In the push for justice, kindness prevails

Background Noise: Thank you for the rejection: life as a washed-up theater kid

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.

Background Noise: Writing by the water: making time for passions

One of the most difficult parts about job interviews thus far has been explaining what I did this summer. “What did you do this summer?” is a typical interview question. If you’re an underclassman who has never visited Career Planning, I advise you to “do something this summer” so you can talk about it later. I’ve been asked about summer employment many times, not only by HR representatives, but by family, friends and enemies.
“Did you have an internship this summer?” Usually, they are holding a beverage and we are at some sort of function—mixer, birthday, barbeque.
“Sort of,” I say. “No.”
“Huh?” they ask. “What did you do this summer?”
I twist my hair around a finger and remember this is a nervous habit. Then, I explain how I spent nine weeks on a Canadian island with a small group of biologists. I quickly mention the lack of showers, Wi-Fi and toilets. I tell them I was writing a collection of short stories.
“About what?” they ask. “About birds?”
“No,” I say. “About other things.”
Usually, they nod and I wonder if I should have left the toilet part out. People don’t like to talk about toilets—outhouses especially. Rarely do I elaborate on my writing—my failures, my triumphs. Instead, I change the subject or chew or pretend to be late to something else.
I have trouble telling people I like to write. I’ve always equated the public expression of an interest with the embarrassment of potentially sucking at that interest. So for a while, when anyone asked what I wanted to do—tomorrow, next week, in ten years—I would say I didn’t know. After nine weeks of writing stories, though, I couldn’t keep up the feigned apathy. I wanted to write and I had written. I’d spent six days a week working nine to five—sort of—without any other obligation. Occasionally, I counted tree swallows or baked bread. Once, I helped lift whale bones across the beach. But I would always return, dutifully, to my laptop—my lifeline, my unrelenting tyrant.
I didn’t know if I was going to produce anything decent, or even half-decent. I have a hard-drive full of clumsy stories dating back to elementary school, hundreds and hundreds of stories—including correctly formatted screenplays (feature length) that are blatantly all about me. Still, I’d never spent an extended period of time focusing on one thing. On the island, writer’s block was a recurring fear—along with herring gulls and spiders. I changed opinions on sentences and paragraphs daily. Word by word, I picked apart my stories, splitting them into crumbs. I would write and rewrite and erase and regret, and I would send it all to my boyfriend, in hopes of constructive criticism and/or lavish praise.
The only thing I could bank on was time. I couldn’t screw up time, mostly because I didn’t have a Time-Turner nor access to television. At Bowdoin, I was (am) a calculated time-waster, but on the island, I could be prudent and productive. Improvement meant practice, over and over and over. I was more than lucky to have time—so much time—to write. I didn’t want to waste my first big chance.
Of course, I’ve said things like this my whole life, inspiring myself via popular Goodreads quotes—To live is the rarest thing in the world! —but never internalizing nor following through. On the island, I wrote without distraction, story after story—at least for a while, until my boyfriend mailed me a flash drive of Season 3 of “The Office” and “Zootopia” in Spanish (which I watched, twice, even though I don’t speak Spanish). All good things must come to an end, I suppose.
I won’t pretend I returned transformed. I threw up eight times on a lobster boat. I showered with a plastic bucket next to a muskrat’s home. Naturally, I have a greater appreciation for 21st century amenities and clean socks. But I’m grateful I allowed myself to pursue something I love. Fiction writing rarely seems like a practical endeavor, but practical endeavors are rarely fulfilling. I almost spent my summer as an email-marketing intern for an insurance company. Maybe, I would have networked. Probably, I would have plucked my eyes out. I’m not surprised at the role fiction writing has continued to play in my life, but I’m pleased I’ve allowed myself to embrace it.
Soon, we have vacation; later, graduation (for some, summer break). I have four months left at Bowdoin—which seems at once too few and too many. Four months to cram in everything I haven’t done and everything I should have done and everything I want to do. The big island voice is back, screaming, “Don’t waste it!” There is so much to be anxious about. Sometimes, it’s nice to have something all your own. The small thing you love can be a very big thing—take time for it, make space for yourself. It’s easy to push off quixotic ambitions, but I urge you to welcome them.

Background Noise

In the push for justice, kindness prevails

This piece represents the opinion of the author:

Savannah Horton

Columnist

November 18, 2016

In 2000, my elementary school organized a mock vote for the Bush-Gore election. I was five and knew nothing about either candidate—except their names, sort of—so I voted for Bush. George Bush reminded me of rabbits; Al Gore reminded me of the Child Catcher (the supporting antagonist of “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”). After Bush’s actual election, I saw how dismayed the adults in my life were, and I felt extremely guilty. I was convinced I’d affected the results in some significant way, as if the consensus had depended on my vote. I cried for a few minutes and then forgot all about it.

I assumed I’d have a better voting experience the second time around. Last week, I went alone to Brunswick Middle School and spent all of two minutes casting my ballot. I streamed the election in my room, by myself. I wasn’t overly concerned, mostly because I’d spent weeks assuring my election-obsessed boyfriend that there was absolutely no reason to worry.

“There’s absolutely no reason to worry,” I’d told him, every freaking day. “He can’t possibly win.”

Obviously, I’m no clairvoyant. I should probably stop predicting anything as to avoid jinxing the results. I’ve never considered myself psychically gifted, I’ve just always assumed that basic human rights were at least sort of important to most people. Of course, my surprise is due in part to my privileged ignorance as a white person. Still, I’m horrified that racism and sexism and Islamophobia and homophobia (I could go on) have been validated—no longer just existing, but thriving. Personally, I feel unqualified to discuss political specifics when I have peers more eloquent, informed and diligent than I am. What I can talk about are emotions, because I have them.

Usually, when I’m having a bad week (or two), I sit down in a big chair and open my planner. I love my planner—it’s small and orange and I rarely use it. Often, I’ll find it under a pile of clothes and scribble vague commands inside like “read” or “READ.” Then, I’ll ignore it for three weeks. When I start feeling stressed, I just look at my planner and remember I have the power to put my life back in order.

After the election, I tried to get organized. I was floundering, and I wanted to take back control. I’m an anxious person. I find peace in schedules, in crossing off assignments with red pens. On Saturday, I went to a coffee shop to reflect and revitalize. I ordered coffee. I sat in a big chair with my little planner and watched my boyfriend drink a caramel macchiato. (This is a true story.) Then I tried to make sense of my feelings. I was sad and angry and scared and disappointed and hopeful and ashamed and confused. I wished I was wearing a mood ring.

I hadn’t done anything all week—except eat and sulk—but I was exhausted. I couldn’t focus on anything. I saw a dog who looked like he was smiling—the curled lips, wide eyes—and even though I knew he wasn’t actually smiling, I started to cry. All week, tears seemed to be my automatic response to anything. I would cry without reason—in the library, while sending polite emails to potential employers and professors and grandparents and a friend of a friend who I’d publically stalked on LinkedIn.

To move forward, I’ve looked to the past—instructions from virtually every humanities class. This week last year, I was writing Pet Reviews about my cockatiel, Peter Pan, for money. This week 16 years ago, I was living in general oblivion, particularly regarding politics. I was incredibly lucky to have grown up in a community full of supportive, accepting adults. I did not have to fear for my own safety, nor defend my value as a human being. I did not watch a presidential candidate bully others without reason. I keep thinking about the five-year-olds today who have watched this election through five-year-old eyes—who have understood it through five-year-old brains and felt it through five-year-old hearts. I hate to be gloomy, but this part just kills me.

I do have hope in kindness. Kindness is one thing over which we have total control—treating those around us as allies of the Earth (even if that sounds like the lamest superhero team imaginable). I hope for kindness for each other, and importantly for those who are young and impressionable.

At an interview last month, a man with a cat-sized beard asked me how I want to be remembered when I die. “Sure,” I thought, “I think about this all of the time!” I wanted to explain to him the cases I had prepared for, but instead I just sat there. I couldn’t remember any quotes from famous people, and I’m not good at improvising on the spot (see my previous article).

“I’d like to be remembered for being kind,” I said, eventually. “When it counts and when it’s difficult.”

Then we just stared at each other. I didn’t get the job. Unfortunately, kindness cannot compensate for my lack of quantitative skills. Still, I think it’s more important than anything. Every person deserves empathy and acceptance. I’ve been inspired by the efforts of my peers to spread love and security in the past few days, and I hope we can sustain the push for justice as a community. Please continue to love one another. Please continue to stand up for one another. Please continue to donate to Planned Parenthood in Mike Pence’s name—out of the kindness of your hearts.

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