My Experience in Community Theater: Episode Two

And then, as fate would have it, I, Saint Cupcake, was thrown a bone.

When I was 12, I was obsessed with Lord of the Rings. Like, an embarrassing amount. I would make up and act out stories about it in my room. But everything I said sounded so wrong for those characters in my regionally non-specific American accent that I started softening my R’s to sound more British. Over the past 11 years I have carved out a pretty authentic English accent. This enabled me to catch the bone fate had thrown.
     In this particular play, which takes place in Connecticut in 1936, there happens to be a character that is both female and English. She’s a large, frumpy, middle-aged woman mostly referred to as The Inspector. I had gotten pretty comfortable in my chair by this point, as I had not volunteered to read for anything, when the director asked a woman to read for The Inspector. She seemed to be a very capable actress, but didn’t do well with the accent. When she finished, the director asked if anyone else wanted to read for The Inspector and I raised my hand and said quickly, “Oh! I would!”

Just like that. Like I had been waiting in the back for inspiration to strike or for a character I really felt. But that isn’t true. I don’t know if you picked up on what had happened here, but the bone I caught was not that I love accents and happen to be pretty good at this particular one—it was that this woman had not been good and I knew I was better than she was.

I was the girl who could not drag herself on stage until she had proof that she was going to be better at it than someone else. Cowardice is dangerously easy to dress up.

I am not one to think very highly of myself, but I really didn’t think I was one to use another’s weakness as the ego boost required to do something I had volunteered for in the first place. I might be making a big deal of this because my reading a scene was not, in and of itself, a mean thing to do. But if I am known as anything, I want to be a cheerleader(figuratively). I want to be for everyone. I want to rally for the success of each individual I come into contact with.

This has given me a little insight into why actresses and actors are batsh*t crazy. It’s because they must compete for everything. And once you get it, you still haven’t won, you have to then prove that you deserved to get it, that you’re capable. You also spend a large amount of your time with other people who are crazy for all the same reasons as you. In community theater that means you become this little family unit. I currently have one cousin, two friends, one big sister, one aunt, one brother, and one twin.

Something I didn’t really expect was how much say you don’t have. I didn’t know until the first read through that kissing would be involved. I don’t really care, but it’s something to know you don’t get a say in the matter. The first dress I tried on had a much lower neckline than I’m used to, but it’s my costume, so there you go. (It deserves to be said that this dress is a floor-length ivory gown with sheer fabric over the chest. It’s no Jessica Rabbit.) The Inspector has one line that I really would not want to say. You just don’t get much choice. I was lucky in that I got a character who I am both comfortable with portraying and who is really super awesome. Fantastic bit of writing there.

END OF EPISODE 2

Will Tori get a role? Yes, you can tell that she did. Will she learn not to be a coward? Probably not. Will she save Timmy from the well? That is not a question that was posed here. Tune in next time for the exciting continuation of My Experience in Community Theater! 

My Experience in Community Theater: Episode One

I nearly threw up. Both nights of auditions I thought I was going to vomit; such was my terror. It’s not that I don’t like attention or wanted it so badly I could taste it.{Or rather the fish tacos from that afternoon} It’s that I hate being laughed at and I hate looking stupid. If I am not talented in a particular area, I want to be the first to know.
     As a freshman in high school I joined the beginners choir. It was the one you didn’t have to audition for. There were a few opportunities throughout the year to get solos. I tried out for most of them and even got one. {One Fine Day, first verse, yes, I am prepared to break this out should anyone ever break up with me.} There was a girl in my choir whose name I never learned. She was…something. Have you seen Rise of the Guardians? {Not the owl movie. If you haven’t, you must, best animated movie in a long, long time and the best animated villain in the past ten years.} Well, this girl looked like a blondish version of Cupcake: 

• Medium height
• Broad shoulders 
• Hair she may have cut herself 
• Unicorn shirts that were not ironic or well-fitted 
• Backpack in the shape of an animal

     Cupcake auditioned for every solo. She could not sing. 

     I say I can’t sing, but that’s just because I’m the least capable singer in my family—well, tied for least with my mother. Cupcake didn’t sing any discernible notes, she just warbled up and down. She had a sense of timing I didn’t know could exist until she was on the microphone between two separate pairs of cheerleaders so self-possessed and co-dependent that they were rendered incapable of both not auditioning and auditioning alone. I remember sitting in my chair in the second soprano section and trying to smile supportively as though that might drown out the snickering of the first soprano section. It did not. All I could think was, She doesn’t know. She honestly does not know what she sounds like. Everyone else knows. It was the second most painful moment of my life until then. {The first most painful had been when my mom and I accidentally hit that deer with our Dorango.}
     I did not audition for that solo. What if I don’t know either? What if I don’t know and everybody else does? Actually, I don’t remember, but I may not have auditioned for another solo for the rest of my choir career. What I did do was make a promise to myself. A vow, even, given the ferocity with which I have kept it. I vowed to never ever be Cupcake. I would always know. I would be the first to know and I would make sure that everyone knew that I knew when I was bad at something. That’s right, not only would I never be Cupcake, I would never be mistaken for her either. This, you can imagine, is quite a large responsibility to carry.
     So, when I showed up to auditions at Cascade Theatrical Company, a good ten years later, I nearly threw up. According to the voice in my head, I had just sentenced myself to the very fate I had staved off for the past decade. I was new back in town and wanted to meet people and be part of a team project. Like a lamb, I, Saint Cupcake, went silently and nauseated to the slaughter.
     I didn’t think I could act. I certainly didn’t know how to audition. I didn’t know the technical rules of being on stage. I didn’t know what I should sound like or act like or be like at all. I didn’t have any concept of what would be expected of me. I just knew that I was the least experienced and that everyone could tell. I didn’t think they’d laugh, just pity me in respectful silence; as one does with saintly martyrs.
    And then, as fate would have it, Saint Cupcake was thrown a bone.

END OF EPISODE ONE

Will Victoria get a role? Will she vomit on stage? Will she actually be martyred in a vat of boiling oil? Tune in next time to see the exciting conclusion of My Experience in Community Theater!