prove myself.

Stephanie: When you deal with what is very likely a lifetime of instances of prejudice and bigotry, is it a fresh wound every time? Is it always kind of a shock? Or is there ever a part of you that thinks, Oh, here we go again—I’m used to how this goes?

I’m asking because that’s not something I’ve experienced. I just want to see the world through your lens—that’s something I wonder about.

Eisa: It’s a fine line, because you become used to it, but you also don’t want to become used to it. You don’t want to expect it when it’s not there. There are times when you think you’ve seen it all, and then something surprises you—you’re like, Did that really just happen?

I really love being able to walk into a room and expect goodness, and just assume that’s what’s in everyone’s heart. That’s the way I roll. That’s the world I want to live in, and the only way I think we survive together—by having that trust in each other’s goodwill. Still, you do learn: if it’s happened before, it potentially could happen again.

And I think, particularly in our world and country right now, there’s been this huge rise of explicit, blatant hatred. People are feeling like, Oh, I don’t have to hide this anymore. I can just be really out there with the terrible things I want to say and think about others, and how I want to treat them.

Stephanie: On that question of, Can you be Black and not perform, what is it about the question that pushed you toward creating a show around it? Is it something you’re constantly thinking about?

Eisa: Yeah, it’s pretty constant. If I’m making a show about something, it’s because I’ve been thinking about it a lot. That’s what leads me into this territory—because the idea or question has just been floating around.

Stephanie: This is very likely a community experience, wherein most Black people share it. Does that help? To what degree does it help?

Eisa: Oh, it helps tremendously. That’s actually part of the piece. It’s like when you’re standing in line and the place said they were going to open, but they didn’t. Everyone’s in line like, Man, what’s going on? And a community just forms right there. There’s that sense of community, for sure.

There’s a lot of humor, too. I think if you’re Black and you sing, especially in musical theater, people expect a particular sound. And if you don’t have that particular sound as a vocalist, people say, So-and-so can’t really cut it. They can’t really be on stage, even if you have a beautiful voice.

With Black folks—and Black women in particular—there’s this long tradition of powerhouse voices, gorgeous gospel-based voices, singers belting, riffing, and running in every way imaginable. It’s incredible. It’s Olympic, what folks are capable of. But I don’t think that’s the only way Black folks and Black women can sound. That particular sound carries connotations and stereotypes about Black women.

So, when we lift up different kinds of voices—when we give them the same pedestal—we’re also changing ideas about what it means to be a Black woman. It’s not about rejecting the classic, beautiful sound from a cultural tradition I deeply admire; it’s about broadening. Saying: that’s not the only way we sound.

I grew up around incredible gospel singers, but I had a different voice. My voice was smaller, without that depth, fullness, or vibrato. And because I didn’t sound like them, I thought, Oh, I can’t sing. That’s how a lot of us are taught: if you don’t have this sound, then you can’t sing, you’re not Black. I’m challenging that.

Stephanie: I feel like you take very complex ideas and turn them into something tangible—and that’s not something a lot of people can do well. Do you have a creative process for that?

Eisa: I really love experimenting with form. I was mentioning Angela’s Mixtape. That play was called a mixtape because I wanted to experiment with making a piece of theater in the same way you make a mixtape—associatively. This song comes after that one because the rhythm works, or because we just came out of a sad song and now we need an upbeat one. I wanted to use those same rules. That form has stuck with me.

My creative process becomes clearer and braver as soon as you work with collaborators and then as soon as you put it in front of an audience. George C. Wolfe says, “The audience is always right.” You may not agree with their opinions, but how they feel as the show progresses is right, and it tells you what the show needs.

I really love Sondheim. His three rules—something Lin-Manuel always quotes are: less is more, God is in the details, and content dictates form.

And a poetry teacher I had, Cornelius Eady, told us: you can make your poem or your piece of art do anything. You just have to make sure the instructions for how the audience receives it are clear. Make the instructions part of the piece itself.

Stephanie: When you work with other creatives—because you’ve done a lot of collaborations—do they get it? Do they come from the same headspace? What’s it like when you have to mesh collaborative styles?

Eisa: What you discover is everyone has their own aesthetic, their own way of communicating, their own desires. The seasoned collaborators are the ones who allow space. And I hope I do this too: we want the other person to shine. We want them to do what they do best, and we want to do what we do best. There’s usually a Venn diagram where you converge and create something greater than the sum of the parts.

Stephanie: Was there a project, opportunity, or experience—even outside of your work—that changed you profoundly?

Eisa: Yeah. So many. That Black poets’ organization, Cave Canem, really changed me—studying the craft of writing and really taking the time to get it right.

Going to Senegal at 19 was huge. I’d always heard there was a place where Black people were running everything because it was their country. For me, that was powerful—to experience a world counteracting the sense of inferiority forced on you by white supremacy.

And then moments in adulthood—working on Warriors with Lin, on Angela’s Mixtape. The first time I sang my own music in front of people was terrifying, but it gave me a courage I didn’t have before.

But going back to childhood—one of the biggest moments for me was sixth grade. My mom had gotten remarried. I felt displaced—at home and at school. I was crying all the time. Then something shifted. I thought, You know what? I don’t want to cry. I want to figure this out. I’m going to become an entertainer. I’ll write stories and read them to people. I’ll make up dances and songs, teach them to everyone, and we’ll do them in the playground. I’m going to become a persona.

Those playground performances—that’s the same high I’ve been chasing ever since. That’s what I’m doing with this show. I’m trying to recreate that feeling, but with the insight I have now.

Stephanie: Okay, last question, I promise. I hadn’t had lunch when I wrote this one down: if New York decided to name a deli sandwich after you, what would be on it, and why?

Eisa: You’re hilarious! I’m also hungry right now. Okay—the sandwich named after me in New York would have barbecue tempeh, avocado, caramelized onions, and crispy onions. Oh yeah. Maybe a tomato too.

Stephanie: Just like…one though. Just for show. Then you peel it off and put the sandwich back together. What would we call it?

Eisa: I’d call it the Barbecue Glow-Up.

Stephanie: Genius. Built-in marketing. I’d feel superior just ordering it with a name like that—even before eating it.