Smiley-Cheeks, a pint sized joy, with the voice of a thousand sweet melody’s, stared into my face intensely. Her brow gently tilted towards her nose as I tried to stare past her avoiding her question. It hit me like an unexpected wave and threw my mind into the undertow. I struggled to make my way to the surface, but, on the way, I tossed in the days of weeks past…

I was thrown into the rehearsal process. Many a nights found me alone, my mind punching my brain trying to get it to direct my limbs in the right direction. My elbows, knees and frontal lobe visited the walls as I slammed my body in all directions trying to solidify the choreography. Collapsing to the floor, lying in my blood, sweat and tears, I woke up, the cement cold against my weary body.

I was jerked into the many conversations that eluded me, having a limited theatre vocabulary and texting myself the different shows I heard in discussion. As the house slept tight, I Googled and Youtubed everything I could to be able to have an intelligent theatre conversation. Often times I found myself clumsily mixing story lines and combining lyrics coming up with a completely new musical: Gone with The Memphis Ragtime Lady, While Jersey Boys Wickedly tried to Catch Me if they Rocked the Ages.

I was allotted a bit of air as I swam in the sassy sexiness of Smiley-Cheeks hit “Fall Back”. A Youtube search lent me the pleasure of seeing her two sisters and her coming together to tell a tale of repeatedly falling for the bad guy. I, next, coasted for a bit listening to Diesel cascade through “Use Somebody” and sending me skyward with “Memphis in Me.” Songs that quickly found their way into my memory bank as well as his beautifully created hit “Just a Show”.

I was swept back under as I nervously stared on at Harmony-Queen pluck out the most minuscule of notes in a Boyz II Men song. She taught as if she had wrote the song herself and secured the most intricate of tones in the minds of Be-bop, the ever smiling and always humorous talent, and Brillo, the tightly curled nice guy with the voice that reached into the heavens. I was in awe at Harmony-Queen’s precision and my heart smiled at her skills.

And then Jazzy and Springy entered the picture. With his powerful legs, he jumped into the air, carefully teaching me the technical leaps of his craft. As I moved through them, holding onto his guidance, Springy joined in and created jump choreography we could all move through. I tasted familiarity as I was finally able to do something they could do and danced in the sweet smiles of Springy & Jazzy as they pushed me further. They lifted my spirits higher than any leap I did that day. I caught a glimpse of The Teacher, as he assured me that a few weeks with him, would lend me a while new set of skills.

I never did get a chance for his guidance. Only a few glimpses at his beautifully created choreography, left me wishing I had had a chance to pick his dancing brain. Maybe in the future.

Next I hit a whirlpool…

-          Moving in with Lurch and having conversations that ignited my soul. His body huge in stature, his spirit so gentle and giving. His company was as if tasting the newness of a fresh spring day. And meeting his mother and friend was like a romp through the lilies.

-          Sephora her sharp beautiful eyes always staring approval and encouragement in me, no matter how low or out of sync I felt. She smiled belief into my soul and tapped me along to achieve greatness.

-          Young at Heart always keeping me company no matter how many were around. He never ceased to shower me with a kind word and treated me as if we had known one another for a lifetime. Watching him night after night, was an instant hit, as he made faces, played with toys and even bopped to the beats as his fingers tickled the ivories.

-          Delightful her sassy demeanor moved through the air as if she commanded the wind and her words whispered the breath of theatrical life into me. She was as sweet as she was breathtaking; every gesture she made telling a story.

-          Ready the high energy, songstress. She moved with a catlike finesse and never seized to be picture perfect in everything she did. I lay in awe at the chance to be her partner on the stage and marveled as she trustingly jumped into my arms, knowing I could never let her fall.

-          Powerhouse she took me in as if I were her own child and talked with me as if imposing bits of wisdom into an open book. I wrapped myself in her knowledge, her patience and the moments that surrendered me in her presence. Even in silence, she spoke to me, reassuring all that wavered. I felt… comfortable.

-          Tanned always greeting me with a smile no matter what the mood of the day. His bright teeth always setting laughter in me.

-          Polished much like tanned, his smile reached through you and planted itself in your soul. His careful speech and kind demeanor encamped you in a friendly forest with not a worry in sight.

-          Dent the calm assurance in a storm. His demeanor always peaceful, his words carefully placed and uplifting. When you spoke he held onto every word, and when he spoke you couldn’t help but feel listened to and appreciated.

-          Be-bump always up for a joke, his glasses fooling you into thinking him purely intellectual, his humor bursting through letting you know you had to be like a midget at a urinal. Always on your toes. Pleasingly pleasant he was. A hint of jest always painted on his face.

-          HUH you never knew what he would do next. Always in character and never without a whitty comeback, he moved through the days as if he designed every step. Wonderfully full of life.

-          The surprises (Misty, Sprinkles & Dew). Misty, quietly quaint, opened her mouth and belted about her French Boyfriend. The sound and tone shocking and overwhelming delicious as you took in her vocal prowess. Sprinkles twisting and tossing her body in ways hidden to the everyday eye. Her kicks, leaps and flips sprinkling a new light of excellent on her already decorated repertoire of skill. And then there was Dew the hardworking, constantly auditioning perfectionist, who found a way to figure out every piece of life imaginable. She could joke with the best, play with the goofiest, and just presented her joy and gratitude in all she did.

-          Spit & Speed we fought at the Act I finale every night, each trying to do up the other with the changing of lyrics. The final performance rendering them speechless as I finally shocked them with something nice. They said, “Stay, away, you’ll never get into another play”, I retorted “ 2-4-6-8 getting to know you two was very great!” Their jaws fell open and they seized to sing as I killed them with kindness. They quickly embraced me and thanked me for being in their lives. My heart thumbed with the same sentiments.

-          Cheesy what an actress. She lived the part she played and she played the part well. And her sweet demeanor only made her character and her real life pleasurable to be around. When talking with her, you couldn’t help but get lost in her kindness and instinctively want to wish all her dreams true.

-          PowerX the athletic trainer that kicked us all into shape as she moved through bouts of “Insanity” as if she were a drill sergeant. However, she was a gentle and sweet as a koala bear.

-          Kayaky even after being pelted in the face with a hallow radio, she still brought joy to my life and held no grudges against me. She constantly beat me up, her brute husband joining in on the fun, and always found moments to bring joy into my gloom. Around her, a smile was not only contagious, but sparked an outbreak.

-          Gingerbread even her corrections were touched in love as she approached me to better myself. With her paper in hand, I ran to caress the words that only vowed to make me better, more effective, polished.

Smiley-Cheeks never looked away from me as the memories washed my brain. I smirked, trying to smile as I began to see the clouds darkening. I could feel the trembling of the ocean and soon I found myself in a hurricane.

The darkness of mistakes made, words unspoken and feelings unfelt bombarded my tranquility. I reached around me for anything that could anchor me to my peace. I didn’t care to remember the things that caused me to drown, gasping for any piece of air bubble that would pass my way.

I stared into her eyes, totally engulfed in her question, wishing I could have swam in kinder tides along the journey. I rebuked the storms that forced their way into my conscience and pleaded away the wreckage that it caused my soul.

Smiley-Cheeks tossed concern on her face, as I fell silent trying to sort the pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. The chunks splitting apart like Pangaea, creating huge gaps of confusion in between.  I grabbed my nose and tossed myself under, the tears creating bigger waves in my emotions.

I thrust myself up, and grabbed at the wreckage each piece falling past my grip. I fell under again.

The storm stopped.

I was shoved to the surface, a long plank floating before me. I grabbed a hold and remembered Heart. Her lips full of glee and her words sarcastically true “Love Ya, Mean It.” I felt understood in her eyes as if she knew more than she put off.

-          Lettuce lifted me further out of the abyss. His giving spirit and love for all living things and the betterment of the world encouraged me. No matter who you were or what you were he didn’t care. He simply adjusted to every situation as a chameleon, constantly trying to ignite the beauty in all creation.

-          Punch the brother I always wanted to beat up. He was nothing but constant entertainment backstage, even when I felt like crawling into the bags under my eyes and rest.

-          Understudy the ex-band member, who ran scenes with me in the darkness of the stage. Scenes that neither one of us were in, nor would ever take part. However, we became the characters on stage as I waited for my cue to enter the spotlight. He was the friend that all enjoyed and there was never a demeaning gesture in his bones.

-          Syrup from the day we met she bathed in my energy and I washed myself in the grandness of her smile. Each night she danced me with, her in the wings, and I on stage and no matter how many times she saw me, the same approving grin spread across her face as if every moment we had together were the first. She was my incredible lift from down under. A lovely enjoyment.

-          Joy her final words to me striking a chord in my soul that reminded me of who I am. I thanked her with the water in my eyes and lit her face with the gleam of my smile.

-          And then I fell into The Reason. In his eyes I felt the genuine love of a caring stranger. His words danced around me creating a rhythm that only kindness could project. When he looked at me, it was that of a proud caretaker watching his loved ones live out their dream. His smile speaking a thousand words as his head tilted in awe.

I finally swam to the shore and gripped Smiley-Cheeks question:

“Is there anything that you are going to change in the future?”

I searched my memory and looked at the wreckage around me. I entertained thoughts of rebuilding. I reached for the tools to do so. And finally I looked towards the eye of the storm, pieces of me waiting to be put back together.

I smiled.

It was the end of this journey, but so many possibilities lay ahead. Mistakes were waiting to be made into lessons and knowledge begged me to embrace. Understanding planted itself within me and let me know that some things aren’t always as they seem.

So now, three days after using up my last can of hairspray, reflecting on so many things I have learned along the way, I have noticed that the haircuts weren’t always pretty, at times messy, but, the hair will eventually grow back.

And sometimes it is necessary to lather, rinse and repeat multiple times. Even dead follicles can be rejuvenated. So, even though the storm did a number on my hair, I will search for the Rogaine of life, and hope for the best.

Besides, I’m looking forward to my second chances if and when they come.

And a second chance to grow Just enough hair for… Hairspray!

Nice and Easy…

That’s it.

As if trying to match the rotation of the earth spinning on its axis, taking the chance to observe every part of the atmosphere in its orbit, that is how the highway invites its drivers. The speed limit gleams bright, smiling the drivers into a steady parade. However, it’s almost as if it isn’t needed. The cars slow to a crawl, even at times, defying its warning, not able to reach its limit. And I join in bliss.

Behind the wheel, my mind drifts enjoying the ample forestry and wildlife roaming the streets. I jolt back to reality, only to realize that the cars in front of me and behind me have kept their distance, un-phased by my slow deceleration. They don’t honk, swerve or quickly pass me by, and when they reach my window they flash me a smile waving you back into the promenade.

And maybe that is why I walk alone…

Lifting up the explorative child within me, I investigate every chance I can get. The warm weather brushes against my skin, igniting a smile in my soul. The lizards scurry around me, grabbing my curiosity, causing me to chase them into the brushes. I look up, and soon enough I am lost in a wonderland of shrubbery.

I can feel the sweat creeping through my pours, half from nervousness to an unknown plain the other half from the warmth further stroking my adventurous nature, imploring me to run through paths that are unknown. With my shadow being my closest companion, the tunes in my head try to slow my pace getting me to match the mellow sounds it emits.

But I can’t stop.

I jump, flip, spin and touch everything in my path. There is so much to survey and yet not enough time to completely encompass everything around me. And then I take in the leaves.

As if in a vacuum, my thoughts guide me back to the age of single digit birthdays. Someone purchased a book full of leaves for me. Each page told me of a different species, naming their foundations – Elm, Oak, Maple, Red Wood, Bonsai, Palm. So many to encompass.

I see my mother.

We scamper through an open field, plastic bag in hand, her hair losing its shape as it is tortured by the wind. And there I am. Plucking at the ground as if having discovered the Wonka Factory, I grab leaves, match them to the pictures in my book and toss them into the plastic bag.

With each new discovery, I shriek towards my mother:

“How about this one? Do you like this one? Look at this one.”

Downplaying her annoyance, she forces wide eyes and a strangled smile:

“Yes, that is a good one!”

Her head shifts, disguising the roll of her eyes behind lightly shaded sunglasses. However, her love for me reaches beyond her discomfort, knowing her presence means more to me than a thousand candy castles.

Bathing in the tub of her approval, my stomach twists in knots at my discoveries, but even more so at her company. She has stepped into my world, if only for a few minutes, to see life as I did. And although, the leaves are crumbling dead within the bag, I run back home with her proud of my adventure – our adventure.

But then night falls and I snap back into reality…

I step out into the black haze. Street lights have taken no solace in this land, and the path is a stream of uncertainty. With my dwelling place being two miles away, I keep my sights towards the highway, which, unlike before, offers me no comfort as the cars seem to whisk by, some honking at me as if warning me of the danger.

I take a few steps. My legs begin to twist, begging me to turn around, to phone a friend, to flee; however my mind causes me to press on.

The bushes rustle. I release a nervous type of laughter that points more towards my lack of common sense than fear. The path winds and I face plant into a low branch, temporarily pulsating my lip. I hear laughter in the distance and eerie steps around every blackened turn. An animal runs across my path. I quicken my pace and soon my mind is thumping with prayers:

“Okay, God, I understand You say don’t put you through a foolish test. And, yeah, I am being extremely foolish. But can you please help me to get home safely. I understand this is really, really stupid, but I really, really need your protection right now, because I have no idea what or who will fall out of these bushes. And Lord…”

My prayers trail off as cars continue to bellow and run by me; however, that is not what catches my attention. Looking towards the sky, I can see a carnival of stars dancing against a black blanket. They are dazzling, memorizing even, as they twinkle in and out of focus, somehow illuminating the path in my heart – renewing my faith.

And although, I am alone, not even my shadow making an appearance, I feel engulfed, crowded even by an array of comfort.

The gas station comes into focus and I know I am safe. Two more turns and I am near my dwelling.

And although I may walk alone on many more ventures as I explore, maybe finding another who would want to explore my world with me, I will always remember the words to a very wise song:

“Give me a star, just one simple light and I’ll Never walk alone again at night.”

And although I got my stars, I’ll NEVER walk alone again at night.

“I did it!”

My mind danced the jerk, ricocheting off the walls of my skull. My teeth squeezed their way through my lips as they exposed themselves – naked and bright. My body cooperated letting me know it supported my plight and my arms flung into the air, aiming through it and at its target. However, the target was rarely hit. My thoughts reminded me:

You SUCK at basketball.

I knew it. D-Squared, with his zest for life and passion for all things irregular, knew it as well. He knew because we were both equally as bad.

The ball hit the backboard, the side rim, the fence and the air as we made feeble attempts to sink it through the eighteen inch diametric opening. We blamed it on the double rim, the burning sun and the flattening ball. But the truth was:

WE WERE HORRIBLE!

I didn’t care.

Moving to NY, I passed by the basketball courts longing to play. Growing up, being of color, it was naturally expected that every person of my race picked up a ball of some type. But not me, I picked up bugs, dead birds, leaves, boils, spider bites, infections and the all too familiar animal attack. Exploring was my game and I was on a quest to discover the world – at least the world through my naïve glowing eyes.

But now, finally, in the comfort of a non-judgmental companion, I was shooting the ball through the air laughing at my every failed attempt. It was as if I could see the little boy inside of me standing and watching me. Cheering me on, thanking me for finally stepping outside of my comfort zone and doing it just because I wanted to.

But it didn’t stop there.

D-Squared and I meandered through the park in search of alligators. I longed to get as close as I could, vowing to scale a few fences. We jumped through the grass and flipped in the park. It felt like a Snuggles commercial. D-squared taught me how to do a sideways handstand and to throw a boomerang. And I taught him how to dodge an arrow.

Lying in the grass, waiting to be plucked, a stray arrow longed for my embrace. I could feel it calling me, whispering for me to touch it and run my calloused hands down its stiff covering. And when it was safely in my grasp, I could feel my mind telling me to run as I tossed it directly in the air – more than 100 feet – and vowed to catch it on the way down.

For seconds at a time, it defied gravity. I watched as it slithered, effortlessly, through the atmosphere vowing to reach beyond the horizon – me there to catch it when it fell. However, as it lost rocket ship momentum, it turned on me.

Waiting below, I could feel its eye focused on me with less than fluffy soft intentions aimed at my forehead. I tried to coach it into slowing down and releasing its malice. But soon, I had to run.

Its point came careening by me, disturbing the earth with a soggy blow. My excitement reached through to the ionosphere. I felt alive. I felt invigorated.

I felt like me – more me than I have tangoed with in a long time.

Nature was my playground and imagination my teacher.

Then, back to rehearsals I went…

I knew a joke had been played on me.

The dance was called “The Madison”. The choreographer moved to the front, glided through a few steps and instantaneously, everyone caught on. They sang and danced as if their bodies had risen into the music allowing the notes to guide them. Everyone accept me.

I looked around with malice in my eyes desiring to scream:

FOUL!

I had been left out of the rehearsal of the secret society and I vowed to punish all who would not let me in. And with each added move, it was as if my body betrayed me, my mind dissolving into a pool of confusion with every new added motion. I turned to Smiley-Cheeks, the Hairspray extraordinaire, with sunbeams implanted in her face, and asked for help.

After observing me for brief second, she proclaimed:

“You’re good. You have it!”

She waved her approving hand and me, and slightly turned her cheek, scolding me like an endearing mother. I vowed to rebel and stomp my fingers, throwing my fist in the air in an all out tantrum as I pounded the floor:

“NO! MAKE ME BETTER!”

However, I leaned back quietly and took my punishment, chalking it up to exhaustion. Until, I was slapped in the face.

The pinnacle of afro-centric dancing had come to fruition. Run and Tell That was ready to be stomped and gossiped all over and I had my track spikes on. I poised myself to pop, lock and drop it, as my body gyrated to anything that could be claimed as a beat. And by the end of the rehearsal I wanted to punch myself in the liver.

Once again I felt like I had three-left feet, with the third one planted in a tub of stupid. I desired to jump outside of myself. To hit my knees, begging before me:

“Why have though forsaken me?”

It was as if my body was punishing me for not embracing the stylistic flow of the rap and r&b worlds. Questions formed in my head:

Is it really that bad to like “Offspring”? Now you punish me for not Big Pimpin’?

Too mentally exhausted to care anymore, off I sprang into a corner and watched from a distance as people did a merry-go-round through the moves. I mentally searched for an oil can to put my joints at ease, as all hopes were leaking out. And then it happened.

Out of nowhere Kool-Aid, the down to earth chameleon, who seems to mesh with everyone he talks to, walked over to me. I fought to scrounge up enough positivity to hold a conversation, yet, I could only grasp enough for a forced hello. I fixed my lips. They slightly parted to the size of a slit of paper, sucking back despair in order not to translate my sullenness to him. Then Kool-Aid spoke:

“I really enjoy watching you dance. You really get into the groove!”

And just as soon as he appeared, he was gone. And with that, so went my dread…

Trying to remain cool, a taste of sweat seeped into my mouth as my body shuddered in relief. With the plane parked at the gate and bodies cascading towards the door, I couldn’t help swim in the awkwardness of unfamiliar faces and nervously traded smiles. My catchphrase from my escapade with RENT tweeted in my head:

I’m not a theatre person…

Yet, here I was, amongst individuals who live, breathe, eat and sleep theatre. Their excrements even making melodious ripples in the toilet as it sings through the waste passage. You could see theatre pulsating through their pores, their internal antibodies chewing away at anything that invaded their passion.

And then there was me. Just there. Nowhere.

I had no time to digest any true feelings though. I didn’t have any. I was surviving off of two hours of sleep and the only thing I looked forward to was a bed, a corner, a chair, or even a grassy knoll. But sleep evaded me.

I was whisked off in a bus, paraded through the highways and falling head over hills in love with the palace they had put us in.

A quiet hush fell over four faces as we gaped, in awe, at the enormity of our two month abode. Racing up stairs and bursting through a cleanly wiped glass door, it was as if we were the last four standing in the running to become America’s Next Top Model – this year’s travel accommodations being South Carolina.

And as soon as the excitement began, it was over: at least for me. I could no longer enjoy my surroundings as my body limped towards my bed and fought me into a sleep I so desperately tried to avoid.

…..

I awoke to the chills of Jack Frost tapping against my skin. The discomfort in my limbs creaked as I tried to do as much as I could to combat the cold. With a vent blowing directly over me the Tundra wind tightened around me, suffocating my warmth. Yet, as I arose, for some reason, I didn’t care. I was The Little Merman. My mind sang:

Look at this stuff/isn’t it neat/wouldn’t you think my collections complete/wouldn’t you think I’m a boy/a boy who has everything…

And that is where the song stopped. I did have everything.

“I have a huge living room, grandmother!” (The better to dance and back flip with)

“I have a nice little swimming pool, grandmother!” (The better to skinny dip with)

“I have a two huge couches grandmother!” (The better to get away and jump up and down with)

“I have a huge amount of songs and harmonies to learn, grandmother!” (The better to… yup, you’re screwed)

The first rehearsal slapped me in the face as I nervously meandered through the meet and greet. The cast was there, the directors and even theatre donors.

What am I suppose to say?

And just like that, I remembered the advice I had once given to another:

“Just stand there and smile!”

And that is what I did. As a tall skinny pole, I stood in the back and smiled as theatre talk ensued around. They shrieked about the rainbow of musicals they had been in, seen or hoped to adorn. I stood back and sang lyrics from one the only four musicals I actually know of:

What is this feeling so sudden and new/I felt the moment I laid eyes on you/my head is rushing/my pulse is reeling/my face is flushing/WHAT IS THIS FEELING/Fervent as a flame/does it have a name/YEEEEESSSSSSSS/YEEEESSSSSS… Loathing! Unadulterated LOATHING! (Musical “WICKED”)

The song continued as I sang into the mirror:

“Unadulterated LOATHING! For your face/your voice/ your clothing.”

I laughed.

I didn’t really loathe myself. I just felt a bit out of place, a tomato in a batch of strawberries.

And then arose a flower.

Put on the spot by the director, a story about an unknown actress being called in for a last minute, impromptu callback, in a hotel room, and up against the elite past “Tracy’s” of the musical industry, a short, brunette girl, with a flowery get-up emerged from the crowd.

The pianist began to bang against the ivories and the flower opened up. The room fell into a stupor. This little flower, opening her quaint and pouty lips, belted with the power of a bullhorn as she effortlessly cascaded through the song as if she had written it herself.

A chill fell over me. I looked at my surroundings scared to pinch myself. If my environment wasn’t real then I definitely desired to sleep just a little longer. However, if it was confirmed reality, then I was in for quite a ride. And as I sat around the piano, with the rest of the ensemble, seeing where we were my feelings fluttered at the new discovery:

I HAD MY CRAP ON LOCK!!!

I was hitting notes I never knew existed and remembering harmonies I never knew were created. I was joking around, laughing at myself and genuinely having fun. And when I messed up, the sweat wasn’t the first thing to surface. A whole-hearted laugh erupted from my lips as I tilted into my lap, my stomach cramping from the enjoyment.

I was finding my voice and the next day, as my rehearsals were split, with 5 hours of nothingness to be had, I began to find myself…

“Oh My Freaking Goodness”

My mind looped the horror that continued to grow louder in my ears. My seat began to shake and my palms gripped the under-flesh of my trembling thighs- the skin piercing in pain begging me to let go. I tried to keep my cool as strangers were all around me, some of which threatened to get to know me better for the next two months. The pores on the back of my neck squeezed tight suffocating the hairs. My head spun once again:

Is it too late to turn back? I just remembered… I HATE FLYING!!!

As, I struggled to regain some ounce of peace, I rehearsed the road that led me to such an unsettling fear.

It happened back in February.

Another typical audition day loomed ahead of me. The clock struck 8:30 a.m. as I peeled myself out of my lumpy bed. A black comb imprinted itself on my lower abdomen, traces of the bristles breaking my flesh as I removed my body from crushing them. I sped to dress myself, going through my usual clothes tossing ritual, knowing I am one to constantly flirt with lateness.

After the fourth trip to the bathroom, my nerves causing me to become a lot more regular than I would like to be in the span of thirty-five minutes, I grabbed my bag – dance shoes, protein drink, protein bar, reese’s cups, razor, three tank tops, peanuts and songs.

I got off of the train, just in time to run the wrong way, three times, and burst into the studio hoping the sign-in sheet had not been closed. With sweat slipping into my mouth, followed by the discomfort of entering a room whose heat had been turned to hell, I cautiously walked up to a gentleman in spectacles, daring to boldly ask:

“Oh, do you need my resume?”

Puzzled was the understatement of his facial distortion. Whipping his head to me, neck cocked back and ready to fire, as if I had formed the funk of the air, he proclaimed:

“Well, first, sign in and I will call you.”

He pushed the paper towards me and quickly forgot my presence as fast as he acknowledged it, continuing his roll call as if he had not missed a beat. I scroll down to the nearest line:

One-hundred and Nineteen… What the hoochie-tooch booty pop?

Looking around the room, I couldn’t help but notice a sea of humans possessing an extra appendage, none of them being female. My nerves thumped against my skull:

I am one-hundred and nineteenth and there are still people walking in.

By that point I knew my presence resembled nothing more than a heifer on a cattle drive to the sea of eyes sizing me up and making their assessment. I slumped to the floor, near the only face I was familiar with (another guy I had met at a previous audition) as we surveyed our environment. Before we could fully appraise our surroundings, the herdsmen began the cattle call.

I sat on the floor, pretending to stretch as I was intermittently attacked by outburst of nervous laughter. Some seem annoyed by my explosion, as others successfully ignored me, brushing me off to be an amateur. I had to urge to jump to my feet and yell:

“I am an amateur ‘tricks’, so how you like them pineapple slices?”

However, I had no time to form a comeback to my, perceived, silent rejection. Just as quickly as the animals were called into slaughter, they were back out licking their wounds. Tears were being fought in some eyes, while fake smiles replaced disappointment in others. I took a deep swallow, only to create a blow-fish in my throat. I struggled to catch my breath as my wind was temporarily cut off.

Soon, my friend had entered the room, only to leave me with the following advice:

“I made it through. Make sure you don’t get cut.”

In that moment I wished I had some Vaseline and switch-blades as I was certainly bent on cutting him. I muttered a few words under my breath and took to the room, making sure to get a front row seat.

The choreographer started. Her arms contorted, her feet low-fived the floor as if she was in flash dance, and she made leaps and bounds as if praising the Lord. And approximately five minutes later, after her revival dance, I was wondering what to do on count one, searching my memory bank for the first beat. Nevertheless, as they say in showbiz:

“You betta work b—-.”

And WORK is what I did. My mind worked to stay afloat and my body worked to make sense of what my eyes could not comprehend. And before I could fully grasp control of my flailing limbs, it was my group of four’s turn to perform for the butchers. The only problem was I didn’t finalize my big finish.

There were jazz hands, thumbs ups, one-knee leans to the crowd and on-the-hip cowboy approval smiles being displayed in every group at the conclusion of the music. But I needed to stand out. I needed the sis-boom-bang-pow that would snatch attention and fling me to the next level. And as I sped through the moves, just before the finish, I found my finale signature:

Instead of doing some smiley cheese of approval, I am going to do something you NEVER see in a performer’s big finish.

In theatre, everyone’s goal is to be seen. Those pearly whites that have been bleached, straightened and root-canalled to display perfection, but I had come up with the perfect scheme, a sure showstopper:

I am going to do a back bend all the way to the floor and totally catch them off guard.

I went into my last move.

I jumped as high as gravity would allow, knowing that I would soon rebound and be completely upside down, mesmerizing them with my originality. And everything seemed to be going as planned, as I hit every dance step and was on my way to being a true original. However, adrenaline devised a plan for my humility.

My back arched and my hands reached for the ground, waiting to catch the brunt of my weight. The only problem was that my hands, instead of reaching down, reached out. Because of this, I got the bang I was looking for.

My head ricocheted off the wood floor, making the sound of a bowling ball being dropped. Gasps and grunts of pain was felt and heard throughout all that observed me, some twisting their heads in horror.

With me, a sharp pain seared down my neck as my cranium bounced, twice, against the floor. Trying to put on a brave face, I jumped to my feet, laughing, as if nothing had happened. Still, I fought the urge the run in circles, like a child, rubbing the back of my head wanting my mother to kiss it better.

I looked towards the butchers, only to see some grimacing in pain and fighting off the urge to comment with laughter. Agony struck me as I studied the placement of my headshot, wishing it into acceptance. And thus, my name was called. From there the surprises kept coming, but none as surprising as a contract offer to be in the Arts Center of Coastal Carolina’s Production of Hairspray!

So, here I sit, terrified that the laws of physics are going to forsake and praying to God that I am not sent spiral-plummeting towards an unforgiving earth being led by gravity.

Is it too late to catch a train… or better yet… walk?

5…4…3…2…1 Cap off!!!

It’s hard to believe that I have Just Enough Hair for… Hairspray!

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

What is one of the most socially painful experiences in the world?

Walking towards them with an elated face, a familiar body takes form in the eyes, a distinct memory of the past. All thoughts of self are momentarily put on hold as the images of times long ago rush to the forefront of the mind. The distance between the two of you resembles miles as your hopes fill in the empty space. Eyes are locked. Shoulders move up and down taking in one last breath before the reconnections between the vocal chords and actual words take form. You speak:

“Hey (fill in the blank), how have you been?”

Excited, overjoyed, you wait for a response. They respond:

“Hey, fine and yourself?”

You hear the loaded reply within the hum-drum monotone voice. Their eyes fall bored, agitated even.

Your face tightens as if tasting something sour.

It’s as though you have walked into a spider web, mouth wide open, fully ingesting the spider itself. You can feel its eight prickly legs trying to travel back up your throat as your body shudders and your mind rehearses the childhood song:

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider/That wiggled and jiggled and tickled insider her/She swallowed the spider to catch the fly/I don’t know why she swallowed a fly/I guess she’ll die…

Staring into that blank, unmoved face you wiggle and jiggle inside waiting for the moment to pass or to get better, or even a momentary death. Instead, you stand there, body paralyzed in social shame wondering:

Did I do something to them in high school? Scratch their car, kick their cat? Is there something in my teeth? Is my fly down? Is it April Fool’s?

You fix your mouth to reply to their forced greeting, but all that seems to come out is:

“Duuurrrrr…”

Followed by and even more unsure:

“Ummmmmmmm…”

You search for a response teetering between cutting your agony short or prolonging the time hoping that their excitement will eventually match yours:

”Oh, I am good…”

You move forward, an unsteady laugh trying to hide your discomfort:

“Hahaha, remember me from (fill in the blank). Remember the time when (fill in another blank).”

You know they remember you, but you toss that out their praying they will conjure up some type of emotion that resembles friendliness. Instead they reply, dryly again:

“Yeah…”

Their shoulders gently quake, as they mimic a fake laugh back at you. Silence attacks. The two of you stand there, each waiting for the others next move. Once again you are on that seesaw, wondering if you should continue the pointless momentum that is getting you both nowhere as your emotions rise and crash against your rib cage. You speak, that excitement still trying to solicit a likewise response:

“Well, it was great seeing you!”

They move past you as their words get lost in the wind:

“Yeah, you too!”

Now you are left with a few options:

1. You could leap at the back of their neck, using their earlobes as handle bars as you repeatedly bash their face against the ground, forcing them to taste your feelings, all while screaming: “Great to see me too! You liar, liar, liar!” “YOU SUCK!”
2. You could yell obscenities at them, aiming to make them feel as inferior as you do in that moment. Secretly, you know it won’t do much of a difference – for neither party.
3. You could stand there and try to collect yourself waiting for the social homicidal embarrassment to fall away from you. You kind of know you will use the provided dagger and repeatedly stab yourself with it as you rehearse the scene in your head for hours on end.
4. You could cry.
5. Or, you could smile and walk away knowing you had the courage to acknowledge someone. You remembered them conscious that, even if they didn’t understand it, you confirmed their significance in this world.

I bought a pregnancy test for a dollar.

I stood by and waited for the results to come to life. I patted at my belly and silently hoped that there was life brewing inside, two lines predicting a possible birth.

I laughed!

Needless to say, I won’t be an unwed single father – DON”T JUDGE ME! Hahaha!

The test claims to be over % accurate. I read the instructions in English and Spanish; however, there is still that under 1% chance that it was wrong.

I wonder if I should get a second opinion.

Why not?

It’s only a dollar, right!?!

Bringing the LOVE back...

April 19, 2010

My RENT CD’s were at the bottom of the pile…

Tiny droplets of thoughts dripped into my conscious mind like a leaky faucet. I tried to wipe each verbal image clean as it slowly drowned my contentment:

What if it’s not the same? What if the feelings have gone stale? Will we just go through the motions? Will the fire be there? Will I…

My mother interrupted my immobile position:

”Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

I laughed peering towards the glowing digital red numbers:

”Yes, I am supposed to be there at 6:40pm.”

My mother screamed back:

“It’s 6:40 now. Boy, get out of the house!”

I jumped to my feet with a chortle escaping my throat. I passed from my mother’s room to mine, a new piece of clothing adorning my body with each new appearance. Each time I poked my head through her gently cracked door I was scolded:

“Boy, get out! If you are late I am going to punch you in the face!”

I screamed one final playful laugh, assaulted my mother with a kiss, and ran towards the highway, emotions quickly fading into nostalgia:

No matter, at least I will get to see some familiar faces nonetheless.

I was headed to Pat’s Pizza for a talent showcase. The RENT family had opted to come together and put on a mini-show. Never thinking I would ever get over RENT and singing the songs repeatedly like a broken flashing clock, the CD’s were finally at the bottom of the CD rack, the images I created slowly making their way into the long term memory bank.

I found the place.

My body exploded into a smile. With the recognition of the first face I couldn’t hold onto any reservations I once harbored. I was a vacant wall of emotions, waiting to decorate my domain with embraces, laughs and polite gestures.

My mind traveled to undergraduate school, high school, middle school and elementary. No matter the tune of the day, there was always someone(s) waiting to engulf my company. I felt needed, wanted, desired and craved. My mind meandered forward:

It has been years since I have been in a room full of people, besides church and family, who genuinely appreciate my presence. Who are happy to see me – genuinely.

It felt good.

I looped back over to Kristin. Hugging her, feeling that familiar embrace that I had been disqualified from at the closing of RENT, I was jolted by her words:

“My mom is over there. Go say hi! She will love you even more.”

I flinched.

I turned my head towards to see Mrs. Romero and her three sisters huddled around a table. I spotted the two who had flown in from the Philippines to be with their beloved ailing sister. My thoughts comforted me as I grew more grateful towards the cause that ignited their reunion. Then, in an instant, my thoughts became troubled:

What if her mom doesn’t recognize me? Will I look foolish trying to embrace someone who takes me as a stranger? Will she even want to talk to me?

I slowly made more rounds and eventually found myself at the table. Before I could form a complete sentence, Mrs. Romero was on her feet, embracing me as if we had know each other for years – the kind of hug you know you can feel safe in.

LOVE...

Repositioning herself in her seat, she began to introduce me to her family. My mind twirled and my lips failed to greet one another, like familiar sides of a magnet, as my teeth bared my excitement. Finally, at the end of her introductions she leaned in towards her beautifully spirited sister and proclaimed I was the giver of something that I, too, held near to my heart.

It was a keepsake given to me. The center piece hung splendidly, held up by a darkened rope. To me, the misshapen heart hanging from the threefold cord displayed how we weave through life constantly adding more support to our hopes, dreams, desires and heart. No matter what shape our hearts may resemble, when hanging by the threads of love, it will always be secure, capable to spread charity to the world. Love conquers all. Neverthless, each time I wore it, the rope, at times, coming undone, I knew it did not belong to me. And when Kristin organized her March towards a Miracle, I knew exactly where it belonged.

I stood there for a few lingering seconds, bathing in the magnificence I saw in every gesture they made. I could see, no, feel the genuine affection radiating off of each of their beings. It was electrifying.

The evening began.

Having missed the opportunity to see Brendan perform One Song Glory during the performance of RENT, I waited excitedly to hear those finely tuned vocals. Instead, I saw something far more amazing.

I saw Brendan.

I saw the person, the being, the natural human that was him. I saw the vulnerable performer, taking the stage to please the audience. I saw the playful humor in forgetting a line and pressing forward with comedic gestures in place. I saw.

Timothy and Matt B. sang through their song and I was amazed at how their harmonies were still in place. I could see the worry on Matt’s face as he tried to keep the song safe and not to disturb his ailing throat any further. Still, he missed not a beat. It was great. And then I observed the epitome of restraint.

Kristin took the stage.

Having been coerced into singing the stripper pole song Out Tonight, I waited to see what she would do. With children being inches from the stage, my eyes pierced into her wondering if she would break loose. She began.

She tossed a slight hip and brought it back. She lightly flung her hair and brought it still. I could feel her wanting to, desiring to, simply craving the need to break out and put on a full out rendition of her the character. However, she restrained. Nevertheless, I didn’t.

I jumped hooted and hollered as her voice, sounding better than ever, soared through the song. I tried to remain as still as possible. But, before songs end, I was going through her choreography as if I were the one who performed it on a winding steel structure. I thought:

Man, I miss that performance. I loved being in groupie mode.

Maureen C. and Laura M. performed their tango Take Me or Leave Me.

If Broadway needed two stand-ins, they had their people. As Laura M. started my mind placed her on the big platform. I was no longer in a small restaurant, cramped against a bar stool. I was in the crowd, amongst theatre enthusiast enjoying the stylings of the stage. And then, as Maureen C. jumped in, a bit behind the music, I got worried.

My body tensed up as I hoped she did not fluster herself. I waited for her to skip a few phrases, jumping into the lines the music depicted. She did neither.

Smoothly, as if it was written that way, Maureen paraded into the song, somehow, causing the words to flow into the beat. Almost instantly she was parallel to the music and bringing more comedy to the piece than worry. I stared in awe as I admired her professionalism, fingering its implications through my mind.

Soon, we found ourselves at the finale and the feeling of unity vibrating through the room.

At the end of the night we shared longing embraces and exchanged laughs. Brendan, laughing uncontrollably at a phrase I threw out, was the last image of hilarity before everyone finally departed.

I made my way home, dressed myself in my emotions.

The next morning everything hit me.

April 19, 2010

“Mama, you have to hear this!”

I tore into her room, laptop in hand, demanding she listen to Season’s of Love – seeing that Tia T. and Mike H. had not shown that night, their solos were performed by two others; one being me and the other a stand in brought by Timothy.

I positioned the laptop on my mother’s bed, waited for her to finish stalling, prolonging the process to her perceived torture, and pressed play. I could see her mind working, the expression pasted on her face, as she tried to conjure up the words to soften the blow to my feelings. I could tell she did not desire to endure one more of my outlandish vocal diarrhea’s leaving a stench in her ears. The music started.

My mother flinched.

My part came up.

My mother braced.

I finished singing.

My mother had seen a ghost.

Her mouth flew open and her breath became heavy. I knew what it meant. I had seen that expression before and I knew it was good. I knew it, because I wore the same amount of shock on my own face.

It was the first time we had gotten an inkling of what I truly sounded like, could sound like. The hollering, bellowing and blow outs were nowhere to be found. It was…

Embrace...

I began:

”Amen…”

I stuttered:

”I…I…I don’t know where that came from… I…um… Wow mama. Can you believe that? Praise God!”

I was humbled at what was, tears kissing my eyes. It reignited something I had recently put down.

I dreaded going to the RENT mini-reunion as I had recently given up on singing. Newly into voice lessons feeling like a hopeless gong and with years of being told to shut up, hush, be quiet, you’re hollering, stop that, I simply concluded that I was chasing an unattainable dream.

That little boy that sang next to windows, hoping to be discovered was laid to rest. I buried him. I no longer desired anyone to hear my voice outside of playful antics, and standing in front of a crowd with music overshadowing my vocals, portraying its wreckage, was nothing I ever wanted to do again.

I simply concluded that I couldn’t sing.

It was a harsh reality to myself. My mind affirmed:

Yeah, you never really liked your voice anyway. It’s okay. You can do other things.

Singing had died and I had no idea how I would break the news to the cast of RENT. I just didn’t want to do it anymore. I wasn’t getting any better.

As I found myself amongst them, the absence of Mike H. ringing through the seats, Kristin turned to me and asked:

”Will you sing Mike’s solo? Are you okay with that?”

I threw a smile on my face and shook my head in excitement. On the inside a thump of fear quaked my body:

No, it’s not okay.

I spoke:

“Of course, you know I know every part!”

I prayed she did not hear the hesitation through my words.

Next Laura M. asked the same question. I nodded to her, once again stating that I knew every part of RENT inside and out. I turned my head, the announcer calling us to the stage, and tore at my phone:

Omg, I FORGOT THE WORDS!

It was too late, the music had started and I prayed for daylight.

As I sat there, next to my mother, listening to myself, hearing ME for the first time, no imitations – John Legend, Whitney Houston, Linkin Park, Lifehouse – my little dream was revived. Then it grew. It took delight in the promptings of the past.

Having taken up voice lessons, and feeling the differences of my singing and trying to reignite the dream that withered within, I slowly let the dream die. I took a week off from lessons to revaluate my desires. They had blackened.

My mother sat me down one day and told me:

“You aren’t me. You can’t sing like me.”

I put forth my rebuttal:

“But you have a great tenor voice and I only know you.”

I had grown accustomed to imitating her. My throat bled for relief as it throbbed, but I only knew my mother’s voice. She continued:

“Honestly, you sing like…”

The name she used was a blackened memory of my past. I spoke back, my voice quieting:

“I have never heard him sing.”

Desperation reached her brow as she searched for a solution. She found one. She handed me a CD and warned:

“You are not him, this is just an example of the ease that you should be able to sing. Be you, not him.”

My aunt cried when I showed her the video. I praised Jesus once again. She stated:

“I always said you had a good voice, I just never knew what you were doing with it.”

I tore upstairs, glad to have my dream back, my thoughts leading the way:

Neither did I…

I fell asleep as I embraced myself with my thoughts, my newfound discovery.

I felt warm.

See Video Here – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeDOVbAG0WM

ENGAGED...

I watched my mother push a lawnmower side to side and up and down the gradual incline that is my backyard. I grabbed my camera. I couldn’t resist recording her first trek on unchartered territory – uncharted to her.

Her yellow hat coupled by her brown sunglasses sent amusement through my insides. Watching her push the mower, at times the handle bars slightly above her head, was a revelation.

Many may ask, “Why didn’t you help her?”

To which I will reply, “That wasn’t my moment.”

That same morning, as I watched her rake and gather the leaves I prayed to God that she would stop. I asked Him to prolong her desire so that I could help later that day when my body wasn’t overcome with overnight working exhaustion.

When I awoke to help, knowing my request was heard, I peered into the backyard to see it cleared out and my mind looping:

Why didn’t she wait for me? I hope her back is okay.

I fell upon my mother in the kitchen, to which she stated:

“You never know what you can do until you try. Before I started my back was hurting, but once I got to it, everything fell into place. I didn’t know I could do it. I’m glad I did.”

Later that day she tackled mowing the lawn. I allowed her to do it, because it was her moment. Sometimes help isn’t help, especially if you are hindering what someone can ultimately learn on their own – sometimes.

I smiled as I watched her finish the back yard and soon the entire lawn. I whispered to myself:

“Thank God for some unanswered prayers.”

April 9, 2010

I awoke in the early afternoon with a list of to-do items plaguing my peace.

With my thoughts of things to accomplish in a day overwhelming me, I took to the trail to run away my worries.

Halfway through my mile, the wind pushing against me, telling my body to give up, I thought I saw a familiar face.

A few features resembled an old companion, but I knew his whereabouts were in other parts of the country. I trekked on and finished in a time far from what I expected. I chuckled, knowing I had pushed against the wind and finished nonetheless victorious. I saw the companions face again.

I knew it was him.

As the winds blows by me, my body in a sweat induced exercise panic, I rarely fall upon a familiar face. No one waves, speaks or smiles when I run. Life seems to be far too hurried. Even the occasional recognition goes unnoticed as people quickly try to end their torture.

Often times I play games with the unknown runners. I use them as markers to run towards. I playfully pace ahead of them, acting as if I am helping them keep stride. I even run behind some, using them as motivation to keep going.

Often times they stop, detour, or speed along as I go about my routine, conjuring the next game to play.

I neared the end of the trail and saw the face again. I decided I would finally wave and say hi – it’s a rare opportunity, for me, on the trail to see faces I have known.

I started a slow wave, and fixed my face into a strangled grin. Just as he approached, speeding on his bike, I yelled out my greetings. He slowed, fixed his voice and yelled back a hearty welcome. I stood surprised:

He is actually glad to see me as well.

Soon, he was peddling and I was jogging alongside him as we spoke of life, learning and the future. The pace picked up and I found myself grasping for breath at times, however, I still talked through the pain.

Reaching beyond the confinements of what high school was, our conversation touched on everything else but the past. I felt refreshed, renewed, to actually have a conversation with an old friend that picked up as if we had never parted ways.

I enjoyed his revelations in life, and my mind twanged as some of his philosophies fell right into place with mine. The growth in his words excited me. He was no longer hung up on the shortcomings of yester-years – the mishaps, mistakes. He only looked towards what lied ahead of him fully believing in what he could achieve.

Helping me believe in what lied ahead of me. His departing words:

“The older I get the more I realize that my life is just beginning. All that stuff before was just a precursor for what is happening now, what I am to do.”

We said our farewells and he continued on his twenty-seven mile goal.

As I walked home I couldn’t help but realize:

He slowed down to keep pace with me. He readjusted his workout and valued my company, never once hinting at his goal to finish, and extending to slow his pace even further to accommodate my ailing body.

After 7.8 miles I allowed him to go on his way, knowing that was my moment.

I quickened my pace, to try to meet him where he was, as he slowed his to meet me at mine. Sometimes a bit of compromise goes further than we can ever imagine. A little time, a kind gesture reaches beyond the confinements of words.

To encounter someone every day and know they are still excited to see you does something to the soul. To have been friends with someone briefly and encounter them years later and be greeted with that same excitement – priceless.

Quality over Quantity.

I didn’t know I needed that. But it was my moment.

I guess Cheers had it right:

Sometimes you wanna go where somebody [respects] your name/And they’re ALWAYS glad you came…

I bought a beautiful Christmas Tree this past Christmas Season. It was round, full and everything the spirit of merriment called for. However, one if it’s branches prevented it from reaching the bottom of the stand.

I cut it.

I couldn’t stand seeing the branch go to waste. In a childlike hope, I thrust the branch into the moist December ground.

On April 8^th as my mom was clearing the backyard, seeing the branch still in the ground, I stated:

“I wonder if the branch even took root.”

To which she replied:

“YES! I tried all type of ways to rip that out of the ground.”

My heart ignited. I knew I needed to prop it up to continue its growth. My mother found me a stick and now the stick stands next to the leaning branch waiting for a rope to join them together.

It was its moment.

New life sprang out of foreseeable death. It was its time, its moment to renew.

- Someone called me a name, I laughed harder than I had ever before.

- The fan in my window blew the rain into my face as I slept. It tickled.

- I received the nicest rejection letter I have ever read. I smiled in my heart. I contemplated sending them a thank you letter. (It really was that nice!)

These are the moments, these are the times.

These are our seasons.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

A Time for Everything

¹to EVERYTHING there is a season, and a time for every matter or purpose under heaven

No, I am great at it, spectacular even.

I am so convincing that I can even fool myself. Well, at least I used to, but not anymore.

Most nights I stare into a small eighteen by twelve inch mirror. It’s to the left of its twin being ignored as I anchor my shoulder against the door frame. I stare cautiously at my face.  I analyze my nose, pucker my disappearing lips and twitch my ear – the left one freely moves as the right one ticked as I try to relax my body.

I smile big. Fatigue, coupled with desperation, grabs the smile and forces it back in my mouth. My lip muscles tremor as I try to hold it in place. The smile is placed into the back of my throat and I swallow its rays with a deep, heavy, painful gulp. That is precisely when I reach for deceit:

“You can do this! It’s no big deal. You’ve done it for years.”

I stare back at my inner voice and answer it with a wavering declaration:

“Yeah, but I didn’t know then what I know now. I didn’t know I was lying. I didn’t know this lie was waiting to catch up to me. I’m not a liar.”

But I am.

I lie as if I don’t know my own truth. I lie as if I won’t figure myself out. I lie as if I can run from myself. I lie in fear of facing the truth.

March 27, 2010

Kristin’s Fundraiser for Miracles was a huge success. Seeing the many unfamiliar faces that came out to support, as well as some beloved new friends and old, coated my heart. During Melissa’s song Hallelujah, Kristin’s younger sister, she choked up. Her face flushed and her words hid in her throat. A wave of instant emotion swept through the crowd as we all absorbed her pain, walked in her compassion. And as if she had transplanted her sentiments in me, I felt what she felt, saw what she saw. On the inside of me I witnessed that cry, that anguish that quieted her voice and rang through the atmosphere as a tidal wave waiting to overtake anticipatory stranded sea life.

Between the beautifully caressed violin, the tickled ivories and the playful guitar, Melissa’s genuine reach hugged each of us into one accord. I could not help but return the embrace.

By the evening’s end, crowds gathered around the many talents of the night singing praises. And to my astonishment, I was amongst the ones being cuddled with appreciation.

I thought back to the seconds before my vocal entrance. I had already urinated four times and I sat on the fifth twitching my leg up and down. My bladder pulsated trying to match the racing in my chest. I waited for Dominic to finish, grabbed the bench in front of me and summoned my lungs to project the power.

My sound rang out.

Almost immediately a guitar string broke. I could feel the tightened cord stretch beyond its strength, trying to hold on and then break as it left a twang floating through the air. The only problem was that the guitar string was my vocal chords, and I felt the tone leaving my instrument.

I pushed, prayed and pressed as I tried to project my mic-less voice beyond the rafters. My eyes hugged tight and my body went through its own ritual of events. It yelled at me:

“Hold on my brother. It’s going to be all right. I know what I am doing. I KNOW church!”

I hid underneath its promptings and allowed it to freely move as I tried to repair the recoiled cord. By songs end I was in shock that it was finally over, my vocal chords thanked me for the brief intermission as they sent pains of distress threw my throat. When all was said and done and the many other beautiful voices ignited the atmosphere, I had all but forgotten my fight, but someone else didn’t:

“You have a great voice!”

I looked him in the face trying to decipher his game. His smile painted words of approval on me. I retreated into apologies:

“I am sorry for all the cracking and missed notes…”

My mind twinkled with a smile:

And the notes I invented to go in their place.”

The appreciator looked back at me as if my head had detached itself, in jagged form, from my body. He next paid me the greatest compliment. It slapped me speechless. As he walked away, I silently thanked him for the reassurance, the accreditation, the new visions he thrust upon me.

I returned home and found myself settling into a normal routine. my head pounding due to sleep deprivation. Hunger invaded my belly. It spoke to me. I contemplated staying in and calling it a successful completed day, but my blood danced. It pressed me onward to finish my desires.

Footloose

My GPS was kind to me. I rounded the last corner anticipating the show. With only a few more seconds lingering ahead of me until I reached the parking lot, I received a text from Kristin:

“Are you coming Footloose?”

I replied:

“I’m here.”

I smiled, glad I had disobeyed my head pounding nausea.

After chatting with some old friends, and hourly new ones, I found myself in my chair, waiting to see a show I was finally familiar with – I had previously seen the Cab Calloway School of the Arts rendition of the musical. It helped that they had finely tuned voices that transitioned into each new section. It also helped that I had someone sitting next to me dictating what was happening. (No, I have actually never seen the movie).

With only the familiarity of one cast member, one pit organist and the director, I waited to see how the rest of the unknown faces would transfer into my recollection of entertainment. I held onto visions of the Cab Calloway students, to reference what I was about to see – many of them sprinkled throughout the audience. The music started, the lead took the stage, and other members ran down the aisles towards the extended platforms. My head made its way through a series of ticks as I took in the movement, the colors, the music, the voices. But most of all, I took in the passion.

I could taste the genuineness behind each of their drive. Beyond their characters, I could see each of them exuding the desire to be there, to be loved, to be understood, just to be. And beyond their ages I could place myself in their shoes. I asked myself:

“Are any of them athletes – cheerleaders, dancers, football players, golfers? Are they in honor society, math club, Future Farmers of America? What drove them into theatre? Why didn’t they opt for Cab Calloway?”

By the end of Act I, while the claps were dying down, my voice rang out loud and proud:

“Yes! Yes! Yes! YES!”

My words were already giving them a standing ovation. I no longer felt as though I was in a high school. I felt…I felt. That’s it, I just felt.

As I ran the day through my mind – the unsuspecting, genuine, compliment at Kristin’s Fundraiser, the many people that loved Kristin enough to devote their time and talent to her vision, and then the students who chose theatre as an extracurricular activity in an everyday high school – I finally knew I belonged.

As ACT II transpired, I mentally placed myself on stage wondering how many around me were embarking upon their debut theatre experience. I laughed harder than before at their antics and played amongst their choreographed moves. When they stomped the stage in unison, my heart matched the beat. And when they had finished, I danced in my seat waiting for the joy in my soul to simmer to a chill.

It never did.

I drove home that night with my headache attacking my vision and stomach. I could feel the contents of my meal accumulating and threatening my throat. Still, my thoughts lifted me higher.

I had previously concluded, way back in my life, that only finely trained individuals could conquer the theatre world. They started young and were carefully molded to make Les Miserable. But that night I saw hope. I saw students who may have very well started performing this year. I heard a story from a girl who only discovered a love for singing at the age of twelve. Five years later she sings as if the voices of angels were implanted in her lungs. Most of all I saw the little boy I used to be, singing in the shower, or leaning near open windows, desperately hoping someone would catch a hint and whisk me off to music video land. And then, as I stopped to get gas, needing some air as vertigo was setting in, I saw how much of a liar I had become.

I tried to convince myself, as the numbers flew by depicting the gallons, that it would be easy to transition back into my normal routine, my normal life. My mind punched me in the skull:

But what if the world you just left is your real life, your normal routine.

I looked down at my pants, rolled up just passed the ankles, and laughed:

Yeah, I could never do that in my pseudo-normal world.

I wrapped myself up in the reality of my situation.

In this new world – theatre… entertainment, singing, dancing, acting –I feel alive. I feel whole. I feel more like me than I have ever imagined. I can be myself – me. If I want to wear glasses, a top hat and a cape, no one cares. They only immediately break into character reminding me of the musical I had just walked out of. I enjoy the spontaneity.

When I hum a note, the person sitting next to me breaks out into song. When I dance, they enjoy, or they dance. When I listen, they enlighten. When I speak, they listen. When they go places, I am invited.

For once in my life, I walk into a room without feeling as though everyone is staring at me, making fun of my style. Even if they are, I don’t care. I am comfortable. I am home. I smile along with them, knowing someday they will understand. They will find that freedom too.

I fell against my truck bed:

Why have I become a liar?

Because I had convinced myself that I was transitioning back into my normal routine, but entertainment is my normal routine. The real world is where I am lost in a land of make believe, adopting various characters to make it through the day. As my mother has always told me:

“The world is your stage!”

I feel at ease there. I enjoy putting a smile on faces, tracing my body with their joy. I enjoy dissecting the talents around me, imitating movies, trying things I have no business doing. I love to practice, train, rehearse and repeat. I feel good with over-stressed vocals and sweat beating down my breathless body, trying to catch up with my joy. Running in the rain is my heroine, well, as long as it’s not too cold.

I desire to abuse my body, watching definition and size creep into my every limb.

I am an athlete, an entertainer, a cartoon, a design.

But I am not a liar, so how much longer will I lie to myself?

_______________________

“I’m not a theatre person, I’ll never be a theatre person.” – RENT (Joanne)

Even the cheerleader needs support.

He laughs loud. He looks around the room searching for a prop, an inspiration, attention. He springs to his feet when authority disperses, creating joy in the smallest objects. He ignites the room. He cries inside when he thinks about the emptiness of solitude, no laughs to mask the pain.

Even the class clown needs a backstage arena.

Everything comes to them easily. It’s as if books are engrained in their brains.

Even genius’ need to be taught.

She stands in front of the sheep she has been entrusted to lead. She presses, fasts, prays and magnifies.

Even the preacher needs a shepherd, a word.

The California Redwood Tree grows to be 300 feet tall. Its roots extend 900 feet out intertwining itself with his neighboring brothers and sisters. Over the years their roots become so tangled with the others that it makes it impossible to fall. It must weather many storms as the years pass by, receiving constant beatings from nature, beast, man. It knows that…

Even the California Redwood needs a helping hand to remain a giant of sorts.

Even silence needs to be interrupted with a word, a spark, a presence.

Even a laugh needs to be heard.

A smile needs to be seen.

A face in the crowd, no matter how deeply buried, needs to be recognized.

An old friend needs to know the relationship still feels new.

Courage could not stand alone, could do nothing, without first being hugged by “en” and “ment”.

People may pass through your life. Some are gentle lingering breezes, some blow through like a gust of wind, lending that temporary cooling that you need. Giving you a little hope, life and relief for seconds, minutes, or hours at a time. Sometimes they may be the soothing touch in the harsh suns of the day. Still, no matter how grandiose or modest their air current may be, they desire to be noticed. You never know when they may pass by again or if at all. No matter how insignificant it may seem…

…even the wind needs to be felt.