“If your art isn’t scaring you, you’re not doing it right,”
I’ve always set out to create and share art that scares myself. Whether that be writing from the heart, experiences, or sharing stories that feel so personal and exposing– it’s almost as if 4-time Oscar-nominated stage and screen actress Rosalind Russell was right when she said “[it’s] like standing up on stage naked and turning around slowly”. Maybe it’s being extremely audacious and ambitious with your goals; taking a chance risky enough to fail, not behind closed doors, but in a big, public way. Nevertheless, I’ve found doing things that scare yourself is the best way to create. It heightens the reward both in the superficial fashion of recognition and accolades, sure– but more importantly the pureness and genuineness of the work and content. I’ve never been around or experienced first-hand explosions, car chases, space, aliens, or superheros. I have been familiarly acquainted with love, loss, grief, dysfunction, turbulent emotions, existential crisis, and more that are so universally relational to the human condition and all that being a human encompasses in existence. So I chose long ago to focus towards the latter when it came to creating, writing, and directing. Often, that vulnerability can be incredibly terrifying.
I would like to think these past few months I have taken things to the next level in a way I never imagined would culminate in the way that it has. It left me not only feeling scared and susceptible but very proud and brave of what has been accomplished thus far with my latest creative endeavor. What I didn’t know would also follow, was the feeling of legitimate danger in this new, untrodden path.
In July of 2022 I wrote a new, original piece of work titled “Murmurs of The Heart”. A stage production I coined “a metamorphosis in two-acts”. All in all, the show centers around a young man who struggles in the relationship he has with his father and not fulfilling society’s expectations. He meets a bohemian woman also looked down on by society; the quick-to-be-close duo bond over the beauty of chosen family and being a black-sheep in a world that does not often accept differences. That’s the plot of the show.
What I could also say, is this show is about a father who is so worried his son might be gay, he hires an escort and locks the two of them in a seedy motel room for an entire weekend to sort it out. “I know my father hired you to bang the gay out of me,” is one of the lines in the opening scene. I wove many relevant themes into MOTH that created an overarching thesis. It talks about homophobia; internalized-homophobia; religious trauma; identity crisis; hard-core closetedness and the tumultuous storm cloud that plagues you far after coming out; the loss of a childhood and several years of your life that repression causes; pro-sex work; anti-society; anti-agenda; anti-label; chosen family; deconstruction of harmful stereotypes; demarganalizing minorities; the over-performances queer people achieve in order to overcompensate for the inherent “incorrectness” of an alternative orientation; that the very existence of labels are extremely performative in nature; and it promoted the ideology that nothing matters in the best way possible, therefore life may be freeing. It’s important to note the topics we openly discussed during the show.
“We are all God’s children and He left us in a hot car.”
— Act I Scene III of Murmurs of The Heart, when the character Lola discusses feeling abandon by a higher power
Unfortunately, the sheer existence of a queer people is inherently divisive and controversial to many. Just day-to-day life becomes unnecessarily political. Some think you should keep quiet about who you are, the simple mention of having a partner is “rubbing your lifestyle in my face” and others think you shouldn’t exist at all. Others believe microaggressions don’t exist or affect daily life in any way and there’s no actual harm done unless a black eye is involved. Meanwhile politicians play God with if you deserve rights, and if you do, just how much. Many people in this world have the privilege to not think about whether their marriage will one day become null-and-void; if they live in one of the dozen states that can still evict you from an apartment or fire you from a job; whether or not a doctor could legally leave you on an operating table in need of a life-saving operation all under the guise of “religious freedom” thanks to the State Religious Freedom Restoration Act. But since art is a mirror to society, sometimes the cultural zeitgeist is in need of something that accurately reflects the scary taboos no one wants to talk about. But don’t worry, I didn’t write a tragedy or some show that is just queer people complaining. This was also a dark comedy.
“How does somebody know they’re straight? They have this insensate need to wear ankle socks and sandals. I think that’s in their handbook.”
— Bryce, the protagonist, quips during Act I Scene IV
After I wrote MOTH I began doing rehearsals with an entirely LGBTQ+ cast. As much as many straight actors love to “sink their teeth” into playing someone not-straight, this show and its content constituted the 100% necessity of a cast who literally understood a lot of what the show spoke about or the knowledge of what the character’s lived-in experience was first-hand. There was little room for explanations and “unique” interpretations that might have strayed away from the intention. We needed to be a unit and ensemble that mutually understood what was looking to be accomplished. I’m so lucky to work with those who originated the roles.
A lot of thought went into how this show was going to be introduced to the world… and where. I knew if I started in a large city like Los Angeles or New York with an over-saturated market, it had potential to have a modest run and fly under the radar. There was also something in common with a lot of big cities: they’re liberal. Shows there could easily be filled with people of color, minorities, queer people, and democrats. Those who would have filled the seats and left saying “wow, that was good” and went about their day. I sought a bigger impact than that. It wasn’t “scary” enough, if you will.
I made the decision to do something far more dangerous than I initially realized when I first set out with this project. Retroactively, I worried it was all a mistake. When I was addressed with the proclivities and potential outcomes that frightened me and my cast, it was too late to turn back. Why the concern? Am I being too hyperbolic, anxious, or not keeping the drama on the stage?
I previewed my production in the southern state of Tennessee. A red state. A state that out of the 95 counties, only 3 protect same-sex partners insurance benefits. Only 4 of the counties protect against discrimination in employment opportunities. There are no laws protecting LGBTQ+ people in housing; bullying; healthcare; education; employment; and conversion therapy is still present and legal. Sure, there’s Nashville right? We weren’t there. We were in the most-Northwestern part of the state, a short 20-miles from Kentucky. Arkansas is closer to the town we performed in than the city of Nashville. We even got the experience of being miles away from the next town over: a place called “Big Sandy” which is an infamous sun-down town. If you’re not familiar with what a “sun-down” town is, please stop reading and find out what horrifying thing that actually is. Voting records show that out of the 11,000 citizens in this town 75% voted Republican in the last 5 presidential elections.
According to the Wikipedia page of “LGBT Rights in Tennessee” under the section “Living Conditions”, this is the only paragraph that is written: “LGBT are often discriminated against, refused service, and beaten. Attackers who fatally wound LGBT people could use the gay panic defense to lower or eliminate punishment. Often police and legal officials are sympathetic towards the anti-LGBT aggressors and turn a blind eye to attacks often calling homosexual attraction a sin.” There are 9 sources listed in those three sentences. Check them, if you want.
My partner, starring in Murmurs of The Heart and one who grew up in this town– shared stories of when he was in high school. How no teacher would sponsor or be the representative for the GSA (Gay Straight Alliance) club at school. After months of petitioning for a teacher, they finally found one willing to take the extra paycheck. Although there was never even an inaugural meet due to the fact that the football team ripped down every poster in the school advertising the club; took them to the parking lot; crumpled and urinated; then set fire to them. All while posting the process on Snapchat. The few founding students of the GSA ended up in the principal’s office for being “instigators” of chaos. No adult was up for defending or helping these young teens. Not even the theater teacher, who called gay people’s participation in theater “an infiltration”. Doing this production in a town known for their annual Catfish Fry and a meal-train program called “Lasagna’s of Love” seemed benign at first, but I didn’t need people urinating on our posters and setting them on fire in the Wal-Mart parking lot. And I couldn’t even enroll in therapy here to elevate my neuroticism, because the only therapy horse in town was bit by a tick and got Lyme's disease (I’m not joking).
The more and more we decided to put on a show with these “controversial” themes, in an area like this, the idea of actually performing and allowing the public to watch felt and became more and more alarming with each approaching day of opening. My publicist and I contacted over 40 publications, radio stations, and newspapers over the course of two months. We heard back from two. One, a conservative podcaster and the other was BroadwayWorld (I recognize the irony). I reached out to four universities, all between 15 and 90-minutes from the theater we were performing at– inviting the theater departments to come see the show, offering ridiculously discounted tickets. Radio silence from all except one. I struck up a conversation via email with a woman who was in-charge of the musical theater program at a private, Christian university (the only private and religiously-affiliated school out of the four I contacted, so it already seemed inapropos). She was filled with curiosity. So happy to hear that outsiders were bringing new works to the area and how the art scene was under-saturated. She wanted to know if she could take a couple monologues or a scene from my script and have something exciting to work with her students on that may fire them up. We even talked about potentially coming in and guest speaking to her class. I sent her two monologues. There was no sex, swearing, or salaciousness involved. However, there was one character who referenced he had an ex. Then later mentioned his ex was a “he”. This faculty member immediately changed her demeanor and temperament.
She became cold, rude, and demanded to know “what I was up to” and what I was trying to involve her students in– and how whatever I was doing, did clearly not reflect the morals and ethics at her school. And she would have none of it. She didn’t stop there though. Since this was a small town and the closest university to where we were performing, she actually took it upon herself to contact the managing director of our theater– and tell her all about how unprofessional I and the show was; how it sounded like it was falling apart and would not be good enough to premier. She even attempted to convince the managing director to cancel our show. I know this, because a day or two after my last email with the faculty member, I received a phone call from the managing director of our theater and needed to reassure that the production was indeed not falling apart. And this was only one week after we announced the show was happening.
That was the first time being on the receiving end of small-town gossip and kickback to the apparent deplorability of putting on a show that wasn’t Annie Jr. (an artist friend informed me that the university rejected a production of “Almost, Maine”). The local newspaper had no interest. Not even in taking our gay money for advertising, much less some coverage in the events section. I later found out there is one business in the entire town run by a same-sex couple and they are the only restaurant that has never had a write-up, review, promotion, etc. They too were refused coverage when gay money was offered for advertisement. So I suppose, at least the paper was being consistent.
The thing is, we didn’t have an agenda. Or should I specify: a gay one. We weren’t trying to “turn” people or subject them to ideas they didn’t want to be subjected to. The plan was never to go into an unwelcome space and stir the pot. We wanted to simply allow the opportunity of those who were interested, to be able to digest a piece of this nature, in an area of the country that doing so was rare or unheard of. There was no premeditated artistic “statement” involved. But it is hard to stay under the radar when just being yourself can be considered problematic and defined as “mature themes”. One of the whole points of the show was pointing out the fallacies in that argument and close-minded ideology.
“The gay agenda? When will people learn that sh*t doesn’t exist… As far as I’m concerned the only gay agenda I’ve ever heard of is having a cup of chamomile tea and being in bed by 10 to watch reruns of Glee.”
— Bryce, in Act I Scene IV of Murmurs of The Heart
I joined several local Facebook groups to promote the show to the townsfolk. Share the poster, information, and generally just try to get people excited. The posts were declined, multiple times. There was nothing on the poster or website that overtly shared that there were queer themes in the show. If you visited the website, you could read between the lines. “A young man struggling with identity”. We sprinkled a “16+” rating for mature content on every poster and advertisement we printed, which the only man in town who owned a printing business overcharged us for every time, by the way, despite me pointing out the inconsistencies. I presumed people would be able to put two-and-two together and understood the subtleties we were administering. Dropping off posters at over 50+ businesses, only one said no. I thought the 16+ rating would deter people. But something strange happened… It excited them and caught their interest.
There was this risque element to a stage production, in a WASP town, that got people engaged. “Is it like Euphoria?” they’d ask, in a hushed tone and grin. My response was that the infamously known HBO show made us look like Sesame Street. And they bit. Of course, out in public, everyone needs to pretend to be pure as snow. But, if there’s anything the liquor store owner told me (which, by the way is called a “package store” in the South) it’s that his busiest days were not Friday and Saturday nights. But Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons. “Church crowd,” he said– when my response was puzzled. That solidified my hunch that people were watching much worse in their homes, apparently with a cocktail. So that not only gave me a sense that this landscape was much more layered and complex; but maybe, after all people would be open enough to see something new and original in their town. Something that could be seen off-Broadway in New York but in their own neighborhood, that would offer excitement and enrichment.
When I presumed people could read between the lines as far as the content of the show, I think I was right. The 70-year-old man who co-owns the only movie theater in town with his adult daughter flat out asked “is this about the gays?”. The entire rehearsal process felt like walking on eggshells. We didn’t want to lie to people, bait and switch, or put ourselves in harm’s way. We also wanted people to see the show. Specifically people who may benefit from it or feel seen. A real conundrum.
Prior to our opening, we received two pieces of information that concerned us highly. The first was several weeks before the show. There was a one-night only Pride event; a drag show going on at a bar a few towns over. It was sponsored by the local hospital. The poster was shared in the local Facebook group. The comments ranged from disgust to hateful and threatening. Dozens of citizens began rallying to boycott the hospital; others swore they would show up with guns to “teach those queers a lesson”. Comment after comment was utter shock from the locals of how on earth anyone could allow such sexually perverse immorality to go on in a town which prided themselves on religious family values. Of course, the drag queens were somehow perpetuating an agenda and trying to taint children, just by existing. I wondered if people would begin to do the same to us, once word got out of who we are. The other information, which felt much more personal and caused our cast to be on high-alert, was a late-night call from the woman who co-owned the movie theater. My partner, an ex-employee, got this call that interrupted our dress rehearsal the week of the show. She detailed what happened since they showed one, single week of Billy Eichner’s gay rom-com “Bros”. It was a warning for us that made me spiral.
People began boycotting the movie theater. They left threatening voicemails, emails, and reviews for the establishment. A lot of “how dare you”. The movie theater was accused of allowing sick perverts who perpetuate the “sexualization of children” to have a platform. “I am a Puritan, as pure and white as snow” said one of the reviews; which digressed into a tirade of how something so ungodly should never be allowed to even exist, much less in his town. One called any movie with gay topics “pornographic”. The woman was left with several smear campaigns and threats. And the need to decipher the potential liability and plausibility of those threats, from people who often openly toted a gun on their hip. She warned us. “Turn back now” was the vibe, energy, and words of the 30-minute phone call. She wanted to give us a “heads up”. Said that if she was understanding the plot synopsis correctly, that this very same thing would happen to us. And we needed to prepare; come up with a game-plan; and protect ourselves from God knows what. Just in case.
This really, really freaked me and our lead actress out the most, who was born and raised in the liberal areas of New York. I was entirely unsure what to do. It felt too risky. I felt like putting on the play was allowing me and the cast to be in direct, potentially literal gunfire. The previous theatrical production that summer was Beauty and the Beast. Did Tractor Supply Co. sell pitchforks and torches? I needed to double check. I wanted the show to be a riot, but not like that.
Opening night, I was perpetually panicked. The lobby opened and people began rolling in. Strangers, obviously. My breathing was heavy. In New York my biggest worry was someone demanding a refund. Down here? Safety. I asked my father-in-law, who was running the spotlight, to stand guard at the door. His broad figure and facial hair could have mistaken him as a bouncer. He graciously accepted the role and would report to me before we went on stage to tell me what the crowd and energy was among the audience. He swore to me that he didn’t see anything or anyone weird or suspicious. When curtain opened, we locked the entrance and lobby doors. We unfortunately needed to take every precaution necessary. My anxiety and the phone call from the movie theater was not doing any favors to soothe my worries.
We kept the stage door unlocked and open during the show, due to the fact that one of the character’s smoked like a chimney. It was an easy way to allow ventilation throughout the stage. Our first performance began and there were no hiccups. We expected walkouts, but were still on edge. After intermission, mid-way through the first scene of act two, I stood in the stage left wing. I was able to hear and see the audience easier that way. I listened to one of the actor’s monologues and was listening to how patron’s were reacting. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man pace back and forth near our open stage door. Moments after I spotted him, he b-lined backstage. Dressed in cargo pants, a trucker hat, and a baggy hoodie with camo. He was obese and sturdy, walking as if he wore a diaper that was full. Bombarding himself backstage, he began yelling “Is this that play? Is this where they’re doing that play? How do I get to that?” I attempted to usher him out of the wings using my straight voice.
I calmly explained to him that there was a play going on. “So this is where that play is? How do I get in? Where do I go?” His voice was filled with urgency and immediacy. I pointed in the direction of the entrance, where the doors were locked, thankfully. I thought it was weird he was over an hour and fifteen minutes late. He darted towards the front door. I could see he yanked profusely at the theater doors with all his strength, yelling “let me in! Open up!”. I quickly closed the stage doors. There was no way to lock the doors, except with a key, which I didn’t have. So I did the only thing I could think of and lowered the door stand which was typically meant to keep the door ajar. But, using this, while the door was closed, prevented it from being opened at all. Less than a minute later, the same man began pounding at the door with all his might. He jiggled the metal handles, attempting to get in (again) backstage. “Hey! Open up! Let me in!” he screamed with belligerence over and over again for several minutes, beating at the door and swearing. My heart beat like I was in a flight or fight response. Hoping he wouldn’t pull hard enough to scrape the door stopper against the pavement to open it. I was petrified, unsure of his motive; still hoping the audience couldn’t hear the screams and pounds. I knew he hadn’t seen the show in the first act and didn’t accidentally get locked out during intermission, if he had no idea where the entrance was and needed direction from me. Eventually, he stopped. I assumed he got bored and walked away. Nevertheless, this experience perturbed me. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing and why he showed up. I didn’t see a pitchfork, but his demeanor was less than friendly and surely not one of someone who was about to consume an all-queer cast and theatrical production. I hid that moment from the rest of the cast until after the show, as to not alarm anyone of our preconceived cautiousness which kept us on edge. The experience felt ineffable and I still have no idea his intention.
After each performance, we did a talkback. Which is a fancy way of saying Q&A. Our matinee saw nobody stay afterwards, as the crowd was predominantly older. They shifted, moved around a lot, even verbally groaned at some of the subject matter. However, I’ll be wishing the lady who gave our only standing ovation, hollering “good job!” during bows, a great day; despite being dragged out early by her uncomfortable, grouchy husband. I still wonder what thought provoking questions she would have asked. In our two evening performances we saw nearly every patron stay for the talkback. They asked questions and were curious as to who we were, how we got here, and what we were about. I hoped that the people who needed to see the show would, and those who weren’t interested wouldn’t come.
I believe art wasn’t meant for escapism. It was meant for people to be seen, comforted, heard, and soothed. It was my only hope that we would find someone on the fence of tolerance and see them transition to embrace and acceptance. That we would plant a seed or water one already planted. I didn’t care about our box office and ticket sales– if one high schooler walked away, knowing that despite their peers urinating and setting fire to their club poster, they were valid and loved. To me and to us, that was a success.
Our feedback, from those that stayed after, was wholly worth it. A middle-aged woman told us she resonated with not knowing who she was for so long; wishing she had known long ago, but that it felt cathartic to see a show such as this in her own town. In a theater where she saw churches and religious concerts — it felt strange and juxtaposed, yet welcomed. She shared her own family dysfunction and religious trauma. Whether she had a personal breakthrough afterwards, I’m unsure– but at least she related and felt represented.
Others shared how they had “never thought about that before” referencing the several themes disclosed in the production. One man complained “I thought this was a comedy” and “homosexuality is not funny. It’s no laughing matter.” Having overheard, I couldn’t help but ask one of our performers to improvise his exact words, dropping it in a scene somewhere– hoping he’d recognize his words and quake in his cowboy boots. A couple teens reached out to me over social media saying the show “felt like home” and that they understood what it was like to be an outsider. Sometimes just knowing other outsiders exist, helps you feel less of one. At least in my experience.
The big takeaway from our previews in the small, conservative town was “I never expected to see something like this here,”. Which, I suppose I took as a compliment. Many of the citizen’s had never ventured out of their hometown, which didn’t expose them to content or experience’s such as ours. So it really was brand-new to so many. Hearing the feedback shared — calling my play original, unique, special, and more, was all I needed to know that we were on the right track. I didn’t need praise for the jokes I wrote, the comedic rhythm, the consistency and intricacies of the plot, or that this seemed like “a show destined for Broadway”– I needed to hear exactly what I was told: that it affected every single person that watched in a way I would have never expected and in a way that could never have been achieved if I put this on in an area that would have blindly welcomed and embraced it. I’ve been enlightened and educated with my experiences and time in that part of the country. I look at the way my own growth and knowledge expanded: this was not just putting on a play. This was not just bringing arts and culture to a place that didn’t have much on the market. We were brave. We were proud. It felt radical. I’m so glad I let my art scare me enough to do this.
