Among many things, I am a woman (self-explanatory); I am Latina (My mother is Cuban, my father is from El Salvador); and I am disabled (I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis when I was seven years old).
I fell in love with performing as a kid because it gave me freedom. Artâany kind of creative expressionâeliminated my limits. As a kid, I was constantly bullied or given special treatment due to my condition. (Kids can be cruel because they donât know any better.) Performing empowered me, and ultimately became my âsafe place.â
On Nov. 9, I felt the opposite of safe. I felt like a stranger in my own countryâunrepresented and betrayed. I was emotionally exhausted before even getting out of bed, but I had to get up. Thereâs an insatiable need to contribute to society at the moment. But due to the hateful rhetoric that has been so openly normalized, my entire life seemed irrelevant.
Broadway (including all of its triumphs in terms of diversity) was suddenly inconsequential. Itâs just another random, highly glamorized, little street on Earth. And guess what? (This applies to everyone, not just our fieldâŠ) No one cares about what we willingly waste our daily lives stressing over. The world does not care if your joke didnât get a laugh that day. The world does not care who went to the after-party. The world quite literally does not care how many retweets you got.
Itâs never been more clear that we need to stop being so damn hard on ourselves and on each other. The future is being shaped as kids watch us thinking âIs this what Iâm supposed to do?â and âAre these supposed to be my priorities?â
Walking toward what I am privileged to call work, I was dizzyâovercome with both gratitude and resentment. I was grateful because I have somewhere to be, doing something I love. But I was angry and felt guilty (and then angry for feeling guilty) because I felt like I donât deserve it. I had to remind myself that the artsâthe limitless power of human connectionâserve a higher purpose. We create a vehicle of freedom not for ourselves, but for every person who buys a movie ticket, binge watches our TV shows, or steps into our sacred theaters. Only true human connection (when you get off your phone) can eliminate hatred, judgment, and fear. It builds bridges of understanding over walls of ignorance.
Being onstage Wednesday felt like revenge. Especially telling our story, in which I play an immigrant woman who boldly exceeded everyoneâs expectations. One could despair in realizing that the battles for equality and acceptance are seemingly unending. But time stood still when Alma Cuervo, onstage as Abuela, said: âPlease. For one night, do what makes you happy [âŠ] Youâre a woman. You can fight for yourself.â
I found myself singing a bit harder and moving a bit fiercer. I was defiant in celebrating my culture. I was provocative in flaunting my womanhood. Immediately after the show, I was bursting and broke down in my dressing room. I wept for the American Dream. Despite it all, that âsafe placeâ does exist. We all have one. It is our responsibility to create, cultivate, and protect itâfor everyoneâs sake. And nothing can trump that.
Dear President Elect Trump: Sincerely, Broadway.
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