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I visited Laramie, Wyoming, in early September 2005. (I was cast in a production of The Laramie Project at Marist College and spent the month of August in rehearsal.)

Until that point, I hadn't given much thought to Laramie or to Matthew Shepard. Shepard's beating and subsequent death occurred in October 1998; I had just begun my freshman year of high school. I vaguely remember the news headlines. Some conversations were had in school. That was it. I was a world away on Long Island, and I was caught up in my bubble---homework, rehearsal, making it to the weekend---too distracted to give this moment due consideration. Adding to the distraction was the mass shooting at Columbine High School later that April, effectively book-ending my freshman year of high school with two national tragedies.

Rehearsing The Laramie Project six years later, I finally was confronted by Matthew Shepard, his death, and the lesson Laramie holds for those who visit. My castmates and I were tasked with bringing the words---the actual testimonies---of Laramie residents and visitors to life. We had to morph into multiple characters from one scene to the next. The role assignments did not discriminate; each of us had to lend voice to views with which we agreed and to views with which we disagreed. Each role presented its own challenge.

The role that challenged me most was Dennis Shepard, who appears in the final moments of Act III to deliver a statement at the trial of one of his son's killers. At that point in my life I did not have a son, and never had I experienced loss on the level that Mr. Shepard did. I never have stood in a courtroom faced with the decision to forgive or to condemn. Try as I might, every recitation I delivered was marked with forced emotion and choreographed movement. My director, Matt Andrews, would not accept what I had to give. I was not alone in this dilemma.

It took time for all of us to connect with the piece. I give my director much credit for gently guiding us to make the eventual connection. It was through his individual conversations with us that we each came to the realization. We had to listen. We had to listen to each person's testimony, not simply recite it. This was the key. For all of us, this was the first time we were performing as people, not as characters. There was nothing to contrive or manufacture; the words are real. We just had to listen. By listening, we would react. These responses would be organic and their emotions honest. The discourse is the star of this piece, supported by the ensemble that provides its voice. Listen to the words, and the rest will follow. It all comes down to empathy.

Empathy is the legacy of Matthew Shepard. This is what I learned by listening to the words of my characters and of the other characters comprising this work. Through the text, I encountered people with perspectives that complement and challenge my own. I became better informed, and I learned to respect others' views despite whether or not I agree or disagree with them. Working on this piece was my most rewarding stage experience. And now I get to experience this a second time through the eyes of this next generation.

The country has come a long way since the events at Laramie and Columbine, but as a country we still lack empathy as a whole, today more than ever. I hope that the students in this production and in the audience take away the understanding that while we each have our own perspectives and beliefs, we also have a responsibility to respect them, to listen to them, and to consider them. Only by listening and sharing---empathizing---will we progress united.

--Edward Grosskreuz, Jr.