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Hip Hop Theatre: An Avenue for Theatre for Youth: Reclaiming Black Radical Tradition and Centering Urban Youth in Liberatory Performance

4/13/2025

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The following is an essay I constructed during my doctoral studies while I was still an emerging scholar. This essay explores the intersection of Hip Hop Theatre and Theatre for Youth, arguing that Hip Hop Theatre—rooted in the Black Radical Tradition—is a powerful liberatory tool for African American youth in urban communities. Drawing on the work of Dr. Daniel Banks and Dr. Cedric J. Robinson, the essay examines how integrating culturally relevant Hip Hop narratives into youth theatre can both diversify the field and empower marginalized voices through authentic, resistance-driven performance.
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Donta McGilvery
April 30, 2019
Theory Project

In Say Word: Voices from Hip-Hop Theatre (2011), Dr. Daniel Banks defines and critiques the evolution of Hip Hop Theatre, highlighting its growing popularity and the challenges it faces within mainstream theatrical institutions. Two key challenges he identifies are the lack of informed criticism and the threat of cultural dilution: “Hip Hop Theatre needs reviewers and critics who have the background to assess it based on its aesthetic principles and logic, instead of a more traditionally Eurocentric lens or one that primarily values realism.” He continues, “The second challenge is how Hip Hop Theatre can keep the ‘authenticity’ of the art form while engaging with a market that, by nature, has a history of mass marketing and diluting cultural production” (Banks, 2014, p. 18). These concerns form the foundation of my inquiry. In this essay, I explore the intersection of Hip Hop Theatre and Theatre for Youth (TFY), arguing that their collaboration can offer reciprocal benefits that address these challenges.
Specifically, I ask: What shared challenges do Hip Hop Theatre and TFY face? How might each benefit from the other? What new possibilities emerge when TFY embraces Hip Hop Theatre as part of its canon? Although this essay cannot fully resolve the complex questions Dr. Banks poses, it offers a critical and practice-oriented response by grounding Hip Hop Theatre in the Black Radical Tradition, as Dr. Cedric J. Robinson articulated. I argue that Hip Hop Theatre should be understood as a liberatory practice deeply rooted in resistance—particularly for African American youth in urban communities. While Hip Hop Theatre encompasses multiple genres, this essay focuses on rap as a primary expressive form.
By focusing on Black youth in urban environments, Hip-Hop Theatre can cultivate new generations of artists and critics and reaffirm its revolutionary origins. In turn, Theatre for Youth can evolve into a more inclusive, justice-centered practice that reflects the realities and voices of marginalized communities.
Hip Hop Theatre: Then and Now
Contemporary Hip Hop Theatre integrates elements of urban culture—rap, beatboxing, hip hop dance, and poetry—into staged performances that reflect the concerns and creativity of historically marginalized communities. The term "Hip Hop Theatre" was first coined by Jonzi D, a London-based dancer, emcee, and poet, who envisioned a performative blend that defied traditional theatrical boundaries. Since then, practitioners such as Will Power, Rha Goddess, Danny Hoch, Lin-Manuel Miranda, and others have helped expand the reach of Hip Hop Theatre across cultures and continents.
Importantly, Hip Hop Theatre emerged as a mode of resistance—a response to systemic oppression and marginalization. As Banks reminds us, “Hip Hop Theatre owes a direct debt to the activist and resistant culture of Hip Hop” (Banks, p. 2). This origin story is crucial when considering the tensions that arise as Hip Hop Theatre seeks legitimacy within mainstream institutions. To survive and thrive, Hip Hop Theatre must remain committed to its founding mission: serving as a cultural tool for liberation rather than assimilation.
My argument is not that Hip-Hop Theatre has lost its radical edge, nor do I claim it alone can redress all the systemic injustices facing urban youth. Rather, I call for a re-centering—a return to its core purpose. To do so, Hip-Hop Theatre must intentionally cultivate liberatory practices that uplift marginalized youth, particularly Black youth, who possess the cultural insight and critical acumen to shape the future of the form.
Black Radicalism and the Agency of Youth
One of the fundamental principles of liberation is the recognition of the agency of the oppressed. Hip Hop Theatre, when aligned with the Black Radical Tradition, must affirm the epistemological authority of marginalized youth. As Jonzi D demonstrated by fusing modern and hip hop dance without compartmentalizing his training, Hip Hop Theatre can resist the cultural hierarchies imposed by Eurocentric aesthetic traditions.
Dr. Cedric J. Robinson’s theory of Black Radicalism traces this resistance back to African cultural practices that existed outside and before European capitalist systems. In Black Marxism (1983), Robinson critiques Marxist orthodoxy for centering European proletarian agency and instead foregrounds the revolutionary potential of Black communities shaped by pre-capitalist African traditions. His work affirms the capacity of Black people—particularly those in the margins—to theorize and enact liberation without reliance on Eurocentric paradigms (Johnson & Lubin, 2017, p. 11).
In this spirit, Hip Hop Theatre and Theatre for Youth must recognize the capacity of Black youth to interpret, evaluate, and create culture. These young people already possess sophisticated systems of signification. In urban communities, expressions like “real talk,” “one hundred,” or “facts” serve as markers of authenticity, while phrases such as “he/she finessing” or “fake” signal disingenuousness. These linguistic codes are not arbitrary but grounded in shared experience, cultural memory, and a keen awareness of who and what can be trusted. Black youth know when art is made “with” them versus “at” them. They know when their culture is being honored versus commodified.
A Path Forward: Merging TFY and Hip Hop Theatre
To develop the critical infrastructure that Banks calls for, Hip-Hop Theatre must engage Black youth more deeply. A productive avenue for doing so is through Theatre for Youth (TYF). By integrating Hip-Hop Theatre into TFY, practitioners can build pipelines for youth participation in the arts while diversifying the field of theatre itself. Simultaneously, TFY gains a dynamic, culturally resonant tool for connecting with marginalized communities.

But what does Hip Hop Theatre for Youth look like? Could it be a musical, a skit, or a dramatic play? The answer is all of the above. The key is cultural relevance. Youth-centered Hip Hop Theatre should begin not with the abstract concept of “hip-hop” but with the music, stories, and voices that youth value. Imagine a staged production built around Nipsey Hussle’s Victory Lap—not only rapping the lyrics but dramatizing the narratives behind them. Such performances would create space for youth to explore their favorite artists' work's artistic, social, and political dimensions, fostering artistic engagement and critical consciousness.
To illustrate this idea, I offer a conceptual example based on Street Lightz, an album by emerging Phoenix-based artist More Sano. Raised in South Central Los Angeles by a single mother, Sano became involved in gang life and was later incarcerated for over a decade. Now, as a performing artist, Sano channels his life story through music that resonates with young people in urban communities. In adapting Street Lightz into a Hip Hop Theatre for Youth production, students could engage with narratives that reflect their own realities—experiencing catharsis, building empathy, and cultivating artistic skills in the process.
Sano’s hypothetical response to being able to perform his favorite music in a theatre in his youth? He would have loved it. His enthusiasm is not incidental—it affirms the power of culturally grounded theatre to inspire new artistic pathways for youth who may never have imagined themselves on stage.
When brought into intentional dialogue, Hip-Hop Theatre and Theatre for Youth hold transformative potential. Practitioners can empower a new generation of artists and critics by reclaiming Hip-Hop Theatre’s roots in Black resistance and embedding it within youth-centered pedagogies. At the same time, Theatre for Youth can move toward a more inclusive, justice-oriented future that includes and is shaped by the voices and visions of marginalized youth.
Banks, Daniel. Say Word! Voices from Hip Hop Theatre. University of Michigan Press, 2014.
Johnson, Gaye Theresa, and Alex Lubin, editors. Futures of Black Radicalism. Verso, 2017.
Robinson, Cedric J. Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition. University of North Carolina Press, 1983.
Robinson, Cedric J. An Anthology of Marxism. University of North Carolina Press, 2019.

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A Marker, A Memory, and a Movement: Reflections on Justice in Sherman, Texas

3/17/2025

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​https://substack.com/inbox/post/160743898?utm_source=app-post-stats-page&r=28eo7u&utm_medium=ios&triedRedirect=true
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On Saturday, March 29, 2025, I flew into Sherman, Texas, with my co-director and fellow Sleeveless Acts member, Alicia Johnson. Our mission was twofold: to direct an immersive stage reading of The Ninth Day of May, the final play by the late Dr. Njoki McElroy, and to attend a historic ceremony marking a long-overdue public acknowledgment of a dark chapter in Sherman’s history—the 1930 lynching of George Hughes.

Before heading to Austin College, where the performance would be held, we made our way to the Grayson County Courthouse. There, on Travis Street, a newly approved Texas Historical Marker was unveiled. The marker commemorates the brutal lynching of George Hughes, a Black man accused—without trial—of raping a white woman. On May 9, 1930, a mob of about five thousand descended upon the courthouse, ultimately setting the building ablaze. Hughes, who had taken refuge in a basement vault, died of smoke inhalation. The mob, unsatisfied, dragged his lifeless body through the streets and into Sherman’s Black business district, where they proceeded to hang and burn his body before the crowd burned down the Black business district. Though martial law was declared the following day, the physical, emotional, and generational damage was already done.

Ninety-five years later, many gather at the Sherman, Texas, courthouse to publicly acknowledge that horror. A diverse crowd gathered to witness the marker’s unveiling, and words like “healing,” “unity,” and “justice” filled the air. As a native Texan, I stood there feeling the weight of history in my chest. I wanted to believe that something meaningful was happening. I wanted to celebrate the moment. And yet, I found myself wrestling with a deeper, more uncomfortable question: Was this actual justice or simply performative justice?

Dr. William J. Barber, in Forward Together (2014), writes, “To truly honor the past, we must confront it—not with symbols alone, but with substance.” That line echoed in my mind as I observed the ceremony. There were contradictions too loud to ignore. The name of George Hughes was spoken, but his family was absent—or, at least, unacknowledged. Did anyone try to find them? Were they invited? Where were they? Has any attempt been made to locate them? Whatever the case, the announcement could have been made known. And while I heard repeated mentions of the “five years” it took to get the marker approved, I couldn’t help but contrast that with what Black community members might say: “It’s taken 95 years.” For them, justice is measured not by bureaucratic milestones but by the time elapsed since the original trauma.

This dissonance became even more apparent later that afternoon, when Alicia and I, along with a dedicated cast of five—two of whom were former students of Dr. McElroy—brought The Ninth Day of May to life at Austin College. The play is a deeply personal work by Dr. McElroy, herself a child in Sherman during the 1930 riots. It is her love letter, warning, and reckoning with her hometown. Through the voices of a Black teenage girl who is a student at Fred Douglass High School, business owners, and attorney William J. Durham, one of Texas’s few Black civil rights lawyers at the time, the play resurrects a community both traumatized and resilient.
Our audience was thoughtful and engaged, but noticeably smaller than the crowd gathered just hours before at the courthouse. Where were the other city leaders? The clergy of all races and nationalities? The new allies who spoke passionately about healing in the morning? Why had so few traveled less than 10 minutes down the road to witness an artistic interpretation of the very history they had just commemorated?

As Dr. Barber reminds us in We Are Called to Be a Movement (2020), “You can’t heal without truth. And you can’t have reconciliation without repair.” The truth was vividly present in the play, but many seemed unwilling to confront it when it came wrapped in raw testimony and living memory. Performative justice allows for symbolism without sacrifice. Actual justice demands presence, participation, and perseverance. We have to see and hear from the community who were scorned and robbed, and not just from all-white speakers who spoke at the podium at the Courthouse hours earlier. Which brings up another point: Why was everyone who spoke at the courthouse White? This makes me question who the ceremony was performed for when the people impacted the most are still left voiceless at the actual “healing” ceremony. Don’t get me wrong, allies who make things happen deserve a voice, but it should never be louder than the communities impacted. 

A member of Sherman’s NAACP said it plainly after the show: “We have a problem here in Sherman. We demand things but don’t show up when they're done.” That statement has stayed with me. In that moment, I realized that justice isn’t just about the act of remembrance—it’s about who chooses to remember, how often, and in what ways.

Despite the contradictions, I remain hopeful. The fact that a marker now stands in front of the Grayson County Courthouse is not meaningless. The fact that Dr. McElroy’s story was told in her hometown, in front of new ears, matters deeply. And the fact that there are still people in Sherman who care enough to push for more than markers—to push for truth, equity, and community engagement—gives me hope.
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Sherman is a city in transition. Its past is painful, but its future is not fixed. As someone who believes deeply in racial justice, I left with questions but also with cautious optimism. There are seeds here. And if we water them not just with words but with action, then a new day in Sherman is still possible.
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My Reflection on a Three-Day Protest Tour: Using Theatre to Boycott Walmart, Target, & Amazon

3/16/2025

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By: Dontá McGilvery, Ph.D
March 16, 2025

To those few American citizens who remain unaware, the political climate in the U.S. is more chaotic than ever. Over the past 50 days, President Donald Trump has signed  more than 80 executive orders, surpassing the number he signed during his first term by 17. One of the most controversial orders is the elimination of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives in both the private sector and federal government. Officially titled "Ending Radical and Wasteful Government DEI Programs and Preferencing," this executive order aims to dismantle DEI efforts, claiming to restore "Merit-Based Opportunity."
For those of us who exist on the margins, this order is not about merit—it is about erasure. It is an attempt to render marginalized communities invisible and re-center privilege. So, how do we respond? How do we fight back? The answer is simple: We resist. We fight with our talents, our voices, and the very gifts that God has given us. We stand in the tradition of those who have fought before us. As John Lewis once said, "When you see a good fight, jump in." Fannie Lou Hamer told us to "put some legs on our prayers." Resistance is both an act of faith and action.
Now more than ever, we need every person of goodwill to join the fight for justice. In particular, three of the nation’s largest retail corporations—Target, Walmart, and Amazon—have rolled back their commitment to DEI. They are three of the 30 companies that removed DEI programs and stepped backward in their promises to underserved communities.
The Protest Monologue
This weekend, I decided to act. I rented a 10-foot U-Haul truck, transformed it into a mobile stage, and performed a monologue I wrote titled A Letter. This imaginary letter, penned by three iconic freedom fighters—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Cesar Chavez, and Malcolm X—urges every person of conscience to boycott Target, Walmart, and Amazon for 40 days. My goal was twofold: to encourage participation in the boycott and to deepen my understanding of protest theatre’s effectiveness. Over the course of three days, I performed the monologue in various locations, including a church, a Walmart parking lot, inside a Target, a barbershop, and two public parks. What I learned extended far beyond what I initially anticipated.
The Inspiration for the Protest Monologue
The 40-Day Boycott is an initiative launched by Pastor Jamal Bryant of New Birth Baptist Church in Stonecrest, Georgia. Target, for instance, reneged on its promise to spend $2 billion at black-owned businesses by 2025. In response, Pastor Bryant called on his congregation to take action, stating, "White supremacy is banking on your complacency. They are banking on you being so consumed with your car, your bag, your shoes, that you don’t see the whole community imploding around you." The church created a website, TargetFast.org, where participants can commit to the boycott, stay informed, and track the movement's progress. The 40-day boycott, ending on April 19th, is only the first phase—its next steps will depend on the response from Target’s board meeting on June 12th in Minneapolis.

Protest Theatre in Action
I
 set up my mobile stage in the back of the U-Haul, transforming it into a scene reminiscent of 1960s activism, complete with protest signs. Grabbing my bullhorn, I announced to a Walmart parking lot, "I have a letter from three of our freedom-fighting ancestors: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Caesar Chavez, and Malcolm X." While some onlookers met me with disapproving glares, many more stopped to listen, some even choosing to turn away from Walmart that day. Some asked for copies of my monologue, which I had prepared in both English and Spanish.
The experience revealed several key lessons:
The Idea of "Safety" When Engaged in Protest Performance:
Though I anticipated resistance, the weight of a few disapproving stares was enough to heighten my awareness of my vulnerability. No words were spoken, yet their expressions spoke volumes. I quickly realized that hostility does not have to be verbalized to be felt, and even silent opposition can influence decisions about where and how long to perform.

My choice of attire—a white long-sleeve button-down shirt and black tie—was intentional. I wanted to reduce any perception of being a threat. Although I am acutely aware that no suit or tie can shield my Black body from the dangers of hate, history has taught us that even the most distinguished appearances do not guarantee safety. Malcolm X and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. were both dressed in suits when they were assassinated. While I know that my attire does not provide true protection, I like to believe that it may, at the very least, mitigate some risk.
The Agility in Modalities of Protest Theatre Performance: 
Performing in different spaces required me to adapt my approach. At First Institutional Baptist Church (FIBC), I had a captive audience and could perform the full eight-minute monologue. At Walmart, however, shoppers were on the move, so I adjusted by delivering key excerpts instead of the entire speech. I condensed the message: "Martin King said we ‘must be dissatisfied,’ Malcolm X urged us not to fund those who don’t value our community, and Cesar Chavez reminded us, ‘The fight is never about grapes and lettuce. It’s always about people.’" This shift allowed me to engage a transient audience effectively.

At Target, I pivoted yet again. Instead of a full performance, I approached shoppers—particularly people of color—and handed them the letter. "Can I share this with you?" I asked, before briefly explaining the boycott and encouraging them to read it later. This approach felt more personal and yielded a better reception than the public performance at Walmart.
At the barbershop, I had another captive audience. Though a third of the attendees were Spanish speakers, I was prepared—I provided Spanish copies of my monologue so that everyone could follow along. This reinforced the importance of accessibility and preparation.
On the final day of my tour, I performed in Cesar Chavez Park and Eastlake Park. Similar to my Walmart experience, these performances required a balance of public speaking and one-on-one engagement. While I handed out fewer letters at the parks, I could present longer excerpts of the monologue, reinforcing the message more visibly.

Conclusion:
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This three-day protest theatre tour deepened my understanding of performance as activism. It reaffirmed that resistance takes many forms—some loud and public, others subtle and intimate. Protest theatre is more than a performance; it is an act of defiance, a bridge between past and present, a call to conscience. Whether in a Walmart parking lot, a barbershop, or a public park, the message remains the same: justice demands action.

Now, I urge you to take action. The 40-day boycott continues until April 19th, and every dollar withheld is a statement of resistance. If we want corporations to honor their commitments to equity, we must demand it. Visit TargetFast.org, sign the pledge, and stand with us. As history has shown time and again, when we stand together, we cannot be ignored. Let’s put legs on our prayers and fight the good fight—one act of resistance at a time. 
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Have you read Dr. Dontá's Section in a Recent Book on Social Justice??

2/27/2025

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Nestled between two powerhouse, world-renowned artists and justice advocates—Nikki Giovanni and Jane Elliott—is a compelling two-page literary play. Absent Justice, written by Dr. Dontá McGilvery, co-founder of Sleeveless Acts, is featured in Social Justice in Action: Models for Campus and Community (2024), edited by Dr. Neal Lester, professor and founding director of ASU's Project Humanities.
In the wake of George Floyd’s murder in 2020, Dr. Lester took note of Dr. McGilvery’s short play, originally shared on social media, and invited him to contribute to the forthcoming book. This powerful collection offers both scholarly and practical insights into social justice models actively shaping communities.
To explore Dr. McGilvery’s piece—alongside works from distinguished scholars, artists, and community leaders—pick up a copy of Social Justice in Action: Models for Campus and Community (2024), edited by Dr. Neal Lester.
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Read Dr. Dontá's abstract entitled "A Theatre Intervention for Seeking Justice"

2/22/2024

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A Trailblazer for Black Theater: Dontá McGilvery

1/28/2022

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10/9/2021

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SMU Alumni Spotlight Podcast: 16: Dontá McGilvery

10/8/2021

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Exploring Trauma Responsivity and Self Care. By Claire K. Redfield

10/8/2021

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Hooray for Woodie King Jr., the Living Legend!

10/8/2021

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