In my heart there is anger; sadness; grief for my more naïve self. Because after Dear Evan Hansen, I do not feel as if I’ve been found, as the film’s tagline so bravely promised I would be. I feel instead as if I’ve been left behind to atrophy in the Music Box Theatre some five hundred miles away, a nineteen-year-old ghost in an echoing auditorium.
As in-person Toronto theatre slowly re-opens, Intermission’s Editors will be sharing personal reflections on the realities of being back in the theatre. These are not criticisms or reviews. They are not blog posts. They are memories of being caught in the middle of a theatre renaissance. They are an archive. They are history.
It was summer of 1982, and my parents had enrolled me in Camp Cabot, a day camp run by the St. John’s YMCA. Every morning I, along with the sixty other campers and a dozen teenage counsellors, travelled on rickety school buses to reach the campsite, a vast, wooded area a few kilometres outside the … Continued