Last week brought news of two more controversies involving what its defenders sometimes term "color-blind casting," and what detractors might call color blindness: Katori Hall described her outrage to learn that a white actor had played Martin Luther King, Jr., in a recent production of her play The Mountaintop; and Lloyd Suh forced the cancellation of a production of his play Jesus in India, for which the director had cast, without Suh's knowledge, two white actors as South Asian characters. (Suh explains his position here.)

Predictably, these events produced epic threads across the tapestry of social media. At least in those I followed, the conversation inevitably turned when one or more posters (if not always, than nearly always, white men) suggested that Hall and Suh were themselves guilty of discrimination by refusing to consider certain actors for certain roles, positions the posters supported by praising "color-blind" productions they have authorized of their own plays. (Here it must be emphasized that neither director asked for Hall's or Suh's permission before casting white actors.) These posters were then told that their opinions do not matter—that they "do not get" to have these opinions—and the arguments quickly degenerated.

Rather than step further into these particular outrages, I would like instead to explore a more general question: As a white playwright, do I have the right to form and express an opinion about "color-blind casting" in plays by writers of color? To begin, I hate this language of "rights," which I think distracts more than illuminates, but it's the default stance for contrarian posters: "I won't let anyone take away my right to my opinion!" begins oh-so-many replies. It would be just as meaningless to proclaim one's right to have ideas. We have opinions because we're human—as long as we're thinking and experiencing, we cannot not have opinions. About everything.

But there's a flip side to opinions, if everyone is having them at every moment: The vast, vast majority are disposable. And so the more interesting—and relevant—question is whether a particular opinion is worth sharing. And if so, to whom? As a white playwright, my opinion is that it's great I don't have to worry much about proponents of "color-blind casting" ignoring—or thwarting—my intentions; on the contrary, it might be thrilling to discover what black or South Asian actors bring to characters I have always imagined as white. As a male playwright, I have the same opinion about "gender-neutral casting." As a straight playwright, I'm open to rethinking heterosexual relationships in my plays as homosexual. It's great to have that privilege!

All these opinions would be relevant—I hope—to a director of my work, and in that context I will eagerly share them and, when necessary, insist they be respected. All these opinions are irrelevant—I believe—to writers of color, to writers who are women or who are gay or who belong to any other group that cannot take my privileges for granted. Of course I "get" to have them. The question I should ask, whether in person or with fingers poised above keyboard, is why anyone else should listen. If my only answer is Because I'm Brent Englar, I should probably do most of the listening. And afterward, I can call up my mom and tell her.

I'm concerned that the latest trend in Baltimore theater is passing the hat. Since June I've seen at least three shows that ended not with curtain calls but with sales pitches. (I won't name names—I probably missed just as many that ended this way.) The motions are the same, whether the tone is brisk or apologetic, and whether the organization is long established or relatively new: With the audience still applauding, an actor or administrator—sometimes the artistic director—steps forward, thanks everyone for coming, and kindly asks for donations.

I understand that keeping a theater open is an unending struggle for absurdly scarce resources. (I was on the Mobtown Players' board for four years, before rising rent and floodwaters combined to put us out of business.) I understand, I sympathize . . . yet is this really the best fundraising idea our community has had? If we can't even give audiences time and space to digest a show before we beg for money, are we not implicitly reducing the show to crowd-bait? Are we not explicitly communicating that buying a ticket is not good enough—that if people really want to support a theater, they should buy a spot on the donor's list.

Well, maybe they should. But making that pitch from a stage still flecked with sweat, to an audience that is practically captive, seems more than tacky. It seems like preying on goodwill and guilt: We gave you culture. The least you can give us is five more bucks.

Let me step back from hyperbole. I'm sure much of my annoyance is that two of the three shows I saw were new plays. What a disservice to a writer, to interrupt audience members as their responses are still forming, because of course the more vital response is capital flowing to the producer!

Let me step back from crankiness. I recognize every theater's need to fundraise; I can even follow the logic that might lead theater-makers to decide the best time to fundraise is immediately after a performance. I think this is shortsighted and uncreative. It ends in a vision of theater as an obligation rather than a joy. We can do better. We must. Or the only people paying to support our work will be ourselves.