I was not born to perform. Some people may think that,
because I have no trouble belting out a random line from “Some Enchanted
Evening” in a crowd full of people. I am not embarrassed to krump in the middle
of a shoe store or make strangers laugh in a restaurant.
The stage, however, is a different story. After performing a
bell solo in the school concert when I was six, people were impressed at the
effortlessness of my five-second moment. I knew the truth, though. I felt that
shake, the nameless, unknown first hint of nerves and anxiety that would grow
to haunt me for life.
As I got older, as I was able to understand the stakes and
delve into the drama of who was watching, what they were thinking and how I
looked and sounded, the anxiety ate at me daily. A performance several months
away would run through my mind constantly. I would analyze every note and
decide how I wanted everything to sound, how I wanted people to react. I
listened to recordings over and over and imagined myself sounding just like the
professionals. When I sang, my voice would shake and I would revert to a nervous
chest sound. When I played violin, my vibrato was either incessant or nonexistent.
I used meditation, rituals and eventually a mild antianxiety
medication as coping techniques. Eventually, this allowed me to pull out some
surprisingly decent performances. But I never felt at home and I always knew
that no matter how much I wanted it, I could never perform as a career. I was
much too inconsistent.
So, I searched for another place in the theatre, on the
stage. I wanted to immerse myself in music and performance, but I needed a
different angle. I tried pit orchestras, symphonies, chamber music, choirs, and
small ensembles, and ended up having some of the best experiences of my life.
In the end, though, I valued the communities and the experiences but still
stressed over each performance.
The summer after I graduated university, I settled into the
ticket office at Starlight Theatre, a large outdoor venue that hosted Broadway
musical tours and concerts each summer. I still got to talk about my love of
musicals and I contributed to the “scene” with my strength: administrative
work. I was promoted to supervisor and worked as hard at my summer job as I did
teaching. Still, the stage seemed so distant and I imagined myself being up
there again, singing or playing. But every time I so much as opened my mouth at
the all-school talent show, the anxiety came rushing back.
This is how Adam found me. A nervous musician, a former
performer, with a flair for organization and detail. Through the first musical
we did together, I stood in where needed. I ran the sound at rehearsals, took
care of some administrative details, and sang when actors were absent. I
developed relationships with the secondary students, an age which always
frightened me. I learned the light and sound boards. I eagerly watched Adam
work, soaking in his expertise on acting and vision. I probably learned as much
from him in three months as I did during my entire teaching program. Adam
suggested that I direct my own show.
Directing a show was one of the hardest things I have ever
done, but it gave me insight into the theatre, into the deep workings of a
musical, that I did not have before. I was good at the technical elements and
the administrative details, but I struggled with the artistic vision. I cared very little about costumes and could
not even sketch out set ideas. Thankfully, I had a team of people more creative
than I to push the artistry forward and I ended up with a show full of talented
children with several talented adults behind-the-scenes.
I don’t know if Adam knew where I belonged. He is the type
to sit back retrospectively and watch, putting everyone in their exact right
place. It is what makes him a brilliant director. One of us came up with the
idea of me stage managing The Sound of Music, the all-school musical and the
largest production this school had seen. At the beginning, I wanted to do a
good job because I wanted to help Adam. I wanted to support him after he
supported me as director and teacher. As the process intensified, I found
myself extremely invested in the show, perhaps even more than I was in the
production I directed. I immersed myself in the technical elements of light
hanging, set building, and sound design. I opened the lines of communication
with the students and parents. And on show-night, when I was calling cues and
live-editing microphones up in the booth, I felt like I was performing, in a
way. I was performing, but this time without the anxiety.
I owe a significant portion of my happiness in Egypt to
Adam. He has put up with my anxious and emotional temperament and never stopped
teaching me. He helped me love my job here. He made me laugh harder than I ever
have and party more than I ever should. But most importantly, he found a place
for me in the theatre. He has been a rock, a mentor, a colleague, a teacher,
and a friend.
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Adam, hanging curtains on the set of Sound of Music. |
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Trying to take pictures on closing night without laughing. |
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Light hang for the Sound of Music. |
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At the cast party with Stephanie (choreographer and lights) and Joe (teacher/actor). |
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Director and stage manager. |
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