The Tony Awards: For the Kids Watching at Home

by Chris Peterson

I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with theatre. Maybe it was a middle school production with shaky harmonies and hand-me-down costumes. But I do remember the first time I saw the Tony Awards. June 1997.

The Tony Awards weren’t just a celebration. They were a window. A portal. Proof that theatre wasn’t just happening in my corner of the world. It was alive in grand, glittering ways I had never imagined. These weren’t classroom monologues or rushed tech rehearsals—this was craft, spectacle, electricity. And I taped it on VHS like it was gospel.

For a kid growing up outside of New York, the Tonys made Broadway feel real and reachable. Not just something reserved for the lucky few, but something that, maybe one day, I could be part of. Whether it was watching Bebe Neuwirth and Ann Reinking bring Chicago to life or hearing that first haunting note of Titanic. It didn’t matter if I understood the subtext or plot yet. What mattered was that it stirred something in me. It planted the seed.

And here’s what I’ve come to realize all these years later: that seed still gets planted every single June.

Because the Tonys aren’t just for the industry. They’re for the kids. The dreamers. The ones choreographing their own acceptance speeches in the mirror. The ones staying up way too late on a school night, recording it all on DVR now instead of VHS, but with the same wide eyes and hopeful hearts.

They’re for the queer teen who sees themselves in a character for the first time. For the introvert who finds bravery in a ballad, the extrovert who finds family in an ensemble, and the quiet kid in the back row of rehearsal who sees their favorite playwright win and dares to write something of their own.

And they’re for the kids in rural towns where the arts are underfunded and underappreciated, but still, somehow, that one drama teacher makes it all happen. Who gets the kids onstage and backstage, and plays the cast album on a dusty boom box just to help everyone hit the harmonies. The Tonys reach those kids too. They say, “Keep going. It matters.”

It’s easy to get cynical. To side-eye the commercialism or get caught up in snubs and speeches. But at its core, the Tony Awards still matter. Because they still reach. They still send out that annual flare to kids who need to know that theatre isn’t just something that happens in a faraway city—it’s something they can do. Be part of. Belong to.

And sure, not everyone ends up on Broadway. Most of us won’t. But the Tonys taught us something bigger: that the arts are valid. That storytelling is sacred. That passion counts.

And for those of us who now work in or cover the industry, from educators to designers to directors to bloggers, the Tonys remind us why we started. They reignite the spark. They honor the years we spent dreaming and the work we still do to pass that dream on.

Because when we watch that opening number, we’re not just clapping for the performers. We’re clapping for who we were. For the teenager sitting on the carpet, rewinding their favorite moment until the tape wore thin. For the kid who didn’t know anyone else who loved theatre yet, but felt a little less alone that night.

That’s the magic of it. The Tonys taught us to dream big and sing louder. And every year, they whisper to the next generation, “You belong here too.”