Dear Theatre Educators,
You do the impossible. You turn empty spaces into worlds. You take students who have never spoken on stage and help them find their voice. You create magic. And every time you walk into your theatre or classroom, you change lives far beyond the stage.
I know this because I have lived it. When I started teaching at 20, I wasn’t much older than my seniors. On my first day, nerves had me leaving two hours early, only to take a “shortcut” that led me out of the city entirely. When I finally arrived, I managed to go to the wrong classroom—an easy mistake when the buildings were identical, and I was a traveling teacher without a room to call my own. I wore a suit and tie that day, trying to look older. It didn’t work. By the end of the day, a student—who now makes movies and restores palaces—told me, “Mr. S, you’re going to be a great teacher, but ditch the suit. It doesn’t work.” I never wore one again.
That first year, I directed Once Upon a Mattress, the first musical our school had done in years. Most of the kids had never done a musical before. I had two amazing women by my side—one, a community leader who choreographed the show and became a mother figure to us all, myself included. She was our rock, keeping us steady when things got tough. The other, a choir teacher from a neighboring district, was my right hand. Her patience, positivity, and radiant smile guided not just me, but my students, through those first months. The three of us would go out after rehearsals, sharing stories over pretzels with ranch dip and a small bowl of olives—tiny moments of restoration for a young, wide-eyed director.
I remember my Queen, whose sense of humor and maturity made her a natural leader—and who managed to pull off a costume that featured a crown suspiciously resembling a taco salad bowl (budgets were tight). My Prince Dauntless towered over the cast at well over six feet, maybe closer to the ceiling. But what was giant about him wasn’t just his height—it was his heart, his boundless energy, and his joy. The boys wearing tights for the first time kept asking, “There WILL be pants over these… right?” Spoiler: there weren’t.
Over the years, these students and their families became my family. Many of my closest friendships started in those rehearsal spaces, and we grew up together. Decades later, I started my current Act 3—Ludus—with a former student. He never stepped on stage, but he taught himself lighting design, won state awards, and went on to build a company with his old teacher. Even now, my students—my kids—continue to teach me in unexpected ways. And do we ever stop calling them that? They grow up, but to us, they’ll always be our kids. Over time, the relationship shifts—what started as teacher and student becomes mentor and colleague, then friend and equal. They move forward, forging their own paths, but the bond remains. And as they step into their own leadership roles, I see our lessons reflected in their work. The roles may change, but the connection never fades.
My last show as a high school director was A Christmas Story. The youngest students in that cast are now in college. My first students are now retiring. They gave me such strength and desire, fueling my fire, and I keep doing what I can to assist teachers and directors because it keeps me going—long after the curtain comes down on your last days of teaching.
Just tonight, I saw a touring production with three of my former students—now lifelong friends who have gone on to do amazing things. One texted after, saying, “I loved that show! The physical comedy was on point, and I loved how the set popped out at just the right times.” I replied, “Oh, it was exactly what I needed. Fun, clever, well-designed, inspiring, made me smile. Such joy.” And after I sent that, I thought… so are you. So are so many of my students. Such joy.
I currently have two former students on my team at work. Though I am their leader, they are well-trained—confident, risk-takers, and true artists. They respect my role as their former teacher, but they embody the most important lesson we all taught: trust in yourself. You are important. You are necessary. You make this team, this cast, this department a success. And now, they teach me new things every day. They have become the true masters. Maybe my job was never to lead, but to lift them up—and now, they soar.
Also, my best friend was a student 34 years ago, in the first decade of my teaching. He is now a theatre teacher. This past weekend at an event, I met one of HIS former students—who gushed about how he changed their life, was such an inspiration, and was one of the reasons they pursued theatre after school. And I thought… it continues. The fire and passion continue on. And wow—was that exactly what I needed. It reminded me why I keep going. The fire doesn’t die; it evolves. And moments like this remind me—the impact doesn’t fade. Theatre isn’t just something I did. It’s who I am.
The Power of Transformation
Think about the quiet student who only took your class because ‘the others were full’—the one who never spoke up, until they performed a monologue about feeling alone. When they finished, the most seasoned seniors were speechless.
Or the football player who only auditioned because his sister told him to. After the first rehearsal, he texted to say he was quitting. He didn’t think he could memorize lines. Didn’t think he could ‘become someone else’ the way the others did. He felt self-conscious. But he stayed. And a year later, that same student stood at the state festival, holding superior honors—twice.
Reflect on the moments when your students surprised even themselves with what they were capable of. These are the moments that make theatre education invaluable.
Teaching theatre is an act of radical hope. In a world that often prioritizes numbers and test scores, you remind students that creativity is just as essential as calculus, that understanding human nature is just as important as memorizing historical dates. You teach students to embrace failure as part of the process, to stand up after a fall, to breathe through the nerves, and to try again.
Keep Creating Magic
To every theatre teacher who has stayed late to paint sets, dried tears after a tough rehearsal, juggled a thousand details for opening night, or used their own money to make sure the show goes on—thank you. Your dedication does not go unnoticed. Your students carry your lessons long after their final bow.
If you ever doubt the impact of your work, just listen to the students who say, “This was the first place I felt like I belonged.” Watch the shy student bloom into a leader. Remember that the magic you create extends far beyond the script—it lives in the hearts of every young person who finds their voice under your guidance.
And when, 34 years into your career, a former student—now in their 50s—catches you in line with your Diet Pepsi and bag of low-fat pretzels and says, “You and theatre changed my life. It was my favorite part of school. Thank you,” you may not know what to say. You’ll probably say, “Thank you for saying that. You have no idea how much that means.” Then, as you walk to your car, you’ll smile so hard it almost hurts, and your eyes might burn just a little. You’ll think back on those great times, on those incredible kids, and you’ll know, without a doubt, that you were exactly where you were meant to be.
So keep going. Keep inspiring. Keep believing in the power of theatre. Because one day, years from now, a former student will catch you in line, look at you with that same wide-eyed admiration, and say, “You changed my life.” And in that moment, you’ll know—just as you did when you first stepped into a rehearsal room, just as you did when a nervous student took their first bow—that theatre isn’t just what you do. It’s who you are. And that magic? It was never just about the stage. It lives on in them.
With admiration and gratitude,
Kevin J. Schneider
About the Author:
Kevin J. Schneider is a lifelong theatre educator, director, and co-founder of Ludus. With 34 years of experience teaching speech and theatre, he has worked with thousands of students, many of whom have pursued careers in the arts and beyond. Now, in a new chapter, he continues to mentor and advocate for theatre educators and students. He currently serves as president of his state’s speech and theatre organization and leads the Ludus Community Initiative Program, supporting performing arts groups and educators.
