I'D KIND OF ALWAYS LIKED TO SING. It wasn't something I really pursued, although sometimes I wondered if I should. Still, I performed in many shows throughout childhood to the point where I thought that performing was one of my hobbies. My performing period peaked in middle school, but was around throughout much of my childhood.
When celebrities write their memoirs, there is almost always a chapter on their theatre experiences. I am a writer, not an actress, nor am I famous. But for a while I really enjoyed the stage and thus, here is the obligatory acting chapter.
ELEMENTARY SCHOOL: GENERIC THEATRE INC.
Since the Quaker school is pretty small, we don't have a band, or orchestra. Music concerts are singing-based.
The music teacher decides the theme; other times, they come from elementary music books. The whole group sings two songs, an intro and a finale. Grade levels also split up to sing their own song, and then both classes in that grade sing a song as well. It's a predictable formula that works year after year.
In kindergarten, we learn typical children's songs. One of them that stood out is "Teddy Bear Picnic." The lyrics are riveting. "Teddy bear, teddy bear, turn ah-rou-ound, Teddy bear, teddy bear, touch the ground!" Songs that only a parent can love. We practice for a long time and even have dress rehearsals.
The fates have other plans. On the night of our show in February, a snowstorm hits and I am not able to make it to the show safely. We turn around and head home. "I didn't want to go anyway!" I tell my parents.
In the years that follow, I redeem myself. In fourth grade we do a Broadway-themed show where each class has their own songs to sing. The guys and girls duke it out in a rendition of "Anything You Can Do."Â Unfortunately, we get a little off track with this one during the actual show. Then we watch the other fourth grade class sing a song from Peter Pan.
The best show, though, is "We Haz Jazz!" in fifth grade. No, this is not a show about cheeseburger-loving cats playing the piano...this predates that meme by several years. I actually get a humorous line, which is funny for reasons I don't understand.
For this show, sometimes we have rehearsals at recess in which all the kids with lines stop for ten minutes to practice saying them. Although it's only one sentence, I recite it to myself in my head constantly, and I do so at least 15 times while brushing my teeth in the morning of our first makeshift "rehearsal." I want to get it right.
We spread ourselves on the hill and go through lines. I say mine, somewhat smoothly.
"Is that your line, Morgan?" I nod...of course it is! Why wouldn't she know that? She's the music teacher. "Keep working on it."
I can't even get one sentence right. I certainly feel for Christine, who opted for more lines in the show (she played Ella Fitzgerald in a brief skit before we went into another song). When we go to lunch and I tell her about my decision to only have one line, so I could stress less and focus on homework, she agrees with me and regrets her own choice.
Now, it's not like I can't memorize. My sister Kelly and I have been very fond of a certain Looney Tunes short recently. "Duck Amuck" features the mishaps of Daffy Duck as he struggles to cope with random scenery and prop changes that aren't in his favor only to find that Bugs Bunny is the one intentionally making his life difficult behind the scenes. We have watched it so many times that we know all the words--and have once recited them, too, on a walk with our parents.
Somehow, plays are different. There's more pressure to remember the words. We're in front of many people. And nothing bad happens if we can't remember a line of Daffy's while taking a walk. Fortunately, I remind myself, I only have one line. It could be worse.
The show goes off without a hitch. It's funny, too, something we don't normally see in these shows. (It's even funnierâ¯afterâ¯I got my line over with.) Mike pretends to ask the audience questions, and when they don't respond, he lectures for them to pay attention. We make fun of Thelonious Monk's name, and Kelly loves the idea so much that she incorporates him into our Polly Pocket games, as a little character's musical idol. But as I see Christine recite her lines smoothly, playing Ella Fitzgerald, I wonder, Did I make a mistake? If she could do it, I can too. I vow to ask for more lines next time. But I actually made people laugh. For the first time, I am a comedian.
GRADE 6: YE OLD CHORUS OF YORE
Yes! We're in Upper School now! We get to impress everyone with more mature-sounding voices and more interesting show storylines.
But I don't take pride in my sixth-grade show. The music teacher is more formal and has chosen old-fashioned "traditional children's songs" for us to sing. This is an insult. We're in Upper School now, and we get "children's songs?" Blasphemy. At this age, I am convinced that I am no longer young enough to be considered a child and am always insisting to myself that I am not one.
One song is "Michael Finnegan"... yes, the campy campfire song featured in the Cheaper By The Dozen sequel. Another particular song is called something or other about children growing up and becoming singers. One line I remember is as follows, "A fig for your industry, off you may go! Tis si---ii--IH-IHH-ih-ih-IHHnging, tis si--ih-ih-ih-ih-ih-IHinging, tis singing alone shall content us!" Or, "Look out the window and [a bluebird] will sing, outside your window to tell you of spring!" The seventh grade sings a song called "Accident," featuring a toddler who falls off his bike. Because, you know, we're toddlers.
Most of the show is terrible and pitchy, because we don't care enough to try and make our voices sound good on the high notes of which there are many, and even a classmate's mother agrees. You know you've hit bottom when even parents don't love it. At least that parent understands: we sounded bad because we didn't want to be there.
I am looking forward to our voices sounding more mature, like the other Big Kids I've seen in the past, but that will have to wait.
THEATER CAMP 1: ELVIS GROUPIE WANNABES
That summer, Kelly and I sign up for a theater-based summer camp. We start by heading to an "audition" the day before it starts where we meet the instructors and do a warmup. The best part is that I will have an opportunity to sing a solo role. Intimidating, but beyond exciting.
For eight hours a day, 5 days a week, in the theater room of the church where I attended preschool and just above the classrooms where I played with the toy dogs, we work on Bye Bye Birdie. This musical tells the story of a teen girl who wins the opportunity to be kissed by a rock star who's heading off to war. Mayhem ensues.
But before that, we play theater games. One of our jobs is to create an infomercial and act it out. Our group decides on something called the Change-O-Phone, a phone that can disguise your voice and is great for prank calling. It goes smoothly, but as I step forward, I forget the name of the product we're selling. Cast mates have to whisper it to me three times before I hear it correctly. People make lines look so easy!
This hits home again when we divide into groups to practicing saying lines, for mini-auditions. I read lines for a character named Kim. I look at the lines for the song she sings in that scene, "How Lovely to Be a Woman." The length intimidates me. At school shows, I have classmates to cover for me because we all sing the same words.
I eventually get the part of Kim's mother. As I act out scenes with my husband, I notice that he is actually quite handsome. Roger is probably two heads taller than me, but is great at playing the stereotypical father. When he yells at me to get his rifle from the garage, I almost freak out, but in a good way. It's anxiety-inducing to be so close to someone so attractive. Our director has to ask me to move closer. "You can stand closer," she says. "He won't bite."
Playing my daughter is my friend Samantha's older sister, who's four years older than me. She used to babysit us; now roles are reversed. Her lines ask her to call my style "passe" and mine instruct me to be shocked at this use of language, something that will become a joke between our families for years to come. These lines also elicit laughter, and I want to laugh too. I'm making a large crowd laugh again! In the meantime, I'm an "extra" playing a girl in a poodle skirt. When the superstar points at me during a town hall performance, I scream and faint. We all do. When I'm playing the mother, though, I wear a floral dress and even a wig.
Rehearsals get us working and it's clear why the camp day lasts so long. On the first day, we do a table read, where we go through the entire script. It lasts all morning and isn't much work, but it's dull.
Then we get to blocking, or moving around on stage. There is a LOT involved in blocking and if we're not in a scene, we watch the other actors work out theirs. We also have to learn all the group songs and hold separate auditions for those so we can assign actors to sing the solo lines. It's a long day.
By Thursday we have to be off book. Today us Monday. I go over the lines to my song constantly in my head, but it still doesn't sound wonderful. The song doesn't really match my vocal range, but I do the best I can. I mean, it's hard enough to get out words when you're singing with the cute guy next to you.
Roger and I sing a song together about how kids these days don't have respect for their families and have ridiculous hobbies. My voice sounds a bit high-pitched and it's not what I would have chosen for myself, but I sing it anyway.
I'm surprised how quickly I get off-book, or have my lines memorized. Again, I practice by singing the lines in my head over and over and practicing in Kelly's room in the evenings. Surprisingly, this method works. Sadly, I'm still a bit pitchy and resolve to work on this so I can match the singer in my head who sounds much better. I may have gotten to sing a solo, but it wasn't quite how I imagined it.
Also, it is very hard to concentrate when your crush is playing your husband. But funny. It's an inside joke in the family for years.
The worst part, though, is wearing the wig. We start a scene late because of it and I have to wear it in the Telephone Hour number, despite everyone else looking like a teenager in their poodle skirts. But I've always valued convenience. And hey, it was still fun.
GRADE 7: ROCK, ROLL, AND SEX CHANGES
The next year, our former fifth grade music teacher ends up teaching the whole school and we insist that we don't want something childish this year. The result is a pretty cool show about rock and roll, in which we sing mixtures of well-known rock songs that many of our family members know.
It's great fun, but some of the songs elude us. Bohemian Rhapsody is beyond the comprehension of our 12-year-old minds, but we do our best, especially with the choreography, as we take turns pretending to pull a rope at "We will not let you go!" Sometimes a student will even get to stroll the stage in costume, but no solos are involved. I wish I could walk across the stage in a poodle skirt as the girls sing "Where The Boys Are," but alas that role goes to Nicole. Nevertheless, it's still my favorite song in the show. I like the soft, easy style of the 1950s music.
However, I do get a line, and this one is an entire paragraph. Before our section on Motown, I'm supposed to tell the audience about Berry Gordy and his influence on producing a new style of music. It's the longest line I've ever had to say, at least in a school production. Again, I practice and practice by repeating the lines to myself constantly. I know it, but I can't relax.
During show night, panic strikes in the middle of our version of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine."â¯Where did Berry Gordy come from again? Minnesota? What was his style of music again? Morton? No, that doesn't sound right.â¯I've forgotten half the line, and I'm going on in one song to speak it.â¯Gaaaahh!â¯I try my best to sing, do the choreography, and not look panicked while doing so. I don't know if this works.
Thankfully, some kind of muscle memory kicks in as I walk to the mic and I speak the line, loudly and clearly. It's about Motown music, not Morton music. Nobody suspects a thing, and I can enjoy myself from then on. When we're talking about the show during our next gym class, our teacher votes me as the student who spoke the clearest during the production.
I get to try again several weeks later. Now that we're "advanced" Big Kids, we get to perform mini- plays for the little kids based on nursery rhymes. My group gets Little Miss Muffet. As we flip through the script, I see that the lines for the lead are actually manageable. We sit in silence as nobody volunteers, and my heart quickens. I could do this. I could be a lead for once! I could raise my hand...
I waited too long. Ty speaks up and volunteers himself for the lead. We now are performing Little Mister Muffet, and I kick myself. This was the most manageable lead role I'd ever seen. Fortunately, Ty's idea is a good one and a Miss Muffet genderbend makes for a funny show. The rest of the characters come up to Mister Muffet one at a time and ask for porridge in some form or another. I'm a generic Bird with cardboard wings. I have three or four sentences to say, which I know well. My only problem is pronouncing "indigestion," but as usual, I hit it immediately when we perform for the little kids. It's not a memorable role at all and I can't remember what I was even acting out.
Whatâ¯isâ¯memorable? The last animal character to come in, a spider, angers Little Mister Muffet so much that he gets a pie thrown in his face. Fortunately for the spider, Mister Muffet's aim is off and the pie mostly gets all over the stage. I may not have been the most memorable character, but at least I added to the suspense of building up to the final moment.
THEATER CAMP 2: LIVING MY CHILDHOOD DIVA DREAMS
Bye Bye Birdie was so much fun that I sign up for camp again. It starts off well..at the preliminary audition the day before, the instructors say my voice is strong. I float on that compliment and even get the song I want for Fiddler on the Roof, which is "Matchmaker."
Roger isn't there this year. I doubted he would be, but there's a cute guy named Ryan. He doesn't play my husband though. In fact, I play somewhat of a nobody. I have a speaking role in only two scenes, a downgrade from last year. My singing was better, but only at the expense of my acting apparently.
Still, since the almost-forgetting of my Motown lines, this isn't necessarily a bad thing. I focus on my singing and I am so powerful that the teachers suggest I may not even need to use the mic. There is one instance where I'm paying too much attention to Ryan messing around with the piano in the corner and flub through the lyrics, but nobody seems to notice.
We work for a week, eight hours a day again, then put on a great show. I may not have a huge part, but I'm in extra in many scenes and I act and sing my butt off. As usual, I become attached to our characters and the soundtrack is in my arsenal for years to come. I also pride myself in learning what some of the Jewish lingo from all the bat mitzvah parties I attended the previous school year means. (It's "mazel tov," not "muzzle top" or "muffin top.")
I am told something at the end of the show that stays with me for years to come. Matchmaker is performed with a decent number of actresses, and several of us take turns singing stanzas, including my sister. Many of the girls sing very softly and it's hard to make out their words even with the mic. When it's my turn, I belt my lyrics as loud as possible (at that age, belting=pure talent and always, always the way you should sing and show your prowess). Supposedly, everyone gasped and some whispered about how good I was. Finally, finally, I was achieving a dream of being realized. Even if I didn't get to witness it for myself.
GRADE 8: SEUSSICAL
Okay, let's get to the big guns.
Several years before the Quaker school comes up with the idea of electives for older students, each class takes generic Music and Art classes throughout the year. Once you reached eighth grade, you would spend Music completing a rite of passage: working throughout the year on a musical. Once our teacher announces we are doing Seussical, the class is quiet. Really? Dr. Seuss? Christine and I vent about it on the hill at recess. Things have not improved much since our sixth grade concert.
The process begins with auditions in November, and we practice possible monologues and songs for two weeks. The most popular choice of song is "Seasons of Love," which I will regret not choosing myself. Instead I will choose a selection from the same musical, which is only four lines.
I am too anxious about practicing in my house where people can hear me, so I don't practice. At all. I didn't do it much with theater camp either. My tried and true memorization tactics are repeating the lines, in tune, to myself in my head. Constantly, so I don't forget. It works pretty well; I know the words.
But I still haven't practiced, and the anxiety is horrible. Only two days until my audition...one day...16 hours....1 hour...I can't stop counting and worrying.
I wake up the morning of auditions and just choose not to think about the ice ball of nerves in my chest---the Spongebob faces on my pajama pants project happy-go-luckiness, which I would have liked. I drive to school, I get to homeroom, we all head to the music classroom. Black paper is taped over the door so we can't see what's going on...though we can hear clearly. I hear Ben, the type-A who volunteered to go first, singing "Seasons of Love." Then Rachel goes, and then Matt. Finally, it's my turn and I walk inside the room that will decide my fate.
This is my first "real" audition experience. I stand in front of three judges...the music teacher, her then-husband choreographer, and the head of the middle school. I go into my monologue, where I play a bratty teenage girl named Ellie, and that goes down smoothly. At least I remembered my lines, anyway. The head of the school is making a surprised face at me. Either she didn't expect me to be so darn good, or maybe she's just trying to see if reactions influence my performance. Or maybe I imagined things.
Then, song time. The music teacher starts the boom box and I immediately know I made a mistake. As a result of not practicing, I have no idea where the song begins. I miss it and have to be asked to be cued in. Not a good sign for a future performer. But she's nice, and agrees. I begin. I may not be the super strong singer I imagine myself as, but I hit all the notes, and that's what matters to me right now.
"The heart may freâe-e-EE-se...the heart can buuurrnn...the pain will ease....but I can lear-er-er-er-nnnn....There is no fu-u-uh-tu-hre, there is no paaaAAAssst,..."
Last line! I'm almost done! I can go out in the hall and relax now!
"I live this moment as....my lAaAsSST..."
SCREECH.
The cold I am nearly over picks the wrong time to rear its head, and the word "last" comes out as a giant croak.
Fortunately, the judge team is professional, but walking into the hall is humiliating. I know from listening to the first few people that everyone would hear me. Nevertheless, Matt says I did a good job (I was hoping that Ben would, but after the singing frog incident, that seemed even more unlikely). We chill out. We open the front door to see what the weather's doing. We chatter. Then I get a callback. I have to do it again.
"We want to get a better idea of your voice," says the music teacher. "Do you know any other songs?"
I explain that I had just been in theater camp last summer, and she asks if I remember any songs. I indeed remember "Matchmaker." But I think of myself singing that and everyone else hearing me, wondering what was going on. That wasn't an audition choice. So I lie and say no. We then head to the piano to do scales instead.
"Your voice is pretty," she says. Then she asks, "Do you have a cold?" I nod. She understands. Besides, as I know from previous experience, a smaller role means less stress and less memorizing. As if math tests weren't hard enough!
The cast lists come out a week later and I am a Who, one of the inhabitants of Whoville, the miniature place that Horton the Elephant is trying to save from certain doom. It's a step up from a Jungle Creature, the faceless, nameless chorus that appears in some songs; or even from Vlad, the evil bird; or the Grinch, who's onstage for like two seconds. Still, I can't help fantasizing about being a stylish Bird Girl (nameless characters that nevertheless stand out and get to be heard), or Gertrude, a female lead who is also played by Nicole, who tries to get Horton to notice her. Gertrude is a lot like me in that she is trying in vain to get someone she admires to notice her.
"You'd be a good Gertrude," Matt tells me. No surprise there. Ben, naturally, is a lead as well.
But rehearsals are different. I know I can be a good performer, but it's harder to convince my voice in front of classmates that I've known forever. I have a line that I sing with another guy, just the two of us. When we're at the piano practicing, it hardly comes out. "Can't hear you, Morgan," our teacher says.
Sigh. Why can't I do this? Ben isn't even here. He practices with the lead roles at a different time in the schedule. It's just weirder when it's your classmates you're performing with, for some reason.
One day we're rehearsing as a group and watching the Jungle Creatures have the same problems. "Choruses are what drive the show," our choreographer says. "Without them, there's nobody to tell the story. Just look at⯠Once On This Islandâ¯from last year's eighth grade. They'd be nowhere without the inhabitants!" (Truth be told, you could probably remove the Jungle Creatures and lose nothing from the show, but it is what it is. I suppose Jungle Creatures, singing the story, provide more of a jungle-y ambiance than the Whos or Bird Girls would.) He points to Kaila. "Try singing the last verse all by yourself. It's harder!"
Kaila sings the chorus awkwardly and nobody can hear her. It's uncomfortable. "That's why choruses are important," the choreographer says. But I'm not so sure. I have a vision of myself smirking after he tells me to sing, and proving him wrong by absolutely belting it out. I've done it in theater camp; I could have done it then, and nobody would have expected it of me. From then on, I vow to do the best I can with my line. This I do. But it's Molly who wins the unofficial award for "best speaking of line" this year, because her voice is naturally small, like a Who's would sound.
Otherwise, being a Who is some of the most fun I've had working on a show. Instead of stressing over lines, I'm watching Ben sing about how he feels alone in the universe and feeling sorry for him when his parents are mad at him.
We paint scenes, learn songs (no pressure, as everyone else will cover for you if you mess up. Also, "Solla Sollew" is really slow and beautiful and reminds me of the music at all those bat mitzvah parties I went to last year), and learn dances (I get to stand right by Ben in one of them, pretending to be swimming in a pool surrounded by fish). We silently burst into laughter at our Cat in the Hat as he sings one of his notes reallyâ¯off-key. We sit in the kitchen stealing milk cartons and food from the faculty Cinco de Mayo party. We even have a few days to rehearse all day come April, and it's incredibly fun seeing as we're not under pressure to memorize a lot. Take that, Horton and Gertrude. You may get the lead roles, but you don't get free cake.
No longer are we the people who were dreading performing "a kids' show." Now we fully embrace it. That year, teen T-shirts with kiddie logos on them become popular, and many of us buy shirts with Seuss characters, flaunting them in class.
And while we had a lot of fun working, the true measure of whether or not something bonds people is by the inside jokes it creates. Seussical hands us many on a silver platter. When we wonder if we would be able to do a certain activity with a group of kids in a community service course, Ryan responds, "A person's a person no matter how small!" Ty and Jessica, our Mr. and Mrs. Mayor, stage a countdown till the day the show ends, when they can finally get a divorce. When we discuss the FOIL method in math class, someone might sing "Foil it! Foil it!" to the tune of a song that includes the lyrics, "Boil it!"
Perhaps the best is when our English teacher brings a bunch of Dr. Seuss books to read aloud on the day before Thanksgiving break. She reads the book to us, and we all join in when familiar words appear. We leave for break in good spirits and with much camaraderie to be thankful for.
After much preparation and some all-day rehearsals in spring, the shows take place on Thursday, May 15th, what will eventually become known to me as Seuss Day, a day that will forever inadvertently measure how long it's been since I've left my school. That's especially funny because the second number in the show tells us that "on the fifteenth of May in the Jungle of Nool, in the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool, Horton was splashing." Nobody planned this; it just worked that way. Some things are just meant to be.
We perform our show for the school that afternoon. The best part is that anybody can appreciate a Dr. Seuss show. This wasn't like the shows I saw the 8th grade do as a little kid with I Love Lucy parodies I just didn't get. Show days were still magical, though. You got out of afternoon classes. You sat on the pine floors of the windowless, dark auditorium, with only spotlights shining on the people who mattered, on stage. It felt like being in a different realm. And, okay, the kiddie shows were kind of cute.
It goes on, and now we're getting ready to perform Solla Sollew. We stand at the side door, counting down to the moment where Ben cues us in. It's time, and...Matt and George refuse to open the door. Boys being boys, they don't seem to understand.â¯They're about to make us mess up aâ¯school show! To me, that's an unforgivable schoolroom sin: messing up a music show for an audience.
Somehow, we're not late and the song can begin immediately. I relish the warm feeling of the spotlights shining on me, fully aware of the new environment. There's a familiar silent, buzzing hum of a full room in the air, inadvertently created by the audience.
We are the Biggest of Big Kids. Goosebumps trickle down my arms as the notes flow, and as I hear Ben sing his own lyrics. We are in harmony, not that the audience knows that a bunch of boys, who happened to play monkeys, nearly ruined our moment.
Time for our evening show for the parents. The hiccups are gone, right? Everything goes off smoothly. Nobody is off-key. I don't trip over camera cords on the way to the stage during the pool number. It's all good. A couple of students are roughhousing in the school kitchen. We figure it'll be fine; after all, Jake, typically, already knocked the thermostat off the wall with his "hunters' net" (read: butterfly net). Soon, a push turns forceful and the loudest girl in class, Deirdre, lets out an echoey shriek in the middle of "Monkeying Around."
I inwardly cringe. That's it. Our perfect show is ruined.
Is it? If the audience notices it, they are too polite to let on. Maybe they think a chase broke out in the Jungle of Nool. Or maybe they assume it's part of the soundtrack. Or, just maybe, it's okay not to be perfect at this age.
We continue to have the same fun we did backstage in rehearsal, chatting and stealing milk from the fridge. We do all the same choreography and sing the same songs we know so well by now. But it's the last time we'll ever do it. The second real show is also the last. It seems cruel that we started working in November and are done in two shows--in one day, six months later.
After our bows set to a jazzy song called "Green Eggs and Ham," we wait in the wings. The principal gives a speech and flowers are given to our directors. I even get a paparazzi moment. Ben's mother, always nifty with a camera at school events, leans in my direction and snaps a photo. At least I think she does. What of, I'm not sure. My heart catches in my chest again, but I am distracted by our stage.
I'm gazing at the props we worked so hard onâthe feathery trees, the giant egg, the colorful forest backdrop. After months of work, it's all over. No more rehearsals. No more standing next to Ben (because as I now know, cute actors don't bite) during our big number at McElligott's Pool. No more spending our days painting and singing and goofing on actors that sing flat notes. We were just doing it three minutes ago, and now we'll never do it again. Time has only to get farther and farther from tonight.
Seussical isn't just a performance. It's an experience. I will look back on it fondly, and it's arguably still one of the better school experiences of my life. I have a pair of capri pants I wore while painting scenery, and a yellow stain never quite came out. It was a tie to the past, reminding me of something not so far away. It will take me years to get rid of them.
SUMMER CAMP: TAYLOR SWIFT CLONE
There's a talent show every year where I go to camp at the Quaker high school (see Summer Camp Rebellion), but this is only the second and final time I'll be there for it. With magic tricks gone wrong, Alvin and the Chipmunks skits, and air guitar set to Spongebob songs, it's always a good, albeit cheesy, good time.
My group and I are sitting around in the lounge. It's empty for reasons I don't remember---perhaps we were skipping out on the pool that day. It was me, Tasha, Amelia, and a counselor named Melanie. She doesn't lead our little group, but she leads a different group of three other girls. They call themselves the Rockin' Cats. I guess I talk about my theatre experiences at some point, because I'm asked about doing the talent show.
"You totally should," Melanie says. She's the sweetest person, never talking down to anyone despite most of the camp having disabilities, and if she thinks I should go for it, I probably should. After all, Gwen, our fellow groupmate, battled stage fright to perform her own songs there before.
We discuss a few options and land on Taylor Swift. Tasha can kind of play guitar, so she gets in on the act as well. The song we pick is "Love Story," though like "Kids" in Bye Bye Birdie, I feel that it doesn't totally suit my voice. And I feel very much out of practice. This is a casual environment though, so at least I can have the lyrics in front of me.
I tell Grandma about the show that afternoon and she asks if she can come, so I say yes. Meanwhile, we practice, sometimes using a spare classroom upstairs at morning group time while Amelia looks on. I know the lyrics cold. Still, I can't help but not want to get rid of them. Fear of forgetting lines continues to be a bugger.
We get to the talent show and we have fun. I still feel that my voice is just a bit flat. But I have fun channeling my emotions into the song, imagining Ben and me getting together despite our parents' protests. Ironically, I feel that, looking back, the reading from the lyrics was what held me back. Ellie sang "Who Can Sail" without them, and Chris sang "Daydream Believer" without them. If they could do it, I most certainly could, too. Still, everyone likes our performance.
"We'd never have gotten you to do that a few years ago," said our own counselor, Shannon. But I know better. I've always liked performing.
I still feel that I could be much better. Or maybe I'm just way out of practice, finding room for new hobbies.
HIGH SCHOOL: SPOILED STARS AND HOLLYWOOD TANTRUMS
One of the few redeeming qualities of my boarding school in Connecticut, the one I attend for four months, is that they have some interesting electives.
One of them is Cooking, which I take with a rowdy bunch of guys who don't follow the rules. The other is Theatre. I could be like a real high school actress, like my friend's sister who played my daughter, who studied drama in school and became good in her craft. We get together twice a week in an old barn to play theatre games and learn techniques on a makeshift stage made of large black blocks. The first part of the course is formal and we read a book called "The Actor." It's just what it sounds like--- deep, boring, and theoretical.
That is, until we start You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. For the audition process, we go around singing songs so our teacher can get ideas. I sing "You Are My Sunshine," which to my dismay doesn't sound as professional as it could. I need practice. One line in Seussical wasn't enough.
But just like in my former dance classes, I always thought that nothing could top the dance number I performed the previous year. I would go in the following year with low expectations only to get involved in a totally new routine. Maybe the same will happen here...Charlie Brown could be a great experience.
And sounding young pays off, because I get the role of Sally. A main character! I thought Catie would be a shoo-in during our read-throughs of some scenes; her voice was perfect for a Peanuts character.
Now, there may be some redeeming qualities, but for the most part as you'll see a little later, the school is a terrible, terrible fit. There are more tantrums than Donald Trump will throw in the 2016 election season. Friends get in a fight? Tantrum, and a good one that meant the cafeteria going silent. Someone doesn't like your political view in class? Tantrum, and storming out. Someone doesn't want to learn? They lie down on the floor, refuse to move, and we have to call more adults in. Someone doesn't like the role they were assigned? You guessed it.
Catie talks to her friend Tanya outside of class one day. "They said I would get a bigger role!" she says, only somewhat trying to be quiet. "I'm so upset. How can they give big roles to new students? I worked so hard for this!" A little smooth talking to the teacher, and she has my role. I'm not quite sure how it happens; I didn't witness everything. Our teacher is 63 years old, a sweet older lady. But she probably wants to avoid conflict, and thus gives the role to someone who had been at the school longer.
I will still be in the show. Just with a minimal role. I will play an unnamed girl (perhaps Heather the Little Red-Haired Girl?) who plays with Snoopy and tries to convince him to go hunting. I don't agree with hunting.
Grr.
The students who weren't main characters would also be in one-act plays. We read from several monologues, and that's fun, especially because we don't have to memorize. I will be in a brief scene from Our Town that gets philosophical and a tiny bit dark...not exactly my usual shtick. I flip through the monologues, intimidated by the pages of tiny Times New Roman that are to be my lines. But it is what it is. Iâ¯willâ¯have memorized these lines by performance day, and that will be an achievement.
Then nothing ends up happening. Even my parents know that the school isn't right for me, and I leave for New Jersey soon after. Charlie Brown becomes a distant memory and fades far, far away. I don't miss it. I prefer the Great Pumpkin anyway. I go to my new high school, but I don't audition for Adlibbers, the acting group. Auditions are just too stressful.
COLLEGE: A SHAKESPEAREAN COMEDY TRAGEDY
Theatre has no place in college life. What with all the studying and paper writing, memorizing anything would still be too stressful. Besides, nothing in theatre has the same sort of appeal as it used to.
As an English major I am required to take a course in Shakespeare. I put if off for a while knowing it's a time-consuming course, but I eventually bite the bullet and select it for the fall of sophomore year. I look through the syllabus noting all the big projects I was warned about. Finally, my breath catches.
Students will be asked to place one of Shakespeare's works into a modern context. All lines must be memorized if you want the possibility of receiving an A on this assignment.
I recall the times in high school when I spoke with a classmate about her work in the school's theater group. She said that memorizing Shakespeare was easy because the lines had a rhythm. She must not have been taking lines from Twelfth Night, the play my group is doing.
The first hurdle is achieved when we actually find a time to meet. Our group chooses a dreaded "group work room" in the library. The first challenging task is figuring out a different setting, whatever in the world that means. Eventually, thanks to some critically thinking group members, we decide to put the characters and lines in a Disney setting. The main character in the play already has to dress as a guy, so during her crossdressing scene, we play "I'll Make a Man Out of You" as two of the actors have a push-up contest. You get the idea...it's modernized, but the lines stay the same.
We have several rehearsals in the auditorium and they all go down pretty well. Practices don't always take a lot of time; although by some miracle I ended up with the fewest lines, it means I'm the only one who's memorized them. I say my lines confidently and it's almost exciting. Still, practicing during the day is hard. I have to remember these wordy lines AND do homework AND find time for practicing? How do professional actors ever do it?
As usual, I stick to my main method of constantly repeating my lines in my head. I do this a lot in the shower, but sometimes I pace my dorm room, my heavy Shakespeare book sitting on my desk in case I need my cue...which I do for the first twenty rounds or so. I am playing a woman named Maria, basically the main female's second in command. One of these mini "rehearsals" is when I decide to dress my character in a long skirt that I own. It's not actually a costume, but it will make Maria more authentic. It will end up having the same memory effect as my Seussical capris.
The day of the graded performance arrives and I can hardly think of anything else, except frantically going over my lines and trying to avoid a Motown repeat. I don't enjoy any of the performances that come before ours, because I'm too concerned about if I can remember these lines. For the record, memorizing Shakespeare is NOT easy, even though people who have done it say it is. Lies. All lies.
And so, the longest twenty minutes of my life begin.
One of the girls in our group starts off her main scene with the guys, and it's smooth sailing. I have to admit they're hilarious, but when their first Disney song begins, I stop enjoying myself. My scene is next.
When it's time to go on, I tell myself to just do as I've always done. I think I may have mixed up a few words, but it's hardly noticeable. Unfortunately, my castmate, who has decided to forfeit the A and read his lines off paper, skips over something even I know he's supposed to say. He looks at me patiently, waiting for me to say a line that won't even make sense.
Now what? This is a graded production. I can't just tell him in front of everyone to try again. I try nudging Jon to get him to say his line. He's confused and thinks that I've forgottenâ¯mine. I have no choice but to proceed without Jon's missing lines, hoping the teacher will not notice. Unfortunately, a small period of silence accompanies these moments, and the teacher probably thinks I have indeed forgotten...after all, Jon's lines are right in front of him. I pretend he said the right line and carry on anyway. Whew! When the show is over, we bow, and everyone claps and laughs.
A funny thing happens after that performance: I am thrilled I don't have to do it again. I go off to write my performance reflection in peace, talking about how fun it was to work on. Lies? Of course. Maybe I act better on paper.
Theater was fun while it lasted, but it doesn't become my calling, although Seussical has inspired others. Ben catches the theater bug later in high school also. Research informs me that he is in productions of Grease, West Side Story, Pippin (dressed in clown makeup that haunts my dreams for a few weeks and nearly puts me off him), and others. I am inspired to see all these musical movies, sans Pippin, for the first time and enjoy 2/3 of them.
Other activities come and go... volunteering at nursing homes, Bible study, English club, community service. I was never meant to be a thespian; my memorization anxiety didn't help with that. I am not willing to devote my life to being stressed. It's still half of what I think about every time I see a show: how on earth do they find time to memorize all that and still go to school? It's what keeps me from joining the theater group on campus.
Or perhaps it's the people and relationships I miss rather than the theater experience itself. Performing our own Shakespeare play wasn't fun; it was work. So was memorizing lines. I know I will never be a professional performer, and some aspects of the activity are too technical. So instead, I go to shows, I watch, and I appreciate. And of course I laugh my head off along the way.
As I sit and watch a rendition of my university's You Can't Take it With You---which so happens to be a play that one of Ben's female friends was in at their school-- in my senior year, I don't regret it in the least. Watching the humorous tale unfold is a delight, and easy to take in. I don't have to worry about being funny or saying a line right or what part I'm playing. My only job is to enjoy the show. I don't hold back my laughter every time Grandpa says something ridiculous, or his fireworks get set off as soon as the government officials arrive.
I learn many lessons outside of the classroom, including that you don't have to participate in or be good at things to love them. I can only hope the cast members, like the group at my school, have the memories that I do. If they have half the bond with their castmates as I did with my Seussical cast, they are blessed people indeed.