Last week, my wife, Lauren, and I went with her parents and sister to see the Broadway musical, Dear Evan Hansen. Before we had kids, we used to go to the theater with them quite often. It’s harder now. Still, we were incredibly fortunate to see the phenomenon, Hamilton, together this summer and we’d been looking forward to Dear Evan Hansen for months. The Tony Award-winning musical became a smash hit just as the Hamilton-craze settled down a bit. I really enjoy going to Broadway shows. The unique marquees, the long ticket lines, the historic theaters. There’s always a hum of chatter and a buzz as show time nears as you flip through the program. It’s all part of a really enriching experience.
That night, after we trudged up the stairs and settled into our seats, I noticed a young girl and her mother sitting directly behind us. While we waited for the curtain to rise, I caught bits of their conversation about which songs they were looking forward to hearing including their favorite, “So Big So Small.” It was clear that being at the show was a big deal for them. I felt terrible that I might block the girl’s view so I turned around and apologized. I’ll try and scrunch down, I said. No problem, they kindly said, the balcony was steep and they could see just fine. I asked them if this was a special night out because the daughter must have school the next day. The young lady explained that she was a 12-year-old actress and they lived outside of Charlotte, North Carolina. They had flown up just for the day because the two of them desperately wanted to see Dear Evan Hansen before the extraordinary star of the show, Ben Platt, ended his run. Wow, I can’t wait to do things like that with my kids when they’re a bit older, I said, good luck with acting and enjoy the show. The lights dimmed and I turned back around.
I knew the play’s basic premise but what I didn’t know is how personally connected I would feel as the cast started to sing the song, “Does Anybody Have a Map?” The story is about a lonely high-school kid – Evan Hansen – who struggles with social anxiety and acceptance while growing up with a well-meaning and always working single-mother. To help boost his confidence and combat his insecurities, a therapist suggests Evan write letters to himself – hence, the name of the musical. Another loner (and bully) named Connor Murphy, whose younger sister is Evan’s secret crush, finds one of these letters at school. Sadly, a few days later, Evan learns that Connor took his own life. Among his things, Connor’s parents and sister find the letter that Evan wrote to himself but they think Connor wrote it to Evan. When Evan lies to them and tells them that Connor wrote it to him and in fact, they were great friends, a fabricated story begins that gives Connor’s family a final connection to him while inflating Evan’s status at school and on social media and instilling new hope in his own life. It’s a wrenching story of alienation set to beautiful yet haunting music that sent sniffles cascading throughout the theater. As the show went on, with tears in our eyes, my wife and I locked pinkies and kept squeezing tight. I knew we were thinking the same thing. Two young men dealing with social, behavior and acceptance issues, one whose life ends so tragically. The story – in some form – could be our future.
For quite some time, we’ve been dealing with the same issues with our five-year-old son, George. Given, he’s much younger than those young men but that time in his life will be here before we know it. As an incredibly smart and sweet boy with ADHD, he struggles daily with behavioral challenges, self-control and accepting no. It consumes our family and impacts his life in school and with friends. We’ve spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars to help teach and guide our whole family in how to best handle life as George develops and matures. Fortunately, we have a incredibly knowledgeable and compassionate team around us that helps us make sense of what to do. It’s not easy. Far from it. But that doesn’t matter. As a parent, you dedicate everything you have to showing your children the way through life. So as I sat and listened to Evan Hansen sing of loneliness, of despair, of disappearing, it overwhelmed me knowing that despite all of the effort, you have no idea how a child will turn out. That’s enough to paralyze a parent with fear.
Still, strange as it sounds, I was also encouraged and inspired by what I was watching onstage. I realized that what we’re doing as parents – the dedication, the engulfing love, and the lessons we’re teaching George and our three-year-old daughter, Annie – are stepping-stones in the right direction. Like most parents, we’re figuring this out blindly as we go along. And part of figuring it out is figuring out that one of the critical parts of being a parent is just being present. Lauren and I try to make this one of the foundations of raising our kids. Just being there.
The young adults in the play aren’t so lucky. Evan’s father left when he was a young boy. His mother nobly worked tirelessly to better herself and support her son but it left her not present in his life, his struggles and his secrets. For Connor, his mother seems lost and helpless while his father’s head is always at work. There’s a poignant scene where Connor’s dad, feeling guilty about not having known his son better, teaches Evan how to break in a baseball glove the right way. It’s the hard way but the right way, the song goes. A dad without a son teaching a son without a dad – both taking away different things through the same experience.
A few days after we saw the play, on a crisp fall Saturday afternoon in New Jersey, our family was playing catch in the backyard when George complained of his baseball glove being stiff. We told him that we’d have to show him how to break in his glove. And we did. The hard way but the right way. It meant the world to him and us.
As the curtain went down on Dear Evan Hansen and people wiped away their tears, I turned around to ask the mother and daughter behind me if it had exceeded their expectations. I also wanted to tell the young actress something I thought was important to hear as she pursues her dream. But before I could, they were out of their seats, rushing out. I figured they just wanted to beat the crowd. As we filed out of the theater, I caught a glimpse of them off to the side waiting by the stage door. For whatever reason, I felt like I had something I needed to say to these complete strangers. I couldn’t let it go. I went over and apologized for bothering them and with the mom’s blessing told the daughter, “You’re a 12-year-old with dreams of being an actress. You’ve got your life ahead of you and it’s not worth doing something you’re not passionate about. So do whatever you possibly can to figure out a way to do what you love. As someone who achieved their goal of doing what I love to do (produce television) let me tell you, it’s worth it.” I don’t know why but I was emotional when I said it.
What happened next left me nearly speechless. The mother and daughter both started sobbing. Mom said that the message to her daughter couldn’t have come at a better time. The young girl was thinking of giving it all up. Her brother had just taken his own life in February. He suffered from depression. That’s why the show was so special to them. She saw her son in Connor. That’s why they had come to New York. That’s why they rushed out at the end…because they were so overcome with emotion. That’s why the song, “So Big, So Small” was so meaningful to them – because it starts, “It was a February day…”
I ached for them. I touched the mom’s elbow in comfort and she grabbed my hand and said thank you. I told her that I saw my son in the same show in a different way. That whatever struggles he may endure, I would always be there for George. Make sure you are, she said. For a brief moment, I stood with two strangers in the glow of the bright lights of Broadway and cried. And then it was over. I said goodbye and walked back to Lauren’s side. I gripped her hand tightly and told her what had happened. We choked up while we walked. It will be okay, I told her. And I meant it.
The next morning as I drove to my office in New York City, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened the night before. As I approached the Lincoln Tunnel, with the bright sun streaming eerily through the clouds, I looked up and amid the chaos of street signs, buildings and traffic saw a billboard for Dear Evan Hansen.
I’d passed it numerous times before but that day I saw it in a whole new light.
