When I was thirteen years old, my mom took me to see my very first professional theatrical production. I don't remember every detail of that afternoon, but I remember what happened at intermission. I turned to my mother and said, "THAT! I'm going to do THAT when I grow up!"
And I did.
I joined my junior high drama club, started auditioning for plays, and discovered a world I didn't even know existed. A world where I belonged. A world where I could be somebody else for a little while and, somehow, discover more about who I really was. That afternoon changed the entire trajectory of my life. Thirty-six years later, I'm still doing THAT.
This week, my students opened our production of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever at Mesa High School. And this morning, we welcomed approximately 240 students from Porter Elementary School into our auditorium for a special performance. Two hundred and forty kids, some of whom were probably excited to see a play, some who were just happy to be out of class, and some who may have never experienced live theatre before.
As I thought about all those little faces watching my students tell this story, a thought occurred to me. What if there was one? Just one kid sitting somewhere in that auditorium who felt something they couldn't quite explain. One kid who watched the lights come up, heard the actors speak, laughed at the Herdmans, and suddenly realized there was an entire world they hadn't known existed. One kid who went back to school this afternoon thinking, "I want to do THAT."
What if today was their day?
What if, thirty-six years from now, that kid is standing in front of a group of young actors, directing a show, teaching a class, or telling somebody about the day they fell in love with theatre? What if they remember a Friday morning in November when they took a field trip to Mesa High School and saw The Best Christmas Pageant Ever? And what if they never even remember my name?
That's okay. Because I couldn't tell you the names of every actor who performed in that first show I saw when I was thirteen. I doubt any of them knew what they had done for me. They were just doing their jobs, telling a story, and sharing something they loved. And without knowing it, they changed a life. Mine.
I think sometimes we get so caught up in the business of putting on a show that we forget what we're actually doing. We worry about ticket sales, costumes, rehearsal schedules, missing props, lighting cues, and whether the actors will remember their lines. We worry about whether the audience will laugh in the right places, applaud at the end, or even show up at all. And those things matter, of course. But there's something much bigger happening.
There is magic in a darkened theatre. Not the kind of magic that requires a wand or a spell, but the kind that happens when a room full of strangers agrees to believe in something together. For an hour or two, the world outside those doors disappears. We laugh together, we cry together, and we recognize ourselves in people who are nothing like us. Sometimes we leave entertained. Sometimes we leave challenged. And sometimes, if we're very lucky, we leave changed.
And this morning, I got to witness that magic firsthand.
Before I even get to my favorite moment of the morning, I need to say something about these kids from Porter Elementary. They were extraordinary. I mean that. Two hundred and forty elementary school students sitting together in an auditorium, and they were among the most respectful, attentive, and responsive audiences I've had the pleasure of watching a show with. They were quiet when the story needed quiet, laughed when something was funny, and were completely invested in what was happening onstage. I was so impressed that I emailed their principal afterward to tell her just how wonderful her students were and that I would happily welcome them back anytime.
But there was one moment that I don't think I'll ever forget.
In the final scene of our production, the church is revealed. The stars above the stage illuminate, the stained glass window comes to life with light, and suddenly the entire picture transforms into something beautiful. It's a moment we've worked hard to create, and one that I hoped would have an impact on our audience. But I wasn't prepared for what happened this morning.
Two hundred and forty elementary school students gasped. Collectively. Audibly. All at once. And then came the "Oooooohs!" and the "Ahhhhhhs!" as they took in what they were seeing. It was the kind of spontaneous, completely unfiltered reaction that you simply cannot manufacture. Nobody told those kids how to respond. Nobody prompted them to be impressed. They saw something beautiful unfold before their eyes, and they couldn't help themselves.
It. Was. Magical.
And standing there listening to their wonder, I was reminded of why I fell in love with theatre in the first place. It wasn't about the perfect lighting cue or the carefully constructed set, although both helped create that moment. It was about what happened between the stage and the audience. It was about hundreds of people experiencing the same sense of wonder at exactly the same time. For those few seconds, there was no separation between performer and spectator. We were all part of something extraordinary.
I wish I could bottle that sound. I wish I could somehow capture the collective gasp of 240 children and play it back every time someone questions the importance of arts education, or every time I find myself buried beneath the less glamorous responsibilities of being a theatre teacher. Because THAT sound? That's why we do this. That's why we spend countless hours rehearsing, building, painting, designing, and worrying about every little detail. Not simply to put on a good show, but to create moments that make people feel something.
This week, a woman who attended our opening night took the time to share her experience online. And it reminded me that what happens on our stage doesn't necessarily stay on our stage. People carry it with them. They talk about it, think about it, and remember how it made them feel long after the final curtain has fallen. Sometimes those experiences become stories they share with others, and sometimes they become memories that stay with them for years.
Perhaps that's the part of theatre we can never really measure. We can count tickets sold, audience members, and the number of performances. We can calculate budgets, track attendance, and determine whether a production was financially successful. But we can't count the lives changed. We don't get a notification when someone discovers their passion, and we don't get a standing ovation when a child finds a place where they might finally belong. We may never know that something we did became the beginning of somebody else's story.
But that doesn't mean it didn't happen.
Today, 240 kids came to see a play. Maybe they just had a good time. Maybe they laughed, enjoyed getting out of school, and went home with a funny story about the Herdman kids. And you know what? That would be enough. Theatre doesn't have to change someone's life to be worthwhile. Sometimes giving somebody an hour of laughter, joy, and wonder is more than enough.
But I can't help wondering if there was something more happening in that auditorium this morning. Maybe there was one kid who saw something today that they'll carry for the rest of their life. One kid whose world got a little bigger. One kid who discovered something they didn't even know they were looking for.
I was that kid once. Somebody created an experience that changed the course of my life, and I doubt they ever knew it. They couldn't have imagined that a thirteen-year-old boy sitting in their audience would go on to spend his life doing the very thing they were doing on that stage. They certainly couldn't have known that, thirty-six years later, that same boy would be standing in another theatre on the other side of the country, wondering whether the cycle was beginning all over again.
And that's what I love about this art form. Every time we raise the curtain, we're doing more than putting on a show. We're creating an opportunity for something extraordinary to happen. We may never see the results, and we may never hear the stories, but somewhere out there are people whose lives were changed because somebody invited them into a theatre and showed them what was possible.
Today, my students had the opportunity to be those people for somebody else. They probably didn't think about it that way. They were busy remembering their lines, making their entrances, and hoping the audience would laugh at the right moments. But somewhere between the opening scene and the final curtain, they may have done something far more important than deliver a successful performance.
They may have inspired someone to dream.
And when I think about the little boy I was at thirteen, sitting in a theatre and discovering the thing that would become my life's work, I can't help but smile at the possibility that the same thing happened to somebody else today.
I hope there was one.
I really, really hope there was one.
