What We Carry Onstage
“Can you help me take this nail polish off before my dad picks me up?”
“Can you turn the A/C up a little bit more? Can we walk to 7/11 to get ice cream? What time are we supposed to be at the theatre again? Can you help me run my lines? Can you review the choreography with me? Do you have any more OtterPops?” These are the questions I hear endlessly – it’s a warm June day at Youth Theatre at the U in Salt Lake City, Utah. I was assigned to the high-school musical-theatre company. After two weeks together, I had finally found my rhythm as a teaching artist, ready to answer any question with ease. As I called on a student (who prided himself on being from Texas, almost always sporting a cowboy hat), I prepared my answer for what was surely another request to go get slushies from the gas station; instead: “Can you help me take this nail polish off before my dad picks me up?”
He was the friendliest kid in the class, probably mutually agreed upon as everyone’s friend if all twenty-four of my students voted on it. He was the most welcoming. I saw him inviting students who usually sat alone to share a table with him at the Student Union during lunch. He respectfully checked in on pronouns for students he had just met. He even helped paint everybody’s nails that day in class. He waited for my answer on that day, continuing, “my dad, he just doesn’t think boys should wear nail polish– thinks it’s gay.”
“Sure. Of course. Take the nail-polish remover and run to the bathroom.” For what felt like an eternity, I just stared. I was openly gay, a theatre educator, someone who believed in creating safe spaces. And here was a student, sitting in my classroom, suddenly uncertain if he could be himself. That moment reshaped my understanding of what it meant to be an educator. Teaching theatre isn’t just about directing a show or choreographing a number—it’s about creating a space where students can explore who they are, safely and freely. From that day forward, I committed myself to ensuring that every student in my classroom felt seen, respected, and valued.
From the moment a student enters my classroom, they introduce themselves however they choose: their name, pronouns, the roles they want to play. If a student wants to explore a different gender identity in performance, they can. When discussing costumes, pants, shorts, dresses, they're all options for everyone. I don’t impose limits. And when students are given the freedom to choose, they almost always pick one thing: themselves.
Freed from expectations of who they should play, who they should love, what they should wear, my students create art that thrives in authenticity. They cast themselves in roles that resonate with them, even if those choices seem unconventional. Then, on performance night, I watch them beam under the stage lights—dressed in a way that makes them feel their best, surrounded by a community that cheers them on. They cry when it’s over. They have found something rare and powerful: a family built on acceptance.
That is the impact I want to continue making. By fostering spaces where students feel free to be themselves, I’m not just teaching theatre; I’m teaching confidence, identity, and self-worth. I strive to expand this work, bringing inclusion and authenticity to more classrooms, more students, more future artists who need a place where they can belong. Because the easiest community to find is one rooted in truth.
