For a non-actor, I sure spend a lot of time around theatres.
The Youngest Hooks Boy is a bona fide stage rat. Beginning at age eight or so, with puppet show performances at the now-defunct Heights Toy Center, he has slowly infiltrated the central Arkansas theatre world at every opportunity. He’s risen through the ranks: middle school drama, community theatre casts, summer theatre academy, high school drama, and now is even part of a regularly-performing teen improv troupe called Armadillo Rodeo. Since he has a lot of rehearsals — and is not yet old enough to drive — my role has become largely that of a show tunes-soaked chauffeur. I embrace it.
Tonight: opening night of Dracula at Parkview High School. The auditorium is filled with nervous parents, excited younger siblings, and the sounds of everyone flipping through their programs looking for a mention of their own thespian. There’s a large coffin on stage in full view, which elicits many hushed whispers and pointing from the little kids in front of me as we wait.
When my son was the age of these kids, the theatre is really the last place I expected him to be as a teenager. He was shy to the point of near-constant silence in those days. This is the boy who didn’t say a single word to his teachers for his entire pre-K and kindergarten years. When he brought home a flyer one day and asked to audition for the cast of a puppet show, I silently wondered how in the world he would manage that. But he did, and got cast. Again and again, for several shows. And then one day he told me, “I really like puppet shows, because I can talk to people but they can’t see me.” Eureka. That did it. He can now talk. He’s pushed himself past his comfort level because he wants to be, at his core, a performer. He is a performer, and I’m so proud of him that I can’t talk about him without misting up.
When he performs, our row of theatregoers is a misfit mishmash of parents, cousins, ex-spouses, their new spouses, aunts, uncles, plus my lady friend and me. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. We’re a huggy, chatty bunch, even now. It’s not at all weird when, tonight, my exmother-in-law borrows a headache powder from my mother for her ex-husband’s current wife. You wouldn’t think we could all be this friendly, but love for the Hooks boys is a powerful thing and it helps smooth over the past more than a little bit. We’re not the Cleavers, but we somehow make it work.
These people, in ways large and small, have all helped make the youngest Hooks boy who he is. It’s a support system so reliable that I suspect he’s not yet truly conscious of it. Maybe one needs an adult’s perspective to really understand the power of a group of people who absolutely have your back, for no other reason than that you are one of ours. These people could be anywhere tonight, but they’re spending their Friday night in a high school auditorium. Because of love. As the curtain rises and the music swells, my heart swells along with it, and I thank the universe for the crowded, teetering, patched-up raft of relatives, teachers, and friends who love and have loved my son.
“Break a leg, kiddo”, I silently whisper.
Showtime.
Glen Hooks wrote this month’s A Day in Little Rock story. He describes himself as a recovering attorney and father of two amazing sons. His working hours are spent in the employ of Sierra Club, where he pushes for the adoption of clean energy. When not working, you can generally find Glen compulsively collecting LPs and putting off housework.