This First Person column is by Queen Alexis, who lives in Burnaby, B.C. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

I was sitting across from my mom while she calculated the tuition for my musical theatre program into monthly installments. 

She looked up and asked, “Do you want to go back next year?”

I was a kid passionate about theatre. While my mom did everything she could to support my interests, I knew it wasn’t financially sustainable for her as a single mother. 

Of course I wanted to go back to the extracurricular high-end program I had been in for the past two years, but as much as it hurt me, I told her, “It’s fine. I don’t need to.” 

Growing up Black in the Lower Mainland in the 2000s, I rarely saw myself reflected on stage or in arts education spaces — not only because of a lack of representation, but also because of access. 

Performing arts programs can be expensive, making them out of reach for many families, and those high costs disproportionately impact racialized families like mine. Culturally these appeared, and generally remain, remain spaces we can’t easily enter. 

So, at 13, when I realized that since the spaces I needed didn’t exist, I decided to build my own. I began knocking on doors in my neighbourhood, searching for kids who wanted to join me in putting on our own productions. 

I remember going to one house where  a Black little girl lived. I gave the family my pitch: “I’m starting a musical theatre class — do you have any kids who would like to join?” The mom politely responded that her daughter was too young and too shy.

Determined, I went back again. And again. Nearly two years later, they finally agreed.

At the time, I told myself I just wanted more kids to participate. But looking back, I think I saw myself in that little girl. I was drawn to that family. Maybe part of me was trying to heal something in myself — by giving her a safe space to sing, to express herself and to be surrounded by community and Black role models. Something I didn’t have growing up.

In one high school production, which luckily was free through public education, I was cast as the only Black character in The Drowsy Chaperone. 

When the director said, “this character is perfect for you,” I took it as a compliment. She was bold and sleek — qualities I recognized in myself. But as rehearsals went on, the praise began to sit differently. I never considered auditioning for the female lead, who was effortlessly desirable and white. That role did not feel available to me.

This was a pattern. If the role had to be played by a Black actor, I was the only Black student in my grade in the program. What had first felt like validation began to feel narrow and stereotyped, as if the casting had been drawn long before I stepped into the audition room. It was only as an adult that I began to recognize and name the privilege embedded in the arts.

This is what ultimately led me to found Queen’s Academy of The Arts. I got a musical theatre diploma and bachelor of arts from Capilano University as well as a bachelor of education from the University of British Columbia. I created a Black youth musical theatre program where students have the space to express themselves, be courageous and feel proud about who they are.

One of my most memorable teaching moments was when I wore my hair natural to a class — curly, full and unapologetic — and a five-year-old Black student with bright admiring eyes said, “Ms. Queen! My hair looks just like yours!” 

Those words are everything to me. These moments remind me that representation today isn’t just symbolic — it’s relational. 

Students are seeing themselves reflected in real time, and that visibility expands what they believe is possible. When I reflect on the 30th anniversary of Black History Month, that’s what has changed. By creating intentional spaces that honour and amplify Black brilliance, we are strengthening our community to openly talk about Black identity and building a more inclusive future. 

There are still too few Black educators or leaders in the arts and, at Queen’s Academy, I regularly hear from families who can’t afford to enrol their children in theatre classes. 

This is why I actively work to reduce these barriers by keeping our programs priced below comparable offerings, partnering directly with school districts and offering our subsidy program to families. We also deliver programming directly in elementary schools and community spaces, reducing transportation and access hurdles. 

When I think of the little Black kid who was all too aware of her family’s finances, I see how much we still have to do. 

Representation isn’t just about being seen on stage — it’s about who gets to participate, who gets to imagine themselves there and who gets sustained access to creative joy. Building the spaces I once needed feels like both a critical responsibility and an enormous privilege.

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