Volume 8

Editorial: Communing with the Ancestors

By Jonathan P. Jones

NEW YORK UNIVERSITY

In spring 2021, I was invited to speak to undergraduate students in the Program in Educational Theatre at NYU Steinhardt. The event was framed as part of a series of Q/A sessions with individual faculty members, giving the undergraduates an opportunity to get to know us better—focused primarily on our individual journeys from undergraduate students to our current professional roles. Midway through the discussion, a student asked me how I overcame my imposter syndrome. Conceived by Clance and Imes (1978), the imposter syndrome denotes “the psychological experience of phoniness and inability to internalize successful accomplishments despite objective evidence of worthy achievements” (Levesque, 2018). I thought for a moment before responding to the question, as I hadn’t necessarily realized until then the degree to which the fog of being an imposter had lifted. For many years, I struggled with this—as I’m sure many of you have as well—and I recall it being a pervasive presence each time I stepped into a classroom as an educator, a workshop space as the facilitator or director, or an auditorium for a professional presentation. And of late, that had fallen away. I told them that it wasn’t any particular action or practice that brought this about; rather, with time and experience, I’d grown to realize that there wasn’t an authority for me to turn to—no one was coming to save my curriculum, facilitate my workshop, write my book chapter, or co-direct the show. And no one had to save me—I was already doing all of this without much professional support—and there was no shame in owning my accomplishments.

For the past year, I have been engaged in dialogue with partners at NYU, the Educational Theatre Association (EDTA), and the American Alliance for Theatre & Education (AATE) about how to reimagine scholarship in our field such that the diversity of personal and professional experience is better reflected in our scholarly output. Looking to ArtsPraxis, it is notable that we’ve already been operating in this new paradigm. While most of our authors are associated with colleges and universities, nearly all are practitioners—and the authors who are not from the academy are either affiliated with community arts organizations and schools or they are independent teaching artists. However, a cursory overview of the professional affiliations of authors in our peer publications suggests that there is much work to do in order to reshape the paradigm across the field. Beyond professional diversity, we must also consider the limited racial, ethnic, and economic diversity among our authors—no doubt, reflective of the same lack of diversity across the field.

In this effort towards diversifying the professional affiliations of authors, we must also confront this imposter syndrome. You alone are the expert in your experience as a facilitator, educator, artist, lecturer—or whatever moniker you’ve adopted for your professional life. I will begin a discussion about the mechanics of how to share your work in professional settings later in this editorial, but before we get to that layer, we must first confront this insidious syndrome head on. Returning to this question some 9-months after the students asked me about it, I am interested in the foundations of this syndrome in my own life. What about my life and experience would make me susceptible to identifying as an imposter? As a theatre practitioner and writer, I am deeply invested in narrative—those narratives we tell others and those we tell ourselves. In light of that interest and the desire to unpack my own vulnerabilities, I invite you to join me in an investigation of some family history.

ANCESTRAL NARRATIVES

Bernice was an oak of a woman, firmly grounded and unmovable but for the Holy Spirit catching hold of her. Black oak. Never loud, her physical presence alone negated any need for verbosity. At more than 6 feet tall, the only person my younger self knew to be taller than she was my father, the youngest of her four children. For seven years, my family lived in the garden level of her brownstone in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. However, soon after my birth, we moved some 40 miles east to the suburban escape of Long Island. We visited my grandparents every couple of months, and though Bernice was an ever-present character in the unfolding drama of my life, I knew her only as that steady oak.

She was a maestro in the kitchen, ever vigilant before the mahogany stove at the rear of the railroad-style first-floor apartment. The dining table set with gold-rimmed china might display serving bowls filled to over-flowing, and yet some neck-bones or pigs’ feet would still simmer away in the kitchen. Like my childhood home, there was the primary meal for the family and the secondary meal for the husband who might turn up at any moment from getting “a taste” of liquor on his often-delayed return to the home. And yet, his favorites would be ready for his “I’ll be there when I get there.” She’d taught this trick well to my mother, who spent many-a-day toiling in just that same manner.

But, Bernice. “Lordy, Lordy,” she would often say. A warm toothy smile with a glint of gold was there to greet you when you arrived. A table to be set, silverware to put out, endless dishes to be washed. I think back on my grandfather kicking back in a sunken armchair rattling on about some so-and-so running about back in the woods in the old days, trying to escape the law. At some point, Bernie might holler—he always called her Bernie—Bernie might holler at him to go down to the corner store to get this or that—and he’d talk back at her like a child. But Bernie didn’t take no shit—so she’d hustle him up out of that chair and through the front door without even looking up from her simmering pots on the stove some 20 feet away. This was her power and she was our people.

 In late 1989, her church threw her a going-away party. She and my grandfather had recently purchased a house in Orangeburg, South Carolina and after many decades of service at the church, they wanted to give her a proper send-off. My family had peered through a window into this other life of my grandmother once before. Just a few years prior, the church raised funds to sponsor Bernice on a trip to the holy land, where should could walk in the footsteps of Jesus Christ. My immediate family were church-going Catholics, so we had a very rigid sense of what church was like—and that first visit to a Pentecostal wonderland was altogether disquieting. The congregation could talk out of turn to praise Jesus? You could stand, raise your hand in the air, and sway to the unheard rhythm of the Spirit whenever it moved you—even if everyone else was seated? But in 1989, this was a return visit. We were no longer naïve to this approach to praise. But on this second visit, we were treated to another level. The pastor extolled the virtues of Mother Jones (mother, did he say?). He glorified her in name and deed for all that she had given to their congregation and spoke with earnest hope of the gift that God would bring to this new chapter in the life of Mother Jones and her dear husband as they went home to Orangeburg.

There were many questions—many images that needed unpacking as they overwhelmed my youthful imagination. But whatever images the pastor may have conjured through his words, it was the actions that lit my mind aflame. For, as Bernice was so overwhelmed with the possibility that God had bestowed upon her, the Holy Spirit got hold of her. “Amen,” might be shouted from one corner. “Praise His name,” from another. But this was child’s play when compared to the outward display of spirit that beset my grandmother. All at once, she was up and down the aisle, arms flailing. I don’t know for sure if I’d heard that people sometimes speak in tongues when God inspires them so, and yet here it was before me.

Following the service, we went downstairs for a repast—just as we had on our previous visit to the church. But this meal came at a much higher cost. To my young eyes, my grandmother had crossed over—she was recast as someone entirely unknown and perhaps unknowable to me. What had just happened? Should I un-see what I had seen? Who was this Mother Jones?

What I know now that I could not comprehend then was that this Mother Jones was the same sturdy oak that she had always been. But she was not tethered to the kitchen of my experience—she had strong roots, and it would take many decades for me to excavate their depths.

__________

Bernie was known throughout that part of Orangeburg County for being the hardest worker. At sun-up, there was a prime directive: get to the fields. Breakfast was fried up in a skillet and you were out the door before you knew it. To young eyes, the cotton fields of Orangeburg were a heavy burden. It took years to build up calluses enough to protect tender fingers from slashes by the unforgivingly razor-sharp spikes on the tendrils of the storied crop. And yet, the tender fingers were at the ready when Bernie paraded them to the front. Raine, Junior, Harriett, and Piggy were her able minions ready to sacrifice their fingerprints in service of the family.

Burlap sheets were set to the side of the field—one per family. For some cotton pickers, they might well be a family of one—ready to make their own if they could just pick enough of that wonderful stuff. But this was not Bernie’s way. Well-known as she might be for the haul that she alone could bring, but that was not enough to manifest the wonder that she knew her work and God’s providence could bring. So her four children were there beside her in the field. Each had a sack slung around their shoulder to catch each boll as they pulled it from the endless sea of plants. There was an order and a rhythm—the mantra: leave no boll untouched—and curse you if you dared damage one stem of the precious providers. Fill your sack and carry it back out to the burlap sheet to add to the mountain of accomplishment that Bernie was building, then right back to your spot on the line to embark on your third or fourth contribution.

When the day was done, Bernie would get the children to help tie up the ends of their burlap sheet so she could carry it off to the truck. There, it would be weighed and tabulated towards their week’s earnings. Never mind the unscrupulous wanderer who might have taken a pound or two off the top to add to his pitiful haul when no one else was looking. These were simpler times.

When free moments arrived, the children would run and play. And Bernie, she had game all her own. “Piggy, get in here and get this titty so you can get yourself to bed!” The mortified 5-year-old version of he who would one day be called my father would end the chasing of some neighbor’s girl and creep his way back to his momma. Simpler times for each sapling of this fully-grown—but not yet great—oak.

__________

“Screaming Jesus” was her nickname for my younger brother Jason, whose penchant for crying and waling still reign unparalleled in the book of life. Dear Tanya, an older sister of mine, will forever and always be “Motor Mouth” as she was known to “let her mouth run a-mile-a-minute.” These missives were cast from a proprietor whose shop was just about as far afield from Orangeburg as one might possibly be. These were the nicknames of Doris, a city mouse to Bernice’s country mouse—born and raised in the pre-rustbelt cities of Central New York along the not-yet-purposeless Erie Canal.

By the time 1989 rolled around, Doris was a fading smile. She’d passed away the year before at only 62 years of age. And in the starkest divergence imaginable, whereas Bernice was a physically towering presence, Doris was, in a word, frail. When I look at family photos from just a few years before my birth, Doris was in fact just as stout as Bernice. But by the time I came along, all that strength had faded, displaced by the irreversible vestiges of a childhood bout of rheumatic fever. So I never knew her otherwise and as she was only present for the first eight years of my life, there wasn’t time for me to see many other sides to her.

But what did I see? Like Bernice, Doris too was a prayer warrior—but Catholic…familiar…silently reverent. We would go to church with her whenever we visited; when she visited us, she would come to our church, often present as we made our sacraments. There was a lot of smoking in her house—and to my eyes, smoking was a thing of leisure—sitting and smoking. Smoking at the kitchen table where meals were generally served and card games could be counted on. Smoking at the dining table which was often awash in the stuff of daily life—a room for smoking and conversation, but rarely for eating. Smoking in the living room, every possible seat taken with eyes focused sharply on the television. Music playing; game shows never far; delicate speaking and subtle displays of unbridled love. This world of leisure stood in sharp contrast to the work from dawn till dusk at Bernice’s house.

__________

Delicate and frail. But like Bernice, Doris too had her life before I knew her. Her parents threatened to disown her if she married my grandfather, Ed. She was a city girl and though a war hero, Ed’s family were farmers. This disowning dance was replayed when my mom (Donna) told Doris and Ed that she was marrying my father—Black, and though a Marine veteran like my mom, a New Yorker (his family relocated to New York City in the 1960s—story for another time). No doubt, my dad’s cotton-picking youth allowed him to forge a kinship with Ed, but Doris remained skeptical.

In 1969, Donna was enlisted in the Marine Corps, stationed in Albany, Georgia at the Marine Corps Supply Center. On the evening of September 7, a male Marine made a pass at her just outside of the women’s barracks. As she was unwelcoming of his advances, he slapped her in the face. Understandably shaken-up, Donna entered the barracks and called Doris to tell her all that had happened.

“You have to report this,” Doris counseled her.

“But I can’t, mom.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because he was Black—and I don’t want them to think I’m prejudiced,” Donna replied.

“That’s absurd. What about the other women? If you don’t report this, he might do it again.”

Doris had a point, but Donna was unmoved. This was 1969 and Donna knew well what a white woman accusing a Black man would mean in Georgia—and she was not going to have any part of that.

Two days later, with Donna remaining steadfast in her silence, Doris had had enough. On the most delicate, powder-blue stationary with pink-floral embellishments, Doris got to work.

Dear Madam,

Re. Private Donna M. Cole

I received a phone call from a very upset girl, my daughter. She related an incident that had taken place the night before, September 7, in which a man—Marine, I presume—not only harassed her but struck her, after which she ran into the barracks. From what Donna said, I imagined he was colored. She did not turn this in as I understand because of her own inner feelings, that this would give the impression she was prejudiced and perhaps incite a riot. I don’t believe Donna can identify him. I fully understood Donna’s viewpoint in the matter, but also tried to make her understand why this should be reported—not only for her welfare, but any other Woman Marine.

My main concern is the welfare of my daughter. It certainly appears that these women are not given much if any protection. Isn’t the barracks “off limits” for the men? And isn’t this seen to at all times? Like Donna, I don’t feel the stress should be entirely on identifying one man, but rather better security for the Women’s Barracks and the women. Donna does not know I am writing you and no doubt would be quite upset if she knew. I know you will use your best judgement about telling her you heard from me.

Perhaps you can inform me more about this matter and what has been done about it. I certainly hope no further incidents take place, such as this compelling me to notify my congressman.

Expecting to hear from you immediately before I carry this further at this time.

I Remain

Sincerely,

Mrs. Doris Cole

Doris received a second phone call from Donna on September 12. The content of that call might well have been lost to time had Doris not received a response to her letter, this one dated September 17:

Dear Mrs. Davis[1] Cole,

Your letter of September 9 concerning your daughter, Private Donna M. Cole, was referred to me by the Commanding Officer of the Woman Marine Company.

I was informed on September 8 of the incident in which Donna was allegedly slapped by an unknown assailant. I immediately ordered an investigation, and the results thereof will be forthcoming within the next few days.

With reference to your question concerning the security of the Woman Marine Barracks, this area is “off limits” at all times to male personnel, with the exception of a reception room downstairs where our Woman Marines may receive guests during the evenings and on weekends. Also, there is a duty watch posted inside the barracks for the safety and protection of the women within the barracks.

You may be assured that appropriate action concerning this incident will be taken based on the results of the investigation. Donna’s welfare, as well as that of all the Woman Marines on the Center, is the primary concern to me, and I do not condone any violation of their safety.

Your concern for your daughter is appreciated, and I hope that this information will serve to relieve your anxiety.

Sincerely Yours,

Major General[2]

U.S. Marine Corps

No, Major, this information did not relieve Doris’ anxiety. Rather, it inflamed her.

September 18, 1969

Dear Sir,

Enclosed is a copy of the letter mailed, registered mail, receipt requested to Donna’s C.O. I feel that enough time has lapsed for me to have had a reply from her. Captain is her name[3], I believe. This is name on the receipt I have from the registered letter.

I am not an individual trying to make trouble for her or the Marine Corps by contacting my congressman, but is this the action I have to take?

As I had stated in my letter to this C.O., I felt better protection should be afforded to these Women Marines—especially since there seems to be so much dissention among the colored troops there. I also had left Donna’s knowing about my letter up to the Captain’s judgement—

Friday, September 12, the date of my receipt from my letter, Donna called late in the day, very upset that the Captain had called her in stating she was drawing up Donna’s papers for and recommending her for discharge because of obesity—and did Donna want counsel?

This to me was her reaction to my letter. “Rather than treat the problem at hand, get rid of the individual.” Of course, I told Donna I had written her C.O.

I feel I do have a right to inquire about this problem of protection and now about the Captain’s action of September 12.

Also, I would like to know why in 16 months of service Private Donna Cole has not been promoted. I am led to believe the Captain has told Donna’s work section not to recommend her for promotion because she will do nothing about it. Isn’t Private-to-Lance Corporal automatic after 4 months of service? How many of your men and women are not overweight between enlistments? 

Hoping to hear from you before I forward both letters to my congressman.

I Remain

Sincerely,

Mrs. Doris Cole

Not yet done, Doris enlisted a family friend to write as well. This friend was a former Woman Marine herself and had encouraged Donna to enlist. The friend wrote,

When I was in, a man would have been charged for attempted rape for even putting his hand on a girl. Now it seems he can walk away and laugh it off. What kind of justice is this?

Instead of putting Private Cole up for discharge because of a ridiculous thing of obesity, why is she not be transferred to another base? Perhaps a base that is guarded and doesn’t have men walking around where they do not belong?

Major General responded to the friend and revealed that aside from the specificity of the third paragraph, his correspondence was a form letter.

__________

Cotton-pickers. Farmers. Country mouse. City mouse. White women on a letter writing campaign to ensure the safety of enlisted women. Don’t make me write my congressman. Prayer Warriors. Strong. Durable. Frail. Oak. Multiple marginalized identities. Learning about who they were has been a journey to knowing who I am. But what can I make of that? In what way does their experience speak to who I am today and how did this history engender my own experience of the imposter syndrome?

As an undergraduate, I recall sitting in a seminar discussing the intersection between literature and science. A gluttonous peer—truly Dickensian in appearance—leaned back in his chair as if he owned the place. At a pivotal moment, he spewed forth, “Well, as we are all of a particular class, I think we have to just admit that some people are not as deserving as we are of what society has to offer us.”

“Excuse me,” I interjected, summoning my inner-Doris. “My mother works at a gas station convenience store and I’m working two jobs to support myself while I’m a student here. So can we not make assumptions about who ‘we’ are and what class we are from? Because I don’t know anything about the world you are describing.”

Sojourner Truth tells us,

Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman?

I ain’t a woman, but I know well the sting of assumptions about who I am and what I’m supposed to be—what I’m supposed to do. Child of a cotton picker. Grandchild of prayer warriors. Am I supposed to be a doctor? An educator? An editor? An author? A professor? Why should I persist in the belief that I am an imposter? I am all these identities and more—I am enough. My experience is enough, it has value, and it contributes to the conversation.

Your history defines you—but it need not limit you. Discourse in educational theatre is about how we as educators, artists, practitioners, students—whatever the label we take on—engage in the work. What questions do we ask? What challenges do we face? How do we partner with our constituencies to create? What do we learn from our observations? And how do we share our learning with others? You don’t need a PhD to participate—you need only time, opportunity, and a willingness to share your experience.

WE TURN TO YOU

Whether you’ve embraced your inner-imposter, overcome that identity, or were fortunate to never have adopted it in the first place, it is now your turn to join us in our shared-endeavor. You too are enough and worthy of contributing to this dialogue. But where might you begin? I invite you to read, reflect, write, and submit.

Read

The first task for a would-be contributor is to read. Reading existing publications will keep you up-to-date on what is happening in the field and can then provide a lens through which you can view your own work and start to tease out the aspects of your practice that might be worth sharing. Additionally, reading will aid you in making sense of what kind of writing particular editors and publications will publish. You will soon identify that some publications may not welcome your voice—or they may be in need of the shift outlined at the outset of this editorial. Others might be in a state of transition, in which case looking to the publication website may offer additional context. Some suggested reading includes:

• Applied Theatre Research

• Journal of Applied Arts and Health

• RiDE—Research in Drama Education: The Journal for Applied Performance

• Teaching Artist Journal

• Youth Theatre Journal

Within recent issues of ArtsPraxis, consider:

• In Identity Matters. All. The. Time. Questions to Encourage Best Practices in Applied Theatre, practitioners Rebecca Brown Adelman, Trent Norman, and Saira Yasmin Hamidi explicate the ethical questions that artists and educators should consider when navigating social justice and anti-racist topics.

• In Supporting Students in Rural Regions in the Age of Distance Learning, Jessica Harris, founder and artistic director of Empowered Players, interrogates the lack of access and support creates inequitable outcomes for students in rural Fluvanna County, Virginia.

• In Theatre through a Computer: A Critical Reflection of Online Teaching during the COVID-19 Pandemic, Roxane E. Reynolds, a high school theatre teacher in Dallas, Texas, identifies struggles and success in the areas of communication, participation and overall emotional and mental health of students and teachers, due to the environmental shift from in person to online learning.

• In Aesop’s Idols: Nationalization of Classic Texts to Create a Culture of Inclusion, community-engaged practitioner Kaitlin O.K. Jaskolski highlights the methods used to facilitate, assess and stratify learning outcomes in order to create a culture of inclusion as illustrated through case studies on devising and the performance of Aesop’s Idols at Westside Inclusive Theatre Company in Houston, Texas.

I highlight these articles because of the positionality of the authors as practitioners rather than academics—so let the shape and tone of their writing serve to broaden your perspective on what is possible. Reading as many current publications as you can will provide essential information as you embark on this journey to authorship.

Reflect

Consider how you as a practitioner in educational theatre might begin to write about your work. Primarily, you as a would-be-writer must first align yourself as a reflective practitioner. Schön (1983) proposed this approach to thinking about reflecting-in-action:

What features do I notice when I recognize this thing? What are the criteria by which I make this judgment? What procedures am I enacting when I perform this skill? How am I framing the problem that I am trying to solve? (p. 50)

At a theoretical level, you can imagine an educational theatre practitioner grappling with Schön’s questions as they plan lessons or workshops in advance of work with their population, or even to frame in-the-moment decision making during the lesson, workshop, or rehearsal.

This process is an articulation of the noticing that practitioners may regularly engage in as they facilitate their work. In their writing about the gradual release of responsibility framework, Fisher and Frey (2021) define noticing as, “observing, listening, and using your knowledge of the content, of novice learners, and of their likely misunderstandings or partial understandings to help you formulate the questions, prompts, and cues you’ll need to scaffold student learning” (pp. 37-38). This self-reflection tasks the facilitator with considering questions like:

• Are they getting it?

• What might I do differently if this isn’t successful?

• How can I replicate my successes with another group?

By reflecting-in-action, the facilitator engages in an active process that requires them to coexist both inside and outside of the dramatic encounter: I am facilitating the work while simultaneously critiquing the experience in service of improving my practice or solving a problem in the moment.

Write

Though these approaches are intended to help a practitioner improve their own practice, any of this noticing could then be fodder for academic writing and publication. What did I encounter? What about that experience was novel? How did I respond? How did the participants respond? Why might this be meaningful to an outside reader? The writing is then reflecting-on-action, actively looking back at what transpired in service of any number of forward-looking objectives—but first among these is how the writing can contribute to professional discourse.

One approach in that direction is to focus the writing around critique—be that:

• critique of the work described

• critique of an external paradigm that this work might disrupt

• critique of accepted practices in the field

• critique of traditional ideas about a population or approaches to working with a particular population

This attention to critique is integral to sharing the work with an outside audience because it provides significance. Naturally, that you chose to document the experience demonstrates that it was significant to you and/or your population, but the critique is what makes it significant to us. This might be conveyed through describing the context of your population, community, or some aspect of the field (perhaps through a brief, traditional literature review) and how a particular experience unfolded within that context. At times, knowledge or assumptions of the context are so pervasive that it might remain unstated; the work alone (as documented in the writing) is the critique—but the writer has considered that critique while preparing and presenting the manuscript.

This approach to academic writing can be deepened by following the action research paradigm.

Teachers as action researchers apply the rigors of scientific inquiry in the context of their classroom and classroom experience in an attempt to improve teaching effectiveness. Because action research is conducted by classroom teachers, it serves as a vehicle through which teachers investigate issues of interest and then incorporate the results into their own planning and future teaching. (Parsons and Brown, 2002, p. 4)

The elements of the scientific method Parson and Brown adopt include identifying the problem, reviewing the literature, stating the hypothesis, developing and implementing a design, data collection, and analysis (pp. 18-24). If you have experience in more traditional forms of qualitative and/or quantitative research, then this language is already familiar to you. If not, then you will observe in your reading that this approach closely aligns with practitioner-authored articles in many journals. Have a go at it to see if it feels right to you—but don’t be intimidated by it.

Submit

Each publication will have a set criteria for the kinds of manuscripts they will consider publishing and it’s important for prospective authors to identify this criteria and follow it when preparing a submission. These can include the kinds of manuscripts they accept, specific formats needed (sometimes meticulously detailed), deadlines (these are firm), and instructions for how to get the manuscript to the editor (often through an online submission platform). If you have questions about the submission guidelines or publication criteria, contact the journal or the editor—you should find correspondence information on their website. I doubt they will be willing to preview your manuscript as that’s just not how this is done, but they should certainly be willing to answer your questions. And if they aren’t willing to answer your questions, reconsider your interest in working with them—as all publishing should be a partnership. A warning: there are a number of predatory publications that will charge a fee to publish your work. That is not how academic publishing operates and you should avoid these publications. Some publications may require you to be a subscriber to publish with them. Though this is not ideal, it is more reasonable than you paying for them to publish your work.    

I submitted my manuscript; now what?

Generally, the editor and/or members of the editorial board will give a cursory review of each submission: Did the author follow all submission guidelines? Is this article aligned with the questions or themes for this issue? An article might get rejected at this level for any number of reasons—but do not be put off—there may yet be another publication for which your manuscript is a better fit. That said, if your manuscript makes it beyond this initial review, it will then go for formal peer review.

Peer review

Many would-be-authors are so intimidated by this mysterious process that they don’t even attempt to write—let alone submit—a manuscript, but we need to dispel the fear. Peer review is a process whereby your peers in the field review and give critical feedback on your writing. They are well-versed in the conventions of that particular publication, so their advice is valuable in getting your work in its best shape for that publication and their readership.

But who are these peer reviewers? Often they are members of the editorial board of the publication—so get to Google and find out who those folks are and what their expertise is in the field. If this review suggests that there are folks on the board whose work aligns well with yours, know that you are in good hands. If, however, you see no reflection of work or experience in what you can uncover about those folks, know that their response to your work might reflect that discontinuity. Manuscripts can be rejected at the stage of peer review, but you will often get clear explanation for why they made that decision—and whether or not you might revise and resubmit, revise and submit elsewhere, or disregard their advice and submit elsewhere.

Most but not all peer review is a blind process. In a single-blind process (which is almost-universal), the author will not know who the exact reviewers were who gave feedback on the manuscript. In a double-blind process, the author will not know the identity of the reviewers and the reviewers will not know the author (all identifying information is removed from the manuscript). This is meant to ensure objectivity in the review process—but it also protects the authors from preferential treatment. Do not take anything personally, presume that the review is about the work and not at all about you, and be open to what transpires. You never know what doors might be open to your ideas unless you submit your work.

Revision and publication

If your work is accepted beyond peer review, you will be given a deadline by which to make the recommended changes to the manuscript and resubmit for final review. Each publication handles the mechanics of this a bit differently—so follow the instructions carefully and contact the editor or publication if you have any questions. The deadline is set to be sure your work is ready in time for the publication date, so don’t plan on extensions. I’ve come to be quite dispassionate about this process—the reviewers know the publication and audience better than I do, so I’ll generally accede to whatever is asked of me provided that it does not compromise the integrity of my work. But you do you.

There is often, but not always, a publication contract of some kind. Be sure to complete that in time, as it gives permission to the journal to publish your work and outlines where and how you may share the work after publication. Some journals provide free copies to contributors; others make them available for purchase (and individual issues of academic journals can be very expensive—so investigate that in advance if having print copies to share is important to you).

Finally, celebrate your accomplishment!

There are many other permutations of how to approach academic writing, which can include partnering with researchers, co-authoring with other practitioners, and the like. Details of other approaches can be easily accessed and will likely become known to you as you investigate the existing literature, but it all starts with you making a conscious decision to participate in this dialogue. So, to you—the cotton picker, the farmer, the country mouse and city mouse, white women on your letter writing campaigns, prayer warrior—to the educators, the teaching artists, the directors and playwrights, the actors, the therapists—you, the strong, the durable, or the frail—this is your time to have your say. Set aside the imposter mindset and join us. Don’t make me write my congressperson.

IN THIS ISSUE

In this issue, most of our diverse contributors have reflected on their practices with a range of age groups from different communities. Gillian McNally and Amanda Rutter ask: can theatre for the very young (TVY) dare to talk about prejudice and inclusion? In this first-ever U.S. study on TVY, the authors interrogate the impact a TVY play can have on children’s understanding of prejudice and inclusion. As members of the education staff at About Face Youth Ensemble, Lisa Siciliano and Mikael Burke reflect on how they negotiated the theatre company's growing commitment to youth mental health, traditional "in-the-room" devising practices, and the utilization of online technology. Alex Ates, director of theater at a boarding school in Pennsylvania, co-authors an article with his former students: David Feng, Sam Hu, and Emily Zhang. These recently-graduated Chinese-International high school students and their American theater teacher engage in reflective analysis on their digital verbatim performances of American presidential politicians.

Finally, speaking to the necessary evolution of systems and practices in educational theatre, university researchers Matt Omasta and Aubrey Felty respond to the urgent need for Theatres for Young Audiences companies to produce plays that share the stories and experiences of people of color and to ensure works by playwrights of color are produced regularly (in some ways, broadening the question posed by McNally and Rutter). This article draws on data from a comprehensive survey of artistic, business, and education leaders in the field to consider how it might inform the important discussions taking place in the field regarding equity and inclusion, especially those exploring race and anti-racism. An appendix follows the article, featuring Omasta and Felty’s complete report from their survey of every professional Theatre for Young Audiences company affiliated with TYA/USA who shared information regarding a wide range of topics including season selection, finances, education programming, staff demographics, leader perceptions of quality TYA, and others.

LOOKING AHEAD

Our next issue (Volume 9, Issue 1) will focus on articles under our general headings (drama in education, applied theatre, and theatre for young audiences) looking to engage members of the Educational Theatre field who want to contribute to the ongoing dialogue. That issue will publish in mid-2022. Thereafter, look to the Program in Educational Theatre at NYU for the 2022 Forum on Humanities and the Arts and the Verbatim Performance Lab.

SUGGESTED CITATION

Jones, J. P. (2021). Editorial: Communing with the ancestors. ArtsPraxis, 8 (2), pp. i-xxii. 

REFERENCES

Clance, P. R.; Imes, S. A. (1978). The impostor phenomenon in high achieving women: Dynamics and therapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research and Practice, 15, pp. 241-247.

Fisher, D., & Frey, N. (2021). Better learning through structured teaching: A framework for the gradual release of responsibility. 3rd edition. Alexandria, VA: ASCD.

Levesque, R. J. (2018). Impostor phenomenon. In R. J. R. Levesque, Encyclopedia of adolescence (2nd ed.). Springer Science+Business Media.

Parsons, R. D., & Brown, K. S. (2003). Teacher as reflective practitioner and action researcher. Stamford, CT: Wadsworth/Thomson Learning.

Schön, D. A. (1983). The reflective practitioner: How professionals think in action. Basic Books.

Truth, S. (n.d.) Sojourner Truth: Ain't I a woman? - Women's Rights National Historical Park. U.S. National Park Service.

Notes

[1] Yes, Davis. But her name is Doris—information that would have been readily accessible in Donna’s file.

[2] The Major’s name omitted to protect his anonymity.

[3] The Captain’s name omitted to protect her anonymity.

SEE ALSO

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: Collective Visioning

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: Get Woke

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: Radical Imagining

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: Look for the Helpers

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: Communing with the Ancestors

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: Into the Traumaverse 

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: I Can't Breathe

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: No End and No Beginning 

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: On Mindfulness

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial: A New Colossus

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial (2017)

Jonathan P. Jones - Editorial (2016)

Download PDF of Editorial: Communing with the Ancestors

Cover image from NYU’s Program in Educational Theatre production of Here, All Dwell Free, a virtually produced and pre-recorded musical adaptation of The Handless Maiden, directed in 2021 by Amy Cordileone.

© 2021 New York University