Oh My: Part Three

And its original title:

Disco-y Spiders, Orphans, and Flirting with my Best Friend's Love/Twin

January 2013. Tempest auditions.

I manage to forget my set piece.

Just to clarify, this endangers my entire construction of self-concept, and even now I will bitterly insist that it had everything to do with circumstance and nothing to do with disposition or ability... even though there were absolutely no justifying circumstances. But I digress.
See, it was Prospero's soliloquy from Act Five of The Tempest, and I fancy myself a Shakespere nerd, so this cognitive dissonance was too much for me to handle.

For years this has haunted me. Often, late at night, I'll wake up drenched in a cold sweat, and it begins... 'I have bedimmed the noontide sun'... I writhe in my bed sheets, begging for the playwright's forgiveness, yet still I can FEEL the spirit of Shakespeare shooting me disapproving glowers from the shadow-shrouded corner. In a very (characteristically) plaintive fashion, I siphoned the shame from this moment to torment myself endlessly.

"Of course-- this is why I couldn't be in Les Miserables, or anything. I have no talent for drama whatsoever," I moaned, swooning to a pale faint on the floor, my champagne spilling in an arc around me, eyelids fluttering shut to the cameras.

All this in my head, of course.

Because I was in the play. And, I had lines.*

I was cast as Adrian. To emphasize, the male character of Adrian. To really drive this home for all y'all folks who don't know me personally, I am about as stereotypically feminine as a kitten in a basket of flowers wearing a lacy bonnet. Having tea with all the Disney princesses, simultaneously.

Obviously, some coaching was needed. My peers attempted to aid me backstage, which was largely unsuccessful, not to mention frustrating for everyone involved.

In time, though, I became the very portrait of masculinity.

We got in trouble a lot during rehearsals. And by this I mean, I got in trouble, and by chance at times dragged other people down into the flaming pits of Tartarus with me.
One time, I jumped out of a broom closet at my friend. Screeching violently. In my head, it was a very tactful fling from the top shelf into a graceful somersault, but I think I actually knocked my skull on the ground and everything beyond that point has been the product of my comatose imagination. Coolio.
Another time:

Also, I had a monstrous crush on the guy playing Caliban (*snrk*, pun). Like my mom says, I have propensity to fancy guys who look like plague victims.

I am in a perpetual state of infatuation with Shakespeare. And therefore, his masterpiece, Caliban. (heh, sorry real-life boyfriend....)

Such a pity we couldn't've had more scenes together. When you're the naïve king's lord whose main role is faux perspicacious comments and he's a poetic villain bent on smashing the protagonist's head in, the fault is, in fact, in your stars. 

I was crushed when our productions of The Tempest were over. It left in its place a perpetual longing, as does every passing play.

Flash forward another year. More Shakespeare. 

This time, I was determined to not be an idiot/to have my set piece truly committed to memory and flawlessly performed. It was Much Ado About Nothing, one of my very favorite scripts of all time, and I will admit in the interest of candor that I pined to be Beatrice. She's the silver-tongued, irreverently independent heroine, a fiercely emotional role, and one that I felt I could ease into without any real change of character. Picture me now as a gelatinous goo easily formed to the shape of Beatrice. Okay? Okay.
Some featured commonalities:

I am very glad now, though, that our director cast me into a role that was to all entirely unexpected: a gender-swapped version of Don John, the "Lady Jane". I could fence, I could violently monologue, and I could storm my way offstage over five times. What's not to love?

Okay, in my interpretation, there's only one slight hurdle associated with the switch from lord to lady-- and that's that the character seems to change from:

To:

I believe Borachio rejecting the female Jane added some dimension to both of their characters, as well as an internal redundancy that more accurately portrays the relationships between roles within the play: John/Jane's heinous nature derives from feelings of exclusion and invalidity, which he/she resentfully embraces as authentic to his/her own nature rather than as unjust social perceptions. Of course she'd be rejected. Her expressions in that moment allow for a flicker of empathy. In one of Shakespeare's most passively delegating, obviously malignant villains, it's difficult to interpret the text in such a way that he (or she, in our version) may be understoood. People don't enjoy an antagonist without a meaningful motive.

Shakespeare would be chill with that, I think. Heck, he made so many "Yo Mama" jokes, it's hard to imagine him getting ruffled over any creative liberties one may take of him. Go ahead, stretch that as far as you like.

And so on and so forth until he rolls so much in his grave that the axis of the planet tilts a fraction of a degree further.

Right, I was actually talking about something until I got distracted by the fact that West Side Story is the only non-acceptable Shakespeare adaptation. I believe my next point was that Kelton played Borachio, and it's always awkward to seductively grab your best friend's twin by the shirt collar (speaking from personal experience). I would imagine, though, that it was even worse for poor, dear Katylin.

Talk about a tricky cast to navigate! Through some very tactfully choreographed shadow-play behind a curtain, we were able to manipulate the scene so that Borachio could-- chastely-- woo his Margaret, and thus the heroine Hero could be undone, devastated, and outcast from society in disgrace and ruin, etc etc. (it's a long story). 

(not too long.)

And there you have it. Mix in a little of Benedick and Beatrice insulting each other until they catch feelings, and that's the whole plot. 

Speaking of... I'd like to do a shout-out to our Benedick, Isaac (pronounced i-say-ACK). This guy. Throughout tech week, everyone started to fall ill. Many people lost their voices or became violently nauseous. I threw up and fell asleep on the floor. Isaac, lying there, looked so sunken and pale that we all contemplated appropriate dirges. But... this guy. He pulled it together, almost impossibly, and waltzed up on stage to deliver a striking, dynamic performance-- again and again. Isaac, you were an inspiration to us all. Without you-- and the provisions of "medicinal" ginger ale and french bread helpfully supplied backstage-- we might've given up. I'm at least half certain you rose from the dead that day.

I did so love that french bread, though. Sorry again, real-life boyfriend; I was sick and sloppily emotional and may've gotten "married" to a loaf of bread backstage.

We had it annulled, of course (thanks Henry VIII).

And there, dear readers, I must conclude our tale for today. Primarily because I am lazy. Join me-- after finals week-- for the time I dislocated my shoulder and that other time when I was utterly tone deaf! Until then, have a happy week of doom!!

Oh My: Part Two

And its original title:

Disco-y Spiders, Orphans, and Flirting with my Best Friend's Love/Twin

A while ago I told the story of how I, Donkey Girl, got up and sang on a stage for the first time. I believe I promised to post a second part the following month. Here we are, something like ten months later.

Oops.

Well, anyway, after that painful-yet-strangely-euphoric audition, the stage never really left me. Oh no, trust me, I was still shy as heck. Stage fright made me vomit before every performance. But I made it into the choir, got some mediocre solo, and became enticed by the allure of the school's drama department.

The first play of that year was Charlotte's Web. I, of course, being the obnoxious attention hog that I am, wanted to be Fern; and so, spent countless hours studying emotional expression, body language, and A LOT of how to cry on cue.

Unfortunately, however, I lacked an ability to project my timid voice. I became part of the chorus.

They make the show run, baby! Without the chorus, everything seems fake and stale on the stage. They are NECESSARY. Of course, when you're in the chorus, it never feels like that. In the middle school theater, the main actors go all "Mean Girls" and form their own elite clique. The chorus group is doomed to only be accepted in the tech week by some of the kindly seventh graders who actually have souls. I'm lookin' at you, Sydney <3

Until then, prepare yourself for grueling hours at rehearsal doing oh so much of nothing. And possibly getting asked out by a well-meaning cast member whose idea of persuading you to become his girlfriend is rolling around on the floor with his tongue sticking out, imitating a begging, panting dog (I wish I was exaggerating). I pretended to be a spy on an urgent mission that conveniently involved getting the heck out of there.

Honestly, want my advice? 

1.  Don't date in sixth grade. I'm sorry, he's not your future husband.
2. In case you neglected to follow piece of advice number one (and if you're a sixth grader, you probably have), please for the love of all that is good and holy go for that dorky but affectionate close friend instead of the aloof "bad boy" whose idea of quality humor is sassing the teacher. 

I'm usually a terrible person to take advice from, given that I will always choose the thing that sounds the most exciting (cough, hedonist), but in this case, experience is the better preacher.

But hey, I was only eleven anyways. My judgment was seriously lacking.

Anyway.... In that play, I was a frog, cricket, fairgoer, news reporter, annnnnnd baby arachnid-- Holy costume changes! And, in case you were wondering, there are few things more embarrassing than opening a play by hopping across the stage by yourself, no context, attempting to ribbit. This is tested and true.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn't have friends for most of sixth grade, and then I remember that they forced the entire student body to watch the first act of that play. Literally, the lights go on, no one knows what's going to happen, and then BAM! I jump on the stage, wearing an apron dress and pigtail braids, looking definitely human, and start croaking.

I had a boyfriend at the time. An "8pm is past my bedtime", "I'd hold your hand but it's too slimy and I'm not into guys tbh", "you really annoy me but I'm trying to be edgy and cool by dating someone" kind of boyfriend. Shortly after this, I did not have a boyfriend. For obvious reasons. I hid in my room and listened to a lot of Avril Lavigne music, using the whole thing mainly as an excuse to eat copious amounts of chocolate.

That's alright, though. The opening was a bit of an avant-garde disaster, but I loved my one line in the whole play, and I loved drama. I would endure anything.

Now, my spider costume was fun. In the sixth grade, I failed to realize that the 80s were done and over for a reason, and that people no longer wore fishnet gloves, leg warmers, or crimped their hair if they weren't borderline nutty. So if being a spider required a sparkly disco-ball reflecty, gauzey blouse and outrageously teased hair? No prob. I felt in my element.
As I said... and I hesitate to admit this.... it was how I dressed all the time.

My one fabulous line in the entire production, spoken as a baby spider, will live in infamy: Wilbur says he loves all of Charlotte's children, and I say.... here it comes.... "And we love you!" Aww, I was so cute-- Wait.  Ew, wait. Spiders?!?! I used to fear the little beasties. But, throughout the course of this production, I developed a certain "empathy" for my fellow arachnids, which spawned from this totally accurate portrayal. Now I'm the subject of ridicule for my treatment of such creatures:

The spider always gets a name (Melvin is a personal favorite).
I've thought of building a tiny dollhouse for all my spider friends to stay in during the cold winter so they don't freeze out there in the harsh climates, but it's always "You're so weird, Julia" and "Please set down the power tools". BUT REGARDLESS-- I AM NOT TRULY COMFORTABLE WITH ANY FORM OF LOVING SPIDERS. NOT SINCE THAT JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH MOVIE SCARRED ME FOR LIFE. I would be absolutely fine without observing a vaguely pedophilic French spider puffing on a flapper cigarette, but nooooo. There was also something in that movie that terrified me on the subject of rhinoceroses, I think? I feel like Roald Dahl books are the products of drug-induced hallucinatory nightmares.

Anyways. On from Exhibit A of "childhood trauma"... To my first musical, Annie. I, of course, was an orphan with no huge amount of speaking lines, and none of them solo... but who cares?! It's a musical! Out of many, many auditions, and a small-ish cast, I was deemed not to be a downright awful singer/dancer/actress. This was a new, unexplored realm for me-- being especially wanted, even for a small role, was weird and uncomfortable. I didn't like it at first. *cough*

Theater kids never really cycle out of performing until they graduate and move on to their next fix. It's the same group of kids auditioning, time after time, except some of them try out for both plays and musicals, and others go only for the latter. Drama teachers do pick favorites (hint: it's the ones who audition for both types), and they do know you're an attention hog if all you want to be is the main character.

Auditions for musicals are much more stressful than auditions for plays. For one thing, I dance like a chicken with its head cut off, listening to arrhythmic samba.

There were so, so many people pressed into that one tiny room, even though they'd split off the auditionees into three groups. I sang "Impossible" by Shontelle because I din't quite get the memo that you're supposed to sing theater songs when you audition for theater. In retrospect, it seems like it should have been obvious. My belt voice was iffy, at best. I was never called onstage to act.

I went to look at the cast list anyways. Maybe because I'm direly hopeful, or something like that. I certainly didn't expect to be in. Perhaps my aim was to crush the last of my remaining self-confidence after the disaster that had been my audition. I let myself be shoved to the side as the more confident clambered to the front. I waited timidly for them the disperse, either in disappointment or exuberance. I couldn't dare to think I would be among the chosen, could I? No one shouted out to tell me in advance. I thought I could hear people behind me snickering, "Look at that idiot, she thinks she's good enough to be on the list". 

But to my surprise... there it was. In perfect black type. The one time anyone's ever been exceedingly happy to be told they're going to be an orphan.

Chorus is so much different in musical theater. They work you constantly. Five minutes to spare? Go over the dance again. Again. Again. NAIL IT IN. You'll be sleep-singing by the end of it.

A musical will tangle itself in everything. You'll eat, drink, and breathe the story. The dance tingles every aching bone in your body, and no matter how much you protest it, you'll be a little sad when all the redundant rehearsals are over. Your grasp on real life is shaken-- You are your character, and no one can snatch it away from you.
Your favorite color becomes the fresh glaze of highlighter on a script. The taste on your lips is every word of the songs coursing through you and the tempest of emotions inside. Everything is shaken and muddled, down to your core, where you are someone different, and the meaning of it all seizes hold on your being. The word "acting" itself is a misnomer-- to act, you have to be.

That's why theater grips the hearts of those who partake in it; a beautiful, poignant art, which merges reality with the undefined, and brings both viewers and actors alike into the existence of another. A musical is a message in a bottle, plucked from an ocean of vastly unique lives and stories, all part of one greater Human Experience. And that music-- it communicates directly with the heart, like nothing else can.

Okay, FINE. Let's talk about something huge that I've barely brushed on so far: The Backstage.

This place is a maelstrom, especially during tech week, in the fantastic public school setting, where you've got a hormonal, mixed-gender group, all approximately the same age. Perfect. What bad could possibly happen? Surely not a chuck-ton of drama where it doesn't belong!!

Oh.... wait.

You know, there should be some kind of warning; a bolded, pop-out, magical Howler of a CAUTION sign at the cortex of the drama department. There are two types of drama you'll experience when involved in the production of a play-- and only one of them do you think you're signing up for. Throughout the blossoming development of your show, you'll come to intimately know 5 things.

1. Why that 7th grade girl is crying in the bathroom (It's because the teacher didn't cast her as the love interest of her crush)
2. Exactly whom is in love with whom, at all times of the day, and the fights that invariably break out because of it
3. How many people can have meltdowns in a single tech week
4. What weight of emotional burden and sleep deprivation will cause even the nicest person to snap at someone for stealing their granola snack
5. Who's that girl-- dang, she looks fantastic in bright red lipstick!

By high school, thankfully, most of these occurrences mellow into subtleties, and thereby an environment of genuine peace, charity, life-long friendship, and artistic passion is cultivated in these grueling months. But in middle school.... oh boy. Strap on your ruthlessly defensive emotional shell and try not to develop a crush on anyone, whomsoever. This is one occasion where you'll want to stay out of the limelight.

Despite all of this... I truly believe that theater creates a family unlike any other. Take strangers, enemies, begrudged acquaintances, the inseparable, the lonely, the broken-- mesh them all together into a beautiful tapestry of friendship. There are disputes and clashing personalities.There's always the person who-- since this is a family, there must be-- reminds you of your crazy uncle Ralph, in all his sybaritic glory. But I promise, it is a beauty unparalleled. Family is mutual reliance, benevolence, frustration giving way to affection, and beyond anything else, it is Home. The play itself is a refuge from the deluge of life.

Unfortunately, it took me far too long to realize the kind of sanctuary such an experience offers. Over a year passed before I became part of another play. Yes, I had auditions. I was rejected again and again. Little by little, the passion dimmed from my eyes.