For the past eight years, the first weekend in August has been reserved for musical theater. Z started performing with the local young theater company when he was 10 years old, and his brothers joined him as soon as they were old enough. We have had the great joy of seeing our boys take on roles in Godspell, Guys and Dolls, Footloose, Madagascar, Frozen, A Wrinkle in Time, and other lesser known but equally wonderful shows. Seeing them perform alongside their friends has always been a highlight of the summer. Watching a group of young kids put on a fantastic show is awe-inspiring. Every time. The ability to sing, dance, and take on the perspective of another human–and do it WELL–will never cease to amaze me. It brings me such delight, such deep joy to see live theater.
COVID interrupted this, of course. In 2020, the stage was dark. No summer camp. No performances. In 2021, the younger two boys went back, but it wasn’t the same. The charismatic and exuberant director left during COVID. He held everything together, made kids feel included. He knew that theater provided what Ben Platt described as the place “...where I was the most completely embraced, not having to fit a box or semi-pretend to be enjoying certain things.” While the interim director was someone the boys had worked with before, the anxiety, social awkwardness, and trauma of spending a year apart from all that was normal was too much to overcome. The magical second home that the theater had provided for so many years had disappeared. We all felt the loss, one that seemed particularly significant in the midst of so many other losses. 2022 saw no summer theater for our boys. Once the boys went back to school, they all performed in their school’s musicals (masked at first) and plays. But the magic of summer theater has been quiet. We have all remarked at different times how sad we are that the program that once defined their summers doesn’t exist for them anymore.
And then, this past weekend, our youngest performed in Newsies as Crutchy. We saw Newsies when M was 6 years old. It was the show that made him a theater kid. The junior version (which is a shortened version of a Broadway musical, adapted for elementary/middle school students to perform) was set to come out when M was in 4th grade. His elementary school performed a musical every year and Newsies was going to be chosen. But it was delayed. And then COVID happened. And his 4th grade musical was never performed, with 3.5 months of rehearsals under their belt before COVID shut everything down. His 5th grade musical was online. He was in the ensemble of his first middle school musical. And got so anxious, he left halfway through the second performance. But with the guidance, patience, and support of his middle school theater teacher and director, 7th grade saw him go from ensemble to a lead character in the spring festival play. When we learned that a local summer theater was holding auditions for Newsies, he knew he was ready.
Seeing my children perform is something I can’t quite put into words. Whether I am searching for their face in the ensemble or they are a central character, watching them channel their passion, creativity, and hard work into a song, a scene, a dance is something that fills me completely. I understand what it is to perform, to be part of a cast, part of a group of young people who come together to tell a story with their bodies, their voices, their hearts. Once the disappointments of auditions are over, you come together and put all your energy into creating another world together. You recognize the importance of each role, whatever the size. You root for each other. You are inspired by each other. You celebrate when someone lands that note. When someone nails their monologue. You support and encourage them when they feel frustrated or upset. Even as an adult, I’m not sure I’ve experienced anything quite like it. When you take on the role of Eliza Doolittle, playing opposite a boy, three years younger than you, who you might never have talked to outside of theater, you suddenly are his student. You find yourself feeling the anger intensely as you sing “Just you wait, ‘Enry ‘Iggins, just you wait!” And the way you can be transported to Oz or 1899 New York City or 1776 New York City or a diner…well, that is part of the magic of theater. In that world, for those few hours on stage, you belong. You belong to a group of people also putting themselves out on the stage to transport and entertain and provide the audience an opportunity to feel.
Even as life has settled into whatever this new normal is (I no longer have colleagues or an office. I don’t stop for coffee on my commute into work. I get the coffee from my kitchen, which is downstairs from my office, still nestled into a corner of my bedroom), it has felt heavy. People seem harder and less kind than before COVID. I find myself feeling tired and perpetually overdrawn. More grace is required for everyone it seems, and yet, it is harder to replenish the reserves. Without fail, theater fills my proverbial cup. And if it is my boys and their friends performing, it overflows. The absence of theater during COVID only intensified how much it means to me.
Hearing my youngest boy, whose voice only just changed in the past month, sing with such perfect clarity, pureness of tone, and raw vulnerability. It is like prayer to me. It is what makes these transition weeks bearable. It is what gives me the reserves to continue giving, even when the receiving can feel sparse. To keep going in a world that doesn’t feel quite as bright and full and joyful as it did just four years ago. When I hear a group of 20-some middle school kids sing from their hearts “Now is the time to seize the day,” how can I question that directive?
Photo credit: Dana Giuliana