By Finn Hardge
There is a suspended feeling of “safety” within the theatre: a bubble of strange protection that you believe in the moment you step through the door. Maybe it’s the ancient, sacred nature of the place: words written, spoken and spoken again for what seems like eons. I felt particularly safe and seen as a young queer man, transitioning only onstage. In educational theatre, I was surrounded with other brilliant youth - some queer, some questioning, some straight. All were loving, all were driven to succeed. Not only were there places that existed for inclusive discussion among students but there was a dare to break one’s expectations. Artists are always compelled to walk the tightrope, and my peers were no exception. There was a home to be made among the makeshift theatre we had grown to love in school. But even within the home I’d built for myself backstage, I knew that there were mighty cracks in the foundation. Theatre has always been full of gatekeepers: those who bar others for anything from not enough money to not the right looks. For those who are in, it becomes everything they are. But there are certain designs in place that make theatre completely inaccessible in some areas and utterly undesirable in others. If you’re reading this, you know that’s not fair. You know that every child, every person, should be allowed the opportunity to at least see what kind of magic can be created. If there is ever going to be a chance that American Theatre survives as a beacon in culture, we will all have to address the systemic disparagement of Black lives within its core.
No one can blame any young child of the global majority for not getting into theatre as a little kid. Not only is it simply expensive to participate on a basic level & not only is it filled to the brim with judgement on your very presence. American Theatre as a whole historically has had little room for stories of color. They were few and far between compared to the mass of more digestible, whiter stories. The classics all have a white male lead and a white female love interest. Black and brown student artists found themselves cast as comedic relief, temptresses, villains. Ensembles of ensembles. The great majority of crew members set to work with Black actors know nothing of Black hair, costuming, or how makeup shows up on rich skin. It was discouraging on every level. I knew even back then that we were playing a rigged game. In all of my efforts to commit to Theatre culture, I still struggled to name even a few Black playwrights. I knew about August Wilson, Alice Walker, Suzan Lori-Parks. This, however, was nothing compared to what I’d been told all my life of Eugene O’Neill, Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, etc. It wasn’t that stories by Black artists weren’t recognized. It’s that they were commodified to such an extent that they became entirely separate from other outlets of theatre. There were “regular” (read: white) stories I would fantasize about being cast in. But this always required some sort of lenient change to the play itself. My blackness & queerness never could fit properly into a type and so I didn’t. Like so many other striving young artists of color, I settled for what I could get. If that was the comedic best friend, so be it. If that was the catalyst for the dashing white lead to have some character development, so be it. I dreamed of words that had not yet been written for me.
And then 2020 happened.
I remember the numerous shootings we all heard about during my early high school times. None so prolific as Ferguson. There was upset in the streets and there was upset in the classroom. My sophomore history teacher allowed us to discuss the matter in a debate- I still struggle with understanding what could possibly be under debate. At the time, no one was arguing which job was harder, what drugs were acceptable to have in your system, what constituted resistance and what sounded like begging. It was a seemingly simple matter of someone being shot and killed and that it was wrong. That was supposed to be that. But there was this stirring, this blame that kept shifting from hand to hand like a magician shuffling cards. It became deafening to me. I went through the rest of my high school years participating in art, theatre, choir. Anything to quiet the noise. Anything to be seen. Anything to be remembered. A part of me always thought that if I was highly viewed - respected enough - it would significantly lower my chances of becoming a similar statistic. Nothing scared me more than disappearing in broad daylight and having it become some sort of debate.
The murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery and truly countless others at the hands of an incompetent national force seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth. With the pandemic raging on, there was little else one could do aside from see what was happening. There is a nine minute video that is responsible for a resurgence of pain. This pain would carry on throughout the year of 2020 and it would touch every aspect of our lives. I couldn’t look anywhere online without being forced fed the heated, shuffling debate. What job is harder, what drugs you’re allowed to have in your body, what is begging, what is murder and who’s who in the suffering game. I turned to the only protection I knew: the theatre. The cracked foundations I had recognized in my youth had now been revealed to have been gaping holes in the floorboards. There were entire voids where love & light should have been living. There was fear baked into the walls backstage. There were whispered rumors of the theatre dying forever. Covid could be responsible for the downfall of art, we fretted. How could we possibly go on without live shows, live music, live expressions, life itself? In our universal turmoil, light was finally shone on the failed system made before us.
Suddenly all around us were pledges to do better. More light, more attention, more demand. Black creatives who have been on the ground in the scene for decades were finally getting some due diligence. New creators were invigorated with the drive to bring hope into a place so previously filled with doubt. I’ve never seen more Black playwrights around with such a sturdy following than I have this year. In fact, Broadway’s Fall season is chock full of Black stories, 10 of which are brand new. There are many Black and brown artists in Boston who are taking matters into their own hands on a core level. There is demand for real action over outrage. Reparations are in order for reconciliation; what we need across the country is pay equity and a revamp of the inner culture that has allowed this imbalance to go on as long as it has. Black artists are above being consultants or commodities- it is time to sit at the table.
A lot of local DFW companies had taken a pledge last year to do right by the African diaspora and our experiences as American artists. This, however, proved more difficult to pull off than they initially thought. In combination with scrambling to get shows onstage after being out of commission so long due to the pandemic, directors were met with the challenge of making their workplace a home for their Black colleagues. It is no longer acceptable for us to have to “buck up” in order to survive in white spaces such as these. WaterTower Theatre was in hot water earlier this year over its all white casting of The Curious Incident of the Dog at Night Time which takes place in modern day London. A follow up statement on July 28 was issued out as an apology, in which the artistic director Shane Peterman admitted that this was a “teaching moment” and that while there is constant work to be done on everyone’s side “there are some really amazing leaders and members of the BIPOC community who want to help move towards a constructive plan to move to a solution.”
Garland Summer Musicals announced a 2022 season including both Thoroughly Modern Millie (a musical with racist stereotypes of Asian Americans) and the King & I, which requires quite the ensemble of AAPI that the area simply hasn’t shown historically. This was a lapse in judgement considering that AAPI bigotry has significantly increased this last year. It was quickly amended with another apology statement: “We hear you. We are working on a NEW 2022 season”. But would this incident have happened at all had there been people of the global majority on the board? Why does American Theatre default back to rehashed stories such as these when the door for new work has been opened?
The takeaway from these occurrences is that now more than ever it is so important to really listen. We as a community of artists cannot afford to return back to what we knew. It is no longer “safe”. It never really was. It is owed to our Black and brown artists around the world to tell their stories here. It is not enough to cast Black actors in white roles, or to have just a couple more crew members on the team to consult with. We have to do better than that. We can improve upon what was given to us by creating space for beautiful storytelling; stories of triumph, success and the heart. No more cracking at the seams. There are new words being written for us in which to find ourselves everyday. It is entirely up to us to ensure that our future proudly represents us as we are and as we would like to be.
No one can blame any young child of the global majority for not getting into theatre as a little kid. Not only is it simply expensive to participate on a basic level & not only is it filled to the brim with judgement on your very presence. American Theatre as a whole historically has had little room for stories of color. They were few and far between compared to the mass of more digestible, whiter stories. The classics all have a white male lead and a white female love interest. Black and brown student artists found themselves cast as comedic relief, temptresses, villains. Ensembles of ensembles. The great majority of crew members set to work with Black actors know nothing of Black hair, costuming, or how makeup shows up on rich skin. It was discouraging on every level. I knew even back then that we were playing a rigged game. In all of my efforts to commit to Theatre culture, I still struggled to name even a few Black playwrights. I knew about August Wilson, Alice Walker, Suzan Lori-Parks. This, however, was nothing compared to what I’d been told all my life of Eugene O’Neill, Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, etc. It wasn’t that stories by Black artists weren’t recognized. It’s that they were commodified to such an extent that they became entirely separate from other outlets of theatre. There were “regular” (read: white) stories I would fantasize about being cast in. But this always required some sort of lenient change to the play itself. My blackness & queerness never could fit properly into a type and so I didn’t. Like so many other striving young artists of color, I settled for what I could get. If that was the comedic best friend, so be it. If that was the catalyst for the dashing white lead to have some character development, so be it. I dreamed of words that had not yet been written for me.
And then 2020 happened.
I remember the numerous shootings we all heard about during my early high school times. None so prolific as Ferguson. There was upset in the streets and there was upset in the classroom. My sophomore history teacher allowed us to discuss the matter in a debate- I still struggle with understanding what could possibly be under debate. At the time, no one was arguing which job was harder, what drugs were acceptable to have in your system, what constituted resistance and what sounded like begging. It was a seemingly simple matter of someone being shot and killed and that it was wrong. That was supposed to be that. But there was this stirring, this blame that kept shifting from hand to hand like a magician shuffling cards. It became deafening to me. I went through the rest of my high school years participating in art, theatre, choir. Anything to quiet the noise. Anything to be seen. Anything to be remembered. A part of me always thought that if I was highly viewed - respected enough - it would significantly lower my chances of becoming a similar statistic. Nothing scared me more than disappearing in broad daylight and having it become some sort of debate.
The murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery and truly countless others at the hands of an incompetent national force seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth. With the pandemic raging on, there was little else one could do aside from see what was happening. There is a nine minute video that is responsible for a resurgence of pain. This pain would carry on throughout the year of 2020 and it would touch every aspect of our lives. I couldn’t look anywhere online without being forced fed the heated, shuffling debate. What job is harder, what drugs you’re allowed to have in your body, what is begging, what is murder and who’s who in the suffering game. I turned to the only protection I knew: the theatre. The cracked foundations I had recognized in my youth had now been revealed to have been gaping holes in the floorboards. There were entire voids where love & light should have been living. There was fear baked into the walls backstage. There were whispered rumors of the theatre dying forever. Covid could be responsible for the downfall of art, we fretted. How could we possibly go on without live shows, live music, live expressions, life itself? In our universal turmoil, light was finally shone on the failed system made before us.
Suddenly all around us were pledges to do better. More light, more attention, more demand. Black creatives who have been on the ground in the scene for decades were finally getting some due diligence. New creators were invigorated with the drive to bring hope into a place so previously filled with doubt. I’ve never seen more Black playwrights around with such a sturdy following than I have this year. In fact, Broadway’s Fall season is chock full of Black stories, 10 of which are brand new. There are many Black and brown artists in Boston who are taking matters into their own hands on a core level. There is demand for real action over outrage. Reparations are in order for reconciliation; what we need across the country is pay equity and a revamp of the inner culture that has allowed this imbalance to go on as long as it has. Black artists are above being consultants or commodities- it is time to sit at the table.
A lot of local DFW companies had taken a pledge last year to do right by the African diaspora and our experiences as American artists. This, however, proved more difficult to pull off than they initially thought. In combination with scrambling to get shows onstage after being out of commission so long due to the pandemic, directors were met with the challenge of making their workplace a home for their Black colleagues. It is no longer acceptable for us to have to “buck up” in order to survive in white spaces such as these. WaterTower Theatre was in hot water earlier this year over its all white casting of The Curious Incident of the Dog at Night Time which takes place in modern day London. A follow up statement on July 28 was issued out as an apology, in which the artistic director Shane Peterman admitted that this was a “teaching moment” and that while there is constant work to be done on everyone’s side “there are some really amazing leaders and members of the BIPOC community who want to help move towards a constructive plan to move to a solution.”
Garland Summer Musicals announced a 2022 season including both Thoroughly Modern Millie (a musical with racist stereotypes of Asian Americans) and the King & I, which requires quite the ensemble of AAPI that the area simply hasn’t shown historically. This was a lapse in judgement considering that AAPI bigotry has significantly increased this last year. It was quickly amended with another apology statement: “We hear you. We are working on a NEW 2022 season”. But would this incident have happened at all had there been people of the global majority on the board? Why does American Theatre default back to rehashed stories such as these when the door for new work has been opened?
The takeaway from these occurrences is that now more than ever it is so important to really listen. We as a community of artists cannot afford to return back to what we knew. It is no longer “safe”. It never really was. It is owed to our Black and brown artists around the world to tell their stories here. It is not enough to cast Black actors in white roles, or to have just a couple more crew members on the team to consult with. We have to do better than that. We can improve upon what was given to us by creating space for beautiful storytelling; stories of triumph, success and the heart. No more cracking at the seams. There are new words being written for us in which to find ourselves everyday. It is entirely up to us to ensure that our future proudly represents us as we are and as we would like to be.
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