Reshaping a Rural College Theatre Program

In her 2020 HowlRound Journal article “The Work of Imagination,” director Tamilla Woodard asks: “What if we thought of theatre as community organizing?” Writing from the perspective of an artist desperately holding onto a “lifelong romantic notion” that theatre “can sorta-kinda-maybe make change,” Woodard posits that the way we make theatre demands reevaluation in a world changed by the global pandemic. Instead of treating audiences like consumers, Woodard argues, organizations should ask the community what they need and respond to the answers as if they are providing their community with a social service. Woodard encourages theatres to think about access, both in terms of their audiences and the artists they work with.

Woodard’s contemplations have been a big part of my trial-by-fire work as a newly minted theatre instructor. Two-and-a-half years ago, I began my position as an assistant professor at Union Commonwealth University (UCU), a small liberal arts college in rural Kentucky, as the only dedicated faculty member in the theatre program. I was hired as the college was just opening back up from COVID. UCU Theatre had recently undergone some cuts, and my position was vacant for a semester, leaving the students unsure about the future of the program (read: anxious and kind of over it). Having completed my doctorate at a large research university, I had to adjust to a small liberal arts college student body. Many of my students were unprepared for the scholastic and social aspects of college. Many had difficulty completing assignments and had priorities other than school. Finally, in a student body of almost nine hundred, all but twenty-three (!!!) students were student-athletes, meaning that most prioritized their sport over anything else.

I want theatre to survive—and even thrive—in spaces that have become, for various reasons, art deserts.

When I began my job, the college was in a bit of a community stand-off. I knew the best way for me to keep my job—and yes, I am always thinking about how to keep my job—would involve community-building. At the 2024 Association for Theatre in Higher Education (ATHE) conference, president-elect Martine Kei Green-Rogers noted in her keynote speech that when she became dean of the Theatre School at DePaul University, her goal was to ingratiate the theatre program so wholly into the university that in order to eliminate the program they would have to “pull up concrete” to get rid of its roots. Similarly, I wanted the theatre to be a treasured part of the college, which meant making it attractive to students and essential to the community.

I have taken Woodard’s call for a changed way of making theatre seriously, mostly out of necessity. I want theatre to survive—and even thrive—in spaces that have become, for various reasons, art deserts. I want to keep my job. I want to foster young theatremakers. I want to reimagine how to make theatre for generations to come.

Engaging the Community

For almost four years, I facilitated theatre in prison with the Phoenix Players Theatre Group (PPTG) at Auburn Correctional Facility. Each week, the first thing the facilitators would do is clean and organize our rehearsal room. Prison is a dirty place, and this small gesture demonstrated that we value the work we do together. Cleaning rehearsal spaces is very much a womanist/feminist action. Laurie Carlos, Lois Weaver, and Rhodessa Jones, for example, all write about taking time to set up the theatre space in a way that reflects a respect for the people who inhabit it. I believe firmly that spaces should be usable and accessible. At UCU Theatre, this process involved a full clean out of our costume storage, prop closet, backstage, and an abandoned room that I turned into a student lounge/green room. In addition, I keep my office and student lounge stocked with snacks—a feminist technique rooted in nurturing the community. Snacks invite students to stop by my office to chat and prevent actors from getting too grumpy during evening rehearsals.

Next, and most importantly, I opened the metaphorical doors of the theatre as wide as possible, starting with season selection. I put a call out for a season selection committee through the usual channels—social media, the school’s listservs, and word of mouth—and simply asked people to help. Anyone—and I do mean anyone—was welcome to join the committee, yielding twenty or so community, faculty, staff, and student participants. Approximately fifteen of these offered play suggestions, and five participated in the final discussion. From those final five, I formed longstanding working relationships with three—one of whom eventually became our resident musical director. From this endeavor, I also started a mailing list that continues to grow. This is when the theatre went from a one-person program to a “we” with community and campus buy-in. I can’t overstate this… people will show up if you ask.

Each year, we also offer free community workshops to both college affiliates (students, staff, faculty) and the broader public. These workshops last between four and six weeks and welcome participants of all experience levels. These initial community offerings have grown into more substantial and recurring programs, such as our New Play Festival and 24-Hour Play Festival. These festivals engage theatremakers of varied interests and commitment levels. Not only have these events provided inclusive creative spaces, but they have also generated local press coverage, built community goodwill, and attracted new actors to the theatre program.

In addition to our community programming, our mainstage auditions are open to the entire community, inviting local actors to share the stage with college students. Including the broader community not only professionalizes the experience for students also strengthens town-gown relationships and bolsters the sustainability of productions when student actor turnout is low.

In our productions, college students have worked alongside middle schoolers and actors in their eighties. This intergenerational structure fosters vital soft skills like communication, collaboration, and empathy. It also encourages students to step into leadership roles in what functions as a true community theatre. Students serve as designers (set, costume, lighting, and props), stage managers, assistant directors, choreographers, makeup artists, and graphic designers. For their work, they may earn course credit, a small scholarship, or work-study compensation.

Woodard notes that she thinks of [service] organizations as places that bring people together, unlike institutions that are associated with “permanence, enforcement, and destructive systems of exclusion.” At UCU Theatre, we follow the framework that anything that brings people together is a good thing. Opening the theatre space for both on- and off-campus communities has been central to our mission. We’ve opened the doors to local groups, including high school drama programs (which also supports recruitment), theatre companies (where we find local community actors), and bands (developing relationships with musicians). This summer, the theatre program partnered with the Boys and Girls Club for a weeklong camp in the space, which evolved into an ongoing partnership. On campus, we encourage student organizations to use the theatre for events like movie nights, increasing awareness of the space itself (students need to know where to find you!). Whenever possible, we invite outside organizations into our space, such as a local African drumming circle, Appalshop, and visiting artists like playwright Erika Dickerson-Despenza. These events raise the visibility of the theatre and the university—and I’m not shy about leveraging that goodwill to build even deeper community support.

Instead of making sure the people we work with are “good enough” to be on our stage, we simply ask: What do you want to do?

Dismantling Barriers to Access

Many of us creating theatre at small liberal arts colleges recognize that there is simply not the same buy-in as I (for example) experienced as a young theatremaker. As an undergraduate, I hustled to make theatre. If a rehearsal room was reserved until 11:00 p.m., my collaborators and I would sneak in and rehearse at midnight. That kind of enthusiasm is extremely rare at my college and, from what colleagues tell me, rare in general. Things have changed: COVID taught us the show doesn’t always have to go on; students are more likely to prioritize their mental health than they are to overcommit; and with the economy in the toilet, students gravitate towards disciplines that guarantee a job after graduation. In this landscape, what does gatekeeping really do? Perhaps instead of making sure the people we work with are “good enough” to be on our stage, we simply ask: What do you want to do?

When I first arrived at UCU Theatre, I reached out personally to every faculty staff and member who had expressed even the slightest interest in theatre—and I followed up. I got them involved, no matter their experience level. That first production featured a co-director from academic advising, faculty actors from marketing and the school of education, a playwright who also serves as associate provost, a choreographer from spiritual life, and a graphic designer from communications. Not everyone was trained, but they were willing and excited.

The gatekeeping measures of my youth are simply defunct in a theatre environment where, as Woodard postulates, theatre needs to prove its worth. Without an abundance of interest in the theatre program, collaborators and I need to prove what theatre has to offer. For some, it’s soft skills that will help them in other areas of their career. For others, it’s community. Whatever brings them to the table, we must nourish.

This approach demands a rethinking of processes meant to weed people out. With auditions, for example, we have forsaken the monologue in favor of warm-ups and audition sides. We strive to find a place for everyone who shows up, whether that be onstage or backstage. Sometimes a would-be actor leaves an audition as an assistant director. Sometimes we build an ensemble into the show. I tell everyone who shows up to auditions “I hope you really want to be involved, because we’re going to make sure you are.”

I’ve also rethought rehearsals. I say “I” because another thing I’ve learned is that I set the tone for other UCU Theatre directors. When directors come in ready to act as unyielding auteurs, I have to gently nudge them toward a softer style. We want to keep our students and volunteer actors around. And they don’t stick around for that kind of nonsense anymore.

At other schools I have attended, students might rehearse five to six days a week. At UCU Theatre, this is not possible. Between academics, athletics, family obligations, and work schedules, we are lucky to get in three three-hour rehearsals a week. For some this is more than doable, and for others it is far too time consuming. As I write this, an actor who has experienced homelessness is a no-call, no-show to rehearsal. In other environments, a no call, no show would be a fireable offense. For us, the stage manager stands in and we move on. In widening our circle, we simply have to accommodate many, many, many absences. This is not ideal, of course, but bending the rehearsal schedule (until it almost breaks) has been crucial for the UCU community.

At the same time, as a director and instructor, I make it clear that theatre can be a priority. Not only does students’ work matter, but they are part of a bigger mechanism that really does suffer without them. Sometimes it takes hand holding. I have gone so far as to make a chart of how to prioritize a production schedule: Rehearsals are important but not as important as a family emergency or work obligation. Tech is more important than work but not as important as a family emergency. And during the show, performances are a top priority (to the extent that that’s possible).

Approaching the work as Woodard recommends, akin to social service, prevents me from losing my enthusiasm and perspective. The community needs this cultural institution.

As audiences, the people in our small, rural community are giving us their money and their time, and we owe them our best. Being the only brick-and-mortar theatre for nearly fifty miles is a responsibility. Our productions are the first theatre many spectators have ever seen. And while we keep tickets prices low (or free at the door) to reduce barriers, the quality of our work and the level of commitment we expect remain high even as we pivot to accommodate the needs of our actors.

This type of wide-ranging participation doesn’t just enrich the production—it builds cross-campus investment and lays the foundation for broader institutional support of the theatre program.

Challenges

It’s still dang tough though. Having been trained in conservatory theatre methods, I find being so flexible difficult. I long for a group of enthusiastic theatremakers willing to give every ounce of themselves to their craft—even at their own peril. Oh, those were the days. And while I am being a bit tongue-and-cheek about it, I do sincerely miss the camaraderie and satisfaction that comes from giving everything to a production. But those days (for most of us) are long over. Perhaps there are other ways to make theatre that don’t include trauma bonding over an especially excruciating rehearsal.

While I have found a few die-hard participants, participation mostly ebbs and flows. Second and third chances for noncommittal actors are imperative, and problem solving is compulsory. Yet approaching the work as Woodard recommends, akin to social service, prevents me from losing my enthusiasm and perspective. The community needs this cultural institution.

As one of my mentors, Rhodessa Jones, professes: Self-care is critical, especially in a field where emotional labor, burnout, and exploitation are common. As Jones reminds us, you cannot be present for someone who is struggling if you’re also struggling yourself. I set boundaries with my time: I can’t (and won’t) be at the theatre all the time. I treat the theatre like a working space, which means there are periods when I’m there constantly and times when I stay far away. I’ve also learned to weigh the costs and benefits of every task. I won’t go door-to-door asking for sponsorships, for example, because I know that’s not the best use of my energy. I try not to take things personally, and I don’t get bogged down in bureaucratic nonsense. It’s a small college—I won’t get everything I ask for. But I’m also clear about my worth. I do my best to protect my time, I let things go, and I stay clear-eyed about the fact that institutions will always prioritize their own survival.

For now, though, the work is working. I’m focused on creating a space that’s generous, non-oppressive, and rooted in the belief that people want to be part of something. Self-care allows me to provide trauma-informed care to students, model healthy boundaries, and stay committed to the long game of building something lasting.

When theatres around the country are closing their doors, small colleges may be able to pick up some of the slack by opening their doors wide and embracing a model that ensures theatre stays present in small, rural communities. For students, working alongside community members nurtures empathy, communication skills, and a deeper understanding of diverse life experiences. The theatre can amplify underrepresented voices, honor local histories, and serve as a site for healing and celebration. It also helps the college fulfill its mission of public service and outreach, making the campus feel more accessible and relevant to the community it serves. Ultimately, a community theatre embedded in a college creates a vibrant ecosystem of creativity, learning, and connection —it just takes a little imagination, a lot of outreach, and a deep belief that if you build it, they will come.

And they have.