Dear Catty,
This world is bleak and scary. I feel dark, alone. I’m losing faith in humanity. Is there such a thing as basic decency anymore? Or is everyone as angry and suffering as I am? I don’t know if I’ll ever regain optimism. I want connection, but don’t believe there’s good in this world.
Sorrowfully, Nihilist in Need
Dear Nihilist,
There was a time, around 2010 or so, when society thrived on shared vulnerability. Things like the anonymous postcards of PostSecret, or Chris Gethard chatting with strangers on his podcast Beautiful/Anonymous. The driving ethos was that being open with people, even (or especially) ones you don’t know, built bridges. Those bridges drove toward the idea that despite differences, we can recognize each other’s soul.
One of these soul solaces was the advice column “Dear Sugar,” eventually revealed to be written by author Cheryl Strayed. Cloaked under the Sugar moniker, Strayed answered the bluntest of questions, offering parts of her own suffering to eager letter-writers.
Strayed collected those letters in her book Tiny Beautiful Things. Nia Vardalos (creator and star of My Big Fat Greek Wedding) crafted that book into a shockingly emotional play, the kind that transfers written communication into fiercely tangible relationships. Nihilist, I challenge you to go see Tiny Beautiful Things at Deaf Austin Theatre. If it doesn’t break through your thorny exterior, then yes. You might be beyond saving, doomed to a gloomy existence. But I think that won’t be your fate. Watching these snippets of letters from writers desperate for a glimmer of promise, and especially as delivered in this all-American Sign Language production, will absolutely enforce that this world is good.
Yours, Catty
Dear Catty,
I want to support Deaf Austin Theatre, but I’m scared of encroaching on a deaf space. I worry that performances are a safe space for the deaf community. As a hearing person, I don’t want my presence to intrude in a place not meant for me.
Conflictedly, Nervous Non-Signer
Dear Nervous,
Living inside a bubble, isolated from ever feeling uncomfortable, is incredibly tempting. You’ll always feel secure. But you’ll never feel anything else. Bubbles can’t give you a sense of wonder, or appreciation for the vast beauty of the world, or more understanding of humanity. For those experiences, you have to risk discomfort. Particularly if you’re used to being in the majority of a group, suddenly becoming a minority might feel threatening. But it’s important to have those experiences. Without them, you can’t grow.
Yes, being in a deaf space is foreign. As a hearing person, it feels a bit electric – the unfamiliar noises of signing fingers and emphasizing pops, the heated way hands can move through the air. You might feel guilty for talking, for only knowing basic signs. But feeling awkward is worth witnessing something beautiful. Be respectful. Be willing to learn. And be open to whatever the experience brings.
Yours, Catty
Dear Catty,
What should I expect when I see DAT’s Tiny Beautiful Things? I’ve never experienced a deaf production before. Do I have to know ASL to see the play? What’s the protocol here?
Concernedly, Curious Customer
Dear Curious,
First off, breathe. This is the theatre, not the SAT. There’s no test and no barrier to entry. Second off, expect to laugh, cringe, and weep at the sheer depth of humanity on display. It’s raw, but that’s life.
While signing is first and foremost in the presentation, this production is designed for wide accessibility. Along with the four main signing cast members, there are two spoken interpreters off to the wings of the audience, played by director Dr. Brian Cheslik and Ashlea Hayes (whose play Chronicles of a Black Deaf Blind Girl opens at DAT next week). Their voices are a perfect grounding point for hearing guests, complementing the energetic stage performances well. There’s also a central screen showing the text of the letters in email format. It’s a clever addition to cover any lapses in understanding, for deaf and hearing communities alike.
Honestly, the casting is all-around brilliant. Each actor plays to their strengths, emoting to the nines with every facial muscle and every bone in their body. They briskly move the play along, bouncing letters off each other with pleading desperation in every scene. The script gets true weight, the ideas behind each letter shining bright. The thoughts they share are universal.
The actress playing Cheryl (Leila Hanaumi) is the only character constant onstage. Hanaumi exudes innate softness, even in her signing. Every movement telegraphs pain and compassion. She’s magnanimous while she hears the deepest trauma in the letters. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing instead.
I can’t overstate how well the cast performs. So much comes not just through face and body motions, but through their signing. Hands convey rage and sorrow, fluidity and comedy. The three letter-writer cast members seamlessly switch gender and character traits as they cycle through various messages. It’s another nod to universality, the fact that it’s not the face that matters, but the words.
Bethany Borsotti’s characters are often played for laughs, using her diminutive stature for great effect while tackling some of the raunchier bits. But she also gets to deliver some of the most heartbreaking letters with gravitas and poise. Tyler James Fortson feels like the cuddly teddy bear of the group, each of his characters exuding tenderness, even when they are struggling with fearful questions.
Russell Harvard’s acute character turns drive some of the heavier letters in the show. The majority of the time he’s amusingly spiky, punctuating questioning or needling letters with bombastic movements and sheer presence. It makes it all the more effective when his acting turns quiet. When he and Hanaumi play off each other, letter writer and responder reduce physical distance as Hanaumi’s reply gets closer to Harvard’s emotionally needed answers. It’s impossible to stay stoic in those scenes. If you aren’t sniffling, you aren’t paying attention.
So what should you expect? Expect a difficult journey. Trigger warnings aplenty. But expect something rare and wonderful – hope. At one point the character of Cheryl explains, “Sugar is the temple I built in my obliterated place.” Watching DAT’s production provides some shelter from your own obliteration.
Yours, Catty
Tiny Beautiful Things
Deaf Austin Theatre at Sterling Stage Austin
Through May 26
This article appears in May 24 • 2024.
