In the heart of Spring Valley, New York, within a high school auditorium resonating with youthful energy, a different kind of story unfolds. It’s a story of choreography taking shape, of lighting cues finding their mark, and set changes seamlessly merging – a theatrical production gradually coming to life. At the center of this vibrant chaos stands Stacey Tirro, the driving force as Dance Teacher and director, embodying boundless energy. Clad in athletic wear, her daily uniform, she’s more than just a spectator; she’s a participant, mirroring dance steps, guiding lighting with her microphone, and propelling her students forward with unwavering enthusiasm. Moments later, she’s onstage, demonstrating Jerome Robbins’ West Side Story choreography adaptation with jumps and slides, refining it in real-time.
As Tirro steps back, counting “a-five, six, seven, eight,” teenage boys fill the stage, embodying the Jets gang with finger snaps and hunched postures. Manuel Piedra, as Riff, begins to sing, drawing the audience into a familiar yet fresh rendition of West Side Story. The electric recognition hits as the Jets explode into staccato movements, “Pow!” “Go!”, leading to the iconic, ferocious teenage-boy-gang choreography.
Then it happens – the breathtaking moment as the boys sprint upstage, pivot, and come downstage, arms low, hunched, snapping fingers with tuck jumps. It’s more than just dance; it’s the heart of musical theatre, beating strong in this high school auditorium.
This performance feels like a triumph on multiple levels. Seven teenage boys, a diverse group of seniors and underclassmen, embodying a spectrum of brown skin tones, project raw intention in their rehearsal clothes. Witnessing high school students, just a week from opening night, master this complex choreography is a miracle in itself.
Returning to my alma mater after 15 years, I’m here to witness something even more profound and fragile. In this high school, staging any theatre production, regardless of its scale, has become a remarkable feat, a testament to resilience in the face of adversity.
The challenges facing the East Ramapo Central School District, home to Spring Valley High, were brought to national attention by This American Life last September. Spring Valley, my high school, is one of two in this district. During my time here, euphemisms like “rough” or “disadvantaged” were common, hinting at the school’s struggles. We lacked resources compared to wealthier schools, arts electives being a notable absence – I, for instance, missed out on creative writing. The student body was predominantly African-American and children of Central American and Caribbean immigrants, coexisting with a smaller population of middle-class, mostly white families.
However, the crisis that propelled East Ramapo into the national spotlight stems from the district’s unique boundaries, encompassing both these diverse communities and a Hasidic Jewish community. Over the past decade, Hasidic representatives gained a school board majority, leading to budget cuts and program eliminations. While school budget cuts are widespread, the “A Not-So-Simple Majority” episode depicted East Ramapo as a battleground, escalating the underlying tensions I remembered into a potential breaking point. Blame was readily assigned, and the students and schools were bearing the brunt.
My Facebook feed became a scroll of petitions and local op-eds, amplifying years of simmering concerns. Amidst this, the vibrant updates from Thespian Troupe 721 stood out in sharp contrast.
Established in 1946, Troupe 721 is Spring Valley’s chapter of the International Thespian Society, a national network for high school theatre programs. As a member in the late 90s, I recall our annual fall play and spring musical, mirroring high schools nationwide. We built sets from plywood, operated vintage dimmer switches in a lighting booth seemingly untouched since the 60s.
Stacey Tirro.
Our director then was Stacey Tirro, a young, energetic dancer and theatre educator who had recently begun directing school shows. In the face of Spring Valley’s escalating challenges, Tirro’s Facebook updates emerged as beacons of positivity, seemingly defying the surrounding adversity.
When asked about the school board situation, Tirro chose her words carefully, displaying thoughtfulness and generosity. She spoke of “public school families” and “non-public school families,” suggesting a nuanced perspective beyond media portrayals. “Everybody’s just hurting. And I would assume they’re hurting on the other side, too,” she remarked.
Initially, her focus seemed detached from the broader crisis. “When it comes to my program, I say, well, we haven’t been cut yet, so let’s get to work,” she stated. “The politics in the district don’t really matter to what we’re doing at the moment.”
However, it’s clear Tirro isn’t simply ignoring the issues. She’s actively working to shield her students from the turmoil. “If funding gets cut, there’s nothing we can do about that. But I try to get the message across that no matter what is happening around us, it does not have to impact the work that we do—what happens in the studio and the work that we put out.”
Tirro embodies the spirit of a devoted teacher, blending acceptance with resourcefulness. “There’s always something else around the corner,” she says, embracing the constant demands of her role. “The bell’s gonna ring and you have to do this and you have to do that.”
Despite the challenges, her dedication is unwavering. “That having been said, I wouldn’t want to teach anywhere else.”
Amidst the school district’s struggles, how does the theatre program not just survive, but flourish? While initially appearing complex, the answer is remarkably simple: Stacey Tirro.
Her students recognize this impact. Asked about Tirro, the unanimous response is, “She cares.” Elijah Fremont, a senior who played Tony in West Side Story, elaborated, “It’s one thing when a teacher gives you advice. It’s another thing when a teacher gives you advice and then helps you get to wherever it is they advise you to go… Tirro won’t just tell you that you need to point your foot when you kick your… Whatever, I’m not even a dancer. But she will actually take the time to help you develop that skill or help you develop or reach your potential or anything. She’ll actually make action.”
They appreciate her respect, a sentiment they articulate clearly.
Beyond words, a transformation occurs between the final school bell and rehearsal’s start. Tirro’s blend of love and high expectations cultivates a professional atmosphere among her students, who mirror this demanding respect towards each other. Ingrid Castor, co-dance captain, explained, “Even if she’s yelling at us, even if we get on each other, you know it’s not because you’re a bad person, because you can’t dance, you can’t sing. It’s because they’re pushing you to reach what they know you can reach.” Her words blur the lines between student and teacher, reflecting a shared commitment to excellence.
The real revelation isn’t just the theatre program’s success in a struggling school, but that in a school often labeled as “troubled,” someone is operating as if excellence is the norm. By expecting it, Tirro makes it a reality.
However, there’s another crucial element. The past two years of Spring Valley productions have been particularly exceptional, a consensus shared by Tirro and her students. Student talent naturally ebbs and flows, and recent years have aligned to create exceptionally strong casts.
Tirro’s rehearsal updates on Facebook hinted at something special even before national attention focused on East Ramapo, particularly during In the Heights. Even then, it felt like more than just a high school musical; it felt significant, especially in this high school.
The cast of Spring Valley High
As a dancer and choreographer, Tirro admits her inclination towards dance-heavy musicals. “You tend to be attracted to the pieces you know, and the things that you’re good at,” she said. Initially hesitant about In the Heights, listening to its music changed her perspective. “Holy crap, this is so far from my experience,” she thought, before realizing its connection to her students. “This is so far from what I know…but so close to what they’re comfortable with.”
This familiarity translated into a powerful stage presence, evident in the photos shared online. The performers exuded ownership, their stances and gestures reflecting a deep connection to the material. Spring Valley’s demographics have shifted dramatically since my time; now 96 percent students of color, many are immigrants or children of immigrants. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s In the Heights offered a unique platform for these students to voice stories mirroring their own community, just miles from their homes.
West Side Story also resonated deeply. The cast immediately connected with the musical’s teenage dynamics. Tirro shared that the stylized language, often challenging, was quickly grasped by her students. “They understood the purpose of it,” she explained. Teenagers, perhaps, are uniquely positioned to understand the evolving landscape of slang and youthful expression.
Yet, West Side Story‘s themes also struck a somber chord. Just weeks before opening night, a stabbing incident at Spring Valley High, though non-fatal, shook the community, mirroring the musical’s escalating feud and violence. The fictional narrative became starkly real, shifting from “it happens” to “it happened here.”
While Tirro treats her cast with professional respect, her educator’s heart guides her approach. Her response to the stabbing, just a week after, revealed her concern for both her students and audience, intertwined with a deeper reflection on the incident itself. She considered the impact on her students performing the rumble and the audience’s potential reaction. Her core concern, she articulated, was, “What were the bad decisions that led to this, and what can we as a community do to protect kids—not necessarily from violence, but from being violent?”
Our conversation took place in the dance studio, a miracle in itself. Converted from two classrooms a decade prior, during the rise of Tirro’s dance program and before the district’s financial crisis, it’s a haven. Mirrors line one wall, motivational posters the others. Tirro invited me onto the sprung floor, the real deal, the backdrop for those inspiring rehearsal videos. This studio embodies the sanctuary she provides for her students.
Tirro often hears from students that Thespians or dance class are their primary reasons for attending school. These programs aren’t just incentives; they’re vital lifelines. The stabbing incident underscores this further: “How do you get those kids to arts programs? How do you get arts programs to those kids?” is directly linked to community protection and student well-being.
Stacey Tirro with her students in the dance studio.
“I feel like I have to almost overcompensate for what society does to these kids. I feel like I have to undo—or try to undo—years and years and years of you suck you suck you suck,” Tirro expressed. As a mother of two daughters, she witnesses the world’s damaging narratives impacting both her children and students. “The outside world tells them that, too, and the media, and all of those layers of society’s bullshit. You believe it. And so I feel like it’s part of my job to help them stop believing that.” Instead, she fosters belief in their collective projects and their individual roles. “They don’t have to doubt everything. They can sometimes say, Why not?” She calls it a leap of faith, a crucial element in their artistic and personal growth.
Troupe 721 has, remarkably, avoided budget cuts thus far. A near-miss a few years ago was averted by state intervention, restoring funding for activities like Thespians and Key Club. District funding covers only staff salaries – Tirro, a producer, musical and technical directors. Everything else is fundraised, a cause I, among others, have contributed to.
Nationally, theatre programs often fare better than other extracurriculars during budget constraints. A 2012 study by the Educational Theatre Association and Utah State University indicated that while 65 percent of administrators reported budget cuts from 2009-2012, only 32 percent of theatre teachers reported program budget reductions. Whether this reflects program resilience or targeted protection remains unclear.
Ticket revenue is a significant factor. Unlike most non-profit theatres, high school programs generate substantial income from ticket sales. Troupe 721 relies heavily on this, with West Side Story tickets priced at $10-$15. However, productions like West Side Story, with Bernstein’s score, require professional musicians, increasing expenses. Ultimately, district funding remains foundational.
Not all school programs have been as fortunate. Elementary arts and music programs were eliminated two years prior, a decision Tirro foresees as detrimental long-term. “That’s eventually going to come and bite us hard, because we won’t have any trained musicians from the time they’re in elementary school to handle complex music. That’s gonna be very bad in the long run, and that’s coming down the pike.”
Do district struggles affect students’ morale and engagement? “That’s hard to answer,” Tirro admits. “There are such special interests being served by the school politics. We’re trying to shade the kids from that glaring light and to say, Okay, this is what we have—this is what we’re gonna do.”
“And as long as we’re self-sustaining in that way, then it doesn’t matter how the board or the non-public school community looks at us or disregards us. This is for us. Yeah, the general morale in the district is not great, and it also comes with everything that’s coming out of the state and the evaluations, this big quagmire of bad feelings. Just depression.” Despite the bleak backdrop, Tirro’s laughter isn’t bitter, but a testament to her commitment. “But in the school and our four walls, we just do what we do.” Within those walls, the spirit of Troupe 721 dances on the edge, resilient and vibrant.
Jaime Green, essayist and writing teacher, author of a forthcoming book on living history museums, and former associate literary manager at MCC Theater.
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