Dear MAGA: “Theatre Kid” is Not an Insult

by Chris Peterson

Somewhere along the way, I learned that the term “theatre kid” had apparently crossed over into political discourse. Not as a descriptor. Not as shorthand. As an insult.

If you missed it, a recent New York Times piece explored how “theater kid” has begun popping up in right-wing and MAGA-adjacent rhetoric, deployed the same way words like “snowflake” once were. The implication is clear enough: overly emotional, unserious, performative, soft. Someone who feels too much. Someone who talks too much. Someone who sings when they should shut up.

And honestly, I had to laugh. Not because it’s clever. But because if that’s the insult, then the people throwing it around truly have no idea what they’re talking about.

Because “theatre kid” isn’t a weakness. It never has been. And anyone who’s actually spent time in a rehearsal room knows that.

Here’s the thing about theatre kids. They show up. Over and over again. After school. On weekends. Late nights. Early mornings. They show up when they’re tired, when they’re sick, when they’re juggling homework and jobs and family obligations. They show up knowing they’re going to be criticized. Knowing someone is going to tell them to be louder, or quieter, or different. Knowing they’re going to fail publicly at least once before they get it right.

That’s not fragility. That’s stamina.

Theatre kids learn early how to work as part of a team, where no single person gets all the credit. You don’t have a show without the crew. Without the stage manager. Without the person who remembered to spike the furniture, sweep the floor, and fix the mic that cut out during tech. Theatre kids understand hierarchy and collaboration at the same time. They learn when to lead and when to listen. They learn that ego can sink a production faster than a missed cue.

That’s not softness. That’s discipline.

They also learn empathy in a way that’s hard to replicate elsewhere. To play a role well, you have to understand someone else’s interior life. You have to sit with motivations that don’t look like yours. You have to ask why someone behaves the way they do instead of dismissing them outright. You have to listen, not just wait for your turn to speak.

If that’s what people mean when they sneer “theatre kid,” then yes. Guilty as charged.

What I find especially ironic about this supposed insult is how deeply it misunderstands performance. Theatre kids aren’t pretending all the time. They’re learning how to stand in front of other people and say something that matters and risk being seen. Anyone who has ever stepped onto a stage with their heart beating out of their chest knows how exposed that feels. There’s no algorithm to hide behind. No comment section buffer. Just you, the lights, and the audience.

That kind of vulnerability takes courage. Real courage. Not the loud, performative kind. The quiet kind where you do the thing anyway even though you’re scared.

Theatre kids also tend to grow up into people who can think on their feet. Who can read a room? Who knows how to communicate under pressure? Who can take notes without falling apart? Who understands timing, tone, and audience? These are skills employers beg for, and leaders rely on, whether they want to admit it or not.

It’s not an accident that theatre kids end up everywhere. In classrooms. In boardrooms. In nonprofits. In hospitals. In politics, actually. They’re often the ones translating big ideas into human language. The ones who know how to tell a story people will remember. The ones who understand that facts alone don’t move hearts.

If anything, calling someone a theatre kid says more about the speaker than the target. It suggests a discomfort with emotion. With expression. With people who refuse to flatten themselves to make others comfortable. It’s the same old reflex, just with a new label: mock what you don’t understand, diminish what you can’t control.

And let’s be honest, the stereotype itself is lazy. The theatre kids I knew weren’t all jazz hands and show tunes. Some were introverts who found their voice backstage. Some were athletes who loved Shakespeare. Some were queer kids who finally felt safe somewhere. Some were straight kids who learned empathy by accident and never lost it. The rehearsal room was messy and loud and sometimes chaotic, but it was also one of the most rigorous learning environments imaginable.

Nobody hands you confidence in theatre. You earn it by bombing, by being corrected, by missing your mark, by forgetting your line, and by coming back the next day anyway. You earn it by realizing that embarrassment won’t kill you. That failure isn’t fatal. That growth is uncomfortable and worth it.

So no, “theatre kid” isn’t an insult. It’s a badge of honor. It means you learned how to collaborate. How to listen. How to feel. How to stand in front of others and say something true, even when your voice shakes.

If that makes someone uncomfortable, that’s not the theatre kid’s problem.

In a world that increasingly rewards cruelty, irony, and detachment, theatre kids are the ones who still believe sincerity matters. Who still believe stories can change people. Who still believe that art has value even when it isn’t profitable or tidy or easy to mock.

You can call that naïve if you want. History suggests otherwise. So go ahead. Use “theatre kid” as an insult. We’ve been called worse from the cheap seats. And we kept going anyway. Because that’s what theatre kids do.