"Let the Sun Shine In"

When I was a little girl, I would lock myself in the basement, turn on the Hair soundtrack, and dance. Just dance. I must have been nine years old. I didn’t know what many of the lyrics meant (which is probably a good thing), but I lived on the music. It was electrifying, especially the last song, the one the ensemble sings after Claude has given himself up to the clutches of Vietnam. “Let the sun shine,” they sing. Claude has died, but on the stage a single spotlight shines down, a beam of light from the heavens onto his earthly grave. At this point in my life, this song represented freedom: the ability to dance shamelessly in the basement. But then I grew up, and as life got in the way, the song disappeared into the recesses of my mind. But, like fate, the song came back to me last summer.

I love this musical. To be honest, I love practically all musicals. I am a show tunes lover, and proud of it. Musicals tell stories through song: powerful, rich, and riveting song. I find this very aesthetic. It combines literature with dance and singing into a powerful and cathartic two to three hour escape from reality. In July I went to see Hair on Broadway. That night was the most vibrant, colorful one of my life; the show danced its way into a niche in my heart. During curtain call, the actors called people on stage. I ran up and joined in song, singing “Let the Sun Shine In,” at the top of my lungs. My nine-year-old self would have been so happy. Gazing into those lights, my legs rooted to the Broadway stage, I began to weep. It was the most transcendent moment of my life. For the next week, I locked myself in my room, blasted the Hair soundtrack, and danced. In a way, nothing had changed. At this point in my life, the song still represented freedom, a way to see the hope and sunshine in life while completely surrendering myself to the music.