Perry Bruskin

Look at me. I am Perry Bruskin. I’m a leading man with holes in his shoes and a stomach that knows more about hunger than Hamlet knows about tragedy. And yet, here I am, about to roll on that stage and pretend like none of it matters.

The Federal Theatre Project… it’s a godsend, they say. A lifeline for actors, for writers, for dreamers who refuse to let their craft wither like a forgotten script in some abandoned playhouse. They gave me a role, a purpose when the world was ready to toss me aside like yesterday’s news. Before this? It was waiting tables, dodging eviction notices, counting pennies like they were gold coins. But the stage—this stage—gives me something even the longest soup line never could… dignity.

They don’t always like what we do, though. No, sir. The papers call it propaganda, the politicians call it dangerous. But I call it truth. We put real stories on the stage, stories of workers, of struggle, of injustice. We show America its own reflection, and sometimes, she doesn’t like what she sees. But isn’t that the job of the artist? To hold up the mirror and say, “Look—this is you.”

I may not have riches, or a name that echoes through Broadway halls, but I have this—a stage, an audience, a chance to speak when so many are silenced. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there tonight will see something real, something that stirs in their bones.

Well, the show’s about to start. Time to be someone else for a little while… or maybe, just maybe, time to be more of myself than ever.