Potential: The Ugliest Word

A Play in Five Acts

Shakespeare wrote his plays in five acts.

Which feels fitting, considering we just opened A Midsummer Night’s Dream tonight in our tiny little black box theatre that somehow went from “possibly cancelled” to completely sold out in less than a week.

And honestly? The whole thing feels a little like a play itself.

A comedy. A drama. A near-tragedy at a few points there in the middle. A story about trust, timing, chaos, exhaustion, teenagers, theatre, and one stubborn director who kept screaming (not always so) internally, “Y’ALL. PLEASE. JUST MEMORIZE YOUR DANG LINES!”

So tonight, while I sit here riding the high of opening night with a Diet Coke in hand and my brain still spinning at 1:00am, I give you this past season… as Shakespeare intended:

In five acts.

ACT I — The Show Almost Didn’t Happen

Earlier this week there was a very real possibility that Midsummer wasn’t going to happen.

Our program was in the red. Ticket sales were painfully low. We had sold only 29 pre-sale tickets total, and difficult conversations were starting to happen about whether or not we could responsibly move forward.

And let me tell you… trying to explain to a cast of students that the show they’ve spent many weeks working on might not happen is absolutely brutal.

Especially this group.

Because they already lost their fall play this year.

But truthfully, the circumstances were very different then. That production had become disorganized chaos, I ended up needing emergency surgery in the middle of it all, and by the time the cancellation happened there was honestly a sense of collective relief from many involved.

This felt different.

This time there were tears. Genuine disappointment. Panic. Hurt.

Not just from the students.

From me too.

Because somewhere along the way, this weird little Shakespeare comedy had stopped being “just another school play” and had become something we all genuinely cared about protecting.

And I think the students realized that too.

So when they realized this show was truly in danger too? Something shifted.

Suddenly kids were texting people. Calling family members. Posting online. Dragging friends to buy tickets. Rallying around this weird, funny, chaotic little Shakespeare show like their lives depended on it.

And somehow… against all odds…

We sold out every performance before opening night even happened.

Now, to be fair, our black box only seats 50 people and there are only three performances. So let’s not act like we sold out Madison Square Garden. HA!

But still.

There was something incredibly special about watching these students fight for something they loved.

And tonight, sitting in the back of that packed little theatre listening to audience laughter bounce off the walls, it hit me:

Oh.

They finally believe this matters.

ACT II — Why Do You Fight Me So Hard?

There is a running joke in theatre that directors spend most of rehearsal saying the same five things over and over again, and I am no exception. Somewhere near the top of my list this year was: “Please memorize your lines.”

Now listen.

I need my students to understand something very clearly: when I am begging them to memorize lines, stop carrying their scripts around like emotional support blankets, and fully commit to the bit… it is not because I enjoy hearing myself talk.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not wake up every morning thinking, “How can I make teenagers suffer today?”

I know. Shocking.

But y’all… comedy takes work!

Timing takes work. Nuance takes work. Trust takes work. You cannot fully finesse a joke while simultaneously staring at page 47 trying to remember what comes after:
“Lord, what fools these mortals be.”

And Shakespeare? Shakespeare is HARD.

The language is difficult. The sentence structure is weird. Half the battle is simply figuring out where the thought ends and the punctuation begins. We spent weeks working line delivery, thought changes, emphasis, pronunciation…

…and even during final rehearsals there were still moments where I found myself lovingly staring into the void thinking: “Sweetheart, that is not how that word is pronounced.”

HA!

But honestly? Somewhere during all of it, my frustration started turning into affection.

Because last night driving home from rehearsal, I found myself laughing while Marco Poloing friends about the show. Not because the kids were bad — they weren’t. They’ve actually come SO far. I was laughing because there was something weirdly endearing about watching them claw their way through Shakespeare with the determination of tiny exhausted warriors.

And somehow… against all odds…

It was working.

Not perfectly. Not flawlessly. But genuinely working.

There were moments tonight that were truly fantastic. Moments where the pacing clicked, the audience erupted into laughter, and the students finally relaxed enough to trust themselves and each other.

And hearing students afterward say: “This was one of my favorite shows I’ve ever done…” honestly made me really happy.

Because yes. This version WAS good.

I need that clearly stated for the record before my students read this and start spiraling dramatically like they’ve just been betrayed in a season finale cliffhanger.

The show was good.

The audience loved it. The students should feel proud. And I AM proud of them.

But also…

If you thought THIS version was good?!

Whew.

Imagine the version where everyone locked in earlier. Imagine the version where we had extra weeks to sharpen pacing and refine bits and really play in the nuance instead of still cleaning up fundamentals at the eleventh hour.

Because THAT version lives in my head.

And honestly?

That’s the blessing and the curse of directing.

Seeing not only what something is… but what it could become.

Potential.

Quite possibly my least favorite word in the English language.

ACT III — Fine Is Not the Finish Line

I’ve often said that one of the hardest parts of directing is living in two realities at the same time. The first reality is what’s actually happening in front of you: the show as it currently exists, the rehearsal you’re currently in, the level the students are currently capable of reaching.

But the second reality? That’s the dangerous one.

Because the second reality is possibility. It’s seeing what the show could become. It’s the theatrical version of “Living in the And.” Living in two truths simultaneously:

“This is good.”
AND
“This could become extraordinary.”

“I’m proud of them.”
AND
“They’re capable of more.”

“The audience loved it.”
AND
“I still see the rough edges.”

That tension lives inside almost every rehearsal process I’ve ever been part of.

It’s hearing the rhythm of a joke before the actor fully understands why it’s funny yet. It’s envisioning the pacing, the chemistry, the nuance, the tiny moments that eventually transform a scene from “good” into unforgettable. And once you see that version in your head, it becomes really difficult to unsee it.

That’s the blessing and curse of teaching, directing, and honestly leadership in general. You spend your life standing in the gap between what something is and what it’s capable of becoming. Not because what currently exists isn’t valuable, but because you can see MORE.

I think that’s why I push as hard as I do sometimes.

Not because I expect perfection. Lord knows theatre is messy and chaotic and gloriously imperfect. Half the magic comes from the humanity of it all. But I do believe people are capable of more than they often realize, especially teenagers.

And maybe that’s why the word “potential” makes me twitch a little.

Because potential is tricky.

Potential means: “It could be incredible… if.”

If people commit. If they trust the process. If they stop being afraid of looking foolish. If they risk fully investing themselves. If they decide excellence is worth the effort.

And honestly? That’s not just theatre.

That’s life.

Tonight, watching those students take their bows to a packed audience, I wasn’t thinking about the missed cues, the occasionally questionable Shakespeare pronunciation, or the scenes that still weren’t quite as sharp as I know they could someday become. I was thinking about how far they’ve already come.

And maybe that’s the real tension of caring deeply about something: being proud of what exists while still believing there’s another level waiting on the other side of trust, discipline, and time.

ACT IV — They Didn’t Know Me Yet

I think one of the things I’ve had to remind myself over and over again this year is that trust takes time. Especially in theatre programs.

Students don’t just walk into a new director’s classroom immediately ready to buy in. They don’t automatically understand your process, your standards, your humor, your vision, or why you care so deeply about tiny details that seem ridiculous to them in the moment. And honestly? They shouldn’t have to.

Trust is earned.

I came into this program with a very clear vision of what theatre education and theatre culture can look like, and I think part of what’s been difficult at times is feeling like I’m still trying to convince people I’m not just “talking big.”

Because I know some of the things I do are different than what students and families may have experienced before, and I want to be very clear that this is not a criticism of anyone who came before me. Different doesn’t mean better people or more caring teachers. It simply means I come from a different background and approach this work through the lens of someone who is actively working professionally in the theatre community and who has spent years building programs, directing productions, creating partnerships, and trying to give students experiences that feel real, elevated, and transformational.

I pour 1,000% into this work because I genuinely believe these kids deserve that. I believe theatre students deserve to feel like what they do matters. I want them walking into spaces and experiences that make them feel proud, celebrated, inspired, challenged, and connected to something bigger than themselves. I want parents and community members walking away from productions saying, “Wow. I’ve never experienced anything like that at a high school before.”

Because moments like that build culture. They build pride. They build investment. They make people excited to come back and support the program again next year.

That’s honestly what Footloose was about too. I felt an enormous amount of pressure with that production because I knew people were waiting to see whether I could actually deliver on the vision I kept talking about. And I think once audiences saw the final product, they began understanding what I was trying to build here.

Not just productions, but culture. Community. Excellence. Belonging.

And yes… sometimes confidence gets mistaken for arrogance. I understand that. But this has never been about ego for me. It’s about experience, passion, and belief in what this program can become. Because I’ve seen what happens when students are held to high standards while also being deeply supported and deeply celebrated.

I think that’s why tonight felt emotional for me in a way I wasn’t entirely expecting. Because for the first time, it felt like the students, the families, the audiences, and the community were all starting to see the same vision I’ve been seeing in my head since August.

Not perfectly. Not fully. But enough to feel the shift happening.

A few weeks ago a parent said something to me that has honestly stayed with me: “I don’t think people are resisting because it’s personal. I think they’re just used to the bare minimum.”

And whew.

That one hit me right in the chest.

Because I think she’s right.

People don’t always know what’s possible until they experience it.

But once they do?

Then they know.

ACT V — Pinky and the Brain

So where do we go from here?

Honestly? Hopefully nowhere but up.

Because if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that building something meaningful takes time. Trust takes time. Culture takes time. And sometimes people need to experience something before they fully understand the vision behind it.

And maybe… that’s okay.

Maybe that’s actually how it’s supposed to work.

Because the truth is, this year hasn’t just been about students learning to trust me. It’s also been about me learning to trust myself again.

There have absolutely been moments this year where I’ve wondered: Am I pushing too hard? Am I expecting too much? Am I seeing possibilities that don’t actually exist? Am I completely out of my mind?

And then every once in a while, someone says something that makes the noise quiet down for a second. Something that makes you feel seen, understood, and grounded. A reminder that maybe you’re not crazy for believing something special could exist here.

Maybe you’re just early.

And honestly? That realization has meant more to me than I can fully explain.

Because at the end of the day, I’m not trying to build “my” program or create some weird monument to myself. I’m trying to build a space where students feel proud to belong. A place where excellence is expected, creativity is celebrated, hard work matters, and students walk away feeling transformed by the experience of creating something together.

I want students to walk into rehearsal and feel like what they’re doing matters. I want audiences to walk away surprised by how talented these kids are. I want families and community members to feel excited about supporting theatre. I want students to graduate carrying confidence, discipline, friendships, stories, and memories they’ll still be talking about twenty years from now over Diet Cokes and fries somewhere.

And yes… I want Jackrabbit Theatre Company to become known as an elite program. Absolutely. Guilty as charged.

But not because I care about trophies for the sake of trophies. I care because excellence opens doors. Excellence creates opportunities. Excellence tells students: “You are capable of more than you think.”

And honestly? I think we’re just getting started.

Because tonight, sitting in the back of that tiny black box listening to audiences laugh at Shakespeare and watching students beam with pride after taking their bows, it genuinely felt like something shifted. It felt like people are starting to understand. Like the students are starting to believe. Like the community is beginning to rally around this thing we’re building together.

Like maybe… they know now.

Or at the very least, they’re starting to.

And that’s exciting.

Maybe a little terrifying too, because if they think THIS year was something? Whew. Just wait until next year.

Cue me standing dramatically in the corner like the Brain from Pinky and the Brain whispering: “The same thing we do every night… try to take over the world.”

Or at the very least… the Arizona high school theatre scene one sold-out black box Shakespeare comedy at a time.