Deborah Randall.

Theatre saved my life. It’s personal. I am a product of Prince George’s County.  Friendly High School class of ’84. I took Bud Stringers Drama Class Junior and Senior year.  Some of my punishments at home included being chased down a hall and locked in my room from the outside. I would be on assignment for Bud’s class and build a Medea dress out of glue, glitter, and scraps of fabric. I would become someone else. Imagine someplace else. It was Bud at Friendly High that taught us about the Greeks. He dared us to be fools. And, in my Senior year when I could drive myself and audition (finally!) Bud decided the students would be writing their own play. There were only two female roles in the whole project:  a cafeteria worker and a Mom. I went to Bud immediately and told him my “type” was not included. I was furious. In his way, Bud calmly instructed me to go to the writers meetings and change what needed to be changed, add what needed to be added. I think we wrote in over 30 female characters.

That was the beginning of my actual life. Theatre is the reason I exist. It is an act of empathy. It is living alchemy. It embraces conflict and turns it into an exciting journey. It celebrates differences. Exposes truths. It is immediate. It is immersive. It is the living breathing communication device of humanity.

As for the importance of producing works professionally for almost two decades —

I’ll take a long leap chronologically through training, working up a performance art piece for three years that involved dancing in the river where my theatre is now located, all the way up to 1999 where I was closing out a year-long touring solo show I’d created called Til It Hurts. This was one of four solo shows that I’d done through five states. Monologues grew into full scenes and full scenes grew into two act plays and I had to get out there and see what landed and what didn’t.

I was performing the end of Til It Hurts at the back of 1409 Playbill Café in 1999. “Joseph” was a regular at the bar and new to the back of the theatre performance space where Venus was performing. The next week when I arrived the bartender gave me a talking to. He asked me what I had done to “Joseph”. I didn’t know. I think there were three people there and now I had to reconcile traumatizing one of them because after my show he hardly left his couch for the entire week I was told by the not-at-all-pleased-with-me bartender. “Joseph” shows up again THAT NIGHT to watch my show for a second torturous time. I do the performance and he’s sitting at the front and he’s leaning in. Focused. After curtain I went straight to the front row and asked him what was going on. 

It went something like:

Joseph:  You know that monologue where you forgive your Dad? 

Deborah: Yeah. 

Joseph:  When I came out of the closet I was married with a daughter and my whole family estranged from me.  My daughter would be about 23 now.  I haven’t seen her since she was 8.  All I know is that she’s somewhere on the West Coast.  I was watching that monologue.  I’ve been thinking about it a lot.  Do you think it’s possible she forgives me?  I think I’m going to look her up. 

And the show closed. 

Six months later I went in to have a drink with 1409 Playbill owners Jeffrey and Sayed and I asked about “Joseph”. He was in Hawaii vacationing with his daughter.

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