People are very interesting, are they not? It matters not to whom I speak, nearly every person has the same response when I tell them I am studying to be an actress. These replies are as follows:
“Oh! You know, I actually did a lot of theatre in high school.”
“How fun! So, do you want to do movies or, like, plays?”
“That’s so… unique. What made you interested in that?”
I am so grateful for their interest, and yet I have to laugh. I have heard an innumerable number of anecdotes about high school productions of Working and Rent, often accompanied by a detailed description of the storyteller’s costume. Frequently have I given a breathy laugh and explained I would love to work in any capacity – I merely want to do what I love most for as long as I am able. But when asked what prompted me to turn to the performing arts, I always hesitate.
I have a prepared answer to the question, of course, and one that is entirely truthful. I explain to my companion in conversation that theatre began as something I pursued because it was fun, but evolved over the years into a core aspect of my being – something I could not live without.
Such a reply is apparently sufficient for most, but in my eyes is hardly an answer at all. Surely, if I have knit my heart to a phenomenon as tightly as I claim to have done with theatre, my reason for doing so must extend beyond the desire to merely absorb the power of stories; for one does not grow into a place of total captivation, but is born into it. To be as consumed with something as am I with this art, that thing has to have been a powerful force in a person’s life since the beginning of their existence.
But how to express such a truth? And would anyone really pay any mind to the difference? I think not, but nevertheless my heart cries out to berate me for being overly-simplistic whenever I smile and deliver my well-rehearsed two-sentence speech.
And yet, dear Reader, how does one put words to the feeling of being home? How does one explain that every movement of dust as illuminated by the lights of a stage is akin to a celestial awakening; how does one describe that aching elation that pulls at one’s stomach and heart and head and rings behind one’s eyes and nestles itself in every pocket of the world? How does one use one’s lips to describe the power of the thing they love, when it is that very thing that binds together their cells and gives life to those very lips with which they speak?
There is no simple way to say that stories are the greatest things we have – they alone have the power to leave us breathless, to cause our legs to go numb at their mere thought – but I know not how to articulate the need to belong to that world. For yes, those age-old cliches we hear repeated by actors and writers and singers in the media are very much true: stories do bring us together as a common human race, they do chart our courses as communities and individuals, they do teach us and grow us. But beyond such trite reductions, stories are great. They are who we are, and they are what we are. Stories circulate in the air above us, they infuse the space around us, they exist everywhere in our world but they are not of it. Stories belong to a realm that is entirely apart from our own; a place of magic, wonder, and life. They are a gift, not to be captured or understood, but by which to be captured, through which we may reach a greater place of understanding, and by which we should live.
But again I ask you, Reader, how to convey such intense feelings of ardor to the innocent conversationalist? Perhaps it would be most appropriate to trace my dramatic origin story back to my earliest recollected pursuits of play: those vivid games my companions and I would play as children, in which the worlds invented became real to me. Or, maybe a better explanation could be found in the way there was magic in the air no matter where I went as a young girl – museums were palaces, parks were fields in the south of France, backyards were English farms, public pools were crystalline oceans studded in peals. Or better yet, perhaps my tale would be best communicated in the charming anecdote of the performances my sisters and I would give to our parents set to the Broadway soundtracks of Wicked and The Lion King when we were young, those initial brushes with entertainment that made me feel as vivacious as I ever had. But even these explanations feel insufficient, as I simply can not speak to my history with theatre without bringing up a certain Mrs. Ray, who directed me in a two-week summer theatre camp intensive and forever changed the course of my life, or Kate, the woman who coached my acting class my final years of high school and without whom I would not be where I am today. And is it not important to express the way in which the idea of theatre sat on my heart and in the back of my mind for years, was the thing I would bring up periodically as an activity I longed to try, the adventure on which I proudly professed I would be embarking when my ballet carpool began discussing whether we would all be continuing with dance in high school?
No. All of the above incidents contributed to where I am today, but they were mere gusts of wind lightly guiding me in the direction in which I was meant to go. They were not the moments at which I found myself at a crossroads, and had to make a definitive choice on where to go.
When I was nine years old, I saw How to Train Your Dragon in theatres with my two sisters and two cousins. When the film ended, the five of us came back to my house to play. Through no fault of anyone’s own, outings with cousins were a source of slight anxiety for me as a child: I was the only cousin who did not belong to an age pair, as I was situated exactly between my older sister and cousin, who were the same age, and my younger sister and cousin, who were very close in age. Managing playing “up” with the older two or playing “down” with the younger two felt agitating and exclusive, especially when it came to determining my role in our dynamic. We were very imaginative, creative children whose games of pretend were, if I do say so myself, relatively sophisticated, and that afternoon, our storyline of the day was being organized by the eldest among us. As they dreamed up our circumstances and everyone claimed characters and personas, I voiced the desire to play as Hiccup, the heroic dragon-taming protagonist from the movie we had just seen. My contribution was immediately shot down, and in retrospect I can hardly blame my sister and cousin, as the awkward, wimpy Viking had no logical place in the game of Victorian orphans for which we were probably preparing (ask me not why, but we often played as orphans in Victorian London. It was a default game sure to bring hours and hours of joy).
However, it seemed to me incredibly unfair that I was not to be permitted to play as my character of choice. Here we were, moments after embarking upon an exceptional adventure of valor and revelry and magic with the heroes of the formidable Viking tribe of Berk, and all I wanted was to be a part of that greatness. My sense of justice ignited, I appealed to the younger two, but they, indifferent to my plight, differed to the older. The verdict was delivered: I was welcome to play the game, but not as Hiccup. And so, in a demonstration of great maturity and grace, I ran from the room and cried in my closet.
It was then, of course, with a sobbing child, that my mother felt the need to involve herself, and instructed my older sister and cousin to make amends and allow me to play as whatever character I desired. Begrudgingly, they obliged, and I was offered the role of a lifetime – Hiccup of Berk in Victorian London.
I refused.
The older two, chalking up my spurn of their offer to a display of stubbornness, insisted that they had tried their best, and went on with the game. I sat there in the closet, my heart aching, my head swimming, feeling utterly miserable and totally desolate. I was frustrated and I could not put words to what was making me so upset.
I have always been stuck in the middle. But that day I was stuck between worlds. I did not want to “be” Hiccup. I wanted to be Hiccup. My nine year-old soul was dramatic, but it mourned the loss of a life I could not live, a tale I could not tell. The magic of Hiccup’s story spoke to me, wriggled inside my head and buried itself in my heart. It was as if my being had recognized its other half in the undeveloped notion of storytelling, and had henceforth halted all typical functions in an effort to realign itself with this newly discovered missing-piece. As sailors turn to the sea, I was unable to close my eyes to the world where stories and magic abound – that place being not Berk the Viking island, but the world of theatre and play.
Several years later, I saw my path cleared for me so that it led me in a definite direction. It was February of 2015, I was fourteen years old and a second-semester eighth grader on top of the world. I was attending a close friend’s birthday party, the main event of which was a trip to the movie theatre to watch the live-action Cinderella.
Walking in to the Tinseltown theatre, I was no stranger to great stories; but it was the story of Ella, a cinder-wench who attends a grand ball in a pretty gown, that called to me in a way like no other had done before then. That evening was the exact opposite of the afternoon I spent crying in my closet at nine years old – that day, I was enthralled. Alive. Awakened. I watched a story I had heard told on thousands of occasions, this time with a quickened pulse, buzzing heart, eager eyes, intoxicated breath. I remember as clear as if it were yesterday a small voice of conscious hunger roaring in my chest, “I have to do this.” It was not enough to watch the lives of great characters acted out on a stage or screen, or to read about them in novels. I needed to be in the moment, taking journeys that were not my own. It pained my heart to be a mere fourteen years old, still a girl whose parents thought fractions were more important than fables and theatre was likely just a fleeting passion, not an all-consuming crusade. But I had heard the call, and when one hears the call, one would be foolish to reject it.
I feel I must clarify, Reader, that I did not, nor do I, pursue theatre because I did not know who I was and wanted to become someone else, or to flee from my real life. To experience an escape from reality is the privilege of the audience, I consider it my job to bring my reality to them through the work. Indeed, the more time I spend in and out of rehearsal rooms, experiencing life on and off the stage, the better I know myself, and the more grateful I am that I live my own life – that of Lettie Anne, and not that of Hamlet (though I admit, if I had to trade places with any character in the world, I think it would perhaps be him. I know he meets a tragic end and he is an insufferable, capricious person, but I believe wholeheartedly the story of Hamlet is the paradigm of theatre, as there is nothing a person will ever experience in life that can not be found in that play).
Theatre is not easy. It is often slightly painful, and extremely grueling, and totally exhausting. I cry over the art form with alarming frequency, and with such consistency I really ought to consider submitting myself for a scientific study. It is not a career for people who can exist without it. It is not a career for masochists. It is not a career for anyone, save those fools whose eyes see a world topsy-turvy with mystery, whose ears hear music even when none is playing, whose hands itch to make contact with the ethereal, whose feet plant deep roots into the earth and yet never touch the ground. It is a career that reaps the greatest of rewards both because of and in spite of the challenges it brings, and I know not of any other entity in this world about which I can say the same.
But how to convey such an intense treasury of emotions, memories, thoughts, feelings, and ideals to the innocent interrogator? Well, I think we both know the answer is to simply not do so. I doubt the listener truly wants to be told everything I have articulated above, and I doubt I would not grow weary of recounting the tale every time I am asked. But you, Reader, I will tell you. Not only because I trust and am grateful to you, but because this is my story – the story of stories. I am sure an afternoon spent with Hamlet, Cinderella, or Hiccup would offer a much more richly entertaining party anecdote, and someday I hope to be part of the great experience that is living those journeys. But until that day, I will keep living my life and loving what I do, and I wholeheartedly wish the same for you.
Love,
Lettie Anne
Photo from Pinterest.