My voice matters. And every time I speak up, I change the world.

Yesterday evening I was at rehearsal for a play I’m working on. And the director lost his temper. Frustrated, he began to curse and yell at my colleagues who had just rehearsed a challenging scene involving staged violence. 

I was beyond shocked. I’m not naive. I know this kind of thing and so much “worse” has happened and continues to happen in countless other theater settings, meetings and board rooms, work spaces and more. But I’ve never directly experienced this type of aggression, this type of emotional abuse, in a theater setting . This was a first for me. And it was also a first for me after I’ve been in recovery, individual and group therapy, and living my best life.

His anger and his cussing toward my friends, and me, it put me in a vulnerable spot. Inside I was in panic mode. I looked around at other members of the cast these acquaintances I have been working closely with for weeks, I saw grown men and women, older and younger, Black, white, Indigenous, all amazingly creative performers doing our very best to manage this show along with school, work, family and health. All of us have been giving our evenings and our time and talent and money (gas and travel costs) to do something meaningful that we love.  

Everyone just stared at the ground; seemingly trying not to make eye contact. And not that this should matter, but anyone of the men or women in this room could easily have made this scenario much more uncomfortable, perhaps even more violent, we will never know. I count myself in that group; a younger version of myself, a less recovered version of myself, I could have reacted a lot differently than I did.

His wife, also in the cast, tried to encourage him to stop. You could say she she begged him to calm down. He heard her, looked at her, shook his head, said no, and while he lowered his voice, his tone of voice remained sharp as he continued to chastise my colleagues in creativity, many of whom happened to be in vulnerable spots on the floor because of the scene we had been rehearsing where violence is simulated. 

I said nothing while my mind and heart raced. I knew in my bones what I’ve been working on in my storytelling and my justice work. And so much of what I’ve been working on in therapy and throughout my recovery, had prepared me for this moment, but for a few moments which last night, felt like forever, I kept my head down; I did nothing. 

My body clinched up the way I have so many times when my father’s violence, anger and aggression had caught me off guard, seemingly out of nowhere. 

Until this rehearsal, this director had created a safe space for all of us; or at least that was what I had experienced. But this was different. And before I knew it, something inside of me helped me realize that I was not going to tolerate this. When they finished rehearsing the scene again, it was the end of the show, and I got up immediately to leave. 

I doubted we would be running anything again and I was not going to hang around as I usually had to say goodnight. But the director sat down and signaled for us to stay for notes. As if on auto-pilot, I sat right back down as I had been directed to, right where I had been seated “off stage”. After all, we had been called until 10:00 and technically we still had 30 minutes. 

But pretty soon I realized, that he was not in charge of ME or my time. I looked at him and managed to say something like, “Okay, but I need to tell you that what you just did, cussing and yelling that’s not okay. And I’m not going to tolerate it. There are too many men yelling and cussing in the real world, you don’t get to do that here.”

My voice was loud but inside I felt shaky. I wish I could remember exactly what I said, but I can’t. 

To his credit, he listened. He was, I think, surprised.  But he immediately rushed into what, seemed to me to be a hurried and insincere apology. 

“I’m sorry to you and to everyone, but we’re going to move forward now. Ok?” He was staring right at me. His body still seemed fresh with anger and frustration. I think he was trying with his words, but his body had not caught up. Nor had mine.

He seemed to be waiting for my approval or permission to move forward; just looking at me. I urged him not to make this about me, because he had been treating all of us that way. I think I said something about not being the one who decides what happens next.

This may have gone on a few times. It’s sort of a challenge to remember, but eventually, he took a deep breath and apologized to everyone again. He attempted to begin giving notes again. I was distracted by my feelings. My body. And my heart was racing.

A sense of needing to say no to being treated badly was stirring inside. I finally rose. At the time I was not sure whether I’d say something or give a reason for leaving. I gathered my purse, water bottle and said, “I’m going to head home. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.” 

I don’t think I looked directly at anyone, but I think he nodded and I navigated my way through other actors sprawled around the room. As I walked out, his wife followed me immediately. She called after me, apologizing for his actions. I kept walking. I wanted desperately to reply that she is not responsible for him, but before I could, she ran out before me and opened her arms to me and she thanked me. She repeatedly thanked me and reminded me that I had been brave. You did the right thing. He does not get to do that and I am so grateful you spoke up. I’ll talk to him, but thank you for being brave. For saying what all of us wanted to. I am not quoting her or even sure if my memories of this conversation are accurate, but this is what I can recall.

Her words and her eyes and her open arms offering me a hug, it all felt sincere. Everything happened quickly and suddenly I was crying as I fell into her hug. At some point, I must have realized I was sobbing and through gasps for air and sniffles I think I started saying something about how “He doesn’t get to do that to me, to us. He cannot do that to us.” I might have repeated these words again while I pulled myself back from her, took a deep breath and called the elevator. 

I’m pretty sure she thanked me a few more times, reminding me that I had been brave. It’s like she knew exactly what I needed to hear.

As I hurried into the elevator, I told her that I think her husband is a good man. And I said that fact was a part of why I was able to say my piece. I even told her that I believed he was sorry but that it hurt too much like my dad’s anger to be around that in my free time. She listened and while she said his anger triggered her as well, she made no excuses for him. She focused on showing me support.

I walked to my car wondering whether I had overreacted. I buckled my seatbelt and thought about whether I should tell my partner or try to let it go and listen to my audio book on my 20 minute drive home. I wanted to call my love, my partner, but it was already late, much later than she was going to be heading to sleep.

Our “mutual” bedtime is usually 8:30 or 9:00. They are a middle school teacher and while this is their Summer break, we had just got back home from family vacation and I had specifically told her not to wait up for me.

But in the end, after I got on the road, I called her, and told her everything. Before I knew it, they asked me if I was safe to drive because I was balling, but I assured them I was safe. I shared my feelings through the tears and drove home. She met me at the door and embraced me before we ran inside to the AC. I collapsed into my love’s arms and cried and relayed the details through heavy breathing and sobs. What kept coming up for me was how it brought up my dad’s rage. And at 44 years old, I can decide who is around me. I can decide when to say “no more“. I decide who talks to me and I know that it is not okay to treat people this way. This man does not get to treat people, treat me this way. I’m saying no to this.

My partner lovingly stroked my hair and held me, reminded me how brave I am and told me she was proud of me. She assured me that I get to decide when and with who I spend my time and I get to decide whether to be involved in something in my non work and non family time. She was just so supportive. When I asked for support regulating so we could finally get to bed, they sang the Rainbow Connection, first using their own sweet voice and then later, with a sweet silly Kermit voice. 

This feels so revolutionary. We kissed goodnight and while it took me sometime to fall asleep, I felt so held and loved. And proud. I had pushed back. I had used my voice. This morning I woke up with two messages from that director apologizing, in what I believe is a sincere way. He acknowledged he had let us all down. He said after I left they had all discussed the situation and others had spoken up. He thanked me and extended an invitation to speak.

To say that I changed the world may seem hyperbolic, and believe me, I am prone to being slightly, just slightly, dramatic, but I do not believe to say that I changed the world in this instance is hyperbolic.

I rewrote my own story right there in that rehearsal space. And I made a difference, for me, for my colleagues in creativity, including that director and his wife. I am speaking up, even when it’s hard. And I am proud of myself.