In a never-ending quest to cultivate my children, I introduced them to theater.
It was not always an easy sell. When they were young, we’d bring along their reading books and trinkets to keep them amused. Perhaps the show was more for us, but we treated it as a family affair.
And when they grew of age, there was no doubt what would follow. They began appearing in community theater. First came “The King and I” and then “South Pacific.”
The boys had their hockey. They had their baseball. But they also had the make-up and costumes. It did much for building their self-esteem.
I recall taking them to see “West Side Story.” I figured this was the perfect musical to usher a child into high society, given its gang fights and love conquering all.
It was this very same production that my parents pushed me into attending as a young teenager. Much as I hemmed and hawed, that first introduction turned me into a theater buff and I was determined to do the same with my family.
I recall my eldest saying, “Why do I have to go? I don’t want to go anywhere stupid. What if my friends see me?”
“If any of your friends saw you, then you would also be seeing them,” I shot back. “You can sit together.”
For an entire week, I played the score when I was sure the children were home. Songs like “I Feel Pretty” and “Tonight” were dancing in their heads, even if they were only half-listening.
Up until the final hour, they rebuked: I’m sick. I’m coming down with a fever. I’m limping. The excuses were endless. I put a deaf ear to it.
Don’t get me wrong. I really didn’t believe in coercion or browbeating a youngster. It wasn’t as if I were taking them to the dentist. This was the performing arts and as much as they complained, I didn’t see anything wrong with a gentle shove in the right direction.
The drive to the theater was conducted in silence. From the corner of my eye, I could see the boys smoldering in the back seat. Perhaps a bribe would appease their gloom.
“Listen,” I said. “Let’s make a deal. If you positively hate this, I won’t make you go again. The reward will be a pizza party after the show, okay?”
The line for tickets stretched the gamut. One son made sure he wasn’t included and quickly scooted to the men’s room. I never thought I’d see him again. He came out just as the lights flickered.
We took our places off to one side and suddenly the curtain drew upon a gang fight between the Sharks and the Jets in New York City. Violence. Racial tension. Action.
For the next two hours, the children were mesmerized. I did detect a small tinge of regret at the end when Tony got shot in the arms of Maria. It was an emotional scene with a message of hope, respect, and tolerance.
And when everybody rose for a standing ovation, so did we. The children also left their seats and applauded. I locked that moment into my heart for a lifetime.
In the years that followed, theater became a vital part of our social itinerary. I spent many a day inside a theater writing reviews and hobnobbing with star performers like Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman. They were memorable years.
Television and computers are turning our children into dolts. The rooms from which conversations, reading, and wholesome games once emerged have disappeared like TV antennas.
It upsets me but all is not lost. My grandchildren are giving me a pleasant jolt of reincarnation. A recent trip to Disney was highlighted by an appearance at five musicals. My eight-year-old granddaughter was most conspicuous by the camera she had, photographing scenes from “Beauty and the Beast.”
And just lately, we got an invitation to see “Fiddler on the Roof,” my all-time favorite musical, at Babson College by the popular Wellesley Players. The show bore an added inducement. My cousin was playing the part of Golde, Tevye’s devoted wife.
My oldest son—the one who tried worming his way out of theater as a kid—came up with the idea of bringing the entire family. His treat. Our 45th anniversary gift. And dinner to follow. Who could refuse such an offer?
“My daughter is ready to be exposed to good theater,” he said. “This will be the perfect show for her.”
There we sat in the third row—three generations of theatergoers. Judging by the reaction, I wouldn’t be surprised to see an encore.
Tom Vartabedian
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