Eye of the Beholder
I had the honor of watching my play While We Still Can debut at the Arts Uprise Festival in Colorado Springs on June 22. This performance was fantastic, especially by the immensely talented Andre Jones Jr, who led the cast as Tito, and I loved seeing my words come to life.
A friend who was at the show said she turned during the performance and described the look on my face as “like you were shooting lasers at the stage” with my eyes. My wife chimed in that I have a tense, anxious energy when we go to my shows. I’ve been reflecting on these observations and want to share this with any other writers who might share these same feelings.
On one hand, I was enjoying every second. The energy in the sold out house was awesome, the actors were on point and the whole show was wonderful. On the other hand, I was nervous about so many things at the same time. Would my lines read the same way I’d intended? Would the actors interpret the lines the same way I’d imagined? Would the audience react? Would they like it?
So it makes sense that the output of such disparate emotions would be a frozen “laser eyes” gaze at the stage. Frozen. Unable to move. Or, perhaps more accurately, unable to dissolve into the present moment.
My play opens with Tito hammering a nail to board up a window as the town prepares for an approaching storm. In the semi-darkness I saw the stagehands move a set piece in position with the plywood covering a window. The stage was set and I waited for those first pounding nails. In my mind those thuds were a warning, like distant thunder, for what was to come in the rest of the play.
But the hammer didn’t strike.
Instead, Jones Jr. stepped into a spotlight holding the hammer in one fist and then began to sing “Precious Lord, Take My Hand,” a gospel hymn written by Thomas A. Dorsey in 1932.
“Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I’m tired, I’m weak, I’m worn
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand, precious Lord
Lead me home.”
If my friend had looked at me at that exact moment she’d have seen me snapped back to the present. It was the moment I should have realized this play, that I’d carefully crafted as a response to Trump’s 2024 election win, was no longer mine. I did not pick up that lesson though, not until my friend and wife spoke some truth to me.
As I reflected on how Jones Jr.’s song fundamentally changed, and improved upon I might add, my play, I decided to ask him why he added the song and why he chose that specific hymn.
I learned that was the only performance in which he sang the song. Why then, I asked, make that addition?
He said the show’s finale, an acoustic rendition of John Lennon’s “Imagine” that the audience was encouraged to join in singing, didn’t resonate with him or some of the other actors of color.
“While the intent was to end the show on a unifying, positive note, I noticed that many of us were unfamiliar with the song,” he said. “Though I could have chalked it up to growing up in a sheltered environment, I saw the same uncertain expressions from colleagues who shared my identity as a person of color. In fact, the only lyric I knew came from a trending clip of Millie Bobby Brown covering it.”
So he spoke up and the Millibo Art Theatre and the show’s team supported him. That answered the ‘why did you sing’, but not the ‘why that song?’ part of my query. I should have expected the careful depth of Jones Jr.’s answer, but it struck me again with his intentional decision to sing the hymn.
“This hymn is a heartfelt plea for guidance and comfort during times of hardship, especially in the face of personal tragedy. It’s a piece deeply rooted in Christian and Black gospel traditions, often performed at funerals, and widely recognized for its emotional resonance,” he said. “To this day, when I’m struggling—whether with personal anxieties, the political climate, cultural aggression, racism, or simply feeling unseen—I return to “Precious Lord” as a reminder of that supportive, detail-oriented community.”
“It was AJ’s way of connecting with the minority in the audience, saying: “I see you...all of you,” through the embodiment of Tito.”
His answer struck at the core of what I was trying to cover in my play. Supportive, detail-oriented community being the foundation of surviving and resisting Trump v2.0. I couldn’t have come up with having Tito sing “Precious Lord” at the outset, but how could it have started any other way, I realized.
“On the night I proposed revising our curtain call, June 21, 2025—especially in light of the decisions made by the U.S. government that day—I wanted the audience to feel seen,” Jones Jr. added. “It was AJ's way of connecting with the minority in the audience, saying: "I see you...all of you," through the embodiment of Tito.”
The lesson Jones Jr. helped me learn is that once the story leaves my mind and lands on the page, my part is done. My version of the art is created and any chance to view it further is a gift. Every performance is a chance to see what the story can become on its own. If it’s booed, or lauded, turned on its head by a director or misinterpreted by an actor, then all the better. It’s all gravy.
It means the story lives on. I created it, but it is no longer mine.
I hope to have a play staged in the future and recall this lesson as I sit in the audience, fully in the present moment, to see what’s new with my old creation.
