The Brooklyn Rail

Attempted Conversation Starter

How to Dance in Ohio, the first Broadway musical with openly Autistic actors playing Autistic characters, is currently running at the Belasco Theatre. This is quite ironic for me because recent neurodiverse representation on that particular stage has historically been… not great. 

In Girl from the North Country, a mentally disabled man died of drowning (offstage) only to return in a clean white suit to sing Bob Dylan’s “Duquesne Whistle,” signifying that he was free of his burdens. In last season’s Good Night, Oscar, Sean Hayes gave a tour de force performance as Oscar Levant, a man with OCD whose neurodivergence is viewed as a burden by his wife and colleagues. While these shows took place in 1934 and 1958 respectively, I couldn’t help but question what message was intended about neurodiversity. It was painful and distressing to watch them.

In a theater space that unwittingly inflicted harm upon me, it would be a full circle moment to find healing in watching How to Dance in Ohio. Indeed, I was moved by it. I was uplifted and applauded profusely. As an audience member, I felt welcome in the space and taken care of throughout the show. I didn’t feel wounded or distressed watching it. It never resorts to Inspiration Porn (and, in fact, superficially critiques it). It declares and embodies the mantra “Nothing about us without us.” It aims to provide its audience with a holistic constellation¹ of Autism that considers intersectionality with race, class, gender, and sexuality. Its good intentions, and the inclusive space it makes for Autistic theater artists and audiences, are all over the Belasco stage (I especially appreciated the Accessibility Resources included in the Playbill). And most importantly, every Autistic person I know involved with the show has had nothing but positive things to say about the process.

But was I “healed”? Not necessarily. Rather, I was reminded of how many more difficult conversations the industry needs to have about neurodiverse representation on and offstage.

Before continuing, let me clearly state: the creative team for How to Dance in Ohio has done commendable work opening doors for Autistic theatermakers, many of whom made their Broadway debuts with this show.

I am also only one Autistic person, and my opinion should not be taken as representative of the entire Autistic community. I primarily want to use this space as a springboard for deeper conversations about neurodiverse/Autistic representation in relation to How to Dance in Ohio. These are by no means the only conversations I hope folks will have after seeing the musical.

More Than Just a Cute Cast

In his memoir Act One, Moss Hart wrote, “The theatre is an inevitable refuge of the unhappy child.” What he forgot to say is that that unhappy child grows up (whether they remain unhappy is up to multitudinous factors that I can’t even begin to list here). A similar paradigm happens with Autistic folks—society is so quick to infantilize Autistic people that it forgets that Autistic children become Autistic adults. Case in point: numerous message board posts about How to Dance in Ohio referring to its seven Autistic characters as “kids” as opposed to “young adults.” Does this vocabulary reflect how society views Autistic people, or how the musical treats its Autistic characters? 

It could be both. I think it could also be historic Autistic representation on Broadway. The most prominent Autistic representation (at least in recent years) is The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a play whose fifteen-year-old male protagonist isn’t even explicitly labeled as Autistic (Interestingly, that play is currently undergoing a reclamation by the Autistic community; that’s another story.) A smash hit both critically and financially, Incident’s success makes me wonder if this emphasis on Autistic children and/or teenagers is the sort of Autism narrative most audiences are comfortable seeing. Autism is often misconstrued as a childhood “disease,” something most children grow out of (or at least learn to mask). But Autistic adults do exist in our world, and they certainly exist in How to Dance in Ohio.

(Here, I must give a shout-out to Vivacity, who handles the press for How to Dance in Ohio—they explicitly state that “while there are a few characters that are teenagers, many of the characters at Amigo Family Counseling Center are in their twenties.”)

Representation…and What Else?

One of my favorite sayings is “identity is not a virtue in and of itself.” While identity can inform lived experience, it doesn’t mean a person of a certain identity is incapable of causing harm to the group(s) they claim to represent. I think it stands to reason, also, that representation is not a virtue in and of itself.

To me, How to Dance in Ohio feels like it values representation above all. It is so focused on positive representation that it avoids the messier, more complex, and human facets of being Autistic. Some of the more interesting storylines occur primarily offstage. One such thread is Caroline’s (Amelia Fei) relationship with her first boyfriend, who proves to be increasingly possessive (we never meet him). True, stories like this aren’t the most comfortable to watch. But why should Autistic people be here for neurotypical people’s comfort? How much insight could we glean watching Autistic people navigate relationships that aren’t necessarily the healthiest? What could we learn about how we treat not only Autistic people, but also each other? Could we see Caroline’s best friend Jessica (Ashley Wool) help her walk away from this toxic relationship? Autistic people helping other Autistic people!

When all a show has to offer is representation, are audiences being sufficiently challenged, edified, and moved by it? Are preconceived notions of a marginalized group being challenged, confirmed, or staying the same? In seeing How to Dance in Ohio, what are audiences learning about Autism and/or Autistic people that they didn’t know before? Are they learning anything new? I’d like to think that thornier, more complicated Autism narratives belong on our stages.

Stories for Me, and You, and Who?

The seven incredible Autistic actors in the show are charming, hilarious, vulnerable, and heartbreaking. They each bring a unique skillset to the show, from Conor Tague’s facial expressions to Imani Russell’s hilariously dry, deadpan line delivery. They go far beyond mere adjectives such as “cute” or “inspirational” (barf). The audience falls in love with them from the very top of the show and is raring to go on the journey with them. But as the show unfolds, their social skills teacher Dr. Amigo (Caesar Samayoa) and his daughter Ashley (Cristina Sastre) are given a hefty amount of stage time, prompting me to think, “Can we get back to the Autistic characters now?” (Interestingly, in the source documentary of the same name, Dr. Amigo is much more of a side character, leaving more space, refreshingly, for the day-to-day lives of the Autistic clients.)

In the song “Getting Ready for the Dance,” Caroline and Jessica’s mothers express their excitement to see their daughters try on dresses for the spring formal, a ritual more easily afforded to neurotypical teens. It’s a poignant number, and parents’ relationships to Autism is not unworthy of exploration, but the mothers’ singing feels more like filler: it is a necessary time killer as the actresses perform quick changes. What if, instead, we checked in with other Autistic characters during those intervals, to see how they felt getting ready for the dance? 

This made me wonder how much we trust Autistic/neurodiverse folks to carry their narratives. Why is a neurotypical “way in” necessary? Did we need a “way in” for Caroline navigating a potentially toxic relationship? Or Mel’s struggle to do their job while coping with debilitating anxiety, neurotypical expectations of workplace behavior, and a lack of accommodations? Or Tommy’s drive (pun intended) to get his driver’s license? Or Marideth’s grief over the loss of her mother, her emotional journey to accept the loss, and how grief can manifest in Autistic people? Or Jessica’s struggle for independence? Or Remy navigating a hostile online sphere? Or Drew’s uncertainty over his future? (His number “Under Control” was especially relatable to my Autistic experience.) 

There is a universality and specificity to these characters that the musical doesn’t allow the characters to fully embody, strong as the performances are. Of course, with these seven main characters each chasing their own goals or undergoing growth over the musical’s two acts, it is difficult to give each the space to go past superficiality and into richer nuance and dynamic arcs. This gets more diluted given the other, neurotypical characters’ plot points. What would the show look like had it kept the Autistic characters as the principal focus? 

(Another observation: one of the show’s taglines, “Each small victory can feel gigantic,” is delivered in the show by the aforementioned neurotypical moms—it isn’t reprised by the Autistic characters. Maybe I’m overthinking it, but it makes me wonder who the show is marketing to—Autistic folks? Neurotypical parents? Autistic parents?)

To go a little into the history of this show, Hal Prince initiated the project to honor his Autistic granddaughter. I can’t speak for his intentions—I never knew him—but I believe they were honorable. The inclusion is there, and that’s great. But why do (presumably) neurotypical theater artists have to be the ones to decide when we get represented? Why aren’t we given that artistic license and autonomy to lead our own artistic projects? When will we be given the same amount of support that the creators of How to Dance in Ohio received? 

(What I Hope Isn’t) The Final Conversation

One conversation that can only happen in the abstract is the conversation I’d have with my younger self about How to Dance in Ohio. Would he find it relatable or moving? Honestly, he probably wouldn’t have cared. He was already living the reality of this story and had no interest or desire to see it onstage. He hadn’t yet learned that his most successful play would be about a “condition” that he viewed as a burden, a snake rearing its ugly head with every social faux pas. He hadn't yet learned (or been encouraged) to harness his power. He wasn’t yet “building momentum,” as Drew sings, to embrace himself as a queer Autistic man navigating a world not designed for him.

Thankfully, the conversation around Autism is much more nuanced than it was when I was growing up. And despite my qualms, I’m glad How to Dance in Ohio made it to Broadway. I hope it finds a fanbase and a future outside New York. I have no doubt that many Autistic people see themselves in at least one of the characters in How to Dance in Ohio (I certainly related a lot to Drew—Liam Pearce is a clear standout). I know many Autistic people who have felt seen by it. We all deserve that experience.

I want to conclude by offering a plea to the wider Broadway community: regardless of what comes of How to Dance in Ohio’s run, please don’t give up on Autistic stories and artists. Let How to Dance in Ohio be our jumping-off point rather than the end of the line. Let it show that there is an audience who needs these stories whether they know it or not. Let the diverse range of performers on that stage, and their immense heart, discipline, and talent, say that we are out there, ready and eager to work, and have an incredible range of stories to share. 

Also, we’re freakin’ stars. If How to Dance in Ohio hasn’t illuminated that, I don’t know what to tell you.

1. I prefer “constellation” instead of “spectrum” because Autism, like constellations, has innumerable manifestations and stories behind it.