The other day I changed my picture on Facebook. Several people commented about it on Facebook and even more commented to me personally, face to face, the way we used to communicate. The picture is one from my first college production and not only did I win an award for the role, but that picture ended up in a textbook for Introduction to Theatre classes across the country.
But none of that is the reason I love that picture.
My husband really doesn’t understand why I love that picture or why I loved doing that role. To be honest, at the time, I really didn’t love it. I did not invite any of my friends from my “regular” life to come see me in this show. It was a Greek tragedy that we were doing in a rather Goth kind of way. Some of the pre-show music was very questionable and my character was very suspect. I knew that my friends from church would never get it. I was actually afraid they would drag me from the stage and refuse to let me go back to college if they saw me.
Unknown to me, my husband came to the show opening night, even though he and my son, who was 24 at the time, had tickets for the Saturday showing. I had made so many strange references and had been so worried about the show that he figured he had better slip in and make sure everything was on the up and up before he saw it with my son. He didn’t tell me that for a couple of years afterwards.
When an acquaintance asked me about the picture, I really could not make her understand what it was a picture of. I told her it was a play in college, but she couldn’t understand why I would want to look like that.
Now I’ll be honest- I looked fierce. Not like Beyonce fierce, but like I will rip your head off fierce. My hair was longer and WILD! My makeup was smeared and my dress (although based off of one that Courtney Love wore to the Oscars) was ripped, pinned up and covered in blood. So why in the world do I love that picture?
I’ll tell you.
In that audition I had to do some stage combat and although it was new to me, I held my own thanks to another student who was my fight partner. And then lo and behold, I got my first part even though I felt very out classed and out of place that first year. I had also been given the impression I would never be cast, but I was.
After having done almost no performing for awhile, I didn’t know if my older brain could retain lines which were not only numerous, but were written in a way that you seldom actually speak. But I did.
Soon after rehearsal started, our director/my favorite theatre professor’s dad passed away and she was, of course, distraught and left school to go home for a week or so. I was so sad for her, but in the back of my mind I thought that I would now never be ready for such a performance with even less rehearsal than I had planned. But I was.
When this same director later had the idea to give me a new speech to say that had originally just been told by another character, I nearly passed out. There was no way I could learn more lines in such a short time. But I did.
At one point in the show I was to scale an eleven foot high wall and stand on a small platform that high up, while having an argument with the Bacchae. Oh, and I was holding a very lifelike head on a stick as it dripped with blood.
When the wall first went up, I was almost physically sick. When I saw the head for the first time, I nearly threw up again. But I didn’t. When the front stairs were put on this wall, all of the young women who would have to walk up it practiced going up and down a few times to be sure they were comfortable with the height, etc. I also was asked to go up. I ran right up the stairs and down, all of the while scared to death. (For those of you who don’t know I have to see my feet and hold on to something to walk up and down stairs. If there is no hand rail, I grab someone’s hand or the wall. It is a part of a condition I have had since my son was in first grade.)
I knew if I acted scared or refused to go up them, I would be eaten alive by all of these young people, so I did it. And I acted like I was cool about it.
To get to the top of the wall from the back I had to climb a ladder. I was the only one who had to do this. Up the ladder, over the wall and onto the top platform. At first the ladder was not secure, it was just leaned against the back of the wall. At that point, I drew the line. I wanted it attached! I was assured it would be and eventually it was. So the day came when I had to get my head on a stick and climb.
During the first days of rehearsal, before the head was finished, I had a piece of old foam rubber on a little stick as the head’s stand in. It favored a mushroom and that is what I called it. It was lightweight and funny looking. The first day that I climbed the wall, my mushroom and I did OK. By the time the much heavier and much scarier looking head was handed to me, I was not too sure about this whole thing.
So I stood out there holding the head, wearing rags over a flesh colored body suit and climbing mountains.
My dad came to see the show and he told me later how disappointed he was when my character came out, because he thought it would be me and it wasn’t. He didn’t understand why the program had my name, but someone else was doing the role. He eventually realized it was me- I just looked, acted, talked and walked differently than he had ever seen me before. He didn’t recognize his own daughter! That, my friends, was one of the few times in my life that he complimented me, and I don’t even think he knew that he did it. I’m sure he didn’t or he probably wouldn’t have said it!
So why do I love that picture? Because I was strong, I was brave, I was fierce and I was good! For one time in my life I can say all of those things and feel pretty confident about the statements. I can look at that picture and see the muscles in my arms that carrying that head around all of the time helped me to build. I can remember that my 54 year old brain was working and that once the run of the show started I only forgot one word and it didn’t matter. I can remember the night that my break down on stage felt real and a tear slid down my cheek as I pleaded for my sanity onstage. I can remember that it was the first time I overcame the crippling stage fright that had kept me from performing for all of those years. And I remember that someone had faith in me and gave me a chance to be strong and amazing.
When my peers gave me an award at the end of the year, I was shocked. No way was I worthy of that. But maybe they saw how much I overcame to get there. Maybe they knew that I had gone so out of my comfort zone that I didn’t even recognize myself during the process.
The girls who were the Bacchae were encouraged to spend lots of time together so that they became a true “tribe”. I was the outsider and for the most part they treated me that way during the show. Most of these young women were or became my good friends while I was at school, but during that time they were stand-offish. It was part of the process. I remember that each night I felt banished from the dressing room and their pre-show rituals. I sat on the floor in the hall in front of a huge floor to ceiling mirror and did my own makeup there, alone. After the group of girls went on stage, I had 30 minutes or so before I went on, so only then did someone come to help me with my hair. It made me feel very lonely and melancholy to do everything so alone, which was just what I needed to prove I was capable of going it alone, of being in control, of scaling that wall and coming down the other side alone to yell at those women and show my power.
So I will always love that picture. Why? Because when I feel sad or realize age is creeping up on me, it shows I can be strong. When I feel like I am beating my head against a wall, I remember to just climb it. And when I think I can’t possibly do something, I remember that I can do anything I put my mind to.
So yes, it was a weird play. And yes, some of the music was offensive. And yes, I looked weird. And yes, not everyone understands it or me. But so what? It was wonderful! And maybe, just maybe, so am I.
