Both my love of theater and my Black identity have always been two deeply disconnected aspects of my life. While most expected me to be scoring touchdowns on the football field, I was dancing my heart out to Fosse choreography in my garage. These two ideas never meshed well together; both in my own head and in actuality. And on the rare occasion that these two pieces could become connected in some tiny form, the outcome always turned out awkward and uncomfortable. When I shared my love of the stage with family, I would be met with puzzled faces, claiming I was “wasting my time” by doing what I loved. Or when I would attempt to bring parts of my Black culture to my performances, I would be told to “tone it down” or to “stop doing too much." I began to feel conflicted, believing both of these ideas having a role in shaping my identity meant I was betraying one or the other. If I spent too much time doing theatre, I felt like I began to “lose” my Blackness. If I came off as “too Black” while performing, I wasn’t dedicated nor talented enough. As I got older, I began to wonder why being Black and in theatre were so largely separated, and if they even had to be in the first place. I started to believe that this would change as I entered high school, as theater there was far more easily accessible. Yet after being cast in my first (virtual) high school production freshman year, I remember logging on to my first Zoom rehearsal and seeing, as expected, I was the only Black member of the cast. It was the usual uncomfortable reality I had learned to handle before. I realized the reason for this was simple: the high cost of participating in theatre meant many Black Americans didn’t have a chance to explore the stage. Voice lessons? $400 a month. Dance class? Another $600. Be in a show? An easy $2000. Theatre was simply a luxury that many Black families just couldn't afford. As I continued my high school theatrical career, my discontentment with this issue grew. It felt wrong to me that so many Black teens were missing out on performing. This wasn’t just an issue limited to children’s theatre: only 29% of theatrical roles went to Black performers, along with a whopping 94% of theatrical directors/designers being White. This statistic weighed down on me every time I entered rehearsal; was this really the creative field I wanted to pursue? I began to take matters into my own hands, brainstorming ways to get more Black students involved in my school’s theatre department, whether that was by passing out theatre brochures at Black Student Union meetings or by just simply asking people who looked like me if they were interested in joining drama. The more I was able to recruit, the more I realized that this issue of Black theatrical disconnection didn’t stem from a lack of interest or enjoyment; it was just an accessibility barrier keeping Black individuals out of the arts. This isn’t a single solution problem, and it’s not one that can be fixed overnight. But, creating more affordable, accessible, and equitable theatre opportunities (especially in predominantly Black communities) along with casting/hiring Black performers and designers is a start. Government arts funding in low income, BIPOC dominated neighborhoods is a start. Hiring Black drama educators is a start. All of these beginnings need to be taken for us as a theatrical community to begin breaking the barrier dividing Black individuals from theatre.