Stephen Sondheim and the Life-Changing Role of Mentorship
He changed musical theater forever. He was iconic. He was my pen pal.
My heart, along with so many billions of others, shattered last week when iconic musical theater composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim died at 91.
When I was a starry-eyed teenager, Sondheim was my pen pal. Though I can’t recall how I originally found his address, it was common for me to deep-dive into books and catalogs with stars’ addresses—so perhaps that’s how I came across it. I’m pretty sure I originally wrote to one of his representatives, but when I received a letter back with Sondheim’s home address on it, I sobbed with joy.
It’s a giant understatement to say I loved the guy’s work. Growing up as a very passionate and monomaniacal theater kid, I was basically obsessed. I spent my summers at the highly regarded Stagedoor Manor Performing Arts Training Center in the Catskills, and throughout the rest of the year, one day a week I was bussed out from my public school to Arts High, where (depending on the year) I majored in Theater, Singing, or Writing. I also entered competitions throughout New Jersey, even earning the top prize—the coveted Governor’s Award for the Arts in Improvisation.
The trophies I received, along with Sondheim’s letters, became my lifelines. Real-life was full of bullies, family trouble, and an otherworldly yearning to get the hell out of Edison, NJ, and—finally!—into that warm limelight. After high school, I gathered my collection of letters I’d received from Sondheim and left for Philly, and then Manhattan, where I eventually got my BFA in Acting.
I’m not sure I would have made it to age 22 without the super-shiny glimmers of hope I received from those I worshipped—including Sondheim, Camryn Manheim, Patti LuPone, and Bette Midler. Each time I’d get a letter, photo, or email from one of them, I felt seen in a way I otherwise rarely experienced (except for when I was either performing on stage or mastering the perfect rhyme in one of the thousands of Sondheim-inspired poems I wrote).
It was around the time when I was pounding the pavement trying to make it as a young actor in NYC that I got offered a summer job directing West Side Story at a camp in New Hampshire. The roles I had been landing on stage were few and far between—mostly taking place in dingy basement theaters on the Lower East Side that were excruciatingly long walks from the nearest subway, and audiences sometimes included fewer than 10 people—so I took the directing job. (Shameless plug: For more on the story of how this summer ripped me apart—spoiler alert: I stopped eating altogether—check out my memoir, Always Too Much and Never Enough.)
That painful summer, the one person who got me was the 15-year-old I cast as Tony. Though still a child, this flamboyant teen attached himself to me and we had a friendship of sorts, with him wanting to know all about living in the city and pursuing theater (I didn’t have much to share, aside from those pitiful stints working Off-Off-Broadway). I recognized in this kid the same spark I had, and one day I shared with him that Sondheim and I had been pen pals for years. “Tony” lit up, asking if I’d share his address. I wasn’t sure it was still the same one, but I obliged, and a few weeks later, Tony got a reply in the mail. Thus began his own pen pal experience with Stephen Sondheim, the lord and savior for queer theater kids like us. (Incidentally, years later, that kid I cast as Tony went on to produce some of the biggest shows on Broadway—including winning his own Tonys.)
Lost & found
How many of us theater kids were there? Lost in the real world but completely found in captivating lyrics and musical theater performances? Pulling ourselves out of our lives long enough to find purpose and acceptance in the words of our idols, in the words of Sondheim himself? How many of us were completely gutted by what life put in front of us, and then saved over and over again by the shimmering lights of Broadway? I learned about how the world works through Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics, and I learned about myself through the complex characters he helped to create.
And, by way of the letters he sent me each and every time I reached out, I learned about the power of kindness.
Since he passed away last week, I have obsessively pored over anything I can read, listen to, and watch pertaining to Sondheim. And, not that I’m surprised, I’ve sat back in tears as a few, then a dozen, then a dozen more, then hundreds of stories spilled across my screen all relating to how Sondheim made space for them, too.
One friend recounted how she ran into him at a Midtown bar, shyly but eagerly introduced herself, and then accepted his surprising offer to chat for a while as he expressed great interest in her career working in educational publishing. Another person I know shared how he offered support and feedback for a musical she was writing.
Famous people shared their stories, too: Actress Camryn Manheim (who was a great influence in my own life) wrote about how Sondheim helped her get her first agent. CBS correspondent David Pogue shared how Sondheim offered him feedback for his own musical composition (in exchange for computer lessons).
The stories go on and on; they are endless, as is his legacy. And though (as Pogue pointed out) that legacy includes not only his actual music but also the musical influences heard in endless others who came after, it also includes his legacy as a generous, grounded, affirming, humble mentor. Stephen Sondheim, the sage.
Perhaps this is not a surprise, as Sondheim himself grew up under the great influence of another musical theater icon: Oscar Hammerstein II. Sondheim, who came from a broken family, looked up to Hammerstein as a parent figure, and Hammerstein generously offered young Sondheim honest feedback and consistent support.
Fractured families can create lifelong trauma, but the equally strong power of mentorship can offer liberation from that loop.
So where would we be without mentors, whether famous lyricists or entirely unsung?
Aside from Sondheim, my life has been peppered with those I looked up to who saw something special in me and made time to help me hone my skills—in writing just as much as in plain old adulting. I am forever in their debt—these teachers, guides, and sometimes superstars—for helping me to believe in myself. With them lighting the way, I have been able to connect with My Best Self. Admittedly, My Best Self doesn’t always show up for me—I usually have to summon her. Sometimes I have to bring out small glimmers of My Worst Self in order to get her attention (annoying, right?), but I know she’s there if I need her. And so after many, many years of practice, I can now be my own mentor.
Which isn’t to say I don’t have mentors in others, even today. I absolutely do. There are mentors I have who don’t know they’re my mentors (like podcaster and author Gretchen Rubin); mentorship moments that pop up in some of my closest friendships—and I believe those are reciprocal relationships in which I show up for them in that way, too; and real-life mentors who generously continue to “give me support for being alive.” Oh, oops … I just quoted Sondheim again. It happens.
On the flip side, I realize that in the past couple of years, I’m lucky enough that others have put me in that mentor box—which is an honor I don’t hold lightly. Through my work as a mentor with Sentient Media’s Writer’s Collective to the flock one-on-ones I offer to the Our Hen House flock, I feel truly lucky to help activists and writers find their way a little bit—or at least help them feel heard and seen and believed in. And I do hear, see, and believe in them. Isn’t that all any of us wants?
Under the influence
As I reflect on the loss of the greatest lyricist and composer of modern-day, and one of the most influential of all time, I am reminded of how I coped with the great loss of my beloved grandmother (speaking of tremendous influences!). As an atheist, but one who identifies as spiritual, I was given no solace by the thought that she was onto her next magical phase. I simply don’t believe that is true.
But what I did find solace in is knowing that I could carry on some of the greatest parts of her. I could allow them to influence, envelop, and change me. And since I knew that my grandmother’s goodness touched so many thousands of people and animals in her life, I knew that the world was changed because of her. Some of those changes were obvious (such as in the ways my bio-family and I related), and some, I’d never see for myself—since Grandma was a first-grade teacher for decades, and I believe those little children grew up to be better adults because of her.
Once she was gone, I felt it was up to me to see the world how she did—to let the many life lessons she gave me help me to make better decisions, and to love a little stronger and let go a little more gracefully.
The same holds true for Sondheim. His influences will live on in our day to day. The music he wrote will forever be performed, and the musicians and writers he helped form will continue to create life-changing art, thanks to his greatness.
But where does the ricocheting of kindness fit in? The space he made for dreamers? Just as Oscar Hammerstein had passed it along to Sondheim, and Sondheim passed it along to so many of us, we can allow that to embolden us. We can pass it along by way of mentorship, whatever that means for you. We can cheerlead, we can reflect, we can offer, we can be of service. We can give, we can make space, we can help others grow.
I close my eyes and I think of him. “It’s like I’m losing my mind.” Because, for me, Stephen Sondheim was so much more than a childhood pen pal. He was more than a musician whose songs I played on repeat until I literally broke records and irreparably damaged cassettes that no pencil-twirling could fix. He was a confident-but-humble man with significant, otherworldly skill and talent and unbending devotion to authenticity, exploration, and lifelong learning.
And oh my god, “I’ll drink to that.”
xo,
jazz
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