When I Think About You

NOTE: I wrote this for my students after posting a cast list a few years ago. 

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When I was growing up, I was lucky enough to have parents and siblings who never stood in my way if I wanted to stage a play on the lawn, film a movie in the woods, have all of my friends paint their handprints on my bedroom wall, wear my New Wave clothing to church long after New Wave was a thing, or be anything I wanted to be. My teachers in elementary school were wonderful, creative and young, and they let me take the initiative to direct a stage version of The Dukes of Hazzard. In high school my teachers and administrators let me take over the school newspaper to the point that it was more like a tabloid, let me start new clubs, throw weekend parties, and generally do anything I came up with as long as it was positive and creative.

 In college I made friends who never said an idea was dumb or a goal was unreachable. They threw elaborate theme parties, joined every organization on campus, played in bands, wrote and directed and starred in plays, painted each other’s dorm rooms and cars and bodies, and always encouraged each other—and me—to go for whatever it was we wanted to do. When I directed my first play at the university, all of my friends were involved, doing whatever they did best—the guys in the band were my musicians, the kids from the art department made my set and playbills and posters, my classmates were the production staff, and all those beautiful performers from the SGA Coffeehouse were my actors. I’ll never forget how that felt—that feeling of family between unrelated people that I only know how to achieve by creating something together.

Because of all those years of that kind of treatment, I don’t have it within me to say no to the creative aspirations of students.  That’s the real reason Lake Howell does so many plays—I don’t want to say no when the idea and the passion are strong, because no one ever said no to me. Or if they did, I didn’t really listen anyway. Yes, I have created hurdles that people have to jump in order to direct a play at Lake Howell—but the ones who really want it always get to direct something, and I’m proud of that.

One of the hardest parts of my job is putting up cast lists for plays. In a strictly mechanical world, the best player for each part gets the roll, and everyone else who auditioned just goes home to look for more audition notices. In the professional world, of course, that’s not really what happens. People get cast in parts because their agent knows the producer, or because they needed someone who fit the Johnny Bravo suit, or because redheads are the big thing this year, or because they are hot, or because they are in the union, or not in the union, or they are typecast, or whatever. Maybe they were the best, maybe not.

In educational theater, the goal is to balance the best performances with some kind of equal playing field. If the best person got the lead role every time we had auditions, it is very possible that the same person would literally star in all twelve plays in our season. If someone is dependable and fun to work with, do they get chosen over someone who has incredible stage presence but a bad temper? How many times do you turn someone down because they didn’t quite make the cut before you bump them forward—maybe even past stronger candidates—and say, “This is your chance—don’t waste it”? What do you do for the technician who finally gets the courage to try for a speaking part and barely makes it through the audition without passing out? What about the guy who looks exactly like the actor who played that part in the movie version? How do you tell someone how much you care while also telling them it’s not going to happen this time—again? What if a freshman beats out a senior? What if the exchange student has an accent so thick that no one can understand them? What if the best actor won’t stop playing lacrosse? What if the best actress is barely pulling a 2.0 GPA? What if someone is simply tired that day, or sick, or their girlfriend just dumped them? What if they are the principal’s son—and also the best actor? What if they are amazing but no one has ever seen them before and we just don’t know if they will follow through?

So I post my list, and then sit back and think about all of the people looking at the list online in their homes, or over the phone with other friends, and I try not to think too hard. Thinking too hard makes you want to reach out to every person who doesn’t find their name on the list and say, “I know—I know.” Thinking too hard makes you wonder if the person you thought would appreciate the middle-sized role you gave them will actually just resent you for it, to the point where that role might better have been given to someone who would have been transformed by it. Thinking too hard makes you want to give up. Anyone who has ever cast a play probably knows what I’m talking about.

For me, all I can do is remind myself that while you can’t buy the world a Coke, you can at least show everyone where the bottling works is located. Whatever play we are working on—it’s just one play. It will be created, it will be presented, it will be documented, and it will be remembered. And then there will be another one, and another, and another. If the opportunity you seek has not been fulfilled here—I promise you, there are a thousand more you can create for yourself. You can direct a play, act a scene, sing a song, paint a set, make a collage, invite fifty people to your house to film your own reality series, throw a party, plan a trip, write a script, sew a costume, give yourself a make-over, create a fad, do your dance, show your skills, design your game plan, make a portfolio, take a picture, cook a meal, paint a portrait, slam your poetry, start a movement, form a club, lead a group—anything you want.

There are a lot of things that I’m not very good at, but in general I am pretty strong in the area of not saying no to people who believe in their ideas. Every time I don’t say no to a positive and creative idea, I think about my second grade teacher painting the numbers on my cardboard General Lee, my Ma helping me construct my Titanic costume for the Boy Scout Halloween parade, my friend Dean designing my pop-up book playbill for the Purpose of the Moon, or my principal never telling me how many shows is too many for one school.

 Thank you to everyone who never told me no, and thank you to everyone who trusts me enough with their dreams to ask me to say yes.

There’ll be no more message tonight.