Rachel Howard

When I was 25, I lived on the edge of the Tenderloin in San Francisco, four blocks down from a towering gray cathedral. I knew at the time I could never be Catholic — too much patriarchy, too much guilt — but I also knew that the church up the hill was Episcopal, not Catholic. I wasn’t quite sure what the people there believed. But I’d been hounding my boyfriend, Bill, for a marriage proposal for more than a year, and after another 4 a.m. fight, we both needed relief.
“It’s Easter,” I said. “...

It’s rare to encounter an artistic director’s program note offering more than generic greetings, yet I always read Peter Boal’s opening thoughts before pressing “play” on a Pacific Northwest Ballet program. (Happily the company has continued to offer a digital season alongside its return to the live stage.) To introduce this second mixed-rep bill, Boal could have angled for “relevance” and stressed how Ulysses Dove’s “Dancing on the Front Porch of Heaven” connects to our moment of grief in th...

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