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dispatches from the neighborhood showtunes machine

@christiebaugher / christiebaugher.tumblr.com

I won't be kept happy by my nights on the tiles/I say it's your body but I'm after your files www.christiebaugher.com
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mchshe2

So...

In the interests of clarity and for anyone who gives a monkey’s, here’s where I’m at.

Like so many people, I’m worried about the effects on our civilisation of what appears to be an increasing emergence of forces and instincts across Europe and the West with anti-democratic, deeply authoritarian and worryingly demagogic elements. Whether they come from the left or the right of the political spectrum. Whether they were part of voting For or Against Brexit. For or Against Trump. Or any other of the votes or referendums that are going on.

Any attempt to exploit and stir up the very real worries and fears of people who feel they have been ignored for too long must be regarded with caution. Too many times in the past that particular tactic has been used to benefit the people doing the stirring and not those they say they want to help. People who see huge amounts of wealth being piled up by those reaping the rewards of business de-regulation and global trade deals but whose own lives and communities are seeing none of it. They just see more public services being cut, more money being taken away from their local authorities, less opportunity for a secure job, fewer prospects for themselves and their children. Some communities have lost their own industry and sources of employment as a direct result of other countries benefiting where labor is cheaper and workers are more easily exploited. Or through advances in technology and a skills market that they have become shut out of, with nothing to take its place. Those communities are justifiably very angry.

How people feel about this has become mixed with a mistrust of the very people and institutions that they’re supposed to be able to rely on - their politicians, the political system itself, the media, the financial sector, the list goes on and on. A fear that those very institutions have been hollowed out from the inside by people out for all they can get at the expense of everyone else. A fear that those institutions of democracy have become just a shiny surface with very little of substance left within. Many good people, of real intregity and with a genuine desire to do something about it are out there working hard to address that mix. At the same time, it is a mixture ripe for exploitation by people who have no intention of improving those institutions or re-energising the principles of democracy they should represent. They just see an opportunity to further their own self-interested agendas dressed up as a concern for ‘ordinary, hard-working people.’

The shift of the whole political establishment towards the so-called 'centre’ in the 90’s and early 2000’s appears to have created a disconnect in the traditional relationships between various political parties and the people they have always been relied on to represent. The policies that were pursued then, whether intentionally or not, have been part of encouraging, on the one hand, massive inequality and systemic insecurity domestically and, on the other, a terrifying uncertainty and destabilization internationally. Subsequently, with no meaningful answers to any of it being offered up by the political establishment, we’re witnessing a move towards populism.

There are no real answers in populism. Just attempts to exploit strong feelings. Push back against populism and it’s empty rhetoric collapses. Which is why it tries to shut down rational discussion and thoughtful debate. It has to preserve its allure and power by remaining unquestioned and uninvestigated. So it is that populism can open the door to the threat of demagoguery and all its attendant attacks on the things that any civilized democracy needs to survive - a political system that truly represents the will of the people not just certain sections of it, a fair and balanced press, free and fair elections, an adherence to the rule of law, the existence of an effective opposition, the right of people to demonstrate and organise, and everything else we value for a truly democratic society. Of course, the important thing to realize, and the thing that the western establishment is now having to come to terms with, is that it is the apparent weakness and corruption that has been allowed to grow in those very things that creates the opportunity for populism and demagoguery to thrive in the first place.

This is how civilisations can break down, how empires can end.

Unless alternatives are brought into existence that not only address the real concerns that people have but also put forward real, meaningful and workable solutions then eventually change is forced to work through whatever options are available. No matter how imperfect. Or potentially dangerous. So, at this moment, if we are unhappy with the options before us, the most urgent need must be creating those new alternatives. And accepting that, while populism continues to rise, whatever already exists to oppose it is not working and must change. Either transform or be left behind completely. Alternatives that encourage an economy that rewards responsibility and innovation as well as wealth creation. That allows that wealth to be shared more equally. That supports communities in having more control over their own needs. That allows people to feel secure enough in their identity and the values of their community to be open to other ways of seeing the world. That allows everyone to have the opportunity for a good education, a solid job, a comfortable home.

These are not easy things to bring about, obviously. If they were we’d already have them.

So where do you start?

Well….

Actions speak louder than words and eventually you have to put your money where your mouth is. If you care you have to at least try. Even if you fail. You have to try. You start from knowing what you don’t know and how ridiculous you seem and how unprepared you are. But you start. And you listen and try to hear. And go where it takes you. Try and leave behind left and right and see if you can contribute to solving actual problems that people are having. Stick to your values. Stand up for fairness. For justice. For kindness. Stand up to their enemies. Try not to do more harm than good. Not give a shit what people call you or accuse you of. Unless there’s truth in it. Then have the courage to learn from it. Be merciless about your own ego. Know that sometimes you can be what most gets in your own way. And just keep going until you’re not helping anymore. If you ever did. But at least you’ll know you tried. You have to start somewhere.

And you have to start.

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itsdlevy
A writer who endures—not sexy. And a woman writer who endures? What even is she? I remember the time Lynn Nottage, Theresa Rebeck, and I were on the cover of American Theater Magazine together. This little man—a photographer—jumped up and down taking our picture—saying, “smile with your eyes, not with your mouth, we need more skin, ladies, this is an all female issue, we want to see your bare arms.” Theresa Rebeck stared at him and put on a cardigan.

Sarah Ruhl, “Finding the Common Room” (via itsdlevy)

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mama--medusa

Charities that may need some love in the upcoming climate

Please share and add anything I may have missed.  I know not everyone is able to financially give right now, but a signal boost never hurts.

Some more:

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I’m with Lady Hero

Tonight, my dad and I had the only conversation we’ve really had about the election.

“What time are you voting tomorrow?” he asked.

“Whenever I manage to wake up,” I told him.

He told me about a piece he’d seen on TV — something on Nightline or Frontline or Dateline, something-line, one of those newsmagazine situations — where 25 people in a room were asked if they were voting primarily against something.  The majority, he said, copped to that.  Only three people said they were voting for their candidate.  In trying to parse their differences, this group apparently ended up in scary shouting matches multiple times.  “How did we get to this point?” Dad asked.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know.  But I actually am voting affirmatively for my candidate.  And I feel good about it.”

“Good,” Dad said.  “That’s all that matters.”

***********

Eleven years ago, I wrote a research paper for a theatre history class in undergrad titled “Medea, Hillary Clinton and the Getaway Car”.  It was inspired by Deborah Warner’s production of Medea, with Fiona Shaw as Medea.  I saw that production at BAM when I was eighteen years old and it changed my life.  It illustrated a painful reality that I’d spent my entire adolescence trying to name:  the notion that powerful women are creatures to be feared, not celebrated, and that within a strict patriarchal framework a powerful woman cannot win.  

The radical conceit of Warner and Shaw’s Medea was that it stripped away the Ancient Greek histrionics and dispensed with the deus ex machina, forcing Medea to sit with the consequences of her brutal act of vengeance in the end.  I argued that much as Euripides was calling upon the original audience’s deep knowledge of Medea’s divinity in myth to explore gender politics, Warner and Shaw tied her power instead to celebrity, drawing instant parallels to the scorned woman in the spotlight.  

The most obvious frame of reference for such a scorned woman, of course, was Hillary Rodham Clinton.  My conclusion in the paper was that in the face of gendered insult, there are only wrong answers.  By which I meant:  forcing a woman to take responsibility for her husband’s actions when those actions actively hurt her is a no-win situation for that woman.  Or as I put it in the final paragraph of the paper:

“Social equality is achieved only through mutual responsibility, and if that’s the point Euripides wanted to make, the getaway car should not come. Until society as a whole allows for that much, Medea needs to stay in the pool, surrounded by her murky handiwork, and the audience needs to see it. Otherwise, society is putting its hopes in a dragon-drawn chariot, and progress is but a myth.”

(I re-read this paper tonight for the first time in almost a decade.  It’s awfully good.  It won me a handful of awards, and I later presented it at a women’s studies conference.  Anyway.)

When I was writing the paper, I’d picked up a handful of reference materials at Half Price Books for cheap, including then-Senator Clinton’s autobiographical Living History.  If I remember right, I got my used copy for $4.99.  It wasn’t until I got it home and was halfway through writing my paper that I happened to flip to the very front and saw this:

It was signed.

At first I thought maybe her signature was just printed like that on the inside of the book, but if you look at the back of the page, you can see where the ink bleeds:

(Also, if you sniff the page, it still smells strongly of permanent marker, all these years later.  It’s real.)

In that moment, it dawned on me:  you’re writing about a real person, not a myth.  She once held this book, if just for a moment.  She’s real, too.  In that moment, I felt pretty keenly the need to make my point as clearly as possible — not just for academia’s sake.  For hers.

***********

As someone who came of age during Bill Clinton’s presidency, I only remember Hillary as a demonized figure.  I grew up in and around Louisville, Kentucky, a mildly progressive blue oasis in the middle of a sea of deep red conservatism.  (Typified today by the Kentucky 3rd’s congressman, the honorable John Yarmuth, a hero among heroes.  Look him up.  He’s great.)  Yet despite the area’s center-leftness, one thing seemed universal:  people hated Hillary Clinton.  I didn’t understand why until I was much, much older.

Around the same time I wrote that paper (2005), I remember Hillary coming up in conversation once with my dad.  I don’t remember the context;  I just remember him characterizing her as “the worst” and me shrugging and saying, “Well, we’ll have to agree to disagree.”  

In that same conversation, I said, “You know who I think would be a great president?  Barack Obama.”

My dad snorted.  “That’ll never happen in my lifetime.  Maybe yours.  People of my generation are too racist.”

(Hold for laughter.  Tears?  Both?  On one level, he sadly wasn’t wrong.  And I recount this with gentle amusement, not mockery.  My dad’s one of the most decent and wonderful people you could ever know.  Hi Dad.)

***********

(This is a total digression, but I can’t be the only one who thinks about Tom Hanks’s “hello, it’s Mr. Nasty” speech in You’ve Got Mail every time the Nasty Woman thing comes up, can I?)

(Anyway.)

***********

I stopped going to the church I was raised in when I was in high school.  It was (well, is;  it’s still there) an evangelical megachurch, the sort of place jokingly referred to around town as “Six Flags Over Jesus”.  It has a congregation of roughly 30,000 people.

I stopped going to the church I was raised in when I realized I was not welcome there.

(Well, no.  That’s not true.  I stopped going regularly when I realized I was not welcome there.  I stopped going full stop in 2004 when the main pastor at the time claimed that then-President Bush was without question doing God’s will by invading Iraq, and then received a deafening standing ovation after making a snarky joke about Michael Moore.  In church.  It was one of the most shameful things I’d ever witnessed.)

There was a certain sense in this church that goodness — holiness, even — was easily quantifiable.  That by living a certain way, you would be blessed by God, and by “blessed by God”, they mostly meant “comfortably rich”.  The congregation is made up largely of upper middle class suburban white people.  These people achieved their “holiness” through tithes to the church and adherence to a strict brand of privileged heteronormativity with zero margin for error.  If you were a woman, the expectation was that you would find a husband as soon as possible and submit to him and his will in all ways.  (Ugh, I just shuddered even typing that.)  You would bear children, if you were lucky.  If you had any role outside of the home, it was in service of the family or the church, with no exceptions.

I knew from a very early age that I was different.  I was IQ tested at the age of three and scored well into what is considered the “genius” range.  (My mother has said that with that knowledge came both excitement and despair, because, as she put it, “I knew things were going to be hard for you from the beginning.”  She was right.  She usually is.  Hi Mom.)

Although I was straight and therefore not superficially rejected by the church’s teachings like some of my closest friends, I had no plans to fall into the submissive role the church was pointing me towards.  I believed in God, yes (still do — spoiler alert?), but I believed that to believe in God was to believe in my own God-given potential, and as such, I was not meant to submit to anyone in the process of fulfilling that.  I’ve discussed this quite often recently with female-identified friends, not just in light of Hillary’s run but also the women-led Ghostbusters reboot.  We all agreed that if lady!Ghostbusters had come out when we were kids, it would have been life-changing for us.  We postulated that the roots of the culture of violent misogyny of our time can be partially found in the media our generation consumed as kids — that because we as little girls had no problem identifying with male protagonists (the Marty McFlys and Indiana Joneses and Ghostbusters) but our male peers were not given the same reverse opportunities, it created a gendered empathy gap.  We strong-headed girls didn’t for a second even think to identify with Marty McFly’s drippy girlfriend just because she was a girl — we identified with the heroes, only to grow up to be told by society that we weren’t allowed to be the heroes themselves.

I knew where I was meant to be, and it wasn’t where the church wanted me to be.  So I trusted my heart and my gut and I left.

In spite of this, I was fortunate enough to grow up nurtured by parents who saw the hero in me and kept her mind and spirit fed.  Working as I have to establish myself in a field in which women are embarrassingly and disproportionately underrepresented has been tough, but easier to face with their unwavering support and with the support of friends and likeminded peers.  But a familiar theme has constantly emerged and re-emerged:  powerful women are creatures to be feared, not celebrated, and within a strict patriarchal framework a powerful woman cannot win.  

As I get older, I realize that I’m okay with being feared.  It’s arbitrarily losing because of someone else’s fear that I’m not okay with.

***********

When I was 13, the neighborhood association of the subdivision we’d moved into threatened to sue my mom and stepdad over my little brother’s clubhouse, which was a professionally constructed shed that looked like a mini house that we’d moved into our backyard.  They argued that the neighborhood bylaws forbade any kind of detached structure to be moved into the neighborhood, claiming it would send property values plummeting.  (Oh, for that to be the worst of my worries!)

I remember my mom getting into a heated argument in our front yard with one of the members of the neighborhood association — a man her age — about the clubhouse.  She was able to shut down each of his arguments point-for-point, and as I stood there at her side, I was so proud of how easily she was holding her own.

Sensing he’d lost, the angry neighbor was about to leave when he turned around and suddenly yelled something so unexpected I couldn’t believe it.  I still can’t believe it:

“WHY DON’T YOU TRY TALKING TO ME WHEN YOU CAN STAY IN A MARRIAGE!”

My mom, who up until that moment had been the clear victor in the argument, crumpled in shock, sobbing as the jerk walked away.  I’ve never been that angry at a stranger in my life.

First of all, it takes a real asshole to yell that at a woman in front of her kids.  Secondly, I don’t care if my mom had been divorced ten times at that point — it was irrelevant to my brother’s clubhouse and his property values, and, more to the point, none of that guy’s damn business.  But most importantly:  it was a gendered insult, primed for maximum impact to a woman.  He would never have yelled that at a man.  And he knew it.  And in that moment, so did I.

I thought of that moment a lot during the debates, particularly during the second debate when Trump sat several of Bill Clinton’s accusers in the front row.  The fact that Hillary could stand there with a hundred million people watching and not so much as blink amazes me.  If it had been me, I would have roared “I AM NOT MY HUSBAND!!!” and knocked over a bunch of chairs.  And maybe started setting small fires until Anderson Cooper and Martha Raddatz were forced to emerge from behind their desk with fire extinguishers and/or tranquilizer darts.  (I’m never running for President.  You’re welcome.)  To stand up there with the clear objective of only discussing the issues without taking the bait took a fortitude beyond comprehension, and the knowledge that comes from having to withstand that kind of bullshit day in and day out for your entire adult life.

After decades of putting up with this very brand of insult, Hillary did the only thing she could:  she didn’t play the game.  It was more than wise, more than strong.  It was presidential.  

***********

This is what I carry with me when I go in to vote in a few hours.  Not just the historical weight of the thing — a seismic paradigm shift.  Not just the defense of our basic values and civil liberties against a bigoted fascist bully.  No, what I’m really bringing in with me is personal weight.  In her final pre-election day video statement tonight, Hillary said, “It has to be our mission together to give our kids and every American the chance to live up to their God-given potential.”

That’s right, ladies.  We get to be heroes now too.  

I’m a lady hero, and I’m voting for a candidate I believe in.  And that’s all that matters.

(And thanks, Mom and Dad, for raising me to be a lady hero.  Even when we disagree, I still hope I do you proud.  Just don’t expect me to run for president -- I tend to knock over chairs.)

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meditations on risk #1: me and Muhammad Ali

I have a (buried, dormant) inherent sense of spontaneity that I’m working to uncover.  It’s not easy.  I almost drowned when I was eight – a freak thing that happened that I don’t talk about much – and I sort of attribute a lot of my aversion to risk to that event.  

I discussed this at length with my mom last year, and she said, rather sadly, “It’s a shame that happened.  You used to be such a daredevil.”  And while it’s probably good for my general survival that I stopped doing things like attempting grown-up water slides after dark with nobody watching, a certain level of risk is healthy and normal and good.  And it’s in that spirit that I’ve been thinking back on Tiny Daredevil Me, and her greatest adventures…

One day when I was seven, I remember my second grade teacher (who for some reason I still can’t explain hated me) coming in and telling my (current) third grade teacher that Muhammad Ali was in the building. Both teachers agreed that this was exciting but also potentially problematic as it was nearly the end of the school day and, well, if people find out Muhammad Ali is in the building, it’s going to be mass hysteria, right? My third grade teacher told the class to sit quietly until she returned and both teachers left the room to find out what was really going on.

Having heard this entire exchange, I was thrilled. I had a really rough idea of who Ali was at the time – well, a third-grader’s idea. I knew he was a boxer and that he was referred to as the Greatest Of All Time, and, well, having someone who was the Greatest Of All Time at anything in the building had to be a huge honor, right? So I started talking to the kids around me (all of whom were probably startled that I was doing it, as I didn’t talk much) and asking them what our game plan was, because clearly we had to do something, right?  

Except the kids neither knew nor cared who Muhammad Ali was. I was so upset. Frantically, I grabbed some paper and some markers and started making him a card. I have a vague memory of drawing him with medals and boxing gloves and writing something like “Thank you for coming to our school Muhammad Ali, you’re the greatest”. Something like that.  Short and sweet.  I signed my name and I tried to get the other kids to sign it too, but nobody would. I was upset, but undeterred.

Anyway, the bell rang, the school day ended and our teachers hadn’t returned, so we all flooded into the hallway. And, as the gossiping teachers predicted, it was total chaos. People were saying, “Hey, Muhammad Ali’s in the auditorium!” and all rushing in that direction. 

I followed the crowd and ran into my mom as I did.  (This wasn’t an unusual occurrence – my mom was the Room Mom, or Class Mom, or whatever title they bestowed on the mom whose job it was to plan parties.  She was at school quite a bit.)  I explained to her in that sort of breathless seven-year-old way that “Mom Muhammad Ali is here and I made him a card and it’s SO IMPORTANT THAT HE GETS IT so I have to get it to him, okay?” And she nodded, so we kept following the crowd.

By the time we got into the auditorium (which wasn’t actually an auditorium, it was one of those recessed carpeted square arenas? do you know what I’m talking about? doesn’t matter), people – teachers and kids – were acting crazy, determined to get an autograph, presumably. It was a kind of crazy I’ve only seen a couple other times in my life, honestly, mostly at stage doors and rock concerts. I could see Ali across the squarena (not a word, but go with it) and was determined to take the card to him no matter what.

I was almost to him when my path was blocked by my mean second grade teacher. She said, “What are you doing? You’re not allowed to go over there” and I started crying and trying to explain and she kept refusing to let me pass when finally my mom stepped up. Mean Second Grade Teacher says, “She’s not allowed to go over there,” and my mom (to her credit) says, with all the seriousness in the world, “She made him a card and she’s going over there.” And so I pushed past and ran over to Ali.

At this point, Ali barely resembled the (relatively few) pictures I’d seen of him – the Parkinson’s had long since set in, so he trembled a bit and was nonverbal. Still, he was unmistakably Ali, and despite my not understanding who he actually was, he was there and he was real and I was in awe. I didn’t know what to say, so I just held out the card to him. He took it from me and looked at it. Realizing it was a card – and not something I wanted him to sign – he looked up at me, sort of stunned. He pointed to himself, as if to say, “This is for me?” And I nodded. He turned to someone with him and held his hand out, and they gave him a pen, and he signed the card and handed it back to me before turning and leaving.

In the moment, I got really upset, because it was supposed to be for him, blah blah. But my mom stared at it and whispered, “You don’t understand what just happened, but someday you will. Trust me, it’s a good thing.”

I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the squarena who actually got an autograph. My grandparents still have it, tucked away in a drawer somewhere. I haven’t seen it since that day.

I told this story not that long ago to one of my go-to sources of wisdom, and he said, “You could be a daredevil again.”  Could I?  My lungs still have the sense memory of what it’s like to be enveloped by water, but my heart remembers what it feels like to lifted out of it.  I’m pretty sure survival lies somewhere in between.  

Heartbroken over the loss of Muhammad Ali.

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and I said, "hey, what a way to spend a day"

Yesterday was an anniversary so important to me that I struggle explaining it to people.  Me – endless burbling fount of words – when it comes to this, I struggle.  It’s big, it’s weird, it’s a lot to process.  Nearly two decades and I’m still processing it, if I’m honest. Eighteen years ago, this year.  I remembered writing about it on the ten-year anniversary in my old LiveJournal (no I will not tell you where to find it; besides, this ain’t my first rodeo, I’ve got that business locked down tighter than Fort Knox).  I went digging this afternoon, though, and figured I’d share an edited version of what I posted that day.  It still holds.  Anything in bold is a present-day annotation.

Ten years ago, something happened that irreversibly changed my life and the life of someone I never got the chance to meet. *** When I was eleven years old, I was miserable. My parents had divorced and remarried three years earlier, and I didn’t [relate very well to] either of my stepparents. I didn’t have much in common with any of my peers. I had no friends. A year earlier, my mother and I had attended an open house for the public middle school I was set to attend. The welcome address was given by the school’s assistant principal, who informed us that the actual principal sent her regrets. She was in the hospital, from injuries sustained in a fight with a student. That was enough for my mother. My place was, according to her, in private school. So off to private school I went. Specifically, a private “Christian” school. I could devote several entries to the absolute atrocities I witnessed and experienced while attending there, but I won’t. Suffice it to say, the philosophies of the school at the time were stifling and intolerant, the teachers were (with few exceptions) sanctimonious and woefully inadequate, and the students are preppy, arrogant, and cruel. Were ten years ago, anyway. [My friend Jen] can back me up on this, because, and I feel for her on this, she spent almost her entire academic career through high school there. (She’s the only good thing I got out of it. But I digress.) I started sixth grade scared out of my wits. I wasn’t as pretty or as well off as the other kids. I wasn’t as pious as my teacher wanted me to be. I questioned a lot of what was being taught to me. My only refuge was music class. In that class, I could focus on something I enjoyed, something I understood. During our second or third week of school, we were assigned in music class to write a research essay on a composer of our choice. Being big into Disney movies at that time, I chose Alan Menken*. The girl next to me, a girl named Meredith, chose Andrew Lloyd Webber. When she announced her choice to the teacher and the class, she proceeded to justify it with a diatribe about how PHANTOM OF THE OPERA was the greatest thing ever and blah blah blah. Meredith seemed cool. I decided, “Hey – Meredith is cool. Meredith thinks Andrew Lloyd Webber is cool. I should learn about Andrew Lloyd Webber – that will make me cool.” (A decade later, I am both amused and horrified that the thought that studying up on Andrew Lloyd Webber could ever make someone cool ever passed through my head.) Christmas was nearing, and for a couple of months I’d been hinting, “I’ve heard Andrew Lloyd Webber is cool, blah blah blah,” so for Christmas of 1995 I received [a compilation cassette tape of songs from Andrew Lloyd Webber shows] and tickets to see the tour of PHANTOM on my twelfth birthday that coming June. This was life-changing. By the time I’d listened all the way through the tape, I’d forgotten all about Meredith the Cool Girl In Music Class. I’d forgotten about school and how miserable I was, period. Something just kind of clicked. This stuff is cool. So in the remaining weeks of winter break, I went to every bookstore and library I could find, making a point of getting my hands on everything about Andrew Lloyd Webber and musicals that I could get my hands on. I was feverishly obsessed. I’d hole up in my room and read for hours. A couple of weeks passed, and I remember sitting in my room reading one of these books (which, I have no idea) and in the middle of a chapter, of a sentence, out of nowhere, this knot in my stomach that had seemingly always been there disappeared. I was no longer miserable. I was no longer scared. This warmth suddenly came over me, like somebody or something was holding me close, and I thought, out of nowhere, “This is it. This is what I’m supposed to do for the rest of my life.” It was the last week of January, 1996. *** In July of 2001, I attended a month-long summer program for high school students at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts Graduate Musical Theatre Writing department**. It was a really cool thing. I’d been writing a little bit myself, but very much on my own. The opportunity for this kind of popped up unexpectedly, and before I knew it, here I was, doing what I’d always been doing, and getting feedback on it from professionals. And, apparently, I didn’t suck at it. (Well, unless you ask [REDACTED].) The structure of the program was cool. During the day, we’d learn about a particular song form or something, get assigned to write an example of said song form, go see some sort of show or something, go home that night and write our examples, bring them in the next day and evaluate them, learn something new, lather, rinse, repeat. During the first two weeks of the program, I spent all my off time unloading a lot of stress and worry on anyone who’d listen. Mostly, one of the RAs, an extraordinarily patient guy named Frankie. My mom and stepdad had just split up***, and right after I left for the program, she moved all of our stuff into a new house. I was freaking out. I complained about how my life felt like it was on the verge of turning upside down, how I what I wanted more desperately than anything was to be a writer, but life was scary and how do you do that? I was a wreck. A couple of weeks in, we were taken to see TICK, TICK…BOOM!. For the entirety of the show, I sat in shock. By the time “Johnny Can’t Decide” rolled around, I was sobbing. Here was somebody saying the exact things I’d been saying for weeks. It was eerie. I was shaken. The second the show ended, I turned, still shaking, to one of the chaperones and said, “I feel like I just saw my life up there.” She said, kinda dismissively, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re a guy turning 30.” I was annoyed, but undeterred. I had to learn more about Jonathan Larson. I’d gotten into RENT the year before, but never really delved all that deeply into the life of the author. I knew he died before the show opened, that it was a really tragic thing, but I’d never considered him outside of the context of the show. I’d resolved that when I returned home, I’d do some research. I forgot. I returned home in early August, to an unfamiliar house. Two weeks later, my mom had a heart attack. She survived it, but wow, was that scary. I missed New York. I missed feeling in my element, feeling in control. Feeling at home. Another couple of weeks passed, and then? September 11. I remember clearly looking forward to that day, because that’s when the TICK, TICK…BOOM! cast album was being released. I’d even written it in my school planner on that day – “tick, tick, BOOM!!!!!” For weeks, I cringed at the sight of that. I didn’t know anyone directly affected that day, but it rattled me harder than anything that the one place I’d counted on as my constant – my real home – was up in flames. I finally got the CD [the next week, though] I was afraid that a second listen would shatter me. Maybe it wasn’t as relevant as I’d feared. Maybe I’d been imagining things. It was, and I wasn’t. Everything seemed twice as loaded now. So with everything thoroughly upside down, I did as I had vowed to do months earlier. I did as much research as I could, tried to get as close as I could to the “real” Jonathan Larson as the written word would allow. I was in an unfamiliar house, my life was turned upside down, and I wanted desperately to cling to something stable, something resonant, something that transcended everything around me. It was re-reading an article that I’d read several times that did it. I’d always been aware of it, but never pieced it together. Jonathan Larson died on the 25th of January. The last week of January, 1996.

—I don’t tell this story very often. I know how ridiculous it sounds, and I don’t particularly enjoy being laughed at.  Jeffrey Seller, one of the lead producers of RENT, came to speak to us when I was in grad school, and spent a good deal of the time talking about how he supported Jonathan Larson and his work, how hard he fought for it and how much he believed in it.  Near the end of the session, I raised my hand to ask a question, but what ended up happening was I started crying and all I could manage to get out was “thank you”.  He smiled and nodded, presumably because people react like that a lot.  I don’t really know. 

What I do know is here I am, eighteen years later, fighting this peculiar fight.  And I’ll keep fighting it.  Because it’s where I’m supposed to be.

—-

* What’s funny about this story is if I’d just stuck with an interest in Alan Menken, I might have found my way into musical theatre anyway. ** I ended up getting my MFA from this very department eleven years later.  Forever in their debt, am I.  Literally and figuratively. ***And are divorced, finally, as of this week.  Wow.

Twenty years. At a loss for words.

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2016: the year she Tumbl’d more

Heyyyyy Tumblr what’s up how’s life etc. etc.  Good?  Good!  

I’ll be spending a lot more time around these parts in 2016 (new year/new computer/new me?)  And not just pluggin’ my business, though I do have some of that to do too.

If you’re in NYC on Friday and looking for something to do, come to 54 Below for the latest iteration of MuseMatch, which pairs writers and singers who’ve never worked together before together to create new songs for a good cause!  Friday’s edition -- MuseMatch 6.0 -- is all women writers and singers, which is super rad.  I’ve written a song for the lovely and amazing Stephanie Joiner that I think you’ll enjoy.  All proceeds from the event benefit Siena House, a women’s shelter in the Bronx.  

It’s this Friday, January 15th, at 11:30 P.M.  Tickets can be obtained via 54 Below HERE -- use code MUSE3 for $3 off the cover price!

Good talk, Tumblr.  Good talk.

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reblogged

you all should know that as this was rolling across my dash i could hear my roommate @christiebaugher singing the song from her musical about how hemingway and fitzgerald are totally boning

I step away from Tumblr for a couple months, and, lo, genius awaits.

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Editor’s Notes

(from July/August 2015 Musical Theatre Issue of #TheDramatist)

Source: Getty Images

History was made June 7, 2015 when the Tony Award for Best Musical went to Fun Home – the first musical created by an all-female writing team – Jeanine Tesori (music) and Lisa Kron (book and lyrics) – to win in that category.

Let’s put this in historical context with some facts. The Best Score category (originally called Best Composer) was created in 1947, but the Best Musical and Best Book of a Musical (sometimes called Author of a Musical or, in 1950, Libretto) categories were not created until 1949. Here are some notable highlights:

• 1949: Kiss Me, Kate wins the first Tony Award for Best Musical and Author of a Musical (book). The writing team includes a woman, BELLA SPEWACK with her husband Sam Spewack, and Cole Porter (music & lyrics).

• 1960: Once Upon A Mattress is nominated for Best Musical. The writing team includes MARY RODGERS (music), Marshall Barer (lyrics), and Jay Thompson, Marshall Barer and Dean Fuller (book). It is the first Best Musical nomination for a show composed by a woman. There was no Best Score category from 1952 through 1961.

• 1963: CAROLYN LEIGH (lyrics) and composer Cy Coleman (music) received a Best Score nomination for Little Me, making her the first woman to be nominated in this category.

• 1973: MICKI GRANT becomes the first woman composer (solo or team) to be nominated for Best Score (music & lyrics); the first solo woman to be nominated for Best Book of a Musical; and the first female solo writer to be nominated for Best Score, Best Book and Best Musical – all for Don’t Bother Me, I Can’t Cope. She wrote it all AND she starred in the show. She was the first woman to do that. 1,065 performances on Broadway, ya’ll. Respect. (If my hasty fact checking is correct, she was the first solo person – male or female – to write the book, music, lyrics and star in the same Broadway musical. If I missed someone, email me and please accept my apologies.)

• 1978: ELIZABETH SWADOS (Runaways) becomes the first person – male or female – to be nominated for Best Score (music & lyrics), Best Book, Best Choreographer, Best Director, and Best Musical for the same show. No one has done it since. Respect.

• 1991: MARSHA NORMAN becomes the first solo woman to win Best Book of a Musical for The Secret Garden. She and LUCY SIMON become the first all-female writing team to be nominated for Best Score.

• 2006: LISA LAMBERT (music & lyrics) – writing with Greg Morrison (music & lyrics) – becomes the first woman composer/lyricist to win Best Score for The Drowsy Chaperone.

• 2013: CYNDI LAUPER becomes the first solo woman to win Best Score (music & lyrics) for Kinky Boots.

Of the 68 shows that have won the Tony Award for Best Musical, 51 of those shows have had all-male writing teams (75%), sixteen have had at least one female on the writing team (23.53%), and one has had an all-female writing team (1.47%).

Of the 56 times the Tony Award for Best Score as been awarded, 49 of those have gone to all-male writing teams (87.5%), five have had at least one female on the writing team (8.93%) and two have gone to all-female writers (3.57%).

Of the 50 times the Tony Award for Best Book of a Musical has been awarded, 44 of those have had all-male writers (88%), two have had both male and female writers (4%), and four have been all-female writers (8%).

• Most nominations for a woman composer: five for JEANINE TESORI • Most nominations for a woman lyricist/bookwriter: nine for BETTY COMDEN (writing with Adolph Green)

JOEY jstocks@dramatistsguild.com

I've written about this before, but when I set out to do this at the age of 13, all of my heroes and role models were men. I was lucky enough to have parents who encouraged me to follow my interests wherever they took me, so it wasn't until I hit adulthood that I actually realized what an uphill climb it was going to be. These numbers are sobering, but each of these amazing women are a testament to the fact that it can and will be done.

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amyspalding

NY! I sadly cannot make this, so please go in my stead. My dear friend christiebaugher wrote a new musical The Fitzgeralds of St. Paul (yes those Fitzgeralds), and a concert version is being performed on 8/7 at 54below! funhomebroadway‘s Joel Perez is starring as F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Tiffany Topol (nat’l tour of Once) is Zelda. You know you want to get up on this. If you went to my cabaret show you saw Christie crush it as my music director, so go! Drink! Marvel!

'Tis true! Come see two genius singers rock some Jazz Age weirdness by yours truly. It's going to be a really good time, I promise.

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