Student Blog: Evan Hansen, Endless Tears, and Late-Night Cheesecake

My mom came to musical theater through me. I am not sure why she wasn’t already there. My earliest memories of her include dancing and singing. She would greet me in the mornings with her own vision of a “wake up song,” set to the tune of “Goodnight Ladies” from The Music Man.

Wake up, Olivia

Wake up, Olivia

Wake up Olivia,

It’s time to go to school

Maybe you had to be there. But trust me, my mother sang and danced throughout my youth and still does. She even twirled a baton in high school. When it comes to natural musical theatre fans, she definitely fits the bill.

Yet my mom never found herself attending musicals until my debut as Patty Pointer in my second-grade performance of Arf! (shout out to Mrs. Lee, the best elementary school music teacher in the history of schools). 

My mom noticed my love for that experience. She still talks about my words to her after the show: Mom, I kind of want to go to second-grade all over again so I can be in another show.

As she tells the story, she choked back a laugh and said: Olivia, you don't have to be in Mrs. Lee’s second grade music class to be in a show. There are other ways to be in a show. I can make that happen. 

That’s all it took. My mom was invested. Patty Pointer would be the first of my many roles in children’s musicals. From an ensemble cat in Aristocats, to an Oompa Loompa in Willy Wonka Jr., to savanna grass in Lion King Jr. (yes I was an actual blade of grass), to those childhood roles every theater kid dreams about, like Cruella De Vil and Ida the Duck in Honk Jr., my mom was down for it all. 

Eventually, my love for theater drew me and my mom to NYC. My persistent pleas convinced my mom to book a trip to NYC as a present for my 13th birthday. 

We were both new to Broadway. We had never been to NYC. And although my passion for theater was already a given, it was that first Broadway show that turned my mom from a supporting parent in the wings to an all-out theater convert. 

We can both thank actor Andrew Barth Feldman and the legendary songwriting team of Benj Pasek and Justin Paul for what was the perfect introduction to Broadway. 

We saw Dear Evan Hansen that first night in NYC. I had some idea of what to expect, having lived and breathed all things musical theater for five years. But still, I was unprepared for the way I was enthralled before the show even began. 

Projections of social media posts and text messages scrolled across the set pre show–typical adolescent conversations. A teenage boy’s bedroom took up center stage–a bed, a table covered with books and pencils, a laptop open as if waiting to speak.

The lights went out. A single glow from the computer illuminated Evan Hansen’s face, and he began his opening monologue. 

Andrew’s interpretation of Evan felt deeply familiar. My mom and I saw pieces of my brother, who is profoundly affected by autism–the physical tension in Evan’s movements, the quirks, the social strain that was compellingly heart-breaking. It was as if Andrew had studied my brother to play this role. 

Autism impacts my brother in ways that are much more obvious than the way Evan Hansen’s neurodivergence impacts him. Yet, I could see my brother. I could hear so many words that I could envision my brother saying, if only he could. 

On the outside, always looking in

Will I ever be more than I’ve always been?

‘Cause I’m tap, tap, taping on the glass

I’m waving through a window

I try to speak, but nobody can hear

So I wait around for an answer to appear

While I’m watch, watch, watching people pass

I’m waving through a window, oh

Can anybody see, is anybody waving back at me?

It was enough to bring on the tears for me. Dial that up a notch for Mom, who had already delved into her purse for the Kleenex. I knew by the end of that second song, she hadn’t brought enough. 

As the lyrics to “If I Could Tell Her” filled the theater, I didn’t just hear a teenage boy talking about his crush. I heard my brother. I heard the things he might say to the people he loves if only he could. I heard the words, too, of a boy who really saw the person he loved–saw her for every beautiful thing that she was.

If I could tell her

Tell her everything I see

If I could tell her

How she's everything to me

But we're a million worlds apart

And then came those dark, haunting words in “You Will be Found.”

Even when the dark comes crashing through

When you need a friend to carry you

And when you're broken on the ground

You will be found

So let the sun come streamin' in

'Cause you'll reach up and you'll rise again

Lift your head and look around

You will be found

My mom and I were riding an emotional tsunami. I thought of the times in my own life when I felt invisible. I thought of the friends who had lifted me. 

I was a puddle. 

My mom was a lake, if not an ocean. 

At intermission, I worried she wouldn’t emotionally survive the second act. By the final bow, I was half-convinced I needed to call an ambulance. 

The song “So Big / So Small” hit the hardest. 

Your mom isn't going anywhere

Your mom is staying right here

Your mom isn't going anywhere

Your mom is staying right here

No matter what

I'll be here

When it all feels so big

‘Til it all feels so small

I felt these lyrics with every bit of emotional energy left in me. Though I could not identify with the lyrics as a mother, I felt them as a daughter. I saw the words embodied in the woman next to me, this person who shares my DNA and so much more. These lyrics reminded me how lucky I am to have a mom who has worked through many challenges in life–a mom who has advocated for my brother in a world that doesn’t make space for him, a mom who would walk through fire for me. It reminded me how lucky I am to have parents who support me in pursuing my passion. 

We ended the perfect night at Junior’s Restaurant and Bakery, where we were still wiping tears from our faces over cheesecake. 

Many people might not understand how two hours of sobbing in a crowded theater can be one of life’s most wonderful moments. But if you are a theater person, you just know. 

The moment has led to so many more. My mom discovered her own love for musicals that went far beyond the roles of chauffeur, costume planner and eager supporter of children. Now, it is our thing. Through five trips to NYC we have seen a variety of shows, perhaps none as memorable as that first. But they all connect us. 

Sharing my love of musicals with my mom has taught me that people come to the theater to feel. They come to connect, they come to explore. And if they are truly lucky they have a person at their side who sees them, loves them, lifts them up, and is always willing to go for post-show cheesecake.