I would never say the words ”I hate theatre.”, even facetiously, though I relate to a character who speaks them perhaps more than any other, and the parallels between us are more than a little on-the-nose. The speaker is the narrator of the 2006 Broadway meta-musical The Drowsy Chaperone. The reason for this is quite simple and very sentimental. Theatre means too much to me.
I have been participating in theatre since I was 5 years old, and as a person who has been living with cerebral palsy since birth, uses a wheelchair for mobility, and also struggles with anxiety and mental health, the impact of theatre on my life cannot be overstated. Despite being anything but asocial and far from agoraphobic, I am sometimes, as Man in Chair puts it: “A little anxious for no particular reason, a little sad that I should feel anxious at this age, you know, a little self-conscious anxiety resulting in non-specific sadness: a state that I call “blue”. Like the Man in Chair, I also cope by listening to music, particularly cast recordings of beloved Broadway shows.
Theatre has given me opportunities that I would never have had without it. It has contributed to my social, intellectual, and emotional development, helped me to be more empathetic, enabled me to take on leadership roles, and develop skills that will be useful for the rest of my life. The bonds I have made in theatre are extremely important to me. It has been a refuge in good times and bad, and has allowed me to truly and fully embrace being my most authentic self, though it will never be easy.
What I’m able to contribute in theatre doesn’t take away from my limitations and daily challenges. Theatre has inspired me to face these challenges head on, because it is where my contributions are at their most meaningful.
Theatre has more often than not been a warm, welcoming and inclusive space, but I have faced many challenges from outright refusal, casting discrimination, and helping individuals to understand the full impact of my disability, as well as how to find solutions. This can often feel lonely, overwhelming and exhausting.
Whenever I am feeling “blue”, or isolated like Man in Chair, I often think of The Drowsy Chaperone, and that by putting on the record of his favorite show, he is able to “go back” to 1928, and, therefore, the show comes to life before our very eyes. He puts it this way: “It does what a musical is supposed to do: it takes you to another world. And it gives you a little tune to carry within your head, you know? A little something to help you escape from the dreary horrors of the real world. A little something for when you’re feeling blue. You know?”
In every production of the Drowsy Chaperone I’ve ever seen, a moment that I would argue forms part of the emotional core of the show, always produces a thoughtful hush. During this scene, the Chaperone has a piece of dialogue which is obscured by the noise of one of the actors dropping a cane, making it unclear whether she is saying to “love” or “live” “while you can”. This huants Man in Chair, and has haunted me as well, but I think I’ve come to a conclusion. Based on the ultimately sincere tone of the show, I think she’s saying “love” but the Man’s cynicism prevents him from being sure. Either way, to truly love you must live and to truly live you must love, no matter the pain it may cause.
However, the final moments have stuck with me the most. The flow of the record, and thus, the show has been ruined by a blackout, one note before it was supposed to end. Despite the power being on again, the Man is determined not to start it over, or pick up from where he left off. Instead, in desperation, he sings one of the show’s most important musical numbers, As We Stumble Along, which starts the show as a self aware gag about the absurdity of a Broadway diva singing an arousing anthem concerning alcoholism. It’s completely recontextualized, however, within Man in Chair’s situation and manage to become profound. The number perfectly captures the show’s themes of determinedly moving through life with joy and hope, regardless of your circumstances, and the cast acknowledges him and joins in singing the show’s final number. This moment means a lot, because it encapsulates exactly what theatre has been for me, in harmony, for moments of ephemeral beauty, moving an audience with some of the best friends and colleagues that I have ever known. Is there anything better to be found on this material plane? If there is, I have yet to discover it.
Theater has always been big for me, too. My Mom took me to see my first production of Wicked at– what, 8 years old?– and I have these crystalline snapshots of Annie and Les Miserables from an even earlier time in my life. Theater is sort of special because it asks you to forget yourself, or the axioms of your day-to-day, and put yourself somewhere entirely different. Of course, I had my Hamilton phase in middle school– but I am unique in that I have never really grown out of it, merely layered onto it with more productions both on Broadway and off. I’m glad you have a similar experience with the wonder of theater.
I think there should always be music inside of one’s head– or I hope there should be, for my own sake!