Thursday night intermission of a high school theater production meant one thing, and one thing only. Every single member of the cast, whether it was a cast of ten or a cast of fifty, had to cram their sweaty, costumed bodies into the boys dressing room for a dance party. Inevitably, because of the burden of tradition as well as the ten minute time constraint, we just ended up singing the entirety of “Bohemian Rhapsody” word for word.
People were stepping on toes, melting their thick makeup, and dancing with all the skill a fifteen-year-old boy in a kilt can muster. Basically, it was one of the purest forms of joy I have seen in this life. Of all our show weekend traditions, that one ten minute spurt was definitely my favorite.
The other day I was reading an article about the Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was written by someone who had grown up as a theater kid going to showings of the movie on repeat. He went into depth about what this cult classic has meant to generations of theater kids like himself. Many are drawn to the film/show because of its celebration of LGBTQ identity. But many are also drawn to the community that has sprung up around the film. It includes repeated viewings of the film, wearing costumes, throwing props, and yelling phrases at the screen which are agreed upon by the group.
As I continued to read about the sense of acceptance, joy, and camaraderie the author drew from his investment in Rocky Horror Picture Show culture, I found myself crying on my grungy little couch. His words seemed to capture the best aspects of theater culture. Sometimes it can be obscured by insecure kids showing off their talents obnoxiously for attention. But at its best, it’s purest acceptance.
I was in New York last weekend visiting family for my birthday. On Friday night I found myself waiting under an umbrella to get into a karaoke joint.
When we finally shuffled our way inside, I was unprepared for the magic that awaited me. Perched at a piano sat a middle-aged school teacher turned broadway musical aficionado. We entered to a speech establishing an all-encompassing atmosphere of welcome regardless of musical theater experience. He then plunked out song after song of musical theater songs as the people surrounding him sang along.
I suppose the word “plunked” doesn’t begin to do him justice. He was a born performer, drawing us in with subtle hints to the song, playing each note perfectly, and giving us “the look” when we got out of control. I slid right in among those already singing, immediately grasping a foothold.
As I sang along with my whole heart, I honestly could barely hear my own voice. But I could feel in the air how comfortable everyone was. I could feel in the air how much of their hearts they had poured into musical theater. I leaned over to my friend standing next me and said, “I could come here just to watch how much fun everyone else is having.”
Guided by our piano muse, complete with purple lipstick, we blended into the beautiful welcoming cacophony of musical theater. After over a year of pandemic living, the intimacy of shared knowledge, group singing, and leaning towards people to be able to hear them say anything was nearly overwhelming.
By the end of the night, I nearly expected to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” while clad in traditional Scottish dress.
Susannah currently lives in New Jersey and works as a 7th grade ELA teacher in East Harlem. When she is not teaching or writing, she can be found exploring independent bookstores, going backpacking, and trying to roller-skate on all the cool trails in the city. She is also recently experienced in the art of citrus skunk repellent (I know you’re impressed).
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Hey, Susannah! I really enjoyed your Kilted Dance Party. I am learning more about grandchildren in the strangest places. Pupa