A Hopeful Confidence

The dimming lights cued my entry. I wiped my sweaty palms against my cloak, against each other, and against my cloak again. The particles tingled on my hands as my heart raced as fast as my mind. “Am I good enough to share the stage with these professional performers?” I asked myself. I inhaled deeply and my throat strained to relax on the exhale. I hear someone in the orchestra offer the opening note—a C—and begin proceeding down the aisle with my basket. My feet seem to float through the air while my chest contracts under pressure. I make eye contact with those whom I pass to see eyes full of hope, excitement, and just a touch of judgment. My knees shake as I climb the stairs to the stage, and I engage my core to stay vertical. I engage with the other cast members as we set the stage, though my mind runs through the coming movements. My fellow singers mention a dance. All eyes fall to me. I gasp for a breath beneath my plastered smile only to choke on the air. I pass off my basket and walk to center stage. Relying on my many hours of training, I stepped silently onto center stage and forced my arms into port de bra. Hearing the violins, flutes, and piano, I lose myself in the music, letting the instrumental staccato initiate my movements. Instinct takes over from there until the music fades, and I finished my solo with an uncontrollable smile and magical confidence. I realize in this moment that, no matter a person’s age or experience, the stage can dissipate insecurities and boost confidence.

Showing up to an audition always took an immense amount of courage. As I grew up dancing in my studio from the age of 3, my teachers cast all of the shows. I was secure in their perception of my skill level. I would therefore enter an audition in a protective cloud, free to move. As an eighth grader, I decided to expand my realm, trying my hand at acting. The spring before I even completed middle school, I threw myself into a high school drama program full of experienced older students whom I had never met. Without having seriously acted before, my stomach and jaw simultaneously dropped when the director divided us into pairs, instructing us to perform an opening scene together. With five minutes to prepare with an older actor who had infinitely more experience, I willed my feet to keep from running out the door. I lost all sense of being as I could not process anything my partner said in those five minutes. I looked at their hands, feet, and lips moving but nothing registered. I strained to open my eyes after each blink. I sat down to collect myself and tried to slow my heartbeat which began to pound in my ears. As my heart-rate slowed in my ears and throat, I felt my body-shakes subside. Hearing my name called, I opened my eyes and authoritatively took center stage. I relied on my instincts and put my own spin on the character, even making the director chuckle. Then he instructed us to change roles and play the other. My eyebrows shot up, and my whole body convulsed into a tense state. I had only memorized my part. I had only memorized my part. Mind racing, I began saying the other line. Halfway through, silence rang through the room as I knew I had the next line but had no idea what words came next. My voice croaked out a sound, unable to form actual words, echoing back the sound of a frog. My partner whispered the next line to me, and with their help, I completed the scene. I finished. The teamwork I experienced that day allowed me to realize the community that performing requires.

Even amidst my new community and growing comfort as an actor, performing grew challenging in high school. Constant comparisons threatened to take over the support I had encountered, clouding my theatre community. Like my peers, I considered seniority to be a factor in casting. Nonetheless, as I got older, my roles remained the same. I stayed a part of the chorus in musicals and remained on stage for all of five minutes in the plays. I worked with coaches and teachers both in and out of my school’s department to improve my acting and singing. My sophomore year, I decided to focus on acting because it brought me more joy and left more room to discover self-expression. After 14 years of dancing daily, I quit dance to make time for drama rehearsals and extra practice. However, even with the extra dedication, I fell short of scoring a bigger role. What was I doing? Who was I becoming? Yet I kept coming back, developing humility and the capacity to gauge my skill set, seeing that dancing and supporting others allowed me to thrive.

During my junior year, I worked with the choreographer who previously noticed my natural memorization and execution of new choreography to establish a new position: dance captain. I served in this role until graduation. I was a member of the chorus but ran extra rehearsals to clean and run all dance numbers. Every day after rehearsal, a smile would emerge on my face when I would see the light click as a new dancer retained a different piece of the choreography. The cast benefited greatly from the extra practice, and I maintained my dance skills through learning and teaching all of the numbers in the show, even when I was not in them. The choreographer was so pleased with the cleaned numbers that she granted me the responsibility of choreographing two of my own, further instilling my sense of purpose on the stage.

I used this newfound passion for teaching as I volunteered to produce and direct the children’s play Rumpelstiltskin at the local Boys and Girls Club. We worked for three months on the show as I introduced them to the audition and rehearsal processes. At showtime, half of my cast of fourth grade actors told me they were too nervous to speak. Recognizing their fear, I held their hands and instructed them to close their eyes.

“Go back to rehearsal. Picture me in the audience and no one else,” I said.

I nudged each of them gently on-stage. They entered with their shoulders by their ears and began the scene with muffled voices. I made eye contact with the child playing

Rumpelstiltskin and smiled. Her eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth perked. My heart fluttered as I watched her enter boldly: shoulders down and chest lifted high. Her voice matched her stance, and her castmates fed off of her energy. Joy filled the stage and the room as the entire atmosphere shifted with each burst of laughter. Bounding off the stage to applause, they gave me NBA-worthy high fives, and I knew they had tasted and relished the glory of the stage! Somehow, my years of reflection and diligent work had allowed me to find the place where my discovered confidence, humility, and resilience could help others in my community thrive as well.

Watching Covid disable the performing industry ignites me with fear. Performing has brought me so much joy, but performing virtually does not give you the same connection with an audience or fellow cast and crew members. Music and dance have given me a way to express myself, manage my anxiety, conquer adolescent insecurities, and boost my confidence. Performance affords the opportunity to communicate effectively and share my passions and beliefs in a highly personalized way. In a virtual setting, there is no way to feed off of the audience’s energy. Live theatre calls for a level of preparation and perfection, however no live performance is ever the same. There is an art that coincides with the interconnectivity between that cast and audience.

There is mutual trust and an established relationship.

As the music fades, the audience rises in abounding applause. I curtsey left and right as the corners of my mouth rise into a smile. My heart races to match the beat of their claps. I have found my community. One that creates a warm environment in the auditorium, unable to be recreated through a screen.