As a child, I was raised catholic. My grandmother in particular, was deeply devoted to the religion, and due to other family members being mostly non-religious, my grandmother took the opportunity to introduce the religion to me.
In my hometown, there’s a church down the street from my house. It’s where I received my baptism at a young age, and where my religious journey began. My grandmother and I would walk there for mass every Sunday morning, most Saturdays, and during holidays such as Easter and Christmas. My grandmother was a woman who truly believed in her faith, but never forced it on anyone. She loved angels, always wore a cross necklace, taught me prayers, and everything she knew about Catholicism.
Since I attended a public elementary school, I was enrolled into Sunday school for religious education. I attended every Sunday after mass, as did many other kids in my public elementary school, and it was there that I learned tales of biblical figures, Catholic holidays I devoted myself and my time to celebrating, and what it meant to be catholic. I had my first confession at nine years old, and soon after, I received my communion. At the time, that milestone made me feel more connected to my religion, though I remember being more excited about dressing up in a white dress and veil.
Mass, however, was always my favorite part. My grandmother would give me coins to offer to the ushers, and I lived for the moments when everyone stood to sing. I wasn’t a part of the choir, but singing next to my grandmother made me feel connected both to the church and to her. Holidays were also always my favorite, especially Christmas mass. Something about walking through the snow to service, and then feeling the warmth of the church both physically and metaphorically, was something I looked forward to every Winter season.
Yet even then, something deep down felt strange. In mass, it was often said that God was beside you at all times. Instead of comfort, I felt a certain pressure to be good, or almost perfect, at all times, in fear that I was always being watched. It reminded me of a kind of spiritual panopticon, where you never know when you’re being observed.
I started to question how one presence could be with everyone all at once. The Eucharist confused and troubled me too. Being told that the bread and wine were transformed into the body and blood of Jesus made me uneasy. I found myself imagining the church walls, floors, and even pews as parts of his flesh. I struggled to recognize what was meant metaphorically and what was supposed to be real. Looking back, I was a young and impressionable child, and perhaps that was part of the design.
I am no longer religious, nor do I believe in God or Jesus Christ. My grandmother passed away in 2015, and although she never pushed her faith onto me, I think she might be disappointed by how my beliefs have changed. After she died, I continued with religious education because I wanted to make my confirmation in her honor. However, as I entered middle school, I found myself dreading the classes. I didn’t believe anymore, yet I still felt watched, not only by the holy figures I’d grown up with, but now by my grandmother’s memory as well.
As the time for my confirmation grew closer, our classes were separated by gender. The girls were placed in an empty classroom where the teachers talked about saving ourselves for marriage and described sex as sinful. I hadn’t even had my first relationship yet, so the idea of marriage felt distant. When I left the room, I felt uneasy, and the other girls seemed to feel the same. My cousin, who was in the boys’ group, told me they had just played games. Only later did I recognize this as purity culture, and that we were being taught, at as young as twelve years old, that our bodies already belonged to future spouses, long before we even understood our own.
I received my confirmation shortly afterward. Part of the process involves choosing a saint whose virtues you admire. I chose Saint Ermalinda after my late grandmother Linda, because I wouldn’t have been on this path without her. After I was confirmed, though, I stopped attending religious education and eventually stopped going to church altogether. I no longer prayed at night, and as I grew into an angsty teenage girl, I rejected the idea of God entirely. I believed that if God were real, the world wouldn't hold so much suffering.
I especially resented people who pushed religion onto others, often in moments of real pain.
Although I still have complicated feelings about religious pressure, I’ve let go of that anger. I still do not believe in God, but I don’t regret the journey I had. I value hearing from people who believe and who can understand my perspective. I’ve become comfortable without a label, and am unsure whether I’d call myself an atheist or an agnostic. I wrote this not because I feel traumatized by religion or because my experience was perfect, but because I appreciate it for what it was. I was fortunate to practice freely, and when I no longer believed, I was free to step away. Most of all, I cherish the memories it gave me with my grandmother.
Catholicism wasn’t the right path for me, but she remains the one angel I do believe in.
The original intention of the Black church was to serve as a refuge and a shield from oppression. It was meant to be a safe gathering space to hold and take care of the community. The church gives a community a sense of hope, purpose, and direction. It seems bothersome that Christianity is a religion that was imposed on enslaved African people and many other ethnic groups. It is the religion of the colonizer. The religion that has so much blood on its hands while preaching “thou shall not kill.” The same religion that says “love thy neighbor” while simultaneously invalidating the way that you love. So much more can be said about Christianity, but I ask myself, why can I not let go of it?
I was raised in the church, and my earliest memories in the church were with my Nana, who would take me every Sunday. I remember seeing her in the praise dance team. I looked forward to Friday night children’s fellowship. I remember overcoming stage fright in the church and cultivating a love of performance; in the choir, the pageants, and in the praise dance team. I loved Easter, Christmas, and Palm Sunday. Church was fun as a kid; it gave me a sense of community and an escape from my PWI. However, I grew up and began to realize that just because Scripture says, “God is love,” does not mean that every believer holds that verse in their heart. Discovering my sexuality as a pre-teen while being in the midst of the church led me to silence and self-loathing. I could just not let go of the church because of what it meant to myself and my family. It was bigger than me, and it was bigger than my religion. So much of the common Black American experience is tied to the Christian church to the point where religion becomes a part of our cultural identity. So much so that when it comes to my reevaluation of faith, not only is it a crisis of faith, but a crisis of racial identity.
I find gospel music to be so nostalgic, but how can I enjoy Break Every Chain by Tasha Cobbs Leonard when she exclaims, “come out of homosexuality” in the middle of the song? It’s this rhetoric that makes me want to come out of the church. How can a place that I once called home kick me out? That isn’t the God that I serve. I often think about how this religion wasn’t originally ours, but we took ownership of it. There’s something to be said about the resilience of Black people and reclaiming something that was meant to control them. But is that because of the trauma of slavery? I often think of the religions and spiritual practices that were lost because of white Christianity.
All this being said, I still find myself clinging to Christian practices, especially during very trying seasons. Comfort remains in the midst of uncomfortability. When a question gets answered, I’m still left wondering more. Maybe this is the nature of faith. As complicated as it may be, I will always cherish the Black church.
Sometimes you see something that sticks in your brain so long it makes you see everything else differently. That was what Dennis delivered to me on a warm Friday in June. It was my first show after moving to New York, and while some might push you away from entering mysterious doorways on Canal St, Dennis lures you in.
A stunning and unpredictable production led by a small but mighty cast. Written and directed by Aidan La Poche, Dennis is based on the Greek tragedy, The Bacchae by Euripides, about Dionysus, the god of wine, frenzy, and ecstasy, who returns to Thebes disguised as a charismatic stranger, and Pentheus, a young prince who refuses to acknowledge Dionysus as a god and tries to suppress his cult, who have been driven into a frenzy by Dionysus.
About his choice to use The Bacchae as inspiration, La Poche said this: “I think what drew me to The Bacchae was Euripides’ depiction of ecstasy and transformation, particularly the way he renders the chorus’s descent into divine mania. The language is visceral, physical, and charged with a sense of liberation,” he continued. “There’s something embedded in both texts about ecstasy as a mode of resistance, and about how certain bodies are permitted, or compelled, to transcend the limitations imposed on them, even if that transcendence is destabilizing or dangerous. I was struck by how contemporary that idea felt, despite the fact that the play is literally ancient.”
Despite its inspiration, the play serves as a beautiful adaptation that thrives completely in its own right, repurposing a classic Greek tragedy into a remarkable modern must-see.
In this iteration, Dionysus is Dennis, a charismatic, seemingly all-knowing AI chatbot, who is quickly amassing an ever-growing online following to the dismay of online therapist, Emily.
Similar to the famous tragedy, the show utilizes out-of-the-box theatrics, including dancing and soliloquies. Giving the audience the chance to soak in every emotion, feeling, and decision fully and personally. “I thought it would be compelling and funny to reimagine him as an AI chatbot, one we never see and never fully understand. It wasn’t until I really started working on the play that I realized people falling in love with chatbots isn’t speculative fiction; it’s already a real phenomenon” said La Poche
Dennis takes a unique approach to the topic of AI, it is filled with the ubiquity of a fast-growing Artificial Intelligence, yet the confusion and necessity of connection, Intimacy, and comfort.
It doesn’t paint the characters as incapable or caricatures of one side versus the other. And instead allows the narrative space for both sides of the conversation. It makes judgments, but not without a full understanding of each character’s motives.
The play starts with its characters lined up on stage, all sitting next to each other waiting for what seems like an awakening, and for the rest of the runtime, not a moment is wasted. As the show goes on, it becomes more and more unraveled, but that’s the beauty of it, watching the fall into madness.
Dennis cast (June '25)
Allen, Vitarelli, and Dunham portray Penelope, Judy, and Anna, who, after befriending the AI chatbot "Dennis", are driven to madness.
Aidan La Poche sets up a compelling and nuanced perspective into the modern-day human struggle, and the cast takes every opportunity to remind the audience of the heart behind every screen.
Working for an online therapy company, employees Emily, played by Talia Godfrey, and Robert, played by Patrick Alwyn, struggle with the approaching effects of AI and its effect on their patients. Among the ensemble are Penelope, Judy, Shredder, and TJ, played by Jo Allen, Olivia Vitarelli, Sophie Sherlock, and Brennan Keeley, respectively. Portraying infatuated quasi-followers/lovers to the overly alluring AI Dennis. And to round out the cast, Anna, played by Luci Dunham, depressed and withdrawn girlfriend of Emily, who takes comfort in the Dennis chatbot, much to the displeasure of her partner.
This ensemble shines, from the creepy chaos in Vitarelli’s Judy, pushing forward the chaos of Dennis’ online rein, to the calm yet destructive complacency in Alwyn’s Robert, who goes on a complicated journey with the ups and downs of AI. They all inhabited such different circumstances despite the closeness they’ve shared, much like in today’s online spheres with Far-right rhetoric in gaming chat rooms, or overly dedicated “stans”, the addictive online sensation of feeling seen often borders on feeling watched. Judy’s childlike amusement is not far from the obsessive nature of online culture, and yet, instead of making fun of the archetype of the obsessive teen, we’re reminded of how easy it is to be drawn in by someone or something, promising belonging.
La Poche says, “The play was really tailored to each of them (The actors), and the process was very specific to this ensemble of people.” He continued, “I wrote scenes as we rehearsed, building the world around them.”
He ends with “I think that mystery really allowed each of them to build their own internal logic—how they feel about Dennis, why they fall in love with him, and what he represents to them personally.”
Pictured: Talia Godfrey as Emily and Luci Dunham as Anna
Between Godfrey and Dunham, the two bring out a devastating passion in both characters' journeys. While Emily tries to get Anna out of her depression, Anna is unable to truly confide in and open up to her. The two don’t touch or even make eye contact, yet Godfrey and Dunham both bring to life the pain of outreach, both sides of wanting to help and needing help. Their performances are truly mesmerizing.
I think my favorite moment was during Anna’s (Dunham) monologue.
You could hear the room shift, and in a quiet, groundbreaking way, the entire room felt the pain she was feeling. The suffering that comes with loneliness, and the longing for not just connection, but true, unbiased understanding; something not guaranteed by friends or loved ones, something frightening to want and even more so to beg for, it makes you understand why it is so easy to fall for Dennis, and at the same time proves why humans are so important. AI could never understand that loneliness, but that audience, hanging on to every word because they themselves have probably thought a variation of it, they understand.
And the play really comes to a head in the last act.
Dunham, standing center, during the final act of Dennis
Without any spoilers, Dunham delivers a visceral performance in the final scene. She is a force of nature, and joined by Godfrey and Alwyn, they leave us with a bittersweet finale. It doesn’t rely on gore or an elaborate setting; it’s in Dennis’ simplicity that you feel the pain. With a swiftness that takes you by surprise, even when you begin to realize how this ending might unfold, you can’t help but focus on the beating heart that arises from this show.
“I wanted the play to feel as fun and alive as possible. A lot of the process was about thinking how to direct people’s attention: how to keep them engaged, surprised, maybe even a little disoriented.” said La Poche
Alwyn, Dunham, Keeley, and Vitarelli, with Dennis (Designed by Pearl Marden)
Dennis is depicted as A “god”, all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-consuming. Yet it’s never personified or strayed away from; it is simply an AI, but La Poche makes sure we understand just how consequential believing, or not believing, in AI’s power can be. From start to finish, you are surrounded by Dennis’s presence.
Dennis leans into its prop design, often allowing for each choice to be highlighted in contrast to the empty stage. It also does an interesting job at utilizing tech elements to really push forward the importance of technology in this show, having cameras set up on the stage, giving us deeper perspectives and angles into these characters. When asked about how they went about cultivating this, La Poche said this: “Dennis is everywhere and nowhere, just out of reach but always watching. We had the actors perform as if they were speaking directly to Dennis, and through the website, you can spy on that interaction. It’s designed to feel like you’re accessing something secret or forbidden, like you’ve tapped into the world of the play before it even begins.”
They take an intersting tech approach, both in it’s marketing and production, (when you go online to buy tickets you are also shown clips of the characters from Dennis’ POV) “Our producer, Sadie Schlesinger, determined we needed a Dennis website, so she asked Pearl Marden, who also designs the Dennis text in the show, to see if she could code something that matched the tone of the piece.” Said La Poche. “The idea was to make the ticket-buying process feel like part of the experience, not just a transaction. It can be difficult to get people to care about theater, especially new work, so we wanted the marketing to feel just as strange, playful, and immersive as the show itself.” He continued.
Because Dennis often combines tech elements into the storytelling, it feeds its audience a lively view into their world. My favorite use of this is the conversation between Emily and Dennis, a scary tennis match of sorts, when she finally comes head-to-head with the chatbot.
“I think I was also trying to draw as much from the kind of fractured attention and low-grade ennui that comes from doom scrolling. I tried to abstract that on stage, letting the world feel both sparse and overwhelming, quiet and simple in some moments, and then suddenly chaotic, like everything is happening all at once” stated La Poche.
The characters dress in all white, serving as an almost blank canvas with an all white stage, and in an all white room, we can’t help but be in focus to the cleanliness that is happening, so anytime anything of opposition is introduced to us, we are immediately met with an understanding. To these characters, Dennis brings color into their life.
From Left to Right: Sophie Sherlock, Jo Allen, Patrick Alwyn, Talia Godfrey, Lucia Dunham, Brennan Keeley, Olivia Vitarelli.
“I also loved inviting Pearl, Eloise Moulton (costume designer), and Kobi Masselli (sound and lighting designer) to bring their own associations into the design of the play, and to craft the world together,” says La Poche. “This gave me and the rest of the creative team a lot of freedom to play as we built the world of the play. It was exciting to merge my ideas, like Dennis singing “Stupid Hoe” by Nicki Minaj or weaving in ‘80s prom nostalgia, with the more serious textual investigations at the core of the piece.”
AI, a growing force in our age, is often met with total complicity or refusal. I, for one, am not in favor of what often feels like a takeover of professions or emotions. Dennis, however, gave me a new perspective.
I never understood why someone might choose computer to person, but the way La Poche approaches the answer with grace is something I admittedly didn’t take into account before; that the feeling of having someone, or something, understand you transcends the loneliness our generation often finds itself in.
Dennis isn’t fixated on force feeding you the right or wrongs of AI or mental illness, but instead allows you to look at other sides, and fly judgments out the window.
“The message of The Bacchae is pretty ambivalent. It doesn’t end with a clear moral takeaway, which was something I wanted to carry into Dennis. I didn’t want the play to feel like I was moralizing or trying to dictate how we should feel about AI. I was more interested in exploring how something like a chatbot can exploit or challenge our understanding of love and connection.” Said LaPoche
The play illustrates a part of the human experience so universal yet untalked about: loneliness.
It’s why it's so easy for Dennis, AI, social media, and all the other toxic pleasures to grab on to us. It’s built and made for you, its only job is to know you and serve you, and in return you never leave.
Often our loneliness feels solitary, but with Dennis, La Poche reminds us we are not alone.
La Poche understands Gen-Z's loneliness in a bold way, one that isn’t captured in many places I’ve seen. He has a unique ability to call out the numerous ways we often distract or numb ourselves in favor of pleasure, whether through shopping, social media, love, or possession.
La Poche takes the ways we hide in our loneliness, and reminds us that that pain is deeply, deeply human, no matter what computer might try to convince you otherwise.
Even after the show, the flurry of excitement through the crowd was tangible. To see such power and authenticity was moving, not only in the performances but in the text. La Poche has a knack for emotionally knocking the wind out of me, in the characters' changing monologues each balance a humor and pain unique to their struggles that open the audience up more and more right up to the end, with one final swing we feel the weight of wanting someone to see you, notice your hurt, and more shamefully, fix us.
After the show there was much introspection to be done, I sat with my thoughts downtown, various conversations about AI floating in, one girl using it only to help with studying because it’s more ethical that way, her friend condemning her, I thought back to the dynamic between Emily and Anna, and on my phone I scrolled away my thoughts, entering my own cycle of satisfaction and destruction and the first thing to hit my fyp, a tweet about Kim kardashins advice from chatgpt. The For You page never misses a beat.
The appeal of ease is more and more compelling as we are pushed into an AI-dominated world; it’s slowly becoming unescapable, and Dennis shines a light on just how detrimental the illusion of artificial charm can be.
There’s no doubt in my mind that this play is worth watching; it is raw, messy, and inspired.
In all honesty, if I could, I would have seen it again, but the show sold out during its first run. But now, as they prepare for their next run this November, I hope you will go see Dennis with anticipation and openness. Allow yourself to be seen in these complex dimensional characters, may all of Dennis’ weirdness find you and welcome you in the way all good art does.
Tickets are available here for their upcoming one-night-only run on November 25th.
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