One Year Since

"When you're facing your biggest fear, shine your heart on the scariest part and you'll find a lot of good love glowing in the dark!" – From Do You Love The Dark? the upcoming children’s book by resident artist Maya Lawrence.

How do you put all that this last year has been into words? Talk about dark.

March 13, 2021 marks one year since we closed our doors. At the time we were halfway through rehearsals for the Keneda winner 53% Of, had just opened our rockin’ family musical Naked Mole Rat Gets Dressed, and were about to invite our first audience of little ones to In My Granny’s Garden. We miss our building and yearn to be back in the audience getting our fix of live theatre—there is nothing like that in-person energy.

So how do we reflect on a year when our curtains have been closed? We asked our staff to “shine their hearts” and share some thoughts on a year in the dark.

We Laughed.

Sometimes the novelty of our new virtual world kept us laughing.

I sung "Here in My Room" (from Maybe Happy Ending) every day for like the first 6 months of the pandemic. I still sing it on a regular basis... It's fine. I can stop anytime I want. No I can't. Dang it, MHE!
—Collins Desselle

In the beginning, Zoom backgrounds brought me great joy. One day our brand manager showed up on the Coca-Cola Stage. Also - taking outdoor meetings in the sunshine when it’s 70 degrees outside is THE BEST.
—Kristen Silton

I've loved seeing sneak peeks into people's lives - the art on their walls, their couches, random books that I recognize. I've also loved swapping sweatpants recommendations (thanks, Danielle!) and laughing over the same stupid jokes that we all enjoy because we're too exhausted to come up with better ones.
—Ashley Elliott

We Cried.

We also mourned the losses a year of uncertainty and isolation brings together.

I was furloughed for about half of 2020 and while that was rough, I took the time to rediscover myself after an especially hard 2019. I think that's the biggest personal thing that came out of this entire pandemic-time as a whole - rediscovering myself and learning how to be more than okay with just being alone.
—Ashley Elliott

We Look Toward the Light.

But ultimately, we continue to reinvent what theater looks like. The Alliance created thousands of PPE masks for frontline workers, shifted to a virtual world creating theatre and educational offerings to stay connected; The Alliance Institute never skipped a beat, determined to stand with educators when they needed us most. We hosted a month long virtual educator conference, virtual summer camps, launched Alliance Theatre Anywhere (our new Digital Streaming platform,) premiered A Christmas Carol Drive-In in Atlanta's Summerhill neighborhood, shared our first animated film Sit-In, created our first card game- ACTivism, and so much more.

I came into the role of Adult Programs Manager halfway through 2020, but was already working closely with our adult classes. In quarantine, I have spent most of my evenings managing adult classes by providing support to our adult teachers and students. Some nights inevitably come with stressful zoom meltdowns, complicated conversations on how to best download a PDF script, and countless phone call reminders. Though, most nights I am welcomed into students' homes across the country with a warm smile and an invitation to join a community that persisted through some impossible setbacks. New friendships were made through tiny little boxes on a screen.

Theatre was created across state lines week after week.

All of this happened while theaters were shuttered and relationships were challenged, and it gave me hope in a time when I needed it most. We never stopped our adult classes, we jumped straight into a virtual format when we realized what we were up against. For instance, we have held 42 sessions of Virtual Voice Over since that fated day in March 2020. 

I am so proud of the resilience and grace shown by our adult teachers.

There were days when I wanted to give up and hide under my weighted blanket until we could return back to the building. Every night at 6:30pm, that would inevitably all fade away the minute I zoomed in and saw complete strangers separated by hundreds of miles laughing, learning, and living their best lives. 
—Robert Hindsman

This past year has been filled with more than I ever thought a year could fit. Honestly, it has left me rather speechless, but...

the one phrase that keeps bouncing in my mind is “find the light.”

As an actor, this phrase I would often hear directors shout from the abyss of a dark house now has an even deeper meaning. Every day we must make the intentional choice to find our light. For me — the light is brightened by the art, the innovation, and the resilience we have harnessed to keep going. From shows on our favorite app, Zoom, to getting back to live performances with Shakespeare in the Ponce. The light is brightened by my family, friends, and community, who have reminded me of the power of collective work and responsibility. Through all the darkness, I know that light remains, and I trust that we will continue to find and hold onto it.
—Jessenia Ingram

With Covid came all three of my boys back home. My twins had to leave their senior years at college early, and my oldest did not want to ride out a pandemic in an apartment complex which for safety concerns would have cut him off from his family - specifically me, his dad and my 88-year-old mother. 

Since being home, and choosing to be extremely safe young adults, my boys have spent the most meaningful time with their grandmother, at a time when she most needed it. 

My mom has taught Kevin (one of the twins), my sister, and me bridge, she has cooked countless family meals with my oldest Jason; and she has spent endless hours with patient Brett either in deep political conversation or getting lessons on any number of devices she has yet to master. 

As Covid slowly comes to an end and my children move out and into their individual lives (one out last month, one out next week, and the third out this summer), we will look back at this year as time we would have rather not have to have had, but deeply grateful to have had it with and for my mother. 

It has been precious time indeed.  

—Jody Feldman

Gosh. There are just so many things. About 2020. About the way life happens, during, because of, in spite of, a global pandemic. 

I remember seeing my cardiologist -- it was March 10, 2020. And I remember him telling me I needed to go home and stay away from people (his exact words). Of course I went back to the office (duh), until Jamie strongly encouraged me to follow doctor's orders. And so I missed the Board meeting the next day, and the subsequent shut down. I'd kind of grabbed whatever I could out of my office and left. I set up base camp from home, like we all did. 

I realized pretty quickly that I was going to be alone. Like all alone. For a while. Like, a long while.

And, a single, soon-to-be empty-nester with a kid who happened to be out of town ... I was alone ... like, all alone ... for a long while. 

I'm not going to lie. Despair set in. And it set in pretty quickly as we all began to realize we were going to be in this for a minute. I have a pretty serious, but manageable, chronic heart condition so I knew I was at higher risk. And I've been flying solo for a lot of years. And about 90% of what I could think sounded like this: "What in the world is life going to look like for me now. How am I going to do this. How am I going to do it alone. And who would have me now, anyway." (And in fairness, I did also think "I have a truly extraordinary kid, I still have an incredible job, and I have a safe, warm, clean place to live.") But there was always this thought, how am I going to do this. And how am I going to do this alone. Maybe for a long time, maybe forever. There was no amount of potato chips or chardonnay that was going to fix the kind of despair we're talking about here. 

It was a deep ache. A really deep, sharp, wrenching ache. It permeated my days, and the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into a couple of months. I was more grateful for the advent of Zoom and things like Manager's meetings than I want to admit. But my despair shrouded every single thought I had most days.

And one day, I actually woke up thinking ... No. 

No, that's not how I want to live. I refuse to live like that, in that kind of despair. And so I put on some lipstick and went for a walk and I think I read one of my daily readings out of The Book of Awakening (highly recommend). I worked hard. And I made a conscious decision to stay open. 

That day, I met the man I'll marry next year.

And life kept happening. It was like the world slowed down for a moment. I watched friends and family care for sick and dying parents, I watched friends get horribly sick and fight their way to health again, I watched our country burn and go up in smoke and ashes, I watched the unbelievable generosity of human beings coming forward to help in whatever ways they could. I watched my daughter graduate from college and start her first job. I watched my nephew turn 18, without his father there to witness. I watched other friends figure out how they'd keep their children in school while they tried to work. I watched sweet kitties and dogs and babies pop up on Zoom screens in the middle of meetings. I watched friends start and end relationships. And I watched other friends lose jobs, look for work. 

It seems like most of us were trying to make friends with our own despair. 

I watched people sitting in parks, or driveways, or in front of computer screens -- doing whatever possible to keep or establish connection. I watched my workplace push, push, push forward for so many reasons, and most of them probably included, very simply, trying to keep our community working and families fed.

I watched the statistics and the charts and the people, so sick and dying, the overwhelmed front-line workers, and some of the rest of us, bound by very real fear. I watched others laughing in restaurants and dancing in bars. I watched people being brave and incredible. I judged others as reckless, selfish.

I learned more about myself in COVID than I ever would have learned in the 'real' world. For me, COVID was the 'real' world. Is the real world. My priorities are cleaner. My judgement is perhaps a bit harsher, but honestly I think that's for the better. I learned things about myself I didn't know I needed to learn. But learn them I did, and I deeply, deeply hope I'll continue that learning. And I also learned more about strength, and humility, and hope than I might have imagined I still needed to. I came into this thinking I knew about these things. What I learned instead was how little I knew.

There's a Wendell Berry poem called "The Cold". I'm pretty sure he didn't write it about a pandemic. But it kind of works (for me anyway, but I'm kind of corny like that). Here's to the melting, whenever it comes. And here's to the strength, and humility, and hope (and oh yes, love) that I'll carry forward, if I'm lucky.

The Cold

How exactly good it is
to know myself
in the solitude of winter,

my body containing its own
warmth, divided from all
by the cold; and to go

separate and sure
among the trees cleanly
divided, thinking of you

perfect too in your solitude,
your life withdrawn into
your own keeping

-to be clear, poised
in perfect self-suspension
toward you, as though frozen.

And having known fully the
goodness of that, it will be
good also to melt.
—Caitlin Way

As we look to that light at the end of the tunnel, stage lights and otherwise, we come out stronger than ever before; more adaptable, and maybe lighter ourselves. There is something to this learning to love the dark thing...

The Alliance Theatre would like to genuinely thank each and every one of our supporters this past year. For those that have given a donation, watched our digital content, attended our drive-in show, or plan to attend the upcoming Under the Tent Series, and more. It’s because of you that the Alliance Theatre is able to do what it does.