TR: That’s a great question. Admittedly, the two siblings represent kind of a problematic subject/object binary, though I hope that it’s somewhat unconventional in the sense that the hegemonic gender is reversed. Kronos is the object of melancholy, and his sister is the subject of action, of ethical soul-searching. I think you already hit the nail on the head: Kronos’ tabula rasa dimension places him into a larger and tragically consistent narrative of violence against the Othered, most especially (but not limited to) police violence against black and brown bodies. While this kind of violence is certainly most informed by historical anti-blackness, Asian Americans have been interpellated within this nexus, as well, and I wanted to call attention to that. Kronos’ role in the narrative is primarily to haunt, to remind us of the larger history of violence and its victims, of whom we must be mindful. Prometheus’ split, on the other hand, reflects what began as three argumentative strains I had in my head with myself, but eventually grew into more. Prometheus is the debate, the what-to-do-about-it.

LR: The play also alludes heavily to Classical (as in, Greco-Roman) theatre: not only does it make use of a Greek-style chorus (consisting of the multiple incarnations of Prometheus) and a tragic hero figure (Kronos), but the two main characters’ names derive from Classical mythological figures. Kronos (named after the god of time) serves as narrator and timekeeper for the play as it unfolds, while Prometheus (who, in the myth, was condemned to eternal torture for violating the gods’ rules in order to help humanity), devotes her life to the cause of justice, despite the great suffering she encounters. Can you talk a little bit about the inspiration behind this decision? Why did you choose to set your play within the framework of the Classical dramatic tradition? Why the myths of “Kronos” and “Prometheus,” in particular?

TR: First, let me also give the disclaimer that I am not at all a classicist, and my knowledge of anything Greco-Roman is embarrassingly thin. Still, I’m of the school of thought that myth is important—though not necessarily classical myth. I found that invoking the Biblical tradition made Goliath more powerful, especially when we configure masculinity itself in the position of Goliath. Myth opens the doors to radical forms of re-signification and reiteration. Prometheus made sense here in particular as a narrative to co-opt. One of the lines I first imagined in my head is “I stole fire for you,” and I connected it to the notion of “stealing fire” in the academy. Call me romantic, but I think a lot of the academic project is quite promethean; you’re searching for forbidden knowledge that can sometimes get you into trouble. The challenge is how to best steal fire, and which fire to steal.