Confessions of a Former [Middle School] Actress

My acting resume consists of three major roles.

#1: I played "Mrs. Elephant" in my 4th grade production of the folktale "How the Elephant Got Its Trunk." After the initial disappointment in losing out on the role of "Baby Elephant"-- the title character who spent the entire show sucking her thumb and looking adorable-- playing Mama Pachyderm gave me quite a bit of pride. If my scanner was up and running (and if I had no shame), I'd post up the sole photo that exists of my all-gray ensemble, complete with cardboard cutout elephant ears and a sewn-on tail (compliments of my grandmother).

#2: My next big year came in 6th grade. First, I was a puma in a production about rainforest conservation. No, wait-- it was a musical showcase about rainforest conservation. Yes, each of the three classes in my program had to perform a song-and-dance pertaining to the rainforest, and predictably, everyone had to dress up as a rainforest animal. My class was stuck with a dreary number entitled "Those Were the Days," a song whose lyrics we had to tweak in order to describe the plight of endangered species. (We actually took time out of biology class to do this.) Anyway, my "moment" came in the fourth verse: I had a solo. I also had a tail.

#3: Just a few months later, I played the Greek god Cronus in a skit that parodied Judge Judy (back when courtroom shows were the closest thing we had to reality TV), one of three skits in the gifted program's "Tribute to Ancient Greece" (stifle your laughter; the best part is coming). During the tryout, I was the only one in the class who read the lines with any trace of enthusiasm. That's how 12-year-old me ended up as a man, outfitted with a beard and wig, in a part that required tumbling across the stage, violently throwing up my children, and dying. Like the rainforest musical, we were given time in class to write the script. (What can I say? My teachers were lazy.)

That gender-bending performance was my swan song. How poignant that my acting career ended as a bearded woman in a toga, faking a massive upchuck in the auditorium of I.S. 234. Is there any better way to go out than on the floor-- err, on top?

In the years to come, I went on to more deeply immerse myself in sports : softball, then ultimate frisbee. It was my own time to shine-- to have all eyes on me, if only for a few moments of glory-- that required no memorization of lines or singing abilities (excluding goofy sideline cheers), just pure energy. And I soaked up every minute of attention on the field, which didn't quite make me the most sportsmanlike at times (so I threw the bat once... sue me), but at least I felt good at something that involved an audience of some sort.

Yet while I comfortably absorbed athletic activities, my interest in theater never did go away. I went to all of the student shows in high school and college (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Broadway musical soundtracks were a staple on my iPod, circa 2004 (remember when the screens weren't in color yet?). And most of all, I gravitated towards the theater kids. Sitting front and center, mouthing out the lyrics to songs I only halfway knew, I lived through them. I crushed on them. I wanted to be them. Always wishing, wanting, hoping to latch on to a piece of their aura, to have what they had, admiring and envying them at the same time.

Little did I know that the connection I craved would eventually be fulfilled in college by the thespian I'd become smitten with the most. When we finally acknowledged what we'd both been holding in for too long, it was the ultimate dream come true-- almost impossible to fully comprehend at first, but the most logical feeling in the world, when I thought about it a little harder.

And so, I rightfully earned my place as her number one fan. I went to every show she appeared in at least twice (sometimes three times), got to crash most of the cast parties and formals, and brought flowers on closing nights. It took some getting to, having spent years secretly pining to do these things without ever actually doing them. But it became the happy norm that I'll always associate with the second half of my college years, a norm I wouldn't have traded in for anything.

Even then, though, I can't help but wonder even a little bit how life would have turned out if I hadn't succumbed to stage fright. Perhaps the Me in an alternate universe never quit the church choir in 6th grade, tried out for a one-act play at Stuy, and even joined an acapella group in college. Would I be jealous? Yes, probably a bit. But I would love to meet that girl from the twilight zone and show her that everything turned out alright anyway.

And besides, I'll always have karaoke.