To be, or not to be… a theatre kid

Being a theatre person is like being a vampire.

One day, the performance bug bites you and suddenly, you’re nocturnal. The things that once satiated you, like a normal job and relationships, are nothing compared to the taste of your own blood, sweat, and tears you’ve poured into a show. You have connected with other vampires and built a community of people who get it — who see, not their own immortality, but the ephemeral nature of life. How, between auditions and closing night, you come to realize everything that lives dies, and every story ends, and the only way out is through. There’s no such thing as money or time compared to the flourishing chaos of live storytelling, the glorious exchange of energy, and the draining, twisting road map that is a script come to life.

It’s a complex, love-hate relationship that all industry people possess at some point.

Now, if you’re not in the industry, you’ve probably made it this far into the blog and thought, WTF? People do this… outside of work… for free?

Oftentimes, yes, and therein lies the magic.

I have a degree in theatre, because it’s the one thing I knew was deeply ingrained in my spirit, and so I’d often hoped to build a comfortable life in this world. But I started in my small town’s community theatre with a troupe called The Rebel Alliance (and yes, I’m pretty sure that is a Star Wars joke)… and I know there’s absolutely nothing more powerful than people who come together for the love of the art, who create just to create, and who just want to play.

That’s what theatre is: dressing up and playing pretend. And you know what? It’s so healing to watch regular people step up to the plate and just… make something.

I’ve never really felt like I had a community until I walked through the doors of that wedding chapel on Adams street, and I’ve carried that with me through all my endeavors since. The first thing I learned with The Rebel Alliance was that, above all, self-acceptance was key to putting on a good show… something I’ve always had a hard time with, because I never knew who I was.

I learned that there is nothing to acting except being. The show changed every night depending on how the actors felt about their lines. There was no real blocking, just vibes. I didn’t even know what the word ‘blocking’ was back then. In my first play, Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, I played the Gryphon and wore a fake tail and foam mask and had like, 5 lines. That was it, for me. I was sold — I knew what I was meant to be doing forever.

When I went to college, I learned a lot. Suddenly there was a vast underground network of my fellow vampires from all over who wanted to get into the business. The real business — the Broadway business, where there were stage managers and designers and other terms I’d literally never heard of or understood before then… but many were also there to get into television and movies and beyond. There’s a quote by Terrence Mann that goes, “Movies make you famous, television makes you rich, but theatre makes you good.” I think all of us there wanted to be good. I don’t mean it like we were the best for doing what we did, though the fame bug does live deep inside every theatre kid. I meant that we understood the power of storytelling and knew our purpose lay therein, and that we had to get out there and do it.

Then the reality of capitalism slaps you in the face: you have to make money to live, and to make money in theatre is unheard of. When there are things like movies and TV, why would anyone go to a play? Theatre is dead. The only people who are trying to keep it alive are my fellow undead theatre people: vampires supporting vampires, and in the age of technology, who cares?

I’ve grappled with that a lot. I’ve left theatre more times than I can count… But I always go back. There’s something profound and spiritual about the energy exchange that happens between audience member and actor that I cannot describe. They feed off one another in a way you simply don’t get through a screen. With movies and TV, the actors don’t respond to you. There is no reason to suspend your disbelief, or to really pay attention, because you can always go back and watch it again if you missed something. It can easily become background noise.

Theatre is different. It’s intentional. You have to sit down and listen, because it is temporary, a fleeting glimpse into the world and story as it is. When you leave the building, you leave it all behind you. You can never go back and see the same show twice, even if you go back and see the same show twice, because the variable of the audience’s energy and response have inherently changed.

Energy begets energy. You get from it what you put into it, like anything else in the world. You don’t have to live forever to know that.

I also hope, every time I go back, that maybe I’ll be different this time. I’ve spent a lot of time in my own darkness, afraid of the stage lights and putting myself out there. Stage lights are not the sun, however, and they won’t burn your skin — but maybe your ego. And I’ve always been afraid of that unavoidable judgement, because I judge myself. In my experiences since high school and college, I’ve avoided theatre to dabble in every other form of art I can think of: drawing, painting, music, writing, etc. I tried anything and everything to dive deep into the well that is my own subconscious, because I knew that if I didn’t break through layer one (self awareness, and it goes to follow, self care) I would never breach layer two: community enrichment.

There is some strange, sacred, ancient knowledge that comes with putting on a play. It is the oldest form of storytelling there is — before words were ever written down, we did plays. We passed down knowledge and myth and legend through theatre, and I think there’s something in that which will live on forever in our communities, even if technology takes over for good.

We all are each given an individual story, and through sharing that story, we can weave it together with everyone else’s to create our collective consciousness. One big play. As Shakespeare said, all the world’s a stage, and the men and women merely players. We have to put ourselves out there, spread the message in our hearts, and be open to all the ways we can connect and understand each other’s motives. Storytelling how we build compassion and empathy: when we can see ourselves through each other’s eyes, walk a mile in their shoes, and listen to their words, we can work together toward something bigger than ourselves.

That is not to say you have to write a play and put on an elaborate theatrical production. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, especially if you’ve never been bitten by Count Theatricula. But you can make art about it, or write about it, or say it out loud… because I know that someone out there needs to hear it, and may it empower them to open their hearts and minds to themselves.

Theatre is acceptance. It is community. It is hard work and it takes a certain strength to see it through to the end. I hope to see you all out there on stage and beyond, if you’re willing, to do good — whatever that means to you. When presented with a choice between what is easy versus what is best for your growth, I hope you do not grapple with the slings and arrows of indecision like Hamlet, or stay frozen in the darkness like me, afraid of the light… but rather choose to be yourself and do something with the story you’ve been handed.

Now… go see a play.