Earlier this year, I read some information about a writing contest with the Lansing State Journal, called Lansing Writes for the Arts! The winning essay writer would receive tickets to the Broadway Series shows at the Wharton Center, and this year’s topic was about the impact of the performing arts. Learning about this contest felt like the kick in the pants I needed to flex my writing muscles.
Creative nonfiction was my favorite genre in undergrad and grad school. I was able to take the lessons I learned in my poetry classes and apply them to nonfiction essays, putting past experiences into perspective while playing with the language.
I wrote my essay in a matter of days, and I was way overconfident about my chances. The tickets to the shows would have been a great prize, but truly I loved the idea of having my creative writing published for others to read. Isn’t that the thing about writing or singing or doing something creative, that we equally don’t want anyone to read or hear or see us and yet want the attention and validation?
Ultimately my essay wasn’t chosen, and it has been collecting dust in my Google Docs the last several months. Then recently, as I was trying to think of blog post ideas, I realized that I have my own little slice of the internet to put my writing whenever I want! And maybe it’ll force me to write more essays, or go back through some of my essays from school and polish them up and see what could possibly shine.
So without further ado, here’s my essay. As it explains, my foray into the performing arts was limited, but not because I didn’t love doing it. Really, it’s because my talents in that area are mediocre. But I love being an audience member. That thought is what carries through in the essay.
Also I sort of leave out the fact that I was in “The Vagina Monologues” in college, so if you want to call me James Frey, that’s okay. The essay worked better with the omission. ** Insert shrug emoji or shrugging Elmo GIF. **
Captive Audience
In the final performances of my short-lived stage career, I played men. That was what often happened as one of the tallest at an all-girls middle school. In seventh grade, I played Lord Capulet in a female-driven “Romeo and Juliet,” wearing a pillow in my shirt for an angry belly. It was my juiciest role; I’m still not sure where that accent came from. The following year, I played President Franklin D. Roosevelt in “Annie.” This might have been a crowning achievement of eighth grade, except our version cut the part when Annie goes to D.C. to meet FDR.
The day of the production, I felt very sick — in hindsight, I really should have channeled this into my character. Instead I waited in the wings until the show’s finale, when I wheeled myself on stage wearing my dad’s blazer and announced the New Deal. Later that afternoon, I was diagnosed with pneumonia in my left lung. I think the doctor missed my bruised ego on the x-ray. Perhaps that is why I chose to forego the heartbreak of acting after middle school and become a captive audience member full-time.
In high school, I watched classmates dance as Sharks and Jets to Sondheim and slog through dialogue in Grover’s Corners. If I couldn’t be Miss Adelaide, the Baker’s Wife, or one of Pippin’s Players, I could sit among friends and family in the dark as songs and scenes were brought to life under the stage lights. Although I longed to be a part of the shows — and the temporary families created within them — being an observer at least got me into the room where it happens.
With no reason for stage fright, I savor the pre-show buzz: the hum of the murmuring crowd as seats are filled; the feel of a fresh program in my hands; the way excitement swells as the lights dim and orchestra brightens my ears. I also love the end of Act I, the very moment intermission begins. The stage goes black, the house illuminates, and there’s an energy surging through the rows. It’s the thrill that something major just happened, or is about to happen, and the train we’re on is only just starting to leave the station. I might not be able to recall calculus, but I will never forget the chills from Elphaba defying gravity or the opera house chandelier falling.
I collect theater experiences like baseball cards; I treasure Playbills like photos in an album. Some of my favorite memories are settled in the crushed velvet of a cramped theater seat: the awe of Patti LuPone’s booming, Tony Award-winning Mama Rose; my dad’s shocked face during “Rent” while my angsty teen self loved every second; swooning over Ewan McGregor’s Sky Masterson in London’s West End.
Now that I have two daughters, I often think about the times I will be an audience to their lives, both on stage and off. How will the world of theater open itself up to them? My daughter Stella already has an impressive acting resume. At two years old, she stole the baby Jesus doll from the manger during her Christmas play; it’s safe to assume the script didn’t call for any such action from Sheep #2. Stella’s improvisation is now a part of her narrative. Whether it becomes a quirky mention in her Playbill bio, or simply a story we will share over Christmases, remains to be seen.
Theater allows me to imagine being transported to places like fair Verona and an orphanage in 1930s New York City, with the limits of time and space and travel whisked away in the raising of a curtain. I hope to nurture the joy of this escape in my girls — embracing their imaginations with applause, watching their faces light up in the wonder of the limitless.
Maybe someday, one of them will make a fantastic Daddy Warbucks.