I was in a boatload of plays and musicals in my day. I sang and danced my tuckus off as
Maisie Merriweather in The Boyfriend-- it was so hot in our school’s auditorium
that my mascara ran from sheer perspiration. As young Emily in Our Town, I put a bottle-cap upside-down
in my shoe to help remind me which leg to limp on, and as Oliver I let my voice
break a little at the end of the song, “Where Is Love” to see if I could get
anyone in the audience to cry. They
did.
I loved being in the chorus of Oklahoma because I got a lot
of hang time with other kids while the director worked with the leads. We would clown around until we were
shushed and it gave us the chance to flirt and possibly be partnered with older
boys—most of whom we wouldn’t have had any contact with otherwise. I also vaguely remember doing some show
that had a circus theme and our school’s director had two trapezes bolted into
the ceiling above the stage. I
spent a bulk of the show swinging back and forth by my knees— no spotter, no
net and no mat below me—just a smile to break my fall. I never did.
As fun as these experiences were, they also provided tremendous
learning opportunities. Blocking helped
me become hyper aware of bodies in space in terms of composition and
balance. Learning new songs and
choreography was mathy in it’s own way.
Having to count measures and gauge distances in time; turning and
crossing in symmetrical paths across the stage illustrated some principles of
geometry. There were beautiful
blended harmonies to be mindful of, pages of memorizing to be done, and gorgeous
sets to be designed and painted. Every
day my brain and body whirred with new information that had to somehow weave
itself together and imprint in my mind so that, come opening night, I could hit
my marks, remember my lines, blend my voice just so while not stepping on
anyone’s toes. And to think that this
was all going on concurrently with preparing for spelling quizzes, algebra
finals and science tests. Quite a
feat.
I didn’t understand at the time how important these
accomplishments would be as transferrable skills in adulthood, nor did I care. Teamwork and partnering are germane to
every office job I can fathom, as is assimilating and regurgitating new
information in a confident and compelling manner. Standing up straight and hitting your mark without turning
your back to the audience—not to mention projecting—are skills that have served
me well in pitch meetings and presentations over the years—a conference room is
really just a small stage with a pile of sandwiches in the center when you
think about it. In both arenas
there is a message to be delivered, a product to be sold and an audience to be
charmed. What better proving ground
than a school musical or drama production. Not to mention the sizeable dose of confidence one has to
have to get up in front of classmates in a potentially dorky costume and
possibly trip or forget then having to keep calm and carry on. Tell me that won’t serve you well for
decades to come. It has.
Before a show, my dad would reminded me of what Spencer
Tracy used to say about acting:
Learn your lines and don’t bump into the furniture. My mom would tell me to make sure my
hair was out of my face, to stand up straight and not to futz with my costume--
no matter how itchy or ill-fitting it was. Both of them made sure to remind me to have fun. After all that was the point, wasn’t
it?
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