Long Before Meth: When the Stage Became My Obsession
Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 2 Part 1
I was a monkey!
Mom saw an audition notice for a local children’s theater in the Friday arts section and the next thing I knew, 10-year-old me was spending an awesome summer vacation rehearsing Ming Lee and the Magic Tree.
I had a whole monologue!
It was all about how I loved being a monkey and swinging through the trees and how the Rain God ruined all my fun with his stupid rain.
The performance had been going on for about 20 minutes and it was almost my cue! I walked through the dark backstage carrying what looked like a giant monkey head but was actually a helmet covered in plaster. I took my place just upstage of the heavy proscenium curtain and waited.
I was hot in my monkey suit. Hot and itchy. My pants were made of imitation fur, from the kind of fabric you would buy on discount at Joanne’s which, honestly, could only be used to create monkey pants for a children’s play. I wore a yellow jacket with a glittering shimmer. It was generically Asian, with a short, straight-up collar and little balls and loops for buttons. It was the kind of jacket you would see a sullen teenaged bus boy wearing at a midwestern Chinese restaurant run by Mr. and Mrs. White.
I hadn’t put on my monkey helmet yet because that would have made me even hotter. I also wanted to watch the kids on the stage and steal glances of the audience
Every night, right before places, the college student directors led us in a call and response.
“If you can see them?”
“They can see you!”
A few kids thought being the loudest was the point.
Still, we all did it. We all snuck a peek or two or five. We couldn’t help it. We wanted to see where our parents were sitting.
I watched as all the Beckys and Grants delivered their lines with varying levels of conviction, wishing they would all talk faster, excited to do my bit! Each child made grand declarations with the subtlety of a hammer. Each line was delivered with the labored subtext of “I am making a statement!” or “I am asking a question?!” They executed their blocking in stunted, artificial ways that are only ever charming when done by a child. Broad gestures and awkward poses drowned in indication, all while their brightly colored costumes were made even more so by the lighting instruments in the grid above.
This wash of light bounced into the audience illuminating a wall of ghostly faces: moms and dads, uncles and aunts, grandparents, fidgety siblings, and the occasional saintly and supportive friend. Faces radiated a mixture of pride, obligation, and boredom. Every now and then these ghosts would give up a shared laugh or at least a chuckle.
There was an energy in that light on stage, as if you didn’t really exist till you were standing in that light yourself. I was jealous of the other kids who had more lines than me and got to be onstage longer. I wanted to be on that stage from the moment the curtain went up until the curtain came down.
And I was about to get my chance. It was nearly time for my entrance!
My heart raced as I mouthed my lines one more time. I started to futz with my monkey helmet just as the adult minding backstage reminded me to put it on. I thought about the notes the directors had given me at dress rehearsal: crouch real low and let my arms dangle like a monkey, remember to open my mouth real wide so it moved the hinged jaw on the mask, and speak real loud so they could hear me all the way in the back row.
I heard my cue and made my entrance.
When I stepped on stage, everything snapped into place. In real life, at home, at school, I was an overcharged battery without an outlet that could take my full wattage. The stage, I discovered, as I made my bounding entrance, could handle all of my energy and then some.
To be on stage. To have my turn. To stand under those bright lights facing a wall of silent adults, all paying attention to me, adults I wasn’t interrupting or distracting, adults I wasn’t annoying, adults who were not trying to corral me into whatever boring direction they wanted me to go, no one telling me to be quiet, to slow down, to quit “being silly,” all giving me their attention, waiting to see what I would do, waiting to hear what I had to say.
When I made my entrance onto the stage, I was leaving a world where I was too much and entering a world where I was just enough.
On stage I felt grounded, normal, right.
This is what kept me coming back again and again throughout my childhood. The stage was my home base, my touchstone. During adolescence when there is so much change and stumbling and unsureness of knowing who I was, the stage gave me moments of focus, of direction, of self. I knew who I was and where I belonged. It was only in the amplified realty of the stage where I felt normal.
Where I felt like me.
Next Chapter
Chapter Guide
A lot of heart, time, and work goes into each piece. One way you can support me is by signing up for a $5/month Medium Membership. Use this like and I’ll get a percentage of your subscription fee. Huzzah for supporting artists!
If the spirit moves you, another way you can support me is by leaving me a tip. Thank you for reading!
