I’m a 17-year-old boy, and am doing mostly volunteer work at a theatre. A performance showcase is going up that same evening, and the normal lighting person is out sick, so the stage manager, my dad, asks me to do it. This means I have about three hours to properly and professionally light a four hour show on my own. I’m backstage asking people about costumes and what they plan on doing, when a woman, we’ll call her Diva, approaches me. Keep in mind, she’s about 35-40, and white, while I’m mixed, but darker skinned.
Diva: Hey, boy. Come here.
Me: Oh perfect! I was just about ask you about costumes.
Diva: *cutting me off* My friends and I are thirsty, go get us some beer from across the street.
Me: Uh… Sorry ma’am. I’m not an assistant, and even if I was, I’m not 21.
Diva: *ignores me and tries to hand me $20* Just go get us a six pack of whatever.
Me: I honestly can’t.
Diva: Oh stop being lazy! I could’ve told you to pay for it yourself, but I’m not.
Me: You… Do realize that it’s illegal for me to even try to buy alcohol, right?
Diva: *scoff* No it’s not! Just go get us some beer.
I’m beginning to lose my patience, but luckily the stage manager (my dad) calls me back to the lighting booth, so I leave. Once back there, he warns me to stay away from her, and even goes down to finish the job I was doing on the stage anyway. A little later, we’re in full-on rehearsal mode, and everything is going smoothly until we get to her part of the showcase.
She’s told me to change and replace almost everything we’ve done, and once she decides on one thing, she immediately changes it to something else.
Diva: Alright, so I’m going to need a spotlight on me the whole time.
Me: Okay. I can do a single spot on you, but you’d have to stay at center the whole time.
Diva: I can’t do that.
Me: I’m sorry, it’s all I can do. It’s just me up here, so I don’t have anyone to operate the actual spotlight.
Diva: Just do it. I need a spotlight on me no matter where I am.
It then hits me that I have no idea what she’s actually doing, as she never told me or my dad what her performance is.
Me: Oh um… Are you going to be dancing or anything like that?
Diva: Absolutely not, you idiot boy! What do I look like?!
Me: I was just asking…
Diva: YOUR JOB IS TO LIGHT MY SHOW AND NOT MOUTH OFF YOU STUPID NIGGER BOY!!! IF YOU DON’T FIGURE THIS OUT IN TEN SECONDS, I’LL COME UP THERE AND BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!!! *mutters* I knew you blacks weren’t educated, but this is just ridiculous!
At this point, I’m almost in tears. I have extreme anxiety, and when people yell at me, I never know what to do. I’ve never been yelled at like that before, especially not with the racial slur. My dad, the stage manager, comes out from backstage. He’s about six-foot-seven, and very black. He tells me to mute their mics, and then has some stern words with her. From where I am, I can see her go from red, to white, and back again. She then pulls her mic off and throws it on the stage before stomping off. A few minutes later, my dad comes up to the booth with a couple of cookies and hugs me.
Dad: Don’t worry. Scrap all the programmed stuff you had for her performance, she’s not in it anymore, and she’s not allowed inside the building. If anyone sees her, they’ll call the police.
Apparently, she tried to come back four more times that night, and even threatened to sue my dad and the theatre. I don’t know what she expected to achieve considering the security cameras in the theatre, and the fact that the majority of the cast for the show were some form of African-American and good family friends. I’ve never seen or heard about her again, but now me and my dad laugh about it all the time.
