By David Sloan

For a brief time several years ago, the simmering controversies about gender identity and cultural appropriation seemed confined to political fusillades lobbed by both the left and right.  However, fueled by the pandemic and contagious extremism, public and private schools quickly became a convenient battleground to play out the “culture wars.”  At first parents aimed their ire at what they considered to be curricular “brainwashing.” However, concerns then spread to the perils of books on school library shelves considered either too explicit, “gender-bending” or racially fraught. Now, even schools’ theater arts programs have come under scrutiny, lest they expose students to inappropriate or overly mature content.

     I directed Waldorf school plays for over four decades and wrote a book on how to work dramatically with adolescents.[1]  While my colleagues and I certainly had to deliberate carefully about which plays would be most age-appropriate—even back in the ‘80’s—our criteria never involved considerations of “gender equity” or cultural appropriation.  Rather, we focused on three factors: 1) the richness of the language; 2) the vividness and variety of characters; 3) the play’s underlying “message” or theme, whether it offered some positive, hopeful or uplifting experience for high schoolers.  The school was able to stage such classics as Sophocles’ Antigone, Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and The Tempest, William Gibson’s The Miracle Worker, Dylan Thomas’ Under Milkwood, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible and Frank Galati’s The Grapes of Wrath, as well as more contemporary plays: John Cariani’s Almost, Maine and Lovesick, Mary Zimmerman’s Metamorphoses, Tina Howe’s Museum, Neil Simon’s The Good Doctor.

      Granted, the language in Under Milkwood raised a few disapproving eyebrows (Captain Cat’s fervent desire to Rosie Probert: “Let me shipwreck in your thighs”), as did the seduction scene between daughter and father in Metamorphoses, but there were no extensive parent protests, no accusations of “polluting the innocent hearts and minds” of young people.  On the contrary, most of the productions elicited gratitude from students, their parents and the school community at large for sharing a collaborative, artistic experience that often stretched the cast beyond their respective “comfort zones” and generated fruitful, post-play discussions.

      How times have changed!  Hyper-vigilant parents and school boards across the country have been scrutinizing middle and high school directors’ theatrical selections so critically that plays no one second-guessed even a decade ago now run the risk of being censored.  Who would have imagined that Shakespeare’s beloved comedies Twelfth Night, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and As You Like It might be banned in Florida and Tennessee high schools because they “promote cross-dressing”?[2]  They are hardly outliers, as reported in a recent New York Times article:

From the Right there have been objections to homosexuality in the The Prom and the play Almost, Maine and other oft-staged shows; from the Left there have been concerns about depictions of race in South Pacific and Thoroughly Modern Millie and gender in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying and Bye Bye Birdie and Grease. And at individual schools there have been any number of unexpected complaints, about the presence of bullying in Mean Girls and the absence of white characters in Fences, about the words “damn” (in Oklahoma) and “bastards” (in Newsies) and “God” (in The Little Mermaid). [3]

Clearly, two thorny, related questions are pressuring many high school directors to reassess their benchmarks for selecting productions: 1) When does a play cross the increasingly fraught and dangerous line from “appropriateness” to “cultural appropriation?” 2) How much should directors heed the accelerating movement to confine their casting to “lived experience” instead of keeping channels open for “imagined experience?”

       Waldorf schools have not been immune to these widespread theatrical controversies.  Two years ago, after much deliberation, a teacher at a New England Waldorf school had selected The Arabian Nights for a tenth-grade play block.  However, she met so much student “discomfort” and parent concern about their children enacting stories from another culture that the teacher ultimately dropped the play block.  Instead the class performed Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, although I suspect that the rather graphic “Miller’s Tale” and “Merchant’s Tale” had to be excised from that production.

      While the fate of The Arabian Nights was still being disputed, I was invited to join a conversation with parent representatives to discuss the matter.  They were adamant that performing the play would be an egregious example of cultural appropriation, since an almost entirely white cast would be portraying darker-skinned Middle Easterners. Furthermore, these parents contended that the show would also promote caricatured stereotypes, especially if the production sensationalized the violence pervading several of the scenes. While I could agree with them that the play is not without its excesses (a cannibalistic ghoul, numerous mutilations, a king who beheads a new wife every day), it is also the inspiring story of a courageous young woman who employs storytelling to convert a ruthless, cynical king into a loving and forgiving partner. Ultimately, like most indigenous folk tales[4], The Arabian Nights depicts a moral universe that punishes evil doers, rewards the pure of heart, and makes redemption possible even for barbarous tyrants.

      However, arguing the merits versus the drawbacks of the play sidestepped the parents’ more pointed accusation of cultural appropriation. Here we entered difficult terrain. On the one hand, I understood and sympathized with parents’ concerns about the possibility of exoticizing, distorting or “othering” Arab cultures, especially in the Islamophobic wake of 9/11.  On the other hand—were it taken to extremes—the admonition that Waldorf teacher/directors should consider limiting their play selections to their “local culture” diametrically opposes the international character that has distinguished the worldwide Waldorf movement for a century.

       Restricting dramatic choices because of fears of cultural appropriation in Waldorf schools—where class plays figure prominently in virtually every grade—is also a very slippery slope. If we were to follow this restrictive thinking to its logical extreme, wouldn’t fifth graders outside of India be prohibited from performing plays adapted from The Mahabharata or Ramayana?  How many students of Russian Jewish extraction would have to comprise an eighth or tenth grade to “qualify” for mounting a production of Fiddler on the Roof?  Would a stage adaptation of Black Elk Speaks be permissible without a large Native American contingent among the student population? 

     From one viewpoint, the desire to “decolonize” shows such as The King and I or Flower Drum Song is admirable, especially those whose original leitmotifs were rife with “white savior-ism and an imperialistic gaze.”[5] However, the impulse to completely abandon culturally controversial plays in favor of familiar, safely homogenous options strikes me as parochial, the theatrical equivalent of America’s polarized political factions retreating into their respective liberal or conservative media silos.

     I come back to the lesson of The Arabian Nights, not because it is a perfect play for high school students, but because more than most dramatic pieces, it underscores the magic and the possibilities of theatrical storytelling. As Dominic Cooke said about the play back in 2009 when he adapted and directed the award-winning production:

What really appealed to me was the idea that storytelling or the imagination can save your life, because Shahrazad famously tells stories to save her life.  For me it’s a metaphor for the power of creativity and the power of the imagination to change and heal everyone who comes into contact with it, which is what I believe about the theatre.[6]

     I share Cooke’s belief, but the imagined experience to which he refers is being challenged on more than one front. The other seemingly unavoidable issue linked to play selection in these fraught times has to do with casting.  For most of the twentieth century, cinematic and theatrical productions cast white actors in non-white roles, a practice aptly termed “whitewashing.”  The list is long and includes examples such as Katherine Hepburn’s depiction of a Chinese woman in Dragon Seed (1944), Mickey Rooney’s cringeworthy, caricatured Japanese photographer in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961), Natalie Woods’ Puerto Rican Maria in the original West Side Story (1961), Ben Affleck as a Mexican American ex-CIA operative in Argo (2012), and Johnny Depp as Tonto in The Lone Ranger (2013).[7]  Depp’s depiction stirred particular outrage among some Native American tribes, who accused Depp of being a “pretendian.” In the past several years a chorus of voices in the theatrical community has arisen to urge directors to “cast authentically,” i.e., have roles entirely coincide with actors’ real-life identities.

     In such a world, no straight actor would ever play a gay part. . .or vice versa, no white performer would accept a BIPOC role (black, indigenous, people of color). . .or again, vice versa, and only transgender individuals would presume to portray transgender characters.  A number of well-known actors have embraced this position, most notably Tom Hanks.  In an interview last year, he posed the question: “Could a straight man do what I did in Philadelphia now? No, and rightly so. The whole point of Philadelphia was don’t be afraid. One of the reasons people weren’t afraid of that movie is that I was playing a gay man. We’re beyond that now, and I don’t think people would accept the inauthenticity of a straight guy playing a gay guy.”[8]  Oscar winner Eddie Redmayne echoed Hanks’ sentiments when he admitted regret in 2021 playing one of the first known people to undergo gender-affirming surgery in the 2015 film The Danish Girl.  “‘I made that film with the best intentions, but I think it was a mistake.’”[9]

     Other respected performers have voiced an opposing opinion.  In 2018 Cate Blanchett stated publicly that “I will fight to the death for the right to suspend disbelief and play roles beyond my experience.”[10]   It should be noted that Blanchett was nominated for an academy award for her portrayal of a lesbian character in Carol; she also played Bob Dylan in I’m Not There. Stanley Tucci supported Blanchett’s viewpoint when he stated, “The whole point of acting is playing a part that doesn’t reflect your own life experiences. . .I really do believe an actor is an actor, that you are supposed to play different people.”[11]

     The obvious danger with the “lived experience” constraint is that if one accepts its premise, this approach to casting might extend well beyond gender considerations, leaving little room for “imagined experience.”  If a straight actor cannot authentically play a gay character, at what point do we prohibit actors who were raised in squalor from playing characters born into wealth and privilege, or vice versa?  Can young thespians “authentically” undertake roles that challenge them to play middle-aged or elderly people?  If only people with disabilities are permitted to play the parts of disabled characters, where in the world will we find a deaf-blind actor to tackle the role of Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker?

      While the debate rages on in Hollywood and in schools, my hope is that Waldorf educators will exercise caution about play and casting choices without falling prey to the cultural crosswinds that distort clear thinking about the aims of pedagogical drama. It is, of course, critically important that directors avoid plays advancing racial stereotypes or promoting misleading cultural myths. However, it is also essential to remind ourselves that plays can be golden opportunities for cultural exploration and appreciation, artistic mediums for expanding, rather than shrink-wrapping, our students’ lives. Why not see the choice of performing a play about another people or region of the world as “cultural exploration/appreciation” instead of appropriation?  After all, one of the quintessential aims of the theater is to portray the human condition in all its strivings and failings, to discover the universally human in the seemingly disparate. What better way than through acting, through “walking a mile in another’s shoes,” might young people develop empathy for the myriad cultural streams that diversify the world?