Educational Theatre Projects Tackle Tough Social Issues
by Lisa Drostova

Herded by their teachers, 200-plus Town School boys filter into the gym in laughing, jostling groups. Some delight in dropping their textbooks to the wooden floor with a loud bang; all have a lot of energy for 10 in the morning. They sit cross-legged on the floor on one side of the purple rope that separates them from the set of Kaiser Permanente's Education Theatre Program's Nightmare on Puberty Street: three large graffiti-covered canvas flats, a chain-link cage, a large yellow ladder and bright orange scaffolding. Banks of audio equipment peek out of the backstage area.

Before the kids came in, the Nightmare cast members were practicing their dance moves and cheerfully eating Krispy Kremes. Feedback crackled over the speakers as one actor used electric clippers to touch up another actor's hairline to be consistent with the current style. The stage manager, who also plays Malika, stalked back and forth in punkish regalia: black pants heavy with chains, black and red striped socks tucked into combat boots, and black lipstick.

"Five years ago when I went from being an actor in the show to being a director," director Kevin Lasit told me, "I decided to update the costumes and music. Before, the costumes were all in primary colors." He goes on to explain that often after a show, Malika is approached by both girls and boys, which he attributes to her costume's authenticity. Lasit is big on creating a show with which kids will identify; he's also not afraid to have his actors tackle taboo subjects, which is why the show now opens with a discussion of nocturnal emissions ("There's not actually a bone in there," a character assures the audience, "it's just called a boner" to appreciative laughter) before the four vibrant young actors sing and dance their way through peer pressure, gay-bashing, menstruation, name-calling and suicidal tendencies--the real nightmares of pubescence.

It's time for the giant talking lungs of yesteryear to exit stage left. Theatre productions aimed at kids have grown in sophistication, daring and reach. Tackling hard questions from "When is it the right time to have sex?" to "How do tobacco companies profit from environmental degradation?", Bay Area educational theatre projects merge professional actors and developmental theory to create shows that address issues of real concern to kids. And they get results--today's media-savvy kids enjoy the shows for their style and humor while absorbing their content.

Three veterans of message-driven youth theatre are Kaiser's ETP, San Francisco's New Conservatory Theatre's YouthAware program, and the Lawrence Hall of Science's Science Discovery Theatre. Since 1985, ETP has reached 8 million kids through its touring plays and workshops. Currently it has four shows making the rounds--shows which cover such topics as nutrition, sexuality and conflict resolution. Meanwhile, YouthAware has been in business since 1986, when it developed the first "national model" AIDS theatre-in-education series for youth k-12. YouthAware shows reach 20,000 kids a year, both in the New Conservatory Theatre facility and through touring shows. This year it has eight shows up; in addition to AIDS education, it's tackling body image, addiction awareness, date rape and the Holocaust. SDT's street theatre program features the exciting outdoor production Tarnival, which busted out carnival-style games, live-action theatre and giant puppets to bring the story of big tobacco to 36,000 people last year at school and community events.

They're noisy and fun, but do these shows really work? Naomi Stein, SDT's street theater director, has tangible proof that Tarnival is making a difference: a recent survey of 5,000 students revealed that 17 percent of the respondents thought they were less likely to smoke in the year following their having experienced the event. Much of the other positive evidence is anecdotal, coming in the form of letters, comments from teachers, and the occasional "sighting," ETP's word for the times when one of their actors is recognized off the job by a student.

All of these programs provide ample opportunity for kids to address their concerns. When Nightmare is over, the actors invite the kids to talk to them privately. The actors, who have undergone 120 hours of training to be peer educators, specialize in "bridging"--identifying "red lights," or kids in dangerous situations, and hooking them up with someone at the school who can help, and then making sure someone from ETP follows up. Bridging works--at one recent performance, the cast handled 29 red lights. But even the kids with less-threatening problems get answers that make them feel better. One student was relieved to learn that the clotting she was getting with her period was normal. "I thought I was losing my liver!" she told the actor.

Meanwhile, YouthAware sends an HIV and AIDS educator to facilitate post-show discussion after performances of Get Real! and The Inner Circle, two plays that promote HIV prevention. In many instances, it's the first time the kids have met someone living with HIV. But that's not the only hole these programs fill. AIDS educator Juan Wulff says California's kids are getting inadequate sex education, noting that "On a scale of 1 to 10 [of realistic sexual knowledge] I'd give them a 3 or a 4." Wulff is blunt with the kids: "When they ask me a question I always turn it around because that's how you find out if they have the wrong answers." And in his experience, they often do; he's fielded questions from students who thought, for example, that it was impossible to get AIDS from a woman if you had sex with her while she was menstruating. But neither he nor anyone else fault the kids; actors from ETP mentioned that, depending on the district, some schools have little or no funds to teach sex ed. Unfortunately, this means that the people who most need the information aren't getting it: nationally and worldwide, HIV is spreading fastest among women 14 to 24 years old. So it gratifies Wulff that so many girls approach him with questions. "If I reach just one kid in each group--and I always do--I'm happy," he says.

But one of the best "it works!" stories belongs to ETP. Several years ago, a young woman named Rebecca Kirsch saw Nightmare at school. She took home the pamphlet listing crisis hotlines and put it in a drawer. A few years later, when a friend was threatening suicide, Kirsch found the pamphlet and used the information to get help for her friend. Now Kirsch plays Malika, a girl who considers killing herself until a friend gives her the number for a crisis hotline.

While these projects help kids, they benefit the actors as well. Lasit describes the program as a chance for actors to build up their chops performing in front of some of the liveliest and most no-nonsense audiences imaginable. The actors also form a real ensemble--in the case of ETP, they're working together on a show every day for 11 months. Playing the kids in these shows is a chance for certain young-looking or -sounding actors to play to their strengths. Since all of these programs seek to represent the diversity of their audiences, actors from traditionally underrepresented groups get work. As Lasit--who refers to himself as a "trail mix" of ethnic backgrounds--notes, if he weren't with ETP, he wouldn't be able to raise a family here. Actors who want to do socially valuable work have a home in these programs; many come back season after season, and many shift their focus to teaching or social work as a result of their experience with the kids.

As the boys file out of the gym after Nightmare, they tease each other about nocturnal emissions--but at least now they know what they are talking about. Meanwhile, a group of about two dozen boys stand around high-fiving the actor who played Nick. It's impossible to know what those high-fives are going to mean to those kids in the future--whether one of those boys is going to think twice before he harasses someone he thinks is gay, before he has risky sex, or before he starts smoking. But the actors have gotten too many letters saying things like "I think I would have killed myself if it hadn't been for you" to believe that these programs don't make a difference.

Lisa Drostova is a Bay Area theatre critic and writer.