The far right of my bookmarks bar in Chrome says “Shows and Screenings.” The Yale College Arts website is within my top 10 most visited. After all, what convinced me to commit to Yale wasn’t the stellar academics or beautiful buildings. Rather, it was the Spring 2022 KASY Cultural Show I was smuggled into the weekend before Bulldog Days. I witnessed the first and last hour of The Viola Question’s annual improv marathon and found myself in the center of the drunken cacophony of AEPi’s dance floor as a remix of Taylor Swift began to play. This type of joy in art is central to Yale’s culture, and as a former theater kid that had been shepherded down the STEM pipeline, I was ready to veer back into it.
But I quickly found out that I was not made from the teflon needed to be a dedicated member of the Yale performing arts community. I settled comfortably into the cushioned seats of the audience and vowed that I would make a point to attend shows when I could. During my first months at Yale, I always managed to find a new friend to accompany, reserving two tickets on Yale Connect before I knew who would be filling the seat next to mine. This was my equivalent of the first-year aversion to eating alone. Much like people begin to walk into dining halls solo, I eventually let go of needing a partner. I had confidence that I’d see someone I knew in the audience, greet them with a wave, and sit within a distance calibrated for our level of acquaintance.
Soon, a pattern became clear. Whether I say hi to the performers before or afterward, I’m always asked the same question: “Who do you know in the show?” This perplexed me at first, especially when a silence followed after I answered “no one.” Were there really so few people at Yale that it was statistically presumed I would know at least one performer? My suitemate had invited me to her Rhythmic Blue shows, but I thought that was an exception. At a pace slowed greatly by my autism, I realized the integral place of performance in Yale’s social scene. Time is a scarce currency for most, so to spend it attending a friend’s show is a form of affection. I reveled in this new love language.
Yet, this still leaves me in an odd spot for shows I simply want to see for fun. I have tried approaching people I didn’t know to compliment their performances after a show or mentioning it when I met them at a party, but neither felt right. The first never became natural, and I stopped attempting the second after someone told me they were glad to meet “a fan.” Perhaps in a more ideal world, I’d be proud of not knowing anyone in the show. In that world, I’d see the show just for my own fulfillment. But in this one, please don’t mind as I speedily walk down the aisles and through the exit after the bows.
