There are those who perform, and there are those who perform well and there are even those who used to perform—well or not—but have since retired, tossed their character shoes into the trash and bid the stage goodbye. I dub this final group Theater Kids, pre-tweens with overbites and too much confidence, who promenade in leotards whilst repeating 16 bars of “Castle on a Cloud” until the notes are almost in key. You saw them at your elementary school, and you probably avoided them.
To my and my parents’ dismay, I am no doubt a washed-up Theater Kid. I pride myself on having encompassed virtually every quality of a Theater Kid—dental struggles included. From a young age, I immersed myself in musical theater, hoping one day I would make it to the Broadway stage (I assumed there was only one). My parents indulged my hobby, my athletic father weeping internally as his young, round daughter chose tap dancing over hockey. I took voice lessons with an opera singer, from whom I stole weekly supplies of mint gummies. I used any excuse to dress up as Annie and talk about “Annie” and sing songs from “Annie.” My brief career in community theater was fervent and intensive, ultimately providing me with an alarmingly neurotic Common App essay.
If you have ever encountered a Theater Kid, you may have noted the courage with which he or she speaks, the jarring aplomb present even while wearing a petticoat. There is a certain self-assurance that accompanies the triple threat of voice, dance and acting lessons. You may be a washed up Theater Kid if you have done, or have attempted to do, the following:
Perfected a Triple Time Step while singing “Be Our Guest” in a sugar cube costume (preferably a full-body spandex suit under a white sparkling box).
Memorized the soundtrack to “Chicago” but never saw the show because the murder and the hanging scene and general excess of lingerie were all PG-13.
Spent a third of your life in a minivan carpool, eating chicken nuggets and trying to belt “No One Mourns the Wicked” louder than the boy next to you.
Worn copious quantities of eyeliner, blush, hairspray, eye shadow, foundation, mascara and lipstick all before the age of 10—and cried during its application.
Quit by age 12 due to external circumstances (a.k.a torment and/or lack of talent).
Theater Kids differ from their successful adult counterparts in both talent and commitment. Theater Kids may experience false hope around the age of eight, when they are cast simply because they will smile on stage while their peers will not. Yet, the fantasy does not last forever. In fifth grade, while cleaning my desk and quietly chanting “The Hills Are Alive,” I was approached by a small classmate who suggested I stop singing.
“You’re really bad,” he said. He had a very little head and I always felt like he should have been born a turtle.
“I was joking,” I said. “That wasn’t my real voice.”
“Yes it was,” he said. “You’re a bad singer.”
Then he walked away. That was that. In middle school, I joined soccer and tried not to launch into involuntary jazz squares. My acquiescence to peer pressure was disappointing yet total.
Statistically—I assume—the world is full of washed up Theater Kids—it has to be. There are always far too many children in the ensemble, piled into crowd scenes with the general instruction to “improvise.” I once participated in a version of “Peter Pan” that featured over thirty Lost Boys. Directors are often polite enough to cast these young ensemble members with actual names, so each feels her part is important (common examples include “City Youth” or “BLANK’S Daughter”). There are rarely any lines accompanying these roles, rather the intention is to add dimension to the world—like brush strokes shading a portrait’s nose. I am lucky to have played a range of designated inanimate objects (primarily utensils), a host of animals (favorites include a football pad-wearing lion and an elephant on trial for murder), as well as the complex role of The Color Blue.
I often wonder where my fellow washed up Theater Kids have gone, who they have grown up to be. I have also often wondered: what now? What use is this stellar annunciation, these memories of watching colonial townswomen swear and smoke cigarettes? Why did I take 11 years of dance lessons? The answers are still unclear.
Maybe I’m caught up with what’s left behind, the memories of formative moments. Maybe I’m regretting insecurities. Probably, it’s not that corny. I think everything ties back to rejection. I’ve learned, through theater, to fail over and over. I’ve learned to laugh at myself, and at others. How can I possibly take myself seriously when I’ve played the role of a sugar cube? As a senior, rejection is everywhere. The bubble of Bowdoin has stretched and grown tense, but I’ve learned how to handle it. Humor is crucial to my sanity.
Theater Kids lurk everywhere. Most likely, “Hamilton” has brought them out of hiding. If any are reading: let’s start a massage train, suck lozenges and watch “Broadway’s Lost Treasures”—a 2003 ode to forgotten musicals—narrated by Angela Lansbury. I’m also always up for Zip Zap Zop. Because we all have time for that.