Lizard Boy

Once, in kindergarten, I played Power Rangers at recess with some classmates. This was my moment: I’d finally get the chance to play as Billy the Blue Ranger—my favorite Ranger, perhaps even my first crush. “Actually, Corey’s gonna be Billy the Blue Ranger because he looks most like Billy. You’ll be Zack the Black Ranger because you look closest to Black.” In truth, I looked nothing like Zack; I identified most with the goofy, unassuming nerd Billy, but the other kids on that playground (who were white) rationalized that as the one brown kid I should play the Ranger with the most melanin. Lizard Boy Trevor says of his bizarre and traumatic kindergarten encounter, “That was the moment I realized I’d look different for the rest of my life.”

I’ve loved superheroes my whole life. I grew up following the adventures of Power Rangers, Spider-Man, X-Men, and Ninja Turtles. I’d draw them in various action sequences. I’d imagine myself as each of the heroes and wonder what I’d do in their shoes or combat boots or claws. I learned from their mistakes, I mourned their losses, I celebrated their victories.

Fun fact: I majored in Theatre at Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma, Washington (where Kiki deLohr and I first met), and I actually minored in religion. I didn’t grow up particularly religious, but I was completely fascinated by what I learned in Christian Theology, Religions of South Asia, Sex in the Bible, and other classes. I realized that while I didn’t grow up as a devout follower of some huge institution, I did grow up with stories as formative as ones you might find in the Bible. These superheroes on TV and in comic books were the myths that taught me how to be a good person. These were my sacred texts.

Lizard Boy came out of a desire to add my own modern myth to that tapestry of texts that imagines a hero with identities as complex as mine, insecurities as stifling as mine, and potential as limitless as mine—whose story was always worthy of telling, regardless of the lies he internalized about his place in the world and on the playground.

Lizard Boy is as much a rocking romp through a fictionalized Seattle as it is my soul. It’s a coming-of-age tale that was written in the middle of my own coming of age. Every time someone tells me they’ve connected with Trevor’s journey, it’s like they’re giving my younger self a hug. My hope is that all of you can feel me hugging you back. My BIPOC siblings, my queer and trans siblings, anyone in a moment of transition, anyone learning to be who they are now while still loving who they were yesterday: I hope this story feeds you. I hope it gives you strength. I hope it helps you soften. I hope that when you’re facing the unknown, terrifying as it may be, I hope you reach out.

—Justin Huertas

Lizard Boy is my favorite thing. And that’s good, because I’ve been working on it for almost a decade. One of the things that people talk about most with Lizard Boy is its uniqueness in how integrated everything is into one another—the music, lyrics, dialogue, staging, orchestration, design, all of it. The way that Lizard Boy has integrated all these elements is due to the wildly unique way that we have collaborated on the show over the years. In a show that is about how the things that make us different makes us powerful, it’s appropriate that the four of our singular skills, styles, and points of view have been united by a shared vision to make this show special. We all have our own superpowers as artists, and they are on full display in Lizard Boy.

The show is the brainchild of the brilliant Justin Huertas, who wrote the book, music, and lyrics (and drew the projection illustrations!), and due to his incredibly generous spirit he has allowed myself, Kiki deLohr, and William A. Williams in as collaborators, which explains some of the “it” factor audiences find in the show. In many ways we are like a little band—we affectionately refer to ourselves as The Lizards—and rehearsals for us are some kind of mix of play practice, garage band rehearsal, writing retreat, and happy hour. To outsiders, what looks like a chaotic and unfocused hang session with four best friends eventually leads to a brand-new song being taught, workshopped, rewritten, orchestrated, vocal arranged, and staged all in about an hour or so. The Lizard Boy process.

I want to say that is an oversimplification, but sometimes it does indeed work like that. And because of that, things like “The Fight,” where the three actors do a climactic epic comic book fight scene all while playing their instruments (you’ll see soon!), have this “How are they actually doing that?” quality that is fully due to deep collaboration, friendship, and trust in the differences of our creative partners. It’s actually quite apropos that the show is at OSF, where the resident company model has been used for decades and artists develop relationships with each other that make the work that much deeper and richer.

I think we have all come out fuller and more unafraid to be ourselves both in our artistic processes and in life from this show. Lizard Boy has been such a gift to all of us as artists and friends, and the work is better because of the way we are all able to bring our full, different, weird, messy selves into the process. Hopefully that energy will spill out into the audience and help you feel powerful because of your differences. We are thrilled to welcome even more people into the family and expand The Lizards, which includes folks from Seattle, San Diego, San Francisco, Manchester, Edinburgh, NYC, and now, Ashland!

—Brandon Ivie