There is a glorification of pain in the theatre. The first thing people ask when they hear you are an actor is, “okay, so cry on command!” There are common tales of hellish long nights, painful costumes, and tears in the 8am class.
I am no stranger to harm caused in the theare. Neither are many of the people I’ve known from years in various theatre circles, but I don’t hope to perpetuate the harm I’ve felt on the future artists coming up behind me.
At least in my story, the main harmers are the teachers, instructors, and directors. In a month, I will be starting a new job as a middle school theatre teacher, and I am terrified of the impact I will have on these young artists.
When I look back at my 15+ years in arts education circles, I can only think of 3 or 4 instructors I had that treated me with respect and dignity. Most of them, from community theatre all the way to college, are some of my most recurring nightmare villains.
The vulnerability that comes with bearing your soul through song and scene feels like you’re standing naked in a bonfire, and when you lookout through the flames, you hope to see someone holding a bucket of water instead of a lit torch.
Most educators I had were holding torches, eager to set my naked soul aflame. Never holding back their opinions about things I couldn’t change. The note that forever sticks in my ear is when my college Musical Theatre teacher only had one note for me after singing a new song for the first time; the note was: your nostrils flare when you belt, and it is incredibly unattractive.
Or the choir teacher who constantly berated the way my eyebrows naturally move when I sing.
Or the instructor that assigned me a song about how ugly the character believes she is.
Or the professor who gave me a D on my MT midterm due to my “lack in confidence.”
Or the constant body shaming.
Or the vocal director from a summer show I did in high school, who yelled at me to pull my skirt down when my choreo was to log roll on the ground which naturally caused my skirt to come up, and I was wearing shorts underneath.
Or the teacher who hated every idea I brought to my songs and treated me like I was stupid because I wanted to try new things.
Or the teacher who constantly compared my group to the other group that he deemed “more talented.”
The notes that were more about me as a person than me as a performer.
These examples are not to point out that “I can’t take criticism” or that “I’m a baby.” I am thrilled to take any construction that aids improvement, but I will not stand for punishment and abuse disguised under a “helpful tip.”
I will never forget being eighteen years old and being the happiest in my life to be living in New York studying Musical Theatre, and for my first MT instructor to assign me Pretty Funny from Dogfight. To choose this song willingly is all fine and good because it is a well-written song; when this song is assigned, it begs the question, how ugly am I to have been assigned this piece?
As our song building required, we had to fill out a dossier with how we relate to the song in detail so the instructor knew we knew. I couldn’t just write “I’ve been excluded before.” I had to go into excruciating detail about the worst events of my life. It always had to be deeper, more painful, and elaborate. I wrote a story down in confidence. During a work session, my teacher thought I wasn’t going deep enough, so he decided to scream a phrase from the painful past story I let him in on until I cried. I was already naked and covered in flame, and he decided to throw torches in until I was engulfed.
I’ll never forget how embarrassing it was to stand there in front of my new friends and sob because I was the ugly girl, the excluded, and now a point of ridicule. I locked eyes with a friend of mine and she mouthed, “you’re okay.” It was the water I needed to quell the fire.
Everyone has a story like this. Of utter humiliation at the hands of an arts educator. And it breaks my heart. I have friends who want to relish those memories and laugh together because it hardened them. I was not hardened. I was broken.
I do not enjoy hearing the stories of people’s pain in the arts. I will listen with an open heart and a warm embrace, but I don’t say “ahaha I had it worse, so deal with it.”
I want to end the suffering for others.
I never want to hear stories of people persevering in spite of their failing mental health over the abuse of a leader. I want to see people with joy and love in their hearts for their art be rewarded and celebrated for their vision, their spark, and their talent.
There is much greater success in artists who are brought up with encouragement and support. Artists who are allowed to celebrate their wins and how they make the art a more interesting and diverse landscape.
I wish I could sever myself from the hard memories, so that my art could still be accessible to me. So that I wouldn’t be hunched over sobbing every time I sing or can’t submit the self tape because of my nostrils or eyebrows. I wish I could just push through and say they made me stronger. They didn’t.
I want to give space to some of the kinder moments in my artist life.
When a director of mine told me my eyes light up every time I walk on stage and I shift the energy to my will.
When a theatre friend at another school told me their director told the ensemble that if they could just lean in and commit as well as Katie Greene then they would be unstoppable.
When I was celebrated for the interpretation and new perspective I brought to Bobby in Company (the role I chose to study during my 7th semester.)
When I was in a creative writing course in college and was routinely allowed to celebrate others and celebrate what I was creating.
When I had to write a 10 minute piece for a class in college where we wrote our own jukebox musical, and my teacher looked me straight in the eyes to say “Katie, you are a phenomenal writer. You need to write.”
And many more.
As I prep for my first semester of teaching theatre, I think about what I expect from my students and what I needed at that age. I needed someone to treat me kindly, to allow creative space, to support all the crazy ideas in my brain, and to give me space to fall in love with theatre.
Arts educators love to inadvertently put students through the same suffering we suffered. I want to save them from the suffering I had to endure and to give them a safe space.
I want every room I teach in, every show I direct, every theatre I am apart of to be a safe place for creativity to blossom and for kids to fall deeper and deeper in love with the theatre.
Because I wish I could still love it and not have a broken heart every time I think about it.
I want to hold a bucket full of water. It’s okay to stand in the fire, I will put it out.
please share your stories with me,
katie
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