Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way. ~Viktor Frankl
We live in precarious times. Myriad psychic wounds. Tests of our principles and ideals. The alienation from our common humanity. I’ve spent my life making theatre. Theatre can and should be a source of healing, understanding, illumination, transformation. I believe this because I’ve experienced it, on both sides of the footlights.
My industry was completely shut down during the covid crisis. One hundred percent unemployment for nearly two years. Even in the best of times, the majority of theatre makers struggle to find work, and few do what they do full time. In the decade leading up to the screeching halt of March 2020, I worked about six to eight months a year; an itinerant actor in the regional theatre. Such contracts are four to eight weeks each, and most seasons, I was able to piece together the nineteen weeks required for a year of health insurance. In the theatre biz, this is what success looks like. The rest of the year, I hustled for work and tightened the belt. I didn’t make much money, but man!—I got to play some great parts and worked with exceptional artists across the country.
When I finally had a chance to return to the stage, in the summer of 2022, I walked in to rehearsals jubilant, anticipating the familiar collaborative alchemy: a company of theatre folks, pursuing our common goal and shared passion. Instead, I was confronted by a divisive ideological activism that has pervaded the professional theatre—and indeed, the arts in general.
I’ve done several productions at this theatre, and consider the folks there theatre family. The show, a jukebox musical, was one I’d done before. The cast was as racially diverse as the show’s musical styles; the ensemble young and multi-talented. I did notice the BLM covid masks and rather intense slogan t-shirts, but I was a bit of an activist in my college years so this seemed appropriate to me for a group of 20-somethings.
What wasn’t appropriate was the free-for-all I witnessed in rehearsal, when a scene in the show dealing with racism suddenly detoured from professional actors doing their work to a concocted woke stunt, where BIPOC members of the cast pounced upon a white actor, who was simply doing her job, berating her with such shrieking and vitriol that it took my breath away.
The outburst—which I later learned is a common tactic from the Robin DiAngelo playbook—led to a quasi-therapy circle-up where my fellow performers—the ones of color—vented their rage and trauma, while no one supported the white actor who’d been outrageously attacked. I spoke up for her, calmly urging professionalism and consideration, only to find the ugliness turned on me—the oldest white guy in the room. A prime target. When one of these people made a crack against my deceased sister (who was Black), I left the room. My refusal to play along with this divisive bullshit led to my shunning by the BIPOC members of the cast for the remainder of the contract. Not being up on the ways of the Woke, I was flabbergasted.
After 40 years, I reconnected with my friend and Simon’s Rock College roommate, John McWhorter, who helped me to grapple with this intensely negative experience. I read John’s book, Woke Racism, and his writings for The New York Times. I binged the wonderful podcasts he does with Glenn Loury. I educated myself. I read Kendi and DiAngelo.
The truth will set you free—but first, it will piss you off. ~Gloria Steinem
I was pissed.
John and I went back and forth about my coming on The Glenn Show podcast to talk about my experience. I was conflicted. How do you put yourself out there, when so many others have been “cancelled?” The number of theatre people I’d seen speaking out I could count on one hand. John and I discussed my coming on anonymously—no camera, my voice altered. And I thought: Wait. I’m not doing anything wrong. Yet I’m afraid to speak. Why? I didn’t wish anyone ill. I just wanted to defend the art form I’ve spent my life doing, and encourage understanding, cooperation and unity.
I said to myself: When, Jamie Beaman, have you ever been afraid to speak out? I’ve no doubt there are some in my profession who, if asked, would characterize Jamie Beaman as a pain in the ass, a pompous know it all, a loudmouth. I’ve stood up for my artistic choices. I’ve argued over points of dramaturgy and history. I’ve gone head to head with bullying directors and choreographers. But that was business.
So, I went on The Glenn Show and told my story. The conversation was great. It was intense and entertaining, and the response was positive. But fear still had its hooks in me. I didn’t share the podcast on my social media. I only sent the link to a few friends. Nevertheless, it’s had over 20,000 views on YouTube. Folks have seen it. So, here I am. Perhaps there’s more I can say, more I can do, to encourage conversation and to lift up others who are feeling stifled and impotent.
In March 2020, I was in Florida, playing the mammoth role of Albin in La Cage Aux Folles. The week before I began rehearsals I had been diagnosed with a medical condition, a pretty life changing one, but I powered through. We managed to open La Cage, but after 8 performances, the covid state of emergency in Florida was declared and we closed. I went home to New York and isolation.
Holed up in my one bedroom apartment, I anxiously monitored my mother in Massachusetts, living alone with rapidly advancing dementia. I realized this was untenable. I moved my mother in with me in New York, and lived with her in lockdown for five months. A heartbreaking crash course in the bewildering manifestations of Alzheimer’s. Eventually, with the help of some wonderful people—many from my theatre community—I got Mom into The Actor’s Fund Home, where she was cared for until her death last May…on Mother’s Day. I’m still struggling to cope with that loss. I arrived at that gig last summer two weeks after my mother’s memorial.
There’s no “poor me” behind these shares. There’s quite enough of that going around. It’s just…well, you know, I’d hoped that returning to my work as an actor last year would be a way to heal—it always had been. It was gutting to be met with such unnecessary negativity and insensitivity. I’m a human who has—thus far—survived a series of blows that have forced me to confront my humanity, my own mortality, and to leave behind my crippling perfectionism, and the myopic pursuit of my acting career to the exclusion of all else. I love theatre and theatre people—when we’re at our best.
The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose. ~James Baldwin
I believe that there’s a gift in what I’ve endured. It’s caused me to focus on what I truly stand for. I stand for individuality. I stand for truth. For kindness. For true justice, fairness, free speech. I’m a mentor and coach to a diverse and talented collection of performers, who align with me in the knowledge that the theater is a place for dealing with essential human issues in a spirit of generosity and excellence. The theatre is a band of oddballs and outcasts. We find each other so we can be our unique selves together and tell stories.
The Cornfield is about pushing back against hatred and all kinds of racism, bullying and disrespect. I’m about lifting people up. Affirming humanity. My friends and colleagues know me. I’m an open book. I’m a loving man with a no bullshit attitude toward things that make no sense, and that hurt people. I’m a critic and a cheerleader. I’m here to illuminate the astonishing legacy of the theatre, the powerful repertoire at our fingertips. Creative, collaborative, and cruelty-free ways to honor diversity. To encourage possibilities for the arts in a culture that’s wounded and needs healing desperately.
As serious as this post has been, let me assure you: humor, wit and five dollar words are my superpowers! I’m a gay man of the old school. I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it.
I am unapologetic. I’m sarcastic. I’ve got attitude. And I see you, too.
Stephen Sondheim wrote these lyrics for his musical Passion. I’ve been singing them to myself a lot lately—a love song to the creative work of a lifetime:
Loving you is not a choice, it’s who I am
Loving you is not in my control
But it gives me purpose, gives me voice
To say to the world:
This is why I live…
You are why I live…
I choose life. Love. Freedom. Understanding. True inclusion. I hope to be an uplifting voice in this important and existential conversation. Stay tuned. Stay strong.
You are uplifting and now I want to listen to the podcast, again...because I'm pretty sure I did, as your story sounded familiar from jump. 😘 ☮️
Yes! Happy to find you here.
Loved your talk with McWhorter + Loury.