A Million Shades of Grey

I'm tired.

I'm so tired of the hate that's coming through my screens lately.

I'm so tired of turning tragedies & people into hashtags.

I'm so tired of stereotypes that are continuously perpetuated by the media.

I'm tired of worrying about the ones I love who happen to be black.

GOOD GOD.

What are we doing to each other?

Why are we hurting one another?

Why does the amount of melanin in someone's skin engulf another in such fear?

I'm tired.

Aren't you tired?

I'm so tired.

Last week my boyfriend and I went to see a show in NYC.

We parked on the street.

We came out of the show, and his car was gone.

Naturally there's a certain sense of panic when one parks his or her car in a location, only to return and have it not be there. 

Was it towed? Was it stolen? What happened?

We called the cops, and they eventually came. They were kind. Polite. Helpful. They told us his car was hit, and subsequently towed.

They gave us the information on where to get the car, and went along their route. We went home.

Nobody was hurt, thank god.

Nobody was hurt. thank god.

Nobody was hurt, thank god.

Not a scratch from the accident, not a bullet from a cop.

Thank God.

I cannot wrap my head around what's going on in this country lately.

It seems to be getting worse, this racial tension. Or maybe it's always been this bad, and we know about it now, cause of cell phones. Cause of social media. Cause of the big bad internet...

...I don't know.

I don't know how to fix this - and make no mistake, something must be fixed.

It's not about listening to cops. So many of these stories have been people who have listened to the women and men who wear blue.

It's about acknowledging the underbelly of this all - fear of those who are different than you.

I'm starting to think that we have to be honest with one another - to acknowledge the fact that some of us are scared of those who have more melanin in their skin.

I for one do not understand such fears. My goddaughters are black. My best friend is black. Her son is black. My colleagues are black. There is so much black in my life, and I am not afraid.

But this is not about me.

It's about those who are afraid. It's about the families and communities that are being broken.

I don't know what the answer is - but a conversation seems like the place to start.

I don't know what the answer is, but what I do know is something must be done. And it cannot be meeting violence with more violence.

But something must be done.

We argue about black and white. We kill about black and white. But the world is a million shades of grey. 

I don't know what to say anymore.

All I know is thus - love and respect needs a louder voice in this world. Give love when you can, call out hate when you see it. Educate those who don't get it.

We all need to be better.

We all need to do better. 

H...

Once upon a time, I wrote a play called H.

And one week from today, H will have a staged reading at Guild Hall in East Hampton, as part of their JTDLab.

Before I was a teacher, I never knew a person who tried heroin. When I was in high school, kids dipped into their parents liquor cabinets. They smoked weed. The rebels did cocaine.

When I thought about heroin, I thought about homeless folks on the streets of New York City. I thought of dirty needles and dark alleys and seedy areas that people avoided like the plauge.

Teenagers sporting skinny jeans and hoodies and faces full of make up with their iPhones in tow were never a thought in my mind.

Heroin was not something I ever encountered.

Heroin was not something I ever heard about.

Not until I became a teacher, that is.

Then I heard about people doing it - and those people, those kids, were my students.

It still hurts my heart to think about my kids who struggled with addiction. Beautiful, bright, wonderful kids, who fell prey to a vicious monster that knew no gender, no race, no economic status.

They came from loving homes, they came from homes with stories that would make your heart shatter into a million pieces.

They came from all different walks of life.

They had all different stories.

One too many of them had one thing in common, and it was abusing pills, and then heroin. See, at the time, oxycotin was $25 a pill. But heroin was a mere $9 a bag. So when the pills ran out, they turned to the cheaper option.

I can't count the amount of times they came to my colleagues and I, crying. Broken. Distraught. Angry. 

It was a vicious cycle that they couldn't break.

It was a period in my life I can never forget.

I couldn't understand how my kids, who I believed in so much, who had so much potential, could get wrapped up into this cycle of addiction. 

Why?

Why couldn't they see themselves as I did? Why couldn't they find another outlet for their pain? Why didn't they know how to lean on the adults in their lives that loved them? Cared for them? Wanted the best for them?

Why?

I still remember my kids who came to class high. The ones who failed out because they were too doped up. I remember the ones whose eyes rolled back in their heads because of their cocktail choice of the day. I remember one of my most favorite students, coming to me, crying because she started doing drugs with her boyfriend. It was the thing that she hated about him - and now, she too was doing it. 

Help me, Min.

I remember her fight. 

I remember being so proud of her when she graduated. When she got clean.

I remember all of their faces. 

I fought for those faces, day in and day out, and I'd do it all over again if I had to.

I never understood why they choose to shoot up. Or smoke it. Or take pill after pill. I don't think I'll ever understand. But at a certain point it doesn't become about understanding anymore - it's about listening.

It's about loving. It's about finding ways to support those who are struggling - in a proactive way.

So, I'll listen.

And I'll write about it. 

Because perhaps my words will ring true to another face that needs fighting for. Perhaps another mother or brother or sister or father will hear the hope in my words. Perhaps the story that has come from this will open a conversation about addiction.

Because we sure don't talk about it enough.

Addiction.

We sweep it under rugs and hide it in dark corners and give silent looks of disgust and distain and sometimes mask it as concern. We hurdle people off to rehabs and isolate them in classrooms. We dance around the subject.

We never talk about it. Openly. Honestly. Truthfully.

Here's to the start of a conversation.

One can only hope. 

---

H…is a story of three different teenagers –  Zoe, Gemma, and Owen – all of whom struggle with heroin addiction. This is a story of how three teenagers and young adults have been effected by this monstrous drug, and how addiction not only changes the lives of the addicts but their families and loved ones as well. H… begs the questions: how does the cycle of addiction start? What role does society play in all of this? And more importantly, what’s it going to take to break the cycle of addiction? Will the cycle be broken before lives are lost?

I will be directing this staged reading, and the cast of H features Alyssa Castellano, Rob DiSario (The Night Alive), Chloe Dirksen (The Poets of Amityville), Joe Pallister (To Kill a Mockingbird, Of Mice and Men - Bay Street Theater), William Sturek (Of Mice and Men - Bay Street Theater), and Michelle Veintimilla (The Visit, FOX’s Gotham).

Guild Hall is located at 158 Main Street, in East Hampton, NY. Tickets to this staged reading of H... are FREE! Additional information is available guildhall.org.

Smile In The Face of Something Mean

I can't get her out of my head.

She was skinny and tall. She was bouncing around the street. 

Jittery.

She was wearing a baseball cap and long sleeves and jeans that were cuffed.

She crossed the street, paused in front of my car, and gave me the middle finger.

I do not know this woman. I did not know her name. I did not know what prompted her to do a carelessly negative thing.

I wanted to scream out the window a string of expletives. I wanted to flash my own middle finger.

But…I didn't.

The world is so crazy nowadays.

It is crazy and sad and beautiful and happy and horrible and strange.

See, I was coming from a weekend at the beach with loved ones. I was sunkissed and relaxed and happy. I was on my way to a rehearsal. 

She was jittery, but I was bouncing with joy.

Joy.

In that moment, I chose joy. I chose to not engage with the negativity. I chose not to fan the flames of someone else's despair.

I chose to smile in the face of something mean.

And look, I'm not saying that's easy.

I'm not saying I always do that - I don't.

But I'm wondering what would happen in this world if we all chose to do that a little bit more.

The world is so crazy nowadays.

Facebook feeds and tweets have become saturated with negativity, sarcasm, and snark. It can feel like a battleground out there. It can feel like everyone around you is looking to draw lines in the sand.

And I think so much magnificence can happen if we cross those lines. If we step over onto the other side of something that is different than you, and smile. Or say hi. Or ask, how are you - and then stick around long enough to hear the answer.

I did not know this woman. I did not know her name. I did not know what prompted her to do a carelessly negative thing.

And I'll never know.

But I feel bad for her. Someone who lashes out like that is clearly carrying around sadness an pain and anger - and that can never be good. When left unchecked, these wiegh on our souls like an anchor, dragging us down into a dark pit of despair. 

And that, my friends, is sad.

I did not know this woman. 

But what I do know is matching her anger with more anger was not going to accomplish anything.

I mean, let's be honest, when does it ever? What good ever came out of hate?

It is easier said than done, but perhaps it's best to smile and move on in the face of something mean.

Live and Let Live and Lunch

Just yesterday, there were workers at my parents' house, fixing a botched job that they had done on their deck.

These men, immigrants from Brazil, were at my parents house real early, working in the sticky heat that occurs in New York in July. 

I called my mom around lunchtime to see if she wanted to go to the gym with me that afternoon. 

She declined.

I can't. I'm cooking, Megan.

For whom? I asked.

The workers. They said they were going to order pizza. I said don't do that, I'll make you some pasta.

Why?

Because it's a nice thing to do.

So there she was, my mom, cooking pasta and sauce for these workers who came to her home to finish a job. 

Why? Because it's a nice thing to do.

She didn't have to. She got nothing out cooking for these men. There was no angle. There were people who were hungry, and she just wanted to feed them.

It's not the first time she's done something like that. Not the first time at all. That's just who she is - a woman who practices what she preaches. A woman who listens before she judges. A woman with a heart so big, everyone wants to climb inside her warmnth.

I don't know why I was surprised.

But perhaps it has something to do with the world lately...our politics at home. The terror abroad. The senseless violence that seems to know no limits. The arguing over whose life matters most. The ignorance of some. The deafening silence of others. The pain. And heartache. And sadness. And anger.

It's too much.

So yeah, when my mother does something so natural to her, for men who are quite different from her, perhaps that's cause for a tiny celebration.

Moments like that give me hope.

I think it was barely eight hours after that lunch when I heard about the terror in Nice.

I can't get it out of my head.

Wounds are still raw from Orlando and Beirut and Turkey and Israel and Alton and Philandro and Dallas, and now Nice?

I'm so tied of turning tragedies into hashtags. I'm so tired of evil getting such a loud voice on my screens. If you cannot love - at least live and let live. 

Perhaps the answer is baby steps. 

Perhaps the first step is a simple smile, a simple compliment. Perhaps it's saying "thank you" or "you're welcome". Perhaps it's listening to a friend in need, listening to a stranger in need - if only for a moment. Perhaps it's coming together, if only for one evening, to support those who are both similar and different thank you - perhaps these are the pebbles of goodness that start ripples of change. 

Perhaps the answer is a simple lunch. 

The Gift of Growing Old

I watched one too many friends bury parents this year.

I watched one too many friends bury loved ones this year.

We wept together. Remembered together. Laughed together. Reflected together.

And those were just the funerals I attended - for there have been too many people whom I know and love and admire who have experienced great loss this year. Too many to count.

And on this Father's Day, I can't help but think - growing old is a gift.

It was one of the first shows I ever produced, and an audience member found out I was 28. (I'm 30 now, by the way.)

Don't ever tell someone you're that old, she said.

Don't ever tell someone I'm the age I am?

Really?

Are we that afraid of growing older?

Terry. Robin. Katie. Sam.

Nobody made it to 65.

Maybe that sounds old to you all, but trust me, it's not. I mean, you can't collect social security before then! 

It feels as though they were robbed.

And yet, we continue on.

But we forge forward looking at life a little differently. We celebrate each and every year. We shout the milestones from the rooftops. We choose family and friends over work. We appreciate the beauty of a sunset, the ease of walking without trouble, a nice glass of wine. We soak in the sounds of laughter from those whom we love the most. We stare at the blue sky a bit longer, and marvel how the sun sparkles when hits the water of our favorite beach.

We put down our phones. We listen more. We laugh more. We love harder.

We remember the ones whose lives were cut too short.

We remember that every day is a gift.

We celebrate every wrinkle, every day, every minute that we get to soak it all in.

Happy Father's Day to my father, the best man I know. To the fathers of those who I know who've raise some of the best men and women that grace this earth - your children are undoubtedly making your proud. To the fathers who step in when others have walked out, to the mother's who rise up when they have to, to the villages that raise children, this day is for you.

What Do You Do?

Sometimes the bullying gets so bad I don't want to come to school. Sometimes the bullying is so bad in, well, life, that I wish I could just disappear.

Just last week I was asked to be a teaching artist of a program called Project Hero. Created by the brilliant Kate Meuth in association with Guild Hall of East Hampton and the Hampton's International Film Festival, Project Hero is a program designed for middle school students, in an effort to teach empathy and compassion. It's an effort to combat bullying in schools, after school, online, and well, life.

It was beautiful...and it broke my heart.

There's an exercise that's part of the curriculum that asks the students to name words/phrases that they have been called that make them feel bad.

....it broke my heart.

Bitch. Fucker. Slut. You're a disgusting. Ugly. You're a mistake. N*gger. Go away, nobody cares about what you have to say. Stupid. Go kill yourself. You're not wanted here. Dumb. Nerd. Bitchy Latina. White trash. Retarded.

...it broke my heart.

What do you say to the faces of 20 twelve-year olds who want to know why people are mean? What do you say to the faces of 20 twelve-year olds who don't understand why their classmates keep picking on them? What do you say to the faces of 20 twelve-year olds who want to know if it gets better - do people get kinder with age? Do people mind their own business as they grow up?

What do you say?

I want to say yes, but I don't want to lie to them either. 'Cause the adults of the world, well, we seem to be dropping the ball quite a bit lately.

At one point in the workshop, unprompted, two students came forward and apologized for being purposely hurtful to some of their classmates.

We were wrong. We're sorry. We see how much we hurt you, and we didn't mean for that to happen.

We were wrong. We are sorry. We didn't mean to hurt you. They are 12 and they were able to come to that conclusion. Twelve.

I asked them for their reflections about the workshop at the end of the last class.

What's the biggest thing you'll take away with you? What about these three days you will carry with you as the summer starts and the new school year comes?

One student said - I realize that there is more to all of us than meets the eye. I need to listen more.

My. Goodness. I hope that mindset stays with them throughout each and every one of their lifetimes.

...

After the conference I headed right to a wedding in Jamestown, Rhode Island.

Love radiated the entire weekend. Love between this new husband and wife. Love between friends. Love between newlyweds. Love between new friends. Love between old friends. Love between parents and children. Love between men and women. Love between women and women. Love between men and men.

It was a wedding. Love hung in the air like a sweet fog.

It was infectious.

It was beautiful.

This couple, well, they chose to share the Supreme Court Ruling on Marriage Equality as part of their ceremony.

That's how they started their wedding ceremony, their start to being husband and wife.

And it was beautiful.

And it was perfect.

'Cause at the heart of that ruling was nothing about biology and or sex - it was just about love. Cause love is love is love is love.

And love is beautiful.

And love should be celebrated.

And love should be shouted from he rooftops.

So, we cheered for our friends. And cried the happy tears. And ate food, and cut cake and danced the night away.

The next morning I read about Orlando.

Good God. It seemed like a bad dream. It didn't seem real. You read things like that, and think - please let this be some Onion article. Please let this not be real. This cannot be real, can it?

Real. All too real.

And I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around the whole thing. Why? Why does this happen?

It's 2016 - are we not past homophobia? I don't get it.

I don't get it, because some of my most favorite people on the planet are part of the LGBTQ community. They have been my shoulder to cry on for more than one occasion. They have been my cheerleaders, my rocks of support on just as many occasions. They have been my collaborators. My confidantes. My friends. My family.

To know them is to love them. I couldn't imagine if anyone ever hurt them because of whom they choose to love. 

What happened in Orlando is horrible. It's disgusting. It breaks my heart. It makes me sick.

When the Founding Father's were scripting our Constitution, I think it's safe to say they never wanted the people of this country to go carry AK-47s. That seems rather excessive, doesn't it?

So yes, some sort of gun reform laws are needed. 'Cause what we're doing right now, well, it's not working. Schools. Churches. Theaters. Nightclubs. What's next? A hospital? Let's stop the madness, shall we?

Cause really, what if that were your son? Your daughter? Your husband? Your wife? Your brother? Your sister? Your friend?

What would you do?

But, gun control laws aside, we need to do more for one another. Because somewhere along the line this bastard in Orlando got it in his head that KILLING PEOPLE WAS AN ANSWER TO EASE HIS DISCOMFORT.

And that cannot be ok. That cannot be the answer. The fact that such actions seem to be commonplace is a problem, people.

What happened in Orlando is about guns. I mean, the vile creature who did this had an AK-47 for pete's sake.

But the tragedy that transpired in Orlando is the culmination of an intolerance and irrational anger that has seeped into every facet of our country, at every level, silencing what should be coherent and respectful conversations and debate.

You will not be a friend to everyone you meet. You will not agree with every person that comes across your path - and that is ok. You will have different beliefs and opinions and philosophies than others, and that is ok.

But all people should be able to feel safe.

All people should be able to feel safe.

How many times do we have to write that and yell that and say that for it to become true? 

All people should be able to feel safe.

To my LGBTQ friends, perhaps I don't say this enough: I love you all. I support you all. I stand with you all. 

Do Your Homework, Boss

I believe in collaboration over competition.

Any sort of athletic game always stressed me out as a child.  I played soccer for about five minutes when I was a kid. (Yes, on a team.) And I hated it. I just didn’t want to compete with my classmates. I didn’t want to get yelled at by a coach for missing the ball. I didn’t want to push people out of my way.

It just wasn’t my thing — ya dig?

Perhaps that’s why I got into theatre.

I’ve said this so much I’m probably going to start sounding like a broken record. But, theatre, for me, is one of the most collaborative art forms, and professions out there. It take a village to put a show, a concert, a workshop, a reading - there’s so much that happens that the audience doesn’t even realize. 

But, for those who thrive within a community setting, one that challenges you and lifts you and corrects you and makes you think about the world outside yourself - theatre is invigorating. Uplifting. Life changing.

… 

A couple of months ago I was introduced to a woman who ran a women empowerment business. She marketed herself as a connector, a mentor, and a coach. She had this Facebook group that directly corresponded to conferences for female entrepreneurs, encouraging them to attend these conferences that she set up in various cities.

The professions of the group were wide and varied. Too many to count. Teachers, coaches, inventors, producers, product innovators - women from all walks of life. And this “leader” claimed to have a connection in all professions, she made promises to all folks - the sort of promises that lift people up. The sort of promises that give people hope for a better tomorrow. The sort of promises that get people out of bed in the morning.

Betrayal is an awful thing.

It seeps into your skin in such a way that it’s hard to shed that feeling of disappointment and hurt and horror that comes with betrayal.

So, imagine my horror when I found out that this woman duped the women attending her conferences. She took money. Lots and lots of money. She promised wages and didn’t deliver. She promised an all inclusive retreat and yet someone else had to spring for the bill.

Oh wait, get this - she asked people to be Keynote Speakers…and then asked certain ones TO PAY. TO SPEAK.

But the sad and frustrating and terrible thing about this was that she preyed on those who didn’t know any better. She sought out women who were changing careers and taking huge leaps and trying new things, befriended them, got them to trust her, and then took their cash.

I’m all in favor of conferences. I think they’re great - whether it’s for professional or personal development…but just make sure you do your homework. Do your research. If someone is asking you for money, you have every right to know where it’s going. To know what you’re getting. If something seems off, perhaps it’s best to walk away. 

Trust your instincts.

For those of you who are creative female entrepreneurs interested in attending conferences, here’s a great list geared for creative female entrepreneurs. These are the women who lift you up. These are the folks who are your cheerleaders. They are the people to surround yourself with…and that’s just the tip of the legitimate iceberg. There’s BroadwayCon. Ted Talks. SXSW. BlogHer. Young & Doing. 

And those are the ones just off of the top of my head.

There are places to learn. There are people to learn from. You just have to know who they are, and how to weed out the lunatics.

And always, always, always do your homework.

YAWP

Women in veils are not silent.

For the past seven years it's been my privilege to direct for the YAWP Program and Playwriting Festival at Stony Brook Southampton college.

The heads of YAWP explain it best - 

The Young Artists and Writers Project (formerly the Young American Writers Project) is dedicated to mentoring middle and high school students in the development of creative expression and critical thinking through the writing and visual arts.

Sponsored by Stony Brook Southampton's MFA in Creative Writing and Literature and Southampton Arts, YAWP programs pair professional writers and writing teachers with high school and middle school students in a variety of innovative, inter-disciplinary writing workshops in area schools, as well as on Stony Brook's Southampton and Manhattan campuses, including:

Playwriting
Screenwriting
Poetry
Personal Essay
Fiction
Visual Arts

… all of which conclude with special projects and presentations, as well as potential vodcasts, blogs and/or publication in the YAWP Ezine.

The goals of YAWP include:
• To enhance critical thinking, collaboration and communications skills.
• To help each student find and develop his or her unique voice and point of view.
• To use creative expression as a way to solve problems and promote global awareness.
• To advance 21st century skills while supporting ELA requirements.
• To provide community outreach for Southampton Graduate Arts.
• To develop and support the next generation of writers, readers and artists.

YAWP school-based workshops are offered throughout the school year, and can be custom designed to fit the needs of an individual school. They can "push-in" to Creative Writing, English, Theatre or other academic classes, or they can be an extra-curricular or retreat program. School break workshops are offered on the Stony Brook Southampton and Manhattan campuses in the summer as well as during winter and spring breaks. YAWP programs can be particularly effective for at-risk students, or for those who find writing and communications skills challenging in the traditional academic environment.

Seven years.

Seven years of helping the voices of young writers come to life on the Avram stage. Seven years of rehearsals. Seven years of being privy to the inner most thoughts of the teenagers of the time.

Each year I'm in awe of the heartbeat of the teenagers who participate in this program. They're thoughtful. They're curious. They're compassionate. 

They want to leave this world better than they found it.

The cynics of the world scoff when I say this. They say...just wait until they hit adulthood. They won't be so idealistic then they say. They won't care so much then, they say.

I say they're wrong. 

I say this program teaches these teenagers how to think beyond their own orbit. How to put their words to good use - and harness their voice and power in a method that will stick with people. Resonate with people. Affect people.

This particular festival struck a chord with me.

I was asked to direct a play called The Hijab. It was about two sisters who are Iranian immigrants, one who wants to cover, and one who wants to shun all remnants of her life in Iran.

Women in veils are not silent.

That's a direct line from the show.

Women in veils are not silent.

Woah.

Right?

I mean, what a play to do in this political climate.

What a play to be written by a fourteen year old in this political climate. A fourteen year old, who IS NOT EVEN MUSLIM.

Not even Muslim.

When I asked her why she chose to write about this she said, I think sometimes are not always accepting as they are in my school. I think we need to embrace one another a little bit more.

She's thirteen, and she's thinking bigger than her own personal orbit.

She's thirteen, and she wanted to write about this. About religion. About family. About school. About acceptance.

It's heavy, and yet encouraging.

Yes, I'm encouraged by this young playwright, this young student of mine. Encouraged by the younger generations who have the compassion and room in their hearts to think beyond their own orbits. I'm encouraged by a younger generation who wants to change the world with pens and not swords. I'm encouraged by a younger generation who seems to be rooted in kindness. Peace. Love.

I'm reminded of the words of Edmund Burke - the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

And I say - it's refreshing to meet good teenagers who do everything in their power to put goodness back in this world.

Irrespective of your creed, race, and/or gender, there's one simple truth that still remains - we're all here, just trying to breathe same air and walk the same earth, and make something beautiful out of this mess we call life.

A Robin's Dream

One of the greatest artists I have ever known passed away almost two months ago.

She was one of the greatest theatre professionals I have ever known.

But she was also a sister. Daughter. Teacher. Mentor. Wife. Friend. Mother.

Mother.

I think if you asked her, she'd say one of greatest roles yet.

But alas, I digress.

This woman, well, she taught me how to embrace my love of creativity. My love for theatre. My crazy curly dark hair. In a world full of high school football games and kickline and cheerleading squads, she taught me that there was a place for me - the artist, the introvert, the storyteller.

This woman, she passed away suddenly a little less than two months ago.

Without a word.

Without warning.

Without a goodbye.

Gone. Just like that.

The other night I had a dream about this woman.

We were all under a white tent.

I couldn't even tell you who was there exactly, except it was all of "us"...

So many faces...laughing, smiling, talking.

We were all there to celebrate, to commiserate, to chat.

And then, she walked in.

It was weird, cause we all knew that she had passed away - and yet, there she was...in a blue and green and white and black long flowing dress.

There was a scar on her head from where she had fallen...

...and she was smiling.

And true to form, she wiped our eyes from the tears of wonder and joy and sadness that streaked our cheeks.

Don't cry, she said.

I reached up and touched her scar. 

Did it hurt? Were you scared? 

Oh Meg, sure it did. But our scars, our scars are make us what we are.

I woke up pretty soon after that.

But that dream, it's stuck with me for over a week now. And the crazy part of it all is that it feels like something real. Something true. Something that actually happened.

And I know that sounds nuts.

And I'm not going to sit here and rationalize it.

But I am going to type the strength that I've gained from it.

Our scars - our scars are what make us who we are. Every cut, every bruise, every scrape - they give color and depth and strength to our souls. Every mark and scar and wound that we cannot see - they can be the weights that drag us down and sink us, or they can be the badges that set us free. That let us speak the truth That help us spark a conversation of change.

Our scars make us who we are.

They are not something to be hidden under make-up or hushed conversations. They are marks of a soul that has weathered a storm and come out to see the rainbow.

They are the hushed pieces of our lives that we can learn from. Grow from. Rise above.

It's the scars that make us who we are, and the scars who tell us who we are not. For it is often that the greatest of heartache and pain is often met with times of the greatest of strength and compassion.

People we love can often leave us sooner than we'd like, sooner than we'd hope sooner than we are prepared for...and it can sometimes leave a wound so deep that one can never imagine it ever being healed.

But we carry on.

And we do better. 

We get up every morning, and remind ourselves to breathe in and out all day long, and live a life that makes us proud. That makes us happy. 

We get up every morning, and try to do good.

For we're not, nor have we ever been alone in this world. And our actions affect others. And we hope that those actions will be pearls of wisdom. Of hope of inspiration. Of motivation. Of love.

For our scars are what makes us who we are. 

And so we make a vow to live a life where we show our scars as badges of honor - as a reminder of how far we've come. 

It was 1998, and we were all in a dusty old barn. And one of the biggest idols of my life sang to her students and an audience full of people, I Will Remember You, by Sarah McLachlan. 

I had always dreamed of singing, but I could never do it in front of people. Acting? Sure. Singing? Not so much.

And there she was, my birthday twin, singing her heart out to her beloved students, letting the audience partake in this tender moment.

Her scar perhaps was letting them go...

...their scar was having the strength to leave.

18 YEARS LATER, and so much has changed.

She's gone, and we're all still here.

The bravery and beauty of that moment is something I'll always carry with me. I still can't listen to the song without tearing up, but one day I'll weep not for the memories...

...and smile at the thought of what was, and what will be.

Theatre is Not Selfish.

The smoke wafted into my face.

"You want to be a wriiiitah, eh? Well, I hope you're selfish. Cause all writers, especially those for the theater are selfish."

Four years ago I had just taken the leap into self producing, directing, and creating my own work. Four years ago I had just recieved my first press tickets for thewriteteachers.com to see A Time to Kill. 

And four years ago I was standing outside some bar in Chelsea, listening to someone whom I was supposed to admire and look up to, tell me that the only way to be an artist is to be selfish.

Excuse me while I go vomit a little.

Or maybe a lot.

Because gee, the artists whom I've grown and love and admire in these past four years are anything but selfish.

They're giving.

Giving of their time, their talents, their love, their art.

Giving of their support, their gratitude, and their critiques. 

The tribe of artists I have come to know are some of the most giving people I have ever met - and it just…it gives me hope.

Hope for a world where people learn to support one another. Hope for a world where people lend a hand to those who need it. Hope for a world where compassion triumphs paychecks.

DUETS with The Write Teacher(s) Volume 3 is happening this Friday, and while this was a brainchild of mine three years ago, this level of artistry is happening because of a generosity of spirit of people whom I have come to know, admire, and adore.

Thank you - Stafford Arima, Stephen Bogardus, Preston Truman Boyd, Katie Rose Clarke, Lilli Cooper, Vadim Feichtner, Danny Gardner, Joe Iconis, Lizzie Klemperer, Ben Krauss, Lauren Marcus, Ellyn Marie Marsh, Laura Osnes, Zoe Sarnak, Jennifer Ashley Tepper, Katie Thompson, and Cortney Wolfson.

Theatre is not made in a vaccum.

Theatre is not selfish.

Theatre is one of the most giving artforms there is - we bear our souls. Whether it is on paper, onstage, via the lights, via the set, via the sound, via the music, via the direction - a work of live theatre is a piece of the hearts and souls and voices and dreams of those who have dared to make their dreams come alive for others. For strangers. For you and me.

And gee, I don't think that's selfish AT ALL - do you?

. . . 

DUETS with The Write Teacher(s) Volume 3 plays Feinstein's/54 Below on April 15th. Tickets are available via this link, or calling 646-476-3551.

Feinstein's/54 Below is located at 254 W 54th Street, New York, New York 10019