I sobbed my way through three performances of Beauty and the Beast this weekend.

“WHO ARE YOU?” my friend Trish asked as I wiped away tears yesterday afternoon. The curtain hadn’t even gone up yet.

“I don’t know,” I said, sniffling loudly then flipping her off to confirm I’m still me, still the asshole she’s always known and loved.

Beauty and the Beast has never been one of my favorites — I’ve always found the talking dishware annoying, thought the story extra trite — and while I’m at it, I might as well admit that I really don’t care much for community theater in general.

But I’d watch Detour Company Theatre do any show, any time. And after this weekend, I can’t get enough Beauty and the Beast.

This theater troupe is comprised solely of adults with developmental disabilities (and a few other challenges), but when there’s a role for a kid, the director drops the age limit, which is how Sophie came to play the youngest Fiona in Shrek, and one of the children in South Pacific. “I would never cast one of our adults as a child,” Sam told me the other day. She doesn’t want to infantilize someone who already doesn’t get their due from the world. That’s just one of the reasons I love her.

I didn’t always love Detour. There was a really long time — both before Sophie was born and after — when I wouldn’t even consider watching this group perform, people who used wheelchairs and had trouble speaking clearly, who needed coaches on stage to guide them — sometimes through the simplest motions. People with a variety of diagnoses in various shapes and sizes. People like Sophie.

The people you don’t see on Broadway or in the movies, people you don’t even see in community theater. Not much, anyway.

Not enough, I’ve decided.

That’s why, even though I’m not a fan of the play or the movie or the music or the story, I was thrilled when Sam (no last name, just Sam) cast Sophie as “Chip,” the little tea cup, in Beauty and the Beast, which finished its run yesterday on the big stage at Scottsdale Center for the Arts. I knew I’d change my mind about the show; I always change my mind about Sam’s shows.

By the end, I was cooing over Belle — who among us can’t relate to a nerdy girl who loves books?! — and of course I’d fallen hard for the dishes, including Sophie. One of my favorite parts of Detour is how Sam works to make the message of the particular production relate to the members of her cast. For example, past productions of “Hairspray” and “Shrek” offered perfect opportunities for gentle lessons about celebrating people who are different, about looking beyond outward appearances, and “Beauty” offered that plus an extra lesson in kindness. Belle has to learn to be kind to the Beast, and he to her.

Watching the production this weekend, I was struck by how kind the coaches are to the actors, and even more so how kind the actors are to one another — patiently waiting for a fellow cast member struggling with a line, reaching out a hand to soothe a frayed nerve, offering a hug at the end of a show stopping number. Sophie came home with notes, gifts, flowers — and several crushes.

Of course there’s a catch.

At the very end of the play, after Belle professes her love for the Beast and he is magically transformed back into the Prince, Chip turns to Mrs. Potts and asks, “Are they gonna live happily ever after, Mama?”

“Of course, my dear. Of course,” Mrs. Potts replies.

Chip looks puzzled, then asks, “Do I still have to sleep in the cupboard?”

And everyone laughs. Except me. That line really gets me because yeah, well, kind of.

Most of these people, that beautiful cast, are back in the cupboard today. There’s a party later this week and soon Sam will begin work on the next Detour production, but for too many, I fear, Detour is their one and only truly meaningful activity. Most won’t move on to perform with other theater companies. Some have day jobs, but I wonder how much bliss they take from them? I don’t know much about their daily lives; for the most part it’s not appropriate to ask. Sometimes I’m afraid to know.

I get that for any of us, our time onstage — our moment in the sun, to do what we truly love and to thunderous applause — is limited at best. But it’s so much tougher for someone with an intellectual disability to find that magic. Sam packs several dozen actors on stage at a time, and even at that, I’m sure there are scores of others in metro Phoenix who would love the opportunity. Programs like this are too rare (I’d argue that Detour is one of a kind, but I know there are similar theater troops here and elsewhere) and it takes more than just a program, no matter how good it is.

As Sophie enters her teen years I’m just beginning to realize how hard it is to find meaningful ways to include people with intellectual disabilities in the arts as they grow older. It has to happen beyond a troupe of people with disabilities. It has to be about making opportunities, integrating classes and camps, accepting and learning, making mistakes and pushing past fears.

It won’t always be Broadway-perfect. And that’s more than okay.

But to be honest, on this night, I wasn’t expecting to see these two.

“So,” I said, after hellos and hugs. “Are you guys here for, um –”

They both looked slightly embarrassed. No, they explained, they were running an event in the small theater at Scottsdale Center, a discussion about how to save a Frank Lloyd Wright house in the Arcadia neighborhood that’s at risk of being demolished.

They didn’t ask why I was there. They knew.

We all had to get where we were going, so we said our goodbyes and Ray and I made our way into the larger theater. We weren’t there to hear a lecture about modern art or see some tragically hip public radio star. Actually, some people might call the event we’d come for tragic.

My cool friends might. They’d never say it, though I wouldn’t blame them for thinking it. Not so long ago — nine years and three weeks, to be exact — I would have felt exactly the same way.

I was at Scottsdale Center for the Arts last night to see the latest production by a local troop called Detour. Even the closest watchers of the Phoenix theater scene might not recognize the name. All of the actors in this production are developmentally disabled adults. Some very much so. Many can’t be on stage alone — so coaches work closely with them, quietly feeding them lines, masterfully guiding them (literally) through the scenes of a full-scale, full-blown musical production — in this case, South Pacific.

Ray and I were there last night specifically to watch our children perform. Sophie had a role as one of Emile’s children; Annabelle, too, and she served as Sophie’s onstage coach.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t wish in some ways last night that I had come to hear a lecture about architecture. Afterward, we could have gone out for cocktails and talked about the relative merits of Wright’s notoriously low ceilings. But that’s not my life (so much) anymore. Some days I’m better at accepting that than others. I think I did okay last night.

True, we sat near the last row. A safe distance. After the show, when the actors were milling around in the lobby and I could see them more closely, I was startled to realize how significantly many are affected by their disabilities. For a minute or two, during the performance, I got so caught up I forgot I wasn’t watching a professional theater company perform.

The director, a woman named Sam, does an incredible job of casting and giving each actor the chance to work to his or her potential. In the case of the leads, that meant the audience got to listen to some truly amazing vocal performances. (Really! The woman who plays the lead is freaking unbelievable.) For others, it meant being on stage, going through several costume changes, speaking a line or two, and relishing well-earned applause.

Sam is an old friend of my mom’s, and we talked for a few minutes a couple months ago at Special Olympics. Her own son, Christopher, competes in Special Olympics and she told me that she only comes because he so obviously enjoys it (he won a gold medal for running during the span of our conversation) but that she long ago decided that there needs to be more for adults with disabilities. A lot more. So she created Detour.

I went to my first Detour performance a year and a half ago, when our beloved nanny Courtney was a coach. To be honest, it was hard to watch. You don’t see a lot of parents of young kids like Sophie at events like this — and I totally understand why. Even at a happy time like this, it’s hard to propel yourself headlong into your future. Into your kid’s future.

So when Sam asked if the girls would take part in South Pacific, I hesitated. But they were both so excited about it, we said yes. Courtney graciously took them to several rehearsals, and she’s in charge of the kids while they are back stage.

I have to admit that I worried about how Annabelle would react to spending so much time with Detour. Not my proudest moment: One day I asked her, “How is it, hanging around with, um, people in that situation? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

She looked at me like I was crazy. (She does that more and more these days.) I shut my mouth. Last night, watching her take hands with Sophie and another girl to dance in a circle around a woman in a wheelchair, my eyes welled up. I know being Sophie’s sister is hard sometimes, but last night, I only felt how lucky Annabelle is. And what a wonderful young woman she’s becoming. And I know I’m biased, but I have to say that Sophie stole the show.

I had never seen South Pacific (not sure how I got to 45 without it — I did know all the songs) and neither had Ray, so we were a little lost when it came to the story. When Emile made a comment about his children being “different” I thought, “Wow, a reference to special needs?!” but a friend explained later it’s because the kids are supposed to be a different ethnic background. By the end, I got it, and I understood why Sam chose this play — it’s about overcoming prejudice and finding love.

Perfect.

Detour has two more performances this weekend — at 3 today and 3 tomorrow at Scottsdale Center for the Arts. Both are free (donations optional) and open to the public. I’d love it if you come. But trust me, I’ll totally understand if you don’t.

If you do, look for me. I’ll be sitting in the front row.