School Play Joy

Cast everyone.

My 13-year-old son performed in his middle school’s production of Joseph & The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat last weekend. (You may have noticed my recent gushing posts about it).

Full disclosure:

Several months ago, my 13-year-old got in trouble at school.

As a punishment, I forced him to audition for Joseph/Dreamcoat, which he was most certainly not planning on doing.

But since closing night, my kid told me he plans to audition harder next year and that Joseph/Dreamcoat didn’t work as a punishment because he fucking loved it (his words).

I often worry if I’m a good mom, as all good moms do. Beyond validating their feelings, being present, smothering them with love and driving them places on time, I don’t really know what I’m doing. But punishing my kid with Andrew Lloyd Webber as a way of tricking him into loving Andrew Lloyd Webber? It was an act of parenting innovation I didn’t think I was capable of. I await the book deals.

Anyway, you probably won’t believe me when I say that my kid’s middle school version of Joseph/Dreamcoat was one of the most joyful, rigorous spectaculars I’ve ever seen on stage. But it was.

I’m not just saying that because my kid was in it.

I’ve suffered through hundreds of hours of school performances. Every parent knows how dreadful it is to watch other people’s kids doing things.

But not this show. This show was an exquisite, turbo-charged machine of choreography, singing, acting and most importantly, joy.

The reason why it was this joyful was because in this particular production, if you wanted to be in it, you could be in it. Because of that, there were over 100 kids on stage and 60 kids running crew. Yes, auditions were held, but only to place kids in roles, not to cut them.

This is literally the definition of inclusion—- that no-bullshit kind of inclusion you actually execute, instead of gaslight about in your feel-good mission statement.

When I was a kid in the 80s and 90s, school plays were not interested in inclusion. Or joy, for that matter.

The person who directed all my high school musicals was this woman named Andie.

In my memory, Andie was an adult adult— but in retrospect, I know she was in her late twenties.

Andie was not a teacher, but a long-ago alum of my high school who resurfaced and somehow got the job without any real resume or theater experience to speak of (it was the 90s).

Andie was huge, both physically and emotionally. Imagine a gigantic, red-haired Liza Minnelli.

As mentioned, Andie didn’t believe in inclusion in the high school musical, she believed in cuts.

She scorched the earth with cuts.

Year after year, Andie’s favorite moment, seemingly, was when the cast list went up on the door to the auditorium. After the final round of auditions, all us theater kids would linger in the hallway outside, waiting for that door to creak open and Andie to come out with a slice of paper and scotch tape.

Up went that list upon the door.

But Andie didn’t then duck back into the classroom—- she’d stay for the reveal.

Whereas most adults would be affected by the sight of weeping teenagers, emotional shrapnel bounced off Andie like Superman. “This is show business,” she seemed to say. “Thems the breaks.”

But Andie could also be bought and sold. Andie shared state secrets. Andie talked shit about kids. Andie even harbored crushes on boys (nothing acted upon, as far as I know, but there were certainly rumors).

In the beginning, I liked Andie a lot and she liked me. When Guys & Dolls was announced as the musical my freshman year (1995), I went into pleasure overload. Guys & Dolls was the first Broadway show I ever saw, my gateway drug. I knew it backwards and forwards. I would be Adelaide.

The day of auditions, the role of Adelaide came down to me and this senior named Christa.

Andie called the two of us back in to sing Adelaide’s Lament over and over and over again. It was as if she enjoyed it. Why didn’t Andie just give me the role, I wondered, I was clearly hitting it out of the park. And Christa kind of agreed. She herself admitted to me that she wasn’t really a theater person, had no intention of pursuing theater after high school, and really only auditioned for Guys & Dolls as a lark.

“Come on!” I telepathed to Andie. “This role would be wasted on Christa!”

Soon, the door creaked open, Andie popped out and the cast list went up.

Christa was Adelaide, not me.

I wasn’t cut. Worse. I was a Hot Box Girl. A lineless, songless, faceless ensemble member.

I went numb.

Andie immediately took me aside and whispered words of reassurance in my ear:

“Sara, don’t freak out,” she said. “Christa is a senior and you’re a freshman.”

“So what?” I said, the levee about to break.

“Well, my policy is,” Andie explained, “if it comes down to two, seniority wins.”

I didn’t realize she had a policy.

After that, I slipped into a period of darkness and despair. I wept in my bed for days, totally inconsolable. The only thing that snapped me out of it was when my dad interrupted my crying jag one day with his journalistic matter-of-fact truism: “In ten years, you won’t even remember this.” He said. That helped me recover for some reason.

My sophomore year (1996), West Side Story was announced as that year’s musical.

Fuck Guys & Dolls, I thought. West Side Story was (and still is) my favorite musical ever. If I’m not cast as Anita, I thought, my wrath will be biblical.

That summer I worked on Anita songs and scenes to the point of exhaustion. I would get that role.

One night, shortly before the West Side Story audition, Andie had me and a few other girls over to her apartment.

I don’t remember why we went there, how we got there, how we got home or if any adults even knew we were there. I only remember two things: first Andie gave me a Zima.

Zima was a clear, lemon-lime flavored alcoholic malt beverage born out of the “clear beverage craze” that gripped the country in the 90s for some reason. Coke and Pepsi went clear for a while and I guess Zima followed.

Anyway, I was 15 years old and I had never tasted alcohol before. I knew I was too young for it, also I had no interest in drinking. But because it was Andie and because she was making decisions that steered the trajectory of my life and because I wanted to impress her with how chill I was, I took the Zima, opened it, drank it and got buzzed.

The only other thing I remember from that night is when Andie and I put our tap shoes on, went out on her tiny little balcony and tapdanced in the moonlight.

For a long time, I liked this memory.

Now, I don’t like it.

At all.

Aside from the fact that I cannot fathom an adult even wanting to spend time with a teenager, I cannot fathom an adult giving alcohol to one, especially a 15 year old, and then dancing with her. This wasn’t a mentor/mentee situation. It was a creepy, inappropriate situation. But it was the 90s and theater has a wider berth for shitty behavior, especially back then.

Shortly after that, I was cast as Anita in West Side Story.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Sara, aren’t you a white person?

Yes.

Allow me to explain something I have never admitted in a public forum before. I hope you will forgive my admission here and understand that I was 15, it was 1995 and I had no agency over my life.

Before every performance of West Side Story, Andie slathered my face in bronzer. She also used permanent hair dye to color my brown hair a deep jet black.

This was all Andie’s idea—-I was 15, remember—- and I thought nothing of it at the time. Now of course I know it was completely unnecessary, offensive and hurtful. I’m sorry it happened and I’m sorry I didn’t see that then.¹

Anyway, I crushed it. A lot of transformative life events happened to me during the run of that show, but I’ll save them for another time.

After West Side Story closed, the following year’s musical was announced: Damn Yankees. It would be 1996, I would be a junior.

Damn Yankees was not my favorite musical—-anything about sports immediately bores me. Also, I had seen Jerry Lewis in it on Broadway in 1994 and I remembered him being laughable and not in a good way.

But there was of course the role of Lola, the devil’s assistant sent to earth to seduce Joe into staying “young” and relinquishing his soul to Satan. You probably know Lola’s big song, “Whatever Lola Wants” Lola gets! And little man, little Lola wants you. (Again, not Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim.)

Regardless, that summer I worked on Lola to the point of exhaustion. I would get that role.

Also, that summer, both Andie and I were cast in our community theater’s production of Anything Goes, the great Cole Porter tap musical. (As referenced above, both Andie and I could tap). Andie, of course, was cast as the female lead, Reno Sweeney. I, of course, was cast in the ensemble.

I was 16 by now. Andie was close to 30.

At intermission one night, Andie and I were hanging outside by the stage door. She leaned on the crumbling brick wall of the theater and lit a cigarette. I sat on the ground next to her, trying to be cool.

“Well,” she said between puffs, “Damn Yankees this year.”

“Yes!” I said, “I’m totally excited.”

“You should be,” she said, vaguely.

“Why?” I said, coyly.

“Well,” she went on, “because I’ve already decided I’m casting you as Lola.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Pre-cast? That loathsome word: pre-cast. Bane to actors and directors the world over. But when it applies to you? Heaven! I was pre-cast!

“I’m Lola?” I asked, incredulous.

“You’re Lola!” She said, proudly, directly, confidently. “I mean, Sara: There’s no one else who can play that part but you.”

I fire-crackered to the moon. I was untouchable. I was Lola! And I didn’t even have to audition! I was so good, I was an insider! Fuck inclusion! I declared. Long live exclusion!

As the day of Damn Yankees auditions approached, I “prepared” for Lola, but… not really. Why should I? I already had the part. I visualized myself breezing into that audition room, pulling up a chair and gossiping with Andie about boys (yes, she gossiped about high school boys). I wouldn’t bother auditioning. Let those other rubes fight it out. I was pre-cast.

Side note (and this is important information for the story): That same summer, I had a falling out with my best friend, Allison. I won’t get into what it was about, but yes, there was a boy involved and yes, the entire school knew about it.

Anyway, it’s the day of the Damn Yankees auditions. The sequence of events of that day, and the next, appear in my memory in rapid fire succession.

I remember entering the audition room.

I remember getting a very strong bad vibe.

I remember singing “Whatever Lola Wants.”

I remember not feeling good about my audition.

I remember reminding myself not to worry: I am pre-cast. Andie said so!

I remember all the theater kids lingering around the door to the auditorium.

I remember Andie gleefully taping the cast list upon it.

Next to the name “Lola,” I remember seeing Allison’s name, my ex-best friend.

How… how could this be?

I remember going, ok, ok no bigs, maybe I’m Gloria, the plucky reporter, or Meg, Joe’s elderly wife.

But I remember not seeing my name.

Anywhere.

I remember reading and re-reading and re-re-reading that list.

My name was not on it.

I was cut.

I remember going numb. A deep, numbness of disbelief and betrayal.

The next thing I remember is having a conversation with my high school’s arts program director, Mrs. Holliman, in her office.

I remember coming clean, telling her that Andie pre-cast me and that it wasn’t fair that I was cut. And that even if I did blow the audition, I had a right to Lola because I had been promised her.

I remember Mrs. Holliman rolling her eyes, growing more and more impatient with me and my entitlement. I remember Mrs. Holliman told me that Andie should never have pre-cast me, but as a consolation prize, she will tell Andie to “un-cut” me and cast me in the chorus.

I remember saying I would rather not be in the show at all then go through that kind of humiliation.

I remember Mrs. Holliman saying, “well, then you have a bad attitude.”

So I was offered a chorus part, lineless, songless, faceless, even more anonymous than a HotBoxer. And to prove I had a good attitude, I accepted. I clearly remember being in the conga line for the song, “Who’s Got The Pain?” Remember that destestable song from Damn Yankees? You know the one. It goes, “Who’s got the pain when they do the mambo? Who’s got the pain when they go UGH!” It’s one of the worst songs ever written for the American theater and I never faked a smile harder.²

Anyway, Damn Yankees eventually closed and I do remember spiraling into one of my first bouts with real depression, which, as I’ve described here at Theater Is Hard, I am prone to when things stop working.

My senior year, 1998, I was accepted into college super early, around the middle of September. The minute I got that acceptance letter, I checked out of high school completely. I skipped class all the time, particularly gym class, which I loathed, and did the barest of minimums everywhere else. I certainly didn’t bother to audition for the musical that year. I know Andie directed it, but I have no memory of what it was. I was already gone.

All this to say, inclusion, real inclusion, is the way to shape the future of the American theater. When you cut kids who are putting themselves out there, which is fucking frightening for a teenager, you are robbing them of that specific vein of joy and magic that only the theater can offer the human soul.

I saw that joy on stage at Maplewood Middle School last week in their Joseph & The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. From everything my kid has told me, the process of making the show was joyful and magical and most importantly, every kid who wanted a piece of that joy and magic got one. I hope those kids never lose that feeling, whatever they choose to do with their lives.

The show’s director, Marc Kessler, did it right.

My high school director Andie? She did it wrong. (Oh, and she gave alcohol to 15-year-olds.)

Theater is hard, but it doesn’t have to be.

1. I wasn’t going to tell that part of this story for fear of ghost-cancellation. I debated not revealing it. But as you know, my mission with Theater Is Hard is to be completely honest about theater, particularly my own experience in it. So, I would be lying by omission if I didn’t include that part in here.

2. I have always suspected that there was a piece of information in my pre-cast-then-cut story that I never received. Because of how involved Andie was in all the teenagers’ lives, I have always assumed it had something to do with the falling out I had with Allison, who went on to play Lola. Did Andie cast Allison as a way of declaring sides in a teenaged spat she had literally nothing to do with? I don’t know. But maybe not. Maybe I really did blow the audition. Maybe I should have prepared.