What's in my Scarcity Matrix?

I keep coming back to this HowlRound piece about the Scarcity Matrix, and it's got me in an introspective mood. I'm thinking a lot about the things that I can offer that are not money which may not only be of value but of meaning and significance.

And, in so many ways, the Scarcity Matrix I inhabit is not really about material resources. Those are simply a symptom. The deeper message, the one that I don't want to face, is simply that nobody cares about what I have to offer.

I used to talk about community organizing and power analysis a great deal on this blog. I don't do it so much anymore. Not because I no longer think it's needed, but because I just got tired of talking to myself. Why bother? Why bash my brains against a brick wall? Why throw my diamonds in the mud?

Sure, there are people who agree with me or at least kinda see where I'm coming from, and that's nicer than people who just want to debate or pick things apart because it's intellectually stimulating. Yet despite this, something feels missing. It's not caring or concern. It's not awareness. I'm not in touch with anyone who is apathetic about gender parity, racial parity, and accessibility in theatre.

However, when I talk about a need for a power analysis, when I talk about the need to examine the deeper levels of an institution, no one wants to do that. It's not as exciting as creating programs and initiatives that show off how aware and innovative we are, but it's work that needs to be done for any true progress to happen. The things I'm talking about are not just moving the numbers a little bit. It's a tectonic shift in the culture that dominates the theatrical landscape. That kind of thing doesn't happen by accident. It doesn't happen by just throwing more Brown and Black people, more women, more LGBTQ people, more accessibility technology at it.

I used to talk a great deal more about this, and I've always expressed a willingness to really do this, but I notice that I just stopped trying. It has nothing to do with me caring about this stuff any less.

But the Scarcity Matrix says, "Nobody wants this. Nobody needs this. Nobody cares. So just go away and let the people who are smarter and more marketable do the real work."

Looking for love (in all the right places?) and a theatrical soulmate

For a long time now, Crossroads Theatre Project (@XroadsTheatre on Twitter) has been my baby. I've been writing and developing the scripts, doing the fundraising, hiring the cast and crew, interacting with peers and audiences via social media, and all that.

It hasn't always been easy, but I did enjoy doing those things myself. I enjoy my autonomy. I enjoy being self-sufficient. I enjoy the freedom it gives me to learn and explore in a hands-on, low-stakes way.

I don't regret spending so much time doing this more or less by myself. It's helped a lot with helping me figure out exactly what I want to do and the kinds of working relationships I want to have. That knowledge came in a far less painful way than it would have if I'd begun from a more ambitious vision or involved more people than absolutely necessary.

However, I think it's time for me to admit that I need help.

It's not because I can't do this anymore or don't want to, but I've come to understand that trying to do it all more or less by myself is starting to hinder my ability to grow. Right now, I'm in a phase where I want to focus on writing and developing more scripts. That doesn't mean I want to stop producing my own plays or abdicate all responsibility to someone else, but I do think that I am now ready for an artistic partner or two.

When I think about it, what I want looks a lot like what Jim and Pete had at Nosedive Productions. I'm looking for something where this person and I can grow together over a period of time. Granted, I'll have to be more intentional because my temperament and current situation prevent me from just lucking into finding someone who just clicks.

If I had to write a list, I'm looking for someone who:

1. can commit to a long-term, non-exclusive creative partnership
2. wants to share the responsibilities of producing theatre
3. understands the importance of race, gender, sexuality, class, etc. in arts and media
4. makes bold artistic choices on each production
5. is open to trying unconventional casting and rehearsal processes and non-traditional venues
6. works magic on a shoestring budget
7. has an interest in mythology, folklore, and fairy tales
8. is something of a sci-fi/fantasy/horror buff
9. can get along with someone who is a textbook INTJ

I don't really care about the resume or CV. I care about vision, passion, and commitment.

Do you know someone like this? Can you put me in touch with them?

Top 5 Reasons Why You Should Support Crossroads Theatre Project

I've done quite a bit talking about Crossroads Theatre Project. One thing that never occurred to me was simply saying what it was that supporting Crossroads Theatre Project means and what it should accomplish. Sure, I could talk puff myself up by talking about quality and excellence, throwing in "professional" to make it stick. I could also use hot, trendy buzzwords like "innovative" and "authentic."

But that would make me sound just like everyone else, and I hate that.

I'd rather get to the point and tell you what I mean. Like this.

1. Your money goes directly to theatre artists.

Because of the small scale of Crossroads Theatre Project, every cent goes toward tools and resources for making theatre: casting actors, rehearsal and performance space, printing out scripts, and so on. You're not covering administrative overhead. You're helping real artists make art in the real world.

2. You're giving theatre to people who usually don't get to see it because Broadway tickets are too expensive.

People want theatre. People enjoy seeing plays. But they don't enjoy paying $100 for seats in the nosebleed section. Not when a movie ticket to a 3D movie with stadium seating costs about $15. By focusing on intimate, small-scale productions, Crossroads Theatre Project makes theatre affordable for the average person's entertainment budget.

3. You're showing that theatre arts—and all the arts—have value beyond how much money it makes. 

Every day, we're bombarded with messages that tell us that what we own is all that we're worth. Theatre reminds us that our humanity matters, that our lives are interesting and meaningful for their own sake. The ability to share that humanity with other human beings is priceless.

4. You're helping the arts reflect the diversity of the world we live in.

There are enough places to find stories about whitebread, all-American people. Crossroads Theatre Project does something different by putting people of color, women, and LGBTQ people front and center. This gives underrepresented artists a chance to show their stuff and underserved audiences a chance to see themselves portrayed in non-stereotypical ways.

5. You like what Crossroads Theatre Project is about and want to see what it can do.

Trying new things and coming up with new approaches for developing theatre by playwrights of African descent will always be part of how Crossroads Theatre Project pursues its mission. Every reading, every production, every collaboration is an experiment. So, Crossroads Theatre Project will always be a work in progress—fluid and ever-changing—just like any living thing.

Some things you can do right now.

• Share this post on Twitter and/or Facebook (See the little buttons down there? That's for you.)
• Like Crossroads Theatre Project on Facebook
• Make a secure online donation to Crossroads Theatre Project
• Tell everyone why you think I'm awesome and amazing

So I got all scientifical and found out some stuff

In the vein of there being no problem that the right tool or right mindset can solve, and shamelessly ripping off the Just Ask Them Method of Orlando Jones, I whipped up a survey to see what was going on. I make no promises about this being statistically sound or even the most rigorous method ever. This only reflects the people in my own audience (and maybe the people in their audience).

The findings were pretty interesting, especially when it came to what kept people from seeing more theatre. Here is my extremely unscientific analysis of the findings:

1. Most people (two-thirds of respondents) see plays once or twice a year, or once every few years.
2. There's a strong preference for musical theatre (67% of respondents) followed by classics and modern stuff (57% and 50% of respondents, respectively), but there's also a good audience for quirky, off-the-wall stuff (48% of respondents) that doesn't happen all the time.
3. The biggest hurdle to attendance are price (almost 75%)and transportation (almost 35%). Surprisingly, a good third of people said that having no one to go with (almost 30%) and not knowing what's playing (about one-third of respondents). In addition, lack of access for people with disabilities (wheelchair access, closed captioning for the hearing-impaired, etc.) was also something that impacts some people.
4. After making it cheaper and bringing it closer, most people (38%) want more help to find out what's on stage.
5. A huge majority of people (almost two-thirds) are willing to pay around $20 for a ticket. For people with a bigger entertainment budget, that jumps to around $50 (20%). So that means 80% of people are going to shell out for tickets that cost, at most, $50.
6. A huge chunk of people (60%) are willing to travel up to one hour to see a play.
7. If money, time, and location were not an issue, most people (70%) would see one or two plays per month or 3 to 5 plays a year. A good fifth of them would even go weekly.
8. Representation of people of color and LGBTQ people is something that gets brought up when people ask what it would take to get them to see more plays.
9. People want to see more theatre, but pricing and scheduling often makes that difficult.

When asked about what would get them to see more theatre, a couple of people made a very interesting suggestion: make recordings and/or livestreams of shows available like the MET and MTV Unplugged (remember them?).

This is gravy for a starving artist like me who's practically reattached my umbilical cord to a wifi connection because that's something I said I wanted to do, and more than once at that.

The only barrier, of course, is finding an affordable option (read: has starving artist prices) that also makes it easy for people to attend.

Can someone help me out here?

Why Orlando Jones is the smartest man alive right now (that's called hyperbole and I'm doing it on purpose)

A couple of days ago, Orlando Jones ("Not the little boy from Everybody Hates Chris. Not Solange Knowles. Not Orlando Bloom. Not the black Jeff Goldblum. Not Madea. Not Mos Def") did the smartest thing ever in the history of media folks and audiences.

He asked fans what they think (and followed up afterward).

Since diversity in theatre is a big thing of mine, I want to focus on that for a bit.

The vast majority of the time, when people talk about diversity in theatre, what the underlying question seems to be is, "What is it with Those People?"

Why aren't Those People coming to our shows? Why aren't Those People finding their work onstage? Why aren't Those People seeking out our programs and services? Why aren't Those People doing this, that, or the other thing? What is it with Those People?

(*Those People includes any group who is outside of the usual target demographic for theatre as a whole. This can include: People of color, women, LGBTQ people, working-class and poor people, disabled people, people without an MFA, young people, the elderly, and so on.)

Orlando Jones flipped the script. Instead of talking around the audience or filtering that knowledge through, say, a PR firm or marketing agency, he actively encouraged them to participate. He asked them what they needed and wanted from the media they participate in. In so many words, he invited Those People to share their thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. It was a rare treat to see such a conversation happen in such a transparent way.

I really want to see more of that.

If I'm to be perfectly honest, I'm bored with the Why It's Important to Have Those People Around discussion. It's already more than clear that there is a problem and that more needs to be done. At this point, if this or that person or organization still needs to be convinced that including and involving Those People in theatre is something that needs to be done, I'm not particularly invested in converting them. I'm about as interested in doing that as I am in trying to persuade someone that dinosaurs did not hang around Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden (read: not at all).

As a matter of fact, I'm tired of talking about Those People and want to do more of what Orlando Jones did and talk with Those People (which would, I guess, turn them into You People).

How would this sort of direct contact or direct confrontation impact how we go about making structural and institutional changes in the theatre community?

Things to do when I get back to Brooklyn (or, "Why I Went Back To Brooklyn")

There are so many different directions and approaches I can go in, which I need to decide on before I get to the, "How much will this cost again?" phase. Part of me wants to revamp rehearsals to match my tabletop RPG roots, so that would require less cramming over a longer period of time. Part of me wants to use a non-traditional performance space a la Peter Brook's "The Carpet Show" something more or less portable that also creates the magic of the piece.

All of me wants to crack open standard methods of producing theatre, stripping away the non-essential and building up from there as the piece needs it. All of me wants to discard what is dead or inert about the way theatre gets produced, those things we just accept as true about making theatre without even knowing that we do them. And I do mean everything--from auditions, to rehearsals, to performance. Note to self: I should probably write about these at some point.

I suppose using my 3rd full-length play as the fuel for this theatrical research and development (h/t Gwydion Suilebhan) is a bit foolhardy, but then again, I do think that if I'm going to experiment, I'd rather butcher my own stuff than someone else's.

Taking my work beyond the black box

Gwydion is making me think with his blog post ("Theater of Belonging"), especially this part:

What if we started combining what we usually think of as theater with, say, biology experiments? Or yoga classes? Or podcasts? Or role-playing games? Would we find new collaborators to work with us? And thus other audiences to engage with?

And on Facebook, Gwydion mentioned wanting to see more exploration and investigation in theatre, a parallel to research and development in science and technology.

(This is the part where a more patient writer would smoothly transition from one idea to the next. Forgive me for not doing so right now and getting to the good part right away.)

Whenever I feel the need to get back to the essence of what makes theater work, I go back to Peter Brook's The Open Door. One of the things that has most vividly stuck with me is his description of The Carpet Show. With nothing but a rug, the actors, and the audience, The Carpet Show transformed mundane spaces into vibrant, compelling performances.

After my most recent foray into The Open Door, I believe I had something of a breakthrough about the direction I want the development of my work to take.

I realized that more than I want to see my plays put on a Real Stage (TM) with all the bells and whistles, I want my plays to have vitality, to connect with the audience, to give the audience the freedom to imagine different realities. If that is what really excites me about theater, why would I put so much effort and energy into doing things that signify that I am a Real Theater Person (TM) and not an amateur with delusions of grandeur?

Part of me did--and does--want to convince other Theater People (TM) that I know and admire that I'm a Real Theater Person (TM) and serious about my work, which means I have to do "better" than a bunch of people sitting in a circle watching actors play pretend.

But the thing is: that's the part I like because I've never outgrown my need to play with my imaginary friends, to make up stories about them, and to go with them to worlds that can only be entered through the imagination.

Having finally admitted that showing my work on a Real Stage (TM) and proving that I'm a Real Theater Person (TM) are no longer my priorities, where does that leave me? Where does my work go?

Honestly, now that I've freed myself from that, it could go anywhere. In particular, I'd like to do my own rendition of Peter Brook's Carpet Show, using that format as a means of testing where the theatrical vitality of my work is found and how to bring that out in performance. Yet, I also want to play with adding a little bit of the spirit of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, allowing audiences to participate by shouting and throwing various items. Oh, and I want people to be able to film my shows on their iPhones. And tweet during the show. And maybe nix the talkback at the end in favor of asking the audience questions during act breaks, where they are free to come and go and eat and drink and other "inappropriate" things.

In the meantime, I want to keep an eye on what works, what doesn't, why it works or doesn't work, and ideas on how to make it better. A strong sense of freedom and play, plus an equally strong insistence on figuring out what makes something work.

And get the hell out of the damn black box.

Back to my roleplaying roots

Inspired by Flux Theatre Ensemble's BARP (Big Artistic Risk Project) and Howard Shalwitz' TCG post about theatrical innovation, I've finally decided to put pen to paper about the sort of production process I want.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that I want a production process that goes back to my roots in roleplaying games like Dungeons and Dragons, World of Darkness, and so on. I come from a background where the only thing I needed to build a world, develop a story, and/or make a character were a few sheets of paper, a book, some dice and my own imagination.  I could enhance the experience with costumes and props, but I never needed them to feel fully invested in the setting, the story, or my character.

I love how, in roleplaying games, the act of exploration itself (through playing the game) organically gives rise to coherent characterization, narrative, and aesthetic. None of these things are truly determined beforehand. Sure, the Game Master (GM) may give you an idea of some of these things, and you can read about a lot of it online or in a rulebook. But it isn't until we start playing that those things really start to take form and come together.

I love the sheer freedom of roleplaying games. I love the fact that I don't have to wait to be given permission to bring something that enhances the game (music, pictures of people and places, props, even food!).  Even more than that, I love it when doing so inspires the other players to do likewise. In my favorite games, there was a jazzy vibe where each player brings something different yet essential, and we're constantly riffing off each other, just taking what each person offers and going with it.

The time commitment for a roleplaying game is also fairly manageable. It's not unusual for a group of roleplayers to meet every week and play for 3-4 hours. This could go on for months or years. I'm not talking about people who have no lives outside of roleplaying. I'm talking about people who often have families and full-time jobs that require their care and attention. For them, it's relatively to commit long-term to playing every Tuesday evening for the next five months. Much easier than, say, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening for the next five weeks.

I want to get back to that. Or, to be more precise, I want to bring more of that into making theatre.

This cannot work with the way theatrical productions in NYC usually happen. The key elements that need to change are the division of labor and the time commitment.

I'll address the time commitment first because that's easier.

I'd rather do one two- to three-hour session every week for six months to a year than cram everything into 3-4 months of frantic activity. To me, it's like the difference between microwaving a can of soup and making soup from scratch and putting it in a crock pot. With more time to simply breathe, would more nuances in texture and flavor emerge?

I also want a process that lets go of expected results. Nobody begins a game knowing exactly what's going to happen by the end. So, I don't want to determine from the outset if this process would lead to a staged reading, a workshop, or a full production. It'll definitely lead to something, but I want to tailor the results to the process rather than vice versa. Let's say that the group commits to six months of weekly meetings. If, at the end of that, a fully realized performance is the next step, that's what happens. If a staged reading is where it's at, that's what happens. If it's something in between, that's what goes next.

Another aspect of roleplaying games that I want to see more of in theatre is blurring the line between audience and participant. In roleplaying games, the audience and the players are one and the same. While theatre often plays with the fourth wall (mostly by dragging them into the play somehow), I'd love to simply have a play where the characters are doing what they do while the audience itself forms part of the scenery somehow (as trees, a faceless mob, a flock of birds, people on the street, watchful spirits from beyond, or some such), and the actors treat it as such.

Now, I want to be clear that this wouldn't mean six months of navel-gazing and twiddling thumbs then getting to the "real" work of putting on the play (learning lines, blocking, etc.). It would still involve much of the same stuff as rehearsals and production meetings. The only differences are that: 1) everyone is involved from the outset, and 2) it becomes part of the rehearsal process rather than separate from it.

The way it usually happens in theatre is that the performance and the production are treated separately. So, you have the cast doing actor stuff while the crew does designer stuff and production stuff. And then there's the director who's trying to hold it all together with the help of the stage manager and maybe an assistant director. Not to mention the producer who's trying to keep it all under budget.

For the scope I prefer to work with, this seems inefficient and arbitrarily limiting to me. To me, it matters less who does what than that it gets done. That is, if it needs to get done at all. (Personally, I believe there's something to be said about exploring what can be done with nothing but performers in a space before putting a lot of time and effort and money into hiring a designer.) Even when choosing a designer, it always struck me as strange that their work gets done in isolation rather than in collaboration with the people who are most directly impacted by those design decisions.

I suppose that the general principle would be to add more to the production as the need arises. I'd start with the essentials: actors, text, an empty space. Everything else would be added once we see a need for it and not a moment before. For instance, a designer would only come into the picture if no one has ideas, if no one can agree on anything, or if something needs to be made that no one can make themselves.

This reflects the setup of the roleplaying games I've been a part of that all start with players, rules, and a place to play.

The trade-off for all this freedom and input is more responsibility for the production as a whole. Everybody does script analysis. Everybody does marketing and publicity. Everybody contributes ideas for the set, props, costumes, etc. Granted, there may be people who have the final say on these things, but the process of actualizing a performance is shared by all.

2013 theatre resolution: turning ideas into action

I'll be the first to admit that it's really easy for me to get lost into thinking so much about something that I forget that I can do something with it. First of all, the inside of my head is an incredibly fascinating place to be. Second of all, I'm often beset by crippling insecurity, which makes it hard to trust and act on my vision of things. I know this needs to change.

I've used a lot of pixels to talk about diversity in theatre, especially when it comes to race, but I have to confess something: I'm tired of saying the same damn thing. I'm tired of listening to the same damn thing. If, at this point, anybody is still not convinced that diversity is a real problem that requires real effort to fix, there's nothing I can say now that will change their mind. So why waste my time? At this point, diversity in theatre would be better served by me simply creating and putting up my own stuff than participating in any conversation how important diversity is.

That's not to say that discussion is meaningless. Just Do It might work well for a Nike slogan, but I do think that the best actions are those that come from creating a vision, clarifying core principles, and developing a strategy. That said, I do think we must be careful not to get lost in spinning our wheels and following up with real action.

The sad thing is that I know it can be done. I know because I'm seeing it happen in the synagogue I'm a member of. Several people on my synagogue's Anti-Racism Task Force initially came as a way to honor the work and memory of a member who had passed away. However, through several house meetings, we got a real sense of who we were and where we wanted to go. Then we got the Board involved, and that led to several of us participating in an Undoing Racism workshop geared toward religious communities. From there, that led: to a sermon about race for the High Holy Days, organizing house meetings to get more people involved with learning about and doing more with anti-racism at the synagogue, and working with synagogues for Jews of color to make our congregation truly welcoming and inclusive. There is a lot more going on, but I hope you see what I'm getting at.

I must make it clear that most of the people on the Anti-Racism Task Force were not starving artists like me. Most of them were working adults with jobs and families. Most of us don't identify as activists, either. We all come from different backgrounds and life experiences which inform our perspectives. That said, we committed to learning and growing together, and that allowed us to make huge strides in a short amount of time.

This is the experience I want to replicate in theatre. With that in mind, I know I have to make some real decisions.

My first real decision, then, is to only work with people who are committed to anti-racism in theatre. Even if I'm working with an all-women's group or all-LGBTQ organization, experience has taught me that lacking a commitment to anti-racism leads to excluding and exploiting the people of color within these institutions. It's a strategic organizing decision based on how I've seen these things pan out (confirmed by my participation in the Undoing Racism workshop).

This doesn't mean that the whole organization needs to have a complete anti-racist analysis from the onset (though it helps). There are a variety of ways to do this, but putting brown faces on the website doesn't count, nor does tacking on diversity in the mission statement or core values. I need to get a sense that the organization is taking active steps toward learning and growing in that regard. It doesn't have to be anything grand, but if I ask, "What are you doing to make your organization anti-racist?" even something as simple as, "Our Program Director is going to participate in the Undoing Racism Workshop by the People's Institute for Survival and Beyond," will mean a lot.

I know this will be more difficult since I'm no longer in NYC, but I'm also still participating in the Task Force despite being hundreds of miles away. There are ways to do this. All I need now are the right people to come with me.

I write for fandom

This post about Geek Theater made it to Flux Theatre Ensemble's Facebook Wall, so naturally I gave it a read because any excuse to read about magic and dragons and elves and shit like that is something I'll take up without a second thought.

Then it got me thinking about the kind of audience I want. Who are the people I would love to jam-pack a performance of Encanta or Tulpa, or Anne&Me?

In a word: fandom.

No, I don't mean people who do nothing but sing my praises to the high heavens and petition me with prayers for my next theatrical "baby." That would be nice, though.

The people I want to support my work are not passive consumers, nor are they patrons of THE MOST NOBLE ART OF THEATRE. They are people who actively and passionately engage with what they see, no matter how silly it may seem to some. They are more likely to show their love by writing fanfic about my stuff than a glowing review. They would rather dress up like one of my characters for a cosplay event than get dolled up for an awards ceremony. They would talk at length about the parallels between a character I create and another one in a fandom I may or may not be part of. The lit crit-minded among them would ask meaty questions of the work and start discussions with one another on Tumblr and/or Twitter. The socially conscious among them will open up discussions about things like race, gender, and sexuality.

The people who would be connected to my work won't do so because of theatre per se, but because it connects to other geeky interests like anime, comic books, sci-fi and fantasy literature, and so on. My most recent work, Encanta, is actually a sort of love letter to The Evil Queen/Regina Mills, Lana Parrilla, Evil Regals, and Swan Queen shippers who love ABC's Once Upon A Time but still have things they wish the show would do. I make no bones about the fact that Encanta is Swan Queen AU fanfic. The people I want most in my audience would love this about that piece.

It's not about how much they would love me. Though, again, that would be nice. It's more about how my work would give them a space to express things about themselves that they can't in ordinary life because it looks weird or silly. I want my work to give people a way to reveal experiences and perspectives that don't often have a place to get talked about. A lot of times those experiences and perspectives come from, marginalized people and communities.

For instance, quite a few people have come to understand the things I've been saying for years about race, gender, and sexuality through my meta posts about Once Upon A Time. It's not like I'm saying anything different. As a matter of fact, I pull my punches even less frequently in those posts than I do in other places. But so many more people came forward with their own stories and their own experiences as a result of that effort. Come to think of it, the same happened with Tulpa, or Anne&Me. So many people talked about how the ways they connected to a character and/or the story. I like to think that's done a lot of good.

The thing about fandom is that the people in various fandoms are already primed to participate. All they need is a hook, a connection to something they already know and love. They don't have to be convinced to creatively and critically engage with a particular work. They already do that. All I have to do is let them.

Statistics and power analysis for indie theatre

One of the most important tools when it comes to anti-racist organizing is a power analysis. In plain English, a power analysis help us figure out who's really calling the shots in an institution or system.

In Understanding and Dismantling Racism, Joseph Barndt explains that there are five levels of an institution.

1. Personnel: people who work or volunteer for the institution; people who are authorized to speak, act, and implement programs in the institution's name; people who act as gatekeepers for the constituency and the general public
2. Programs, products, and services: what an institution provides for its constituency (food, clothing, technical services, entertainment, worship services, etc.); designed to attract, nurture, and retain members or customers or clients
3. Constituency and community: people served by an institution; people who belong to or patronize an institution; people for whom decisions and actions of the institution are taken
4. Organizational structure: where the power of the institution is (board of directors, managers, etc.); where decisions are made, budgets are decided, people are hired and fired, programs are approved, boundaries are set, etc.; where structures of structures of accountability are designed and implemented
5. Mission, purpose, and identity: what an institution is for and why it exists; defined by constitution, by-laws, mission statement, belief system, worldview, history, and tradition

*Note: If you can't go to an Undoing Racism workshop, you should really pick up this book and read every word.

Most of our efforts at inclusion and diversity focus on the top three layers while the bottom two rarely get any attention. The bottom two are also the hardest to change. This explains why, despite the reality of an increasingly diverse population of artists and audiences, we still see a theatrical landscape dominated by white people, men, and middle- to upper-class people. If we're serious about changing this reality, we have to take a look at what's going on at the deeper levels of an institution.

But the first step is getting a picture of what's going on.

Gwydion Suilebhan has a very interesting statistical breakdown of this year's DC playwrights demographics. I really like this sort of thing because it starkly reveals exactly what we're dealing with. Regardless of our intentions or our efforts, it doesn't change the fact that only 4% of playwrights getting produced in DC are women of color.

That post got me thinking about how to figure out where women and people of color fit into the organizational structure of the indie theatre scene. How many women and people of color are reflected in each level of an organization? My prediction is that there will be a very noticeable difference between representation in the top three layers and representation in the bottom two layers.

Whatever the results, I know that it has nothing to do with outright discrimination or deliberate attempts to exclude women and people of color. What I think those numbers would reflect our deeply ingrained (and thus harder to change) assumptions about how women and people of color fit into our notions about power and leadership.

Doing an industry-wide statistical analysis is sort of beyond my ability. However, it would be interesting to hear from people making theatre right now who is represented in each layer of their organizations. So, in concrete terms, I'd like to know:

1. How many people are in your organization? How many of those people are women? People of color? Women of color?
2. How many personnel does your organization have? How many of those people are women? People of color? Women of color?
3. How many people provide your organization's products, programs, and services? How many are women? People of color? Women of color?
4. How many people are in your organization's constituency (members, subscribers, etc.)? How many are women? People of color? Women of color?
5. How many people make decisions at the organizational and structural level? How many are women? People of color? Women of color?
6. How many people make decisions about your organization's mission, purpose, and identity? How many are women? People of color? Women of color?

I'd like to hear from you about that.

Lessons learned

Only a few hours ago, I just completed another Undoing Racism workshop by The People's Institute for Survival and Beyond that was geared toward religious communities (I am proud to say that my synagogue showed out to represent the Jews!). I love the Undoing Racism workshop because every time I go I learn something new, and I gain a deeper understanding of the things I already knew.

What I appreciated about this latest workshop was how it clarified a few things that have been stewing in my head for a while. There are two things that I took from this workshop that is going to shape how I work from now on.

1. Racism is the biggest obstacle to organizing movements for justice and social change.

Pay close attention to what this is saying -- and, more importantly, what it isn't. This does not mean that racism is the worst kind of oppression, nor is it saying that racism is the only oppression that matters. It means that racism shoots us in the foot every time we try to move toward change.

You can't say, "Feminism is about achieving justice and equity for all women" and work toward that in a way that primarily (and often exclusively) benefits middle-class White women. You can't advocate for justice and equity for LGBTQ people while ignoring how LGBTQ people of color bear the brunt of anti-LGBTQ policies and violence. You can't save the earth and ignore the impact of imperialism and colonialism on the process of industrialization.  When it comes to class, you can actually make an argument that racism was deliberately set up in order to prevent European indentured servants, African slaves, and Native Americans from joining together and organizing to resist economic exploitation and domination by the ruling class.


2. Anti-racism is about transforming institutions and systems.

Racism is the Matrix; to get out of that programming, to see it for what it is, we have to take the red pill. Otherwise, everything you do is still operating within that system. If the work we do reinforces that system, it won't matter how many people of color are on the stage, on the board of directors, or even in the audience.

Anti-racism strikes at the core of an institution or system: how it structures itself and functions in the community as a reflection of its values, beliefs, and mission. This is where the code that keeps us in the Matrix comes from. This is where our energy and effort needs to go.

There's a lot more that happened in that workshop, but this is my starting point.

How do we create a more accountable indie theatre community?

I recently went to a Community Dish meeting that focused on the role of playwrights in indie theatre then read a very touching Facebook post by Daniel Talbott (of Rising Phoenix Rep). Both of these experiences hit on something that we often hint at but never address directly: accountability in the indie theatre community.

I've said it before, but I consider making theatre to be a form of community organizing. In community organizing, one of the main principles is accountability. How do we hold ourselves accountable to the people who give us so much? How do we make sure that we are truly a force for good in our communities? How does our work arise from the needs and aspirations of our communities instead of being imposed upon them? How does creating theatre reflect the mutual interdependence between artist and community? How can we frame accountability in the indie theatre community in a way that expands our capacity to think bigger and do better?

I believe we have to begin by thinking beyond individual productions, seasons, and companies. When I visit the websites for indie theatre companies and projects, I learn a lot about art and artists, but I rarely see anything mentioning the community. It's hard to be accountable to the community when you don't talk about the community. And for an art form like theatre, which is so dependent upon the communities we live and work and play in, this is a glaring omission. How can we hold ourselves accountable to a community when we do not define what that community is?

So, talk to me: Who is your community? What binds you together?

"Tulpa, or Anne&Me" fundraising campaign ends TODAY

On January 12 at 11:59pm EST, the IndieGoGo campaign for my play, Tulpa, or Anne&Me is ending. Although people have supported the project by contributing a total of about $1,700, there is still $1,300 to go.

Let’s break this down mathematically. If only 130 readers each donate just $10 TODAY, Tulpa, or Anne&Me will reach its fundraising goal.

With so many conversations going on about who gets to tell stories about people of color, the importance of things like “Shit White Girls Say … To Black Girls,” the release of George Lucas’ Red Tails, and otherwise being an ally supporting voices of color in arts and entertainment, your contribution sends a message that it matters to you that these find their way on stage and screen, that it matters who tells these stories, that it matters who benefits from these stories, and that it matters who gets to witness these stories.

Tell the world that it matters to you. Take a couple of moments to say so now.

P.S. If you are sick and tired of first-person shooters starring square-jawed White dudes, you should check out and support the Arkh Project too.

Tulpa 2012 is coming! And you can help!

Visit the IndieGoGo campaign to make a contribution and find out more about how you can help make Tulpa, or Anne&Me happen.

Discourse and community organizing in indie theatre

Previously, I talked about the need for community organizing in indie theatre and what that means. I mentioned that transforming the landscape of indie theatre will require a different way of engaging so that everyone can fully participate.

I want to parallel two recent experiences that bring into sharp relief the need for a new way to navigate discourse in the indie theatre community. The first is the Audre Lorde Project's QTPOC Occupy Wall Street Town Hall meeting. The second is Gwydion's Playwrights Wish List.

At ALP's Town Hall, there were a few things that stood out about the process: 1) the participants came from all walks of life; 2) everyone present participated and was fully engaged; and 3) there were differences of opinion but not debate.

I believe this has to do with the way the town hall was set up. First of all, there were ground rules for discussion which everyone agreed to abide by. They were:

1. One mic, one diva
2. Step up, step back
3. Check your privilege

With these 3 simple rules, it set the stage for this town hall to be a place where the community could listen and share, just to get a lay of the land and see where people are. After sharing those rules, we broke up into 6 groups. We did not have our choice of groups; we just counted off. In retrospect, this was probably a good idea because it gets rid of habitual ways we have of interacting in a familiar group. Each group had 1 or 2 facilitators.

Once we were in our groups, we went to our assigned spaces, we selected a note-taker and reporter (for the report-back). Then we asked 3 simple questions for us to ask about QTPOC involvement at Occupy Wall Street. Not leading questions, just open things for people to share. If I'm remembering correctly, we were asked:

1. Are you involved with OWS? Why or why not?
2. Why do you think QTPOCs are marginalized at OWS?
3. What can we bring from OWS to our own community organizing?
4. (Bonus) What did you want to get from the town hall meeting?

We were given about 30-45 minutes to talk about these questions. After that, we reconvened, and each group gave a 5-minute report-back that shared the general feeling of the group plus some responses to the questions. Then we had a few minutes for general feedback and to fill in info gaps about what happened in our group breakouts.

It was an amazing experience because I felt empowered and connected in a way that I rarely feel in everyday life. Let's be clear here; I was not controlling anything. I was just one participant in a group. Yet I felt more powerful there than I did in situations where my control is more or less absolute. Isn't that something?

Over Twitter, Gwydion and I chatted briefly about how we could import this model to the virtual world. Since then, I've been thinking a lot about his Playwrights Wish List because that's exactly the kind of thing we need more of in the theatre community. It hits almost every single one of the community organizing principles. Granted, it's going to be tough to sustain that effort since Gwydion took upon himself roles that are usually spread out among at least 3 other people (facilitator, note-taker, report-back). However, comparing the success of the town hall meeting with the success of the Playwrights Wishlist, I noticed that they had a few things in common.

1. An explicit invitation to a specific group
2. A clear understanding of what we're there to do
3. Willingness to allow individuals to speak for themselves, asking for clarity where needed
4. Responsiveness to the group needs and concerns
5. Commitment to follow up in the future

Those are just off the top of my head. What other things would you add to creating a truly participatory model of discourse when it comes to organizing in the indie theatre community?

Community organizing and indie theatre

A while back I mentioned an interest in combining theatre with community organizing. For a variety of reasons, November has been the month where I've committed to learning more about community organizing. I'm taking part in the Audre Lorde Project's Daring To Be Powerful community organizing workshop, and I'm really enjoying myself and sensing a lot of growth.

My work with the Audre Lorde Project is a natural continuation of what I've been doing with the People's Institute for Survival and Beyond.  With the People's Institute, I've developed the ability to analyze power structures and root them in real history. With the Audre Lorde Project, I'm learning how to apply that analysis in a way that reflects and serves QTPOC (queer/trans people of color - pronounced "Cutie Pock") communities.

This community organizing aspect of my artistic journey is particularly striking because, in my opinion, theatre is the most communal of the arts. It is the art form most intimately connected to where, when, and with whom it happens. You can tell a lot about a community by the theatre it creates.

As this communal element becomes a bigger part of who I am as a theatre maker, it becomes increasingly important for theatre to become the vanguard for exposing, examining, and transforming the power dynamics within our communities. Part of being able to do all that is creating methods of discourse that truly allow for the full participation of the community.

Yet as a community, theatre tends to be more reactive than proactive. We react to what the NEA is doing. We react to this or that theater's decisions. We react to this or that critic's statements about The Ultimate Truth About The State Of All Theatre. We react to this or that article or book being published. And I'm thinking, "Shouldn't this be the other way around? Shouldn't we be telling them what needs to change? Shouldn't they be listening and responding to us?"

Then again, how would they do that? It's not like we're being invited to fully participate in conversations about things that affect us (To me, this is what differentiates the Haves from the Have Nots - see HowlRound). And it's not like those things are receiving sustained effort and attention. As a result, it seems that we're having the same conversations all the time, and we're starting from ground zero each time we have these conversations. No matter what the discussion is, we always have to deal with

• Denial that there is a problem
• Refusal to believe things can change
• Disbelief that we, collectively, have the power to make those changes
• Unwillingness to act even in small ways

So what we have are stimulating discussions with brilliant people that never seem to lead to concrete action. We lack for nothing: not vision, not knowledge, not resolve, not know-how, not resources. Look at what we actually accomplish! Look at how much time and energy and brainpower we've put into doing the work we do just for the love of it. We're not powerless. We're not lazy. We're not stupid. We have the ability to make things very different for ourselves and our communities, but we seem to keep doing the same old thing.

Allow me to go on a bit of a tangent and explain different ways to work for change because without it, what I say after this won't make much sense. There are 4 basic aspects to working for change. They are:

1. Service - focus on individuals and respond to immediate needs
2. Advocacy - work with representatives to change policy
3. Activism - mobilize individuals to increase attention about issues
4. Organizing - community members change power relations to address root causes

Because of what I've learned from the People's Institute and the Audre Lorde Project, I've come to understand that what theatre needs now is organizing. When I talk about organizing, I don't simply mean doing things in an orderly fashion. I'm using the Audre Lorde Project's definition, which states that organizing is:

a strategic process for building people's collective power to achieve self-determination and justice

Political action is one of the more overt forms of community organizing, but there are many ways that it can be applied. Of course, just waking up one day and saying, "We should organize!" just doesn't work. Organizing efforts need to be guided by solid principles. In my experience, having clear, explicit principles for action cuts down on a lot of dysfunctional bullshit that makes dealing with some organizations a real pain in the ass. The Audre Lorde Project outlines a few organizing principles:

• Self-determination - those directly affected by the problem decide what should happen and are in leadership
• Power - build a base of people/community power; make changes in power relations
• Justice and movement building - in line with justice for all oppressed people
• "We" not "I" - broad base of community members; act together based on shared vision for change
• Direct action - actions that directly take on those in power; using our voices, minds, bodies, and creativity in numbers for empowerment
• Address root causes - address underlying causes; address the ultimate reason for a problem ("-isms")

Of course, this is just one group's set of organizing principles. How could we refine them for the indie theatre community?

Emptiness and the living playwright

It may seem strange for me to say this, but the biggest influence on my work as a playwright is Peter Brook's The Empty Space and The Open Door. The Empty Space is one of the first books about theatre I ever picked up. At the time, I only plucked them off the shelf because they were short and easy for me to understand. Little did I know how fortuitous it was for this piece to appeal to me. From the first sentence, I was immediately made aware of the sheer possibility of theatre:

"I can take any empty space and call it a bare stage. A man walks across this empty space whilst someone else is watching him, and this is all I need for an act of theatre to be engaged." -- Peter Brook, The Empty Space

If I can be said to have anything approaching a philosophy of theatre-making, that would be it. This idea of emptiness as a core component of theatre-making fascinates me as an artist. What a liberating, empowering concept! To make vital theatre that engages audiences at every moment, you don't need a building, or sets, or a light/sound board. All you need are people and space. Imagine that!

The Open Door is the book that made me realize that making theatre that captivates and touches an audience depends not on a complex intellectual edifice, but the freedom to explore and discover. This helped free me from feeling obligated to explain so much about my plays, whether in the script itself or when collaborating with others.

Of course, Peter Brook was working with playwrights who are either dead or not present during the production.

As a living playwright, this puts me in a bit of a quandary. On the one hand, I want to help collaborators in whatever way I can. On the other hand, I want to give people the space to discover their own meanings for the play. Sure, I want to be involved, and I want the intentions I have to be honored, but at the end of the day, I wrote a play, not a manifesto.

In my own writing, I deliberately create empty spaces, and I am often reluctant to make any definitive statements about my work's meaning or intent. For one thing, those things are not static. Who I am when I initially write a script is often not the same person as who I am six months after the final draft. Another thing is that I enjoy making room for a variety of perspectives and approaches. Giving my scripts this free space, I find, does much to keep the work fresh and allows for more powerful collaborations with fellow artists and audiences.

What about you? How do you create empty spaces in your own work as a theatre maker?

Follow-up "Moneyball" post at TCG Circle!

At TCG Circle, I ask, "What if . . . theatres played Moneyball?"

Then I dig deeper by asking, “What if, instead of relying on gut reactions and chemistry, we figured out a way to describe, observe, and measure what we are looking for?”

Check it out and drop a few of your ideas!

What if . . . Indie theatre played Moneyball?

There's rich teams, and there's poor teams. Then there's 50 feet of crap, and then there's us."

-- Brad Pitt as Billy Beane, Moneyball

I'm not much of a sports fan, so Moneyball was a real departure for me in terms of my normal film viewing habits. That said, I was glad I went to see it because what I saw got me thinking about the way we approach making theatre.

In the film, the Oakland A's is a major league baseball team that doesn't have the money to attract and maintain star players. When they get someone really good, they're quickly snapped up by teams that can offer a lot more money. In effect, the A's were constantly hemorrhaging talent to rich teams like the Yankees and the Red Sox.

The story starts when the A's have just lost their top three players, which they have to replace on the same limited budget they've always been operating with. Having had enough of this, General Manager Billy Beane starts to question the conventional wisdom of finding and recruiting talent. Help comes in the form of Peter Brand, a Yale economics graduate who has adapted a system for determining just how much a player can contribute to winning games. It completely goes against the old way of thinking about what matters when it comes to how baseball games are won. The system leads to the A's uncovering rare gems in major league baseball who were previously overlooked because they looked and performed differently from the square-jawed All-American ideal of what makes a great baseball player. The result was what Peter Brand called the major league baseball version of the Island of Misfit Toys. Once they were able to maximize and synergize the unique talents of these players, the A's had a 20-game winning streak.

I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this.

What if . . . we applied Moneyball thinking to off-off-Broadway theatre?

How would we take out the guesswork and bias of conventional wisdom to find what truly works for the theatre we want to make? How can we transform the way we relate to and organize with other people in the trenches with us? How can we maximize the strengths of off-off-Broadway theatre to uncover the hidden gems that get overlooked by the current way of doing things?

The way things look now, a lot of us are doing what Broadway does but on a smaller scale (in other words, cheaper). From our selection process to putting together a cast and crew to securing a venue for rehearsal and performance, there's nothing about the way we go about doing these things that separates us from the big guys. We even look for the same things when we do this, with a few cosmetic differences here and there.

We're all on the lookout for this vague thing called quality and striving for this thing we call excellence. Although this can lead to some amazing results, I sometimes wonder if this is despite the system rather than because of it.

What would happen if we took the search for quality out of the equation? What if, instead of relying on what we call talent or chemistry, we figured out a way to describe, observe, and measure what we are looking for? How would that change the way we talk about what we're trying to do? How would that change who could be involved in that process? How would that change where we worked? How we worked? Why we worked? What we worked with/on?

What I see happening is a move away from credentials and connections toward model where individuals come together to create theatre for a specific purpose in a distinctive way. Imagine more things like FUREE in Pins and Needles, things that could not happen in any other environment but one that made room for experimentation, encouraged the participation of non-specialists, and facilitated direct collaboration within communities.

At least, that's what I hope would happen.