On MLK and Getting Woke

"Any religion that professes to be concerned about the souls of [people] and is not concerned about the slums that damn them, the economic conditions that strangle them and the social conditions that cripple them is a spiritually moribund religion awaiting burial."

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

When I was in 8th grade, I went on a mission trip to Tunica, Mississippi with my youth group. By that point in school, I had already sat through several Black History Month assemblies where I had learned about segregation and the civil rights movement. I had been assigned projects on civil rights leaders and had watched dramatic interpretations of the feel-good parts of MLK’s “I Have a Dream Speech.” But like most of the other middle-class white kids in my youth group, I had easily accepted the idea that though segregation and racism had been a big problem in our nation’s past, racial equality was no longer really a problem. As I understood it, the signing of the Civil Rights Act had legally ended Jim Crow laws and barred segregation, therefore the problem of racial injustice had been solved.

That summer in Mississippi, as we drove our church van from the perfectly manicured, white-picket-fenced side of Tunica, across a literal set of railroad tracks, and into the black slums of the same southern town, I was rocked to discover the chasm that still gaped wide in our country, even this many years after civil rights.

On Sunday, the trip leaders divided us into small groups and sent each group to attend a different church in town. Like any other institution we encountered in Tunica, the churches we visited were staunchly divided along racial lines. I remember my initial disappointment that my group had been assigned to attend a predominantly white church, mostly because I was more interested in gospel music than stuffy hymns.  By the end of the service, though, my disappointment about worship styles had quickly shifted to indignation, as it  dawned on me that all of these people who claimed to be Christians were worshipping Jesus and thanking “God from whom all blessings flow,” while less than two miles away, in their own community, people of color were facing economic struggles like nothing my sheltered 13 year old eyes had ever seen before. While there may have been people within the church who were serving in the community in other ways during the week, there certainly was no crossing of racial lines within the church that sunday morning.

That short trip planted a seed in my heart that would one day bloom into a real desire to build relationships and work for equality across racial lines. Long before white privilege was a thing we talked about, I got a glimpse into how much of my education and access to opportunity was a result of the circumstances, family, and race into which I had been born. Yet, as often happens with middle school missions trips, once I returned home to my comfortable and mostly-white community, I became absorbed in the busyness and angst of teenage life and didn’t think much about race or racial inequality until years later.

One thing I’ve since learned about privilege is that racial inequality is not something that white people have to think or deal with if they don’t want to. Once the struggles of the black community I’d visited in Mississippi were out of sight, it was easy to put them out of mind. I attended a predominantly white high school, then went to a predominantly white university, then moved to the predominantly white Pacific Northwest. Along the way, I was able to comfortably explore and discuss race from an academic and artistic standpoint, but rarely did I dialogue about race in mixed company and hardly ever in a way that intentionally opened doors for reconciliation or social change.

But moving back to the south five years ago, and to the Church Hill neighborhood of Richmond just over a year ago, the topic has come up with more frequency than ever before in my life, and I have chosen to open myself up and learn what it means to be a friend and ally for my black friends, students, and neighbors who even today are still reeling from the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow, and the subsequent political and economic injustices that have plagued their communities.

For me, this means initiating more conversations about social justice, and using my unique platform as a theatre educator to tell diverse stories and empower students of color. Unfortunately, as I’ve become more comfortable exploring this topic, I’ve experienced pushback from white friends who don’t understand why “black lives matter” is a movement that matters to me.

It is certainly easier for many of us to avoid talking and thinking about these things. The conversations that exist around the issue of race and racism are often not easy and can lead to uncomfortable feelings on both sides. Friendships can be lost. Toes can get stepped on. But the only way that things will ever change is if we step into the mess that exists and get our hands and hearts dirty.

I read a Martin Luther King Jr. quote today that, woefully, can apply as much to our current political climate now as it did to his over 50 years ago:

"Whenever I am asked my opinion of the current state of the civil rights movement, I am forced to pause; it is not easy to describe a crisis so profound that it has caused the most powerful nation in the world to stagger in confusion and bewilderment. Today’s problems are so acute because the tragic evasions and defaults of several centuries have accumulated to disaster proportions. The luxury of a leisurely approach to urgent solutions—the ease of gradualism—was forfeited by ignoring the issues for too long. The nation waited until the black man was explosive with fury before stirring itself even to partial concern. Confronted now with the interrelated problems of war, inflation, urban decay, white backlash and a climate of violence, it is now forced to address itself to race relations and poverty, and it is tragically unprepared. What might once have been a series of separate problems now merge into a social crisis of almost stupefying complexity."

So today, on the birthday of this man who fought so diligently and spoke out so poetically for a dream that has yet to be achieved, I want to urge more of my white brothers and sisters to open their eyes and hearts to the injustice that still exists in our country and become a part of this conversation. At the very least, learn what the conversation is about.

It’s easy to accept the textbook answer about civil rights. To see a black president elected and to think that the problem of equality has been solved. But there is a deeper history that exists, injustices that still need to be rectified, economic problems with roots in slavery and the Jim Crow era that have continued to shackle much of the black community to a cycle of poverty. And until people in power begin to recognize and deal with these problems, change cannot happen.

If you have grown up with any degree of privilege, as I have, this is not an easy thing to step into. You will probably experience guilt, anger, and frustration. You may find yourself offended or heavily burdened. None of these are good feelings. But especially for those of us who call ourselves Christians, we cannot turn a blind eye to the legacy of racism in our country.  We cannot be the last ones to come to the table on this issue.

As MLK himself said in his very last speech, as he preached the parable of the good Samaritan:

“the first question that the priest asked -- the first question that the Levite asked was, "If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?" But then the Good Samaritan came by. And he reversed the question: "If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?"

So how do we help? As a white woman, I have a lot of insecurity about “helping” people of color. I know the white savior mentality can strip power from communities and people of color. But simply educating myself to understand and be able to talk about the complexity of race, power and what it has meant in our nation and in my community has at least been a starting step in that direction for me. The young people call it “getting woke.”

If you need some help getting started on your journey of wokeness, here are a few ideas:

1. Read lots of things. Start with this silly article about the 7 stages of white people getting woke.  Click all the links. Let it be your gateway drug.  Don’t understand white privilege? Look it up. The internet is chock full of articles that will break it down for you. Like and share essays and articles on the subject that your woke friends are posting on Facebook. I even have a friend with a facebook group called “White Folk Get Woke.” Request to join. Tell her I sent you.

2. Discover black art and stories. For starters, watch Roots if you’ve never seen it. Then the Color Purple. Do the Right Thing. 12 Years a Slave. Fences. Thirteenth. (Maybe pace yourself a bit, unless you want crawl into a hole and cry for three weeks straight.) Go to an African American art exhibit somewhere. If a Kehinde Wiley exhibit rolls through your town like it did mine, go look at those beautiful paintings. Read novels and poems by black writers. See a play by August Wilson.

3. Feel your feelings. As I said before, you may find yourself burdened, angry, even broken by the things you learn as you begin to go down this rabbit hole. That pain means you’re starting to feel a fragment of what black people in this country have felt. If you’re a Christian, that pain is also something that Jesus understands. Cry out to God with that pain. Lament for the sins of our nation. Pray that doors will be opened for you to speak truth into darkness.

4. Build authentic relationships with people of color. This is a difficult step as it can be easy for white people to objectify black friends during their journey of “getting woke.” Many of us have that one black friend or co-worker, and chances are your one black friend is the one black friend for even more white people, so she may be sick of helping her white friends understand racism. Don’t be afraid to open up conversations about the topic, but be sensitive to the burden of educating white people that many people of color feel. That said, maybe try to have more than one black friend. For me, being a part of a church that was committed to diversity has allowed me to begin building relationships with people who come from different cultural backgrounds than me. Being involved in the arts community has also connected me to a more diverse group of people, not just in terms of race, but in terms of sexuality and gender identity as well.

5. Find a safe place to have hard conversations. If you live in or are close to Richmond, there is a non-profit named Arrabon that is committed to opening up this dialogue. They are hosting a conference in March with just this agenda. Sign up to attend with friends who are also interested in being a part of this conversation. Maybe I’ll see you there ;)

6. Speak up. Admittedly, this has been the hardest part for me. Most of the time, I don’t feel like I know enough, have experienced enough, or that this is even my story to tell. And I worry about the ways in which speaking out might invite negative commentary into my life. But sadly, we live in a world where white voices are more often listened to than black voices. So when the time comes, speak. If the length of this post is any indication, you may find you have more to say than you realized.

Back to School

The back-to-school nightmares usually start in early to mid-August.

I'm in the theatre with a class of students waiting for me to start teaching, but I can't find any of the supplies I need for the class. I'm searching frantically for supplies when suddenly I realize that I am late for a faculty meeting. I rush out of the classroom, leaving all of the students behind, but when I finally make it to the staff meeting everyone is leaving and the principal is just standing there shaking her head in disappointment and my department chair is asking why I didn't get coverage for the class I just abandoned.

Then there's the rehearsal nightmare-- it's our final dress rehearsal for the musical when the lead suddenly tells me her parents are pulling her out of the show and the only person who is ready to go on in her place is the dance teacher (which isn't really such a nightmare, since our dance teacher would be great at any part!).

The most bizarre and vivid dream this year was one where a student who isn't even in a class I teach was rollerblading off of the stage into the orchestra pit... I woke up in a cold sweat, certain I needed to write an immediate office referral.

For all of the joy and rest that the summer brings, the fall is a busy, chaotic, and anxiety inducing time for educators, and this year in particular, I have had a hard time feeling ready to shift back from zero to sixty. I know that as soon as students enter the building next week, I'll be back to working 10-12 hour days, prepping and teaching 5 classes, running after-school rehearsals and spearheading production for a huge musical that goes up in less than three months. And though I have been trying to get myself ready for back to school since getting home from Seattle a few weeks ago, there are still quite a few ducks wandering the murky swamp of my brain that need to get in a row in the next nine days. Between classroom (and backstage) organization, lesson plans, syllabi, rehearsal schedules, welcome e-mails to parents, freshman orientation, department meetings, mandatory professional development, planning meetings for the musical, purchase orders for production and classroom supplies, etc., etc., etc., the sheer scope of what I need to accomplish in the next week (and year!) feels overwhelming, discouraging, nearly paralyzing.

To calm the looming anxiety that has set in over these past few weeks, I've been trying to get up early enough to actually make breakfast, have a cup of coffee, and pray / read scripture / meditate for at least half an hour each day. I don't know how consistent I'll be able to be with these habits once I have to start leaving my house at 6:30 AM again, but I do think that the practice has been helping me shift my focus to things that matter and let some of the worry about the incoming school year slip away.

During my quiet times this week, God gave me one particular passage of scripture as a prayer for this school year...

1 Thessalonians 5:14-17, 24:

"And we urge you, brothers and sisters, warn those who are idle and disruptive, encourage the disheartened, help the weak, be patient with everyone. Make sure that nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always strive to do what is good for each other and for everyone else.

Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus...

The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do it."

For me, and for most teachers I know, Christian or otherwise, education is not just a job. It is a calling. But already in two years, I've found myself losing sight of that call, weighed down and overwhelmed by an unending to-do list, an impossibly full e-mail inbox, exhausting parent-teacher conferences, and constantly fluctuating, steadily frustrating federal, state, and county-mandated regulations and requirements.

I remember last year telling one of my mentors that I felt like no matter how much I got done in any given week, I was always dropping the ball somewhere. She laughed and said casually, "Welcome to public education."

The truth I'm learning about my job is this: I will probably always feel like I'm two steps behind. I will very rarely finish everything I expect to do in any given day. But I will continue to pray that through the grace and spirit of God, I will be equipped to recognize and do the things that matter most in any given moment.

To "warn the idle and disruptive" students who need correction and redirection.

To "encourage the disheartened" pupils whose personal trauma and emotional issues keep them from engaging in the classroom.

To "help the weak" students who are struggling academically and socially.

To "be patient with everyone" --students who drive me crazy, teachers who push my buttons, parents who question my ability to do my job, administrators whose policies make no sense to me.

To cultivate a classroom culture where respect is paramount, "nobody pays back wrong for wrong", and all students "strive to do what is good for each other and for everyone else."

This is my calling. "The one who calls me is faithful, and he will do it." I'm just along for the ride.

What I Did Over my Summer Vacation

Well, friends. It looks like I never quite finished documenting my 30 before 30. In fact, I'm now officially closer to 31 than 30 (!?), but I had the urge to write a post today, so I guess this blog is still in action...

If you're my friend on Facebook or Instagram (I figure the few people reading this blog probably are), you've already seen more pictures of my adventures than you probably cared to this summer. I did a lot of fun things. And if I were a high school freshman, my "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" assignment would probably read something like this: 

My summer began with a visit to Atlanta, Georgia, where my whole family attended my brother Brian's wedding. I was a bridesmaid. It was fun. After school let out, I taught acting to some cool kids at camp. I spent the rest of my summer reconnecting with friends (and making a few new ones) over lots of drinks and tasty food. I also spent as much time in water and sunshine as possible. In August, I took a semi-spontaneous trip to the Northwest. I camped and climbed  mountains and ate more tasty food.

Boom. Eight sentences. That constitutes an essay to most of my students.

But in between Instagram posts, I actually did a little more this summer than relaxing by water and drinking cocktails (though I did do both of those things any time I had the opportunity). The truth is, this summer was the first time in a very long time that I have actually taken the time and energy to really catch up with my emotions and focus on improving my mental and spiritual health.

Somewhere around my birthday, it dawned on me that I have essentially been in some form of transition for all of my 20's. From the vast uncertainty and general craziness of the college years, to striking out completely on my own in DC, then Seattle, from interning to freelancing, to moving back across the country and living with my parents again, to having my first real adult relationship, then breaking up, to moving out of my parents house, to another new job, another boyfriend, another new roommate, my first year teaching, another breakup, another move...

My 20's brought big changes, major growth, and serious pain. Being a highly sensitive and deep-thinking kind of person, I did my best to process each new turn as it was happening, but I may have caught some whiplash along the way that didn't quite heal as well as it would have if the rest of the road had been a little less bumpy. So this summer I made a commitment to put on my "I'm-30-and-can-finally-afford-to-pay-a-therapist-because-I'm-a-big-girl-now" pants and deal with some of my crap. 

 So what did I do over my summer vacation, you ask? 

Well, let's see... I started cleaning out some deep, emotional wounds that I've let fester for a bit too long. I processed through an unhealthy relationship, and began to imagine what it might look like to forgive and release someone who hurt me profoundly. I owned up to relational failures, mistakes, and losses that were weighing me down. I began to recognize and let go of  some expectations, lies, and insecurities that have kept me from living a full and happy adult life. I started counting the blessings and dwelling in the joys of the single life instead of wishing away good time. I faced fears, I prayed, I read, I journaled, I CRIED. I grew. A little older. A little stronger. A little more at peace with myself and the world. 

And now I'm ready to go back to school and be an emotionally healthy mentor to some highly sensitive, deep thinking, change-seeking teenagers. 

But maybe just one more afternoon at the pool first??

30 'Til 30 Day 12. And 13. And 14, 15, 16...

Well, faithful reader. I had a busy weekend. And writing a blog per day during the school week has proven to be a bit more challenging than I initially anticipated. But I promised to share 30 life accomplishments before I turned 30 and dammit if I'm not a woman of my word....

So in keeping with last week's plan to write about Seattle, I've condensed my experiences on the west coast to five major points, lessons I'm glad to have learned during that season of my life.


1. I faced the darkness, both metaphorically and literally.

On the literal level, Seattle is one of the darkest cities in the country. During the mid-winter, the sun doesn't come up until nearly 9am, and sets well before 5, and even then, it's usually hidden by a low swirl of gray. Sometimes I would go for stretches of two or three weeks without seeing the sun.

For a sensitive soul like mine, the darkness was crippling some days. It was cold and dreary, and my spirit felt as cloudy as the skies. Though, as I mentioned in my last post, I made some dear friends in Seattle, I was also very alone some days, away from my family and closest friends.

But just as eyes in a dark room find their focus by even the tiniest sliver of light, I sought out the one light source I'd always known, pressing into my faith, even though God felt as far away as the rest of my loved ones. I looked to scriptures and prayers and sermons as my footlights in the dark, and when it finally grew warm and sunny again, I was more grateful than anyone.


2. When the sun finally came, I never missed an opportunity to soak it up.

People always associate Seattle with the rain, for the exact reasons listed above. But what Seattle-ites like to keep secret is the fact that when the sun does come out, "Rain City" becomes "the Emerald City." Summer days in Seattle are long and idyllic, with the sun staying up until almost 9 and the air reaching a perfect, humidity-free 75 degrees. Gorgeous flowers and fields of tall green grasses blow in perfect breezes, as a city previously imprisoned by rain and gloom comes out to play again each spring.

After the long, grey months, I, with the rest of Seattle, took as much advantage of the sunny summer days as possible: camping, hiking, kayaking, going to outdoor concerts and movies, and picnicking all over the city.

Of course, the metaphor for life continues here as well: just as I learned to seek the light in the darkness, I also learned to never take the sunshine for granted. In the past 30 years, I have had many low moments and plenty of disappointment, but my time in Seattle taught me to cling to the promise that the sun will always shine again. Some stretches of cold and gray may seem to go on forever, but inevitably, a beam of sun will push its way through the clouds and summer will arrive again.


3. I had some incredible adventures and took some awesome road trips.

Aside from my big trips to and from Seattle, which took me through national parks (notably, Redwoods, Yellowstone, and Grand Canyon) and major U.S. cities (Santa Fe, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, to name a few...) I had always wanted to visit, I made so many incredible memories on overnight and day trips in the northwest. Some of my favorite excursions:

• A weekend ferry trip to Orcas Island.
• A spur-of-the moment drive to Vancouver for the last day of the winter Olympics. Though we didn't catch any events in-person, we feared for our lives as the minority Americans watching the U.S. v. Canada Hockey finals surrounded by Canuks in a dive bar, and caught the closing ceremony fireworks before heading home at midnight.
• Two visits to the Skagit Vallet Tulip Festival
• An epic week on the road in Oregon with the one and only Antointette Michelle which included way too many flights of beer at the state's many craft breweries, a trip to Crater Lake, my first view of the Pacific ocean via the Oregon Coast, and a visit to the Oregon Shakespeare festival.
• A trip with the afforementioned bible study girls to Sacramento, CA for one of the most fun (albeit a bit sweaty) weddings of my life, book ended by winery tours in Oregon on the way down and a pit stop in Redwood national park on the way home.
• Multiple concerts including the Sasquatch Music Festival at the Gorge in Eastern Washington.
• Skiing in the Cascades.
• The most epic day ever at Mt. Ranier National Park with my SCT intern crew.

4. I tried new things I was too afraid to do before.

The great thing about moving to a city where no one knows you is that you can be whoever you want to be and do things you never would have tried somewhere else.

Though I was a theater major in college, I actually only performed in one non-Children's theater production, largely because I let myself get so intimidated by other students I thought were more talented than me that I didn't even audition.

But in Seattle, with no one I knew to compare myself to, I finally went for it. I was in two productions in my time in Seattle-- a community theatre production of Beth Henley's The Miss Firecracker Contest, for which I dyed my hair bright red to play a wannabe pageant queen, and The Odyssey at Taproot theater company, an ensemble show in which I played several parts including a queen, a siren, and, my personal favorite, a slaughtered sheep.

It was a joy to finally be onstage again, and it motivated me to put myself out there again when I returned home.

Perhaps one of the most challenging and memorable "new things" I tried in Seattle was teaching a theatre class at a men's homeless shelter. I had always had an interest in applied theatre, or the use of theatre in non-professional or academic settings, so through a connection at my church church, I started leading a weekly theatre class for the "guests" at Seattle's Union Gospel Mission, in the heart of downtown Seattle. It was a terrifying, challenging, and at times emotionally overwhelming experience to attempt to share my art form with such an unfamiliar population, and I ultimately ended up finding it too difficult to maintain any consistency in instruction with the changing dynamics of the group. But for the few men who did keep coming back, I think the class offered at least a sliver of hope, a chance to imagine possibilities beyond their current realities, and I grew immensely as both a teacher and a human from my weekly interactions with them, interactions I never would have had if I hadn't given it a shot.


5. I grew. A lot.

Personally. Professionally. Intellectually. Spiritually. In every way, my two years in Seattle shaped me for the life I have now. Though things felt sort of all over the place at the time, looking back, I can see how God was working out my future every step of the way. My internships and crazy freelance teaching artist jobs taught me how to adapt in any classroom, and also built an appreciation for the more steady, though equally crazy, work I do now. And though it took me a few more years to work through some of the personal/spiritual things I started to unearth in Seattle, I am forever grateful to have had those years alone to begin to work out the process of self reflection, growth, and acceptance that I'm still discovering today.

Ultimately, Seattle did exactly what I predicted it would when I first set off for the west. It pulled me out of my comfort zone, which is exactly where growth occurs.

30 'til 30 Day 11: Friends in Far Places

When I first moved to Seattle, I knew absolutely no one. I had interviewed on the phone with two nice people that would soon become my bosses, and my parents had some friends about an hour away who they had known when we lived in Florida, but for the most part I was on my own. I found my roommate through a Craigslist posting and she was just crazy enough to agree to live with a complete stranger from 4000 miles away who she'd only ever talked to on the phone. Aside from having a great name, my roommate Sarah was incredibly welcoming. She invited me out with her friends every weekend and made sure I knew how to get around my first month in town. Unfortunately, after just a few weeks, Sarah announced that she had the opportunity to live in Dubai for several months for work. She would continue paying her portion of the rent, but I would be all by myself again

By that time, I had started to get to know the other interns at work, but many of them worked on shows in the evenings, and others already had good social circles in the community. Fortunately, I had also started to attend a church in the area, where I joined a women's bible study and met some new friends from the area, as well as other transplants: Meghan from California, Lauree from North Carolina, and Liz, Arielle, and Mary--all from, you guessed it, Virginia! 

Soon, we developed into a tight-knit group who regularly gathered to cook dinner and do life together. Over the next two years, the group would celebrate engagements and new jobs, dance at birthday parties and weddings, cry through breakups and other losses, and laugh over lots of glasses of wine. Perhaps it was the fact that many of us were away from home and family & needed surrogate sisters to get us through, or the fact that we just all happened to be asking the same big life questions about love and work and adulthood at the same time, but there was something extra special about the bond forged so quickly between this beautiful group of ladies. 

Eventually, Sarah returned from her middle eastern adventure and I started to spend more time with her friends and my theatre friends, but some of the most precious memories from my time in Seattle remain the dinners I shared with my bible study girls. Though I lost touch with some after I moved, most remain dear friends, who still make time to catch up with me whenever I am lucky enough to be on the west coast. Even though we were only in the same place for a few years, these women made my time in Seattle so rich and I am so blessed to have them in my life, even from thousands of miles away.

30 'til 30 Day 10: Living on a Prayer (and also food stamps)

First of all, sorry for falling off the wagon yesterday. The idea to stick with a daily blog all month came to me in the midst of winter break, as I was still choosing to remain blissfully ignorant of the fact that I am a teacher and start to have trouble using my brain after 5pm on school nights. I'm going to keep doing my best to keep up, but yesterday was a busy day!

That said, I still want to dedicate this week's posts to the memories made and lessons learned during my two years in Seattle, starting with the reason I moved out in the first place, my internship in the education department at Seattle Repertory Theatre.

After an absolutely hellish year in a DC theatre internship (more on that another day), you would think that the last thing on earth I would want to do would be to take on yet another yearlong internship. But at the time, a second internship year felt like one of the only ways to get experience in theater, and Seattle Rep sounded like a dream company to work for. They'd won a Tony Award for regional theatre and had a great season of professional shows to look forward to, including co-productions of the 39 Steps with La Jolla Playhouse and Equivocation with Oregon Shakespeare. And their education department, where I would be working, was doing some really exciting stuff that I was going to have the opportunity to be involved in: training teachers with a nationally recognized program called Bringing Theatre into the Classroom, running a student playwriting program, and teaching an elective drama class at an alternative high school. The internship stipend was meager, but I would have Mondays off and could get a second job to help ease the burden.

So I decided to go for it...

Over the years, I have noticed that most theater companies take one of two approaches to internship programs:

1. They treat their interns like cheap labor, expect them to work unreasonable hours and generally dump all of the soul-sucking grunt-work of the organization upon their underpaid, overworked shoulders, 

2. They view their internship program as a way to continue the education of recent college graduates and cultivate a bright new generation of theatre artists and administrators. Companies who take this approach value their interns' dedication and ideas and focus on providing mentorship and support to these poor, hungry, creative young people.

There has been some changeover at SRT, so I cannot speak for the state of their internship program these days, but fortunately, in 2009, Seattle Rep's view of interns fell under the second category.

Though we only made $200 a week, interns were constantly being thanked for their hard work with coffee dates, free food, overpaid babysitting jobs, etc. At Thanksgiving, the company even hosted an annual intern food drive, where we were all sent home with huge boxes of non-perishable food items, beer, and wine. 

 Yes, I still qualified for (and took advantage of) food stamps that year. But what I lacked in money, I made up for in life and work experience. I saw incredible theater on our stages almost every week. (A one man journey through The Iliad and an anniversary production of August Wilson's Fences still count among my all-time favorite productions.) I met brilliant designers, directors, and performers, whose work I find myself referencing in my classes even now. I gained mentors, brilliant teaching artists and arts education advocates, whose lives remain an inspiration to me.  I wrote curriculum and taught workshops to hundreds of students in dozens of classrooms across western Washington. I directed student written original plays and helped produce a festival of one acts. I assisted with teacher training, discovering and wrapping my head around the concept of arts integration for the very first time. I moonlighted as a house manager and picked up one of the best friends I could have asked for, bonding over music, pop culture, and foodie-ness while waiting for audiences to go home.

I had no connection to Seattle Rep when I first moved west. But by the time I left, it felt like a second home. Though many of my friends from the Rep have now gone elsewhere, the company will always hold a special place in my heart as my first professional home. 

30 'til 30 day 9: Moving West..

I'll be honest. I got a bit side-tracked today and sort of forgot that I needed to make a post.

One thing that got me off track was continuing to decorate my new bedroom. On one wall, I hung up a few of my favorite prints, postcards, and mementos from my time on the west coast, absolutely one of the biggest, bravest choices of my young adulthood.

Since I'm short on time this evening, and my westward adventure is a lot to cover...I figure today's entry can start the story by going back to the record of my thoughts at the time: the OG blog, Go West, Young Lady.

Specifically, twos posts sum up the emotions and intentions I felt at the beginning of that journey:

http://ladygowest.blogspot.com/2009/08/big-move-update.html

http://ladygowest.blogspot.com/2009/09/intermission.html

Reading my own words again now, so many feelings rush back. I vividly remember the combination of apprehension and elation I felt that fall, packing up my whole world and moving to a place where I knew no one, with no idea of how long I would be gone or if I would ever move back.

The next two years would wind up being some of the most challenging and exciting years of my life, and I am planning to revisit some specific highlights here this week. But for tonight, enjoy the hopeful perspective of 23(!!) year old Sarah, as she embarks on the adventure of a (30 year) lifetime.