When Three Men Made Me Question My Entire Existence: A ‘Brothers Size’ Reckoning

Andre Holland as Ogun in "The Brothers Size" at The Shed

Last night I stepped into The Shed Theater—clutching my pearls because boo, how does J.R. Whittington, consumer of all things beautiful and Black, miss a whole theater space in New York City? The audacity of my own negligence. But I was there for Tarell Alvin McCraney's "The Brothers Size," and yes, the title always makes my nasty mind wander to anatomical measurements, but Size is their last name, and we're going to act like we have some sense.

McCraney is gospel to me. As a gay Black actor, his words don't just speak to me—they resurrect parts of myself I forgot existed. I've devoured his work like communion bread, but shamefully, I'd only seen "Choir Boy" live at the Geffen years ago. So stepping into this sacred space felt like coming home to a house I'd only seen in photographs.

The beginning tested my patience. I wanted that immediate embrace, that instant recognition of home, but theater—real theater—doesn't give you everything at once. It makes you work for the revelation.

And chile, this is the work that sets my soul on fire: no sets, no frills, just bodies moving through space like prayers made flesh. The actors become the entire universe, and their breath becomes the soundtrack to your transformation. This is the theater I dream of making—stripped down to the marrow, honest as Sunday morning confessions.

The drummer wasn't just accompaniment; he was a full character, and yes, I watched him because he was fine as hell. I told you I don't lie in my reviews—this is my truth, served neat, no chaser.

Somewhere in the dream sequences, my resistance crumbled. I stopped thinking about craft and technique and fell—no, plunged—into their world. It was a penetration felt in my entire spirit, the kind that leaves you changed, rearranged, questioning everything you thought you knew about performance.

Andre Holland, my celebrity crush turned artistic revelation, embodied Ogun with a stoicism that felt like granite—until the second half cracked him open like an egg. Watching this man's soul spill across that stage left me questioning my own abilities. When great work makes you doubt yourself, you know you've witnessed something transcendent.

But let me tell you about Alani iLongwe—harpo, who dis man? This newcomer moved like water finding its level, with comedic timing sharp enough to cut glass and sensuality that had me adjusting my seat. His physicality impressed me more than any Broadway choreography I've seen in years. I'm now stalking this man's career because he didn't just steal scenes—he commandeered the entire production.

Malcolm Mays as Elegba carried want like a second skin. I might judge him harder because I see myself in that role, but his tenderness and hardness shifted like weather patterns, always clear in intention, always rooted in truth.

My only critique—and baby, it's barely a critique—was the movement work. Sometimes the choreography felt surface-level when the story demanded excavation. As an ex-Broadway dancer turned actor, I needed the movement to penetrate deeper, to reveal what words couldn't reach. But when Holland and iLongwe broke into their dance battle/lip sync moment toward the end of the play? I nearly jumped onstage to join the celebration.

The tender moment between iLongwe and Mays at the play's climax became the evening's apex. Their speech slowed, time dilated, and I found myself fidgeting in my seat—not from discomfort, but from the overwhelming intimacy of witnessing two souls connect across the vast loneliness of existence.

Then Holland—my imaginary husband—delivered the final blow. As the theater emptied around me, I remained seated, tears streaming, touched by something larger than myself, larger than The Brothers Size. This is what theater can do when it stops performing and starts revealing: it makes you sad, horny, inspired, and proud all at once. It makes you recognize yourself in strangers. It makes you love people you've never met.

I walked out changed, carrying their story like a new scar—beautiful, permanent, and proof that I survived something that mattered.

This is why we do this work. This is why we gather in dark rooms to watch people pretend to be other people. Because sometimes, in that pretending, we discover who we really are.

The Brothers Size runs at The Shed Theater through September 28, 2025. Go see it! Let it change you. Let it question everything you think you know about brotherhood, love, and the size of the human heart.