For the Love of Passion

The sound of their voices echoed off the red painted walls and golden carved ceiling of the theater. I watched Laurie and Jim finish their scene; I always loved watching the way her 1940s style red skirt would move as she floated across the stage. It was opening night of my first ever stage performance. I was ten years old playing Susan Waverly in Miracle on 34th Street, my stomach erupting in butterflies as I waited in the wings.

I had done my quick change too fast and now all that was left to do was tap my bunny-slipper clad foot on the polished wood floor. The ground felt sturdy under my feet and yet I had the strangest sensation that I was floating. I knew the man from the New York Times would be sitting somewhere in the orchestra, but I wasn’t afraid. After years of ridicule from my peers and becoming a permanent outsider in school, after a lifetime of being uncomfortable and unwanted, I felt more comfortable than I ever had. Laurie, Jim, and the gorgeous chorus girls, sparkling in red and green sequins, fled the stage as the lights went down. All I could see was the faint shimmer of their costumes in my eye and that was my cue.

Time seemed to slow down as I hurried to the middle of the stage to the little brown piece of tape that almost blended into the floor. Behind me, I dragged a tattered brown teddy bear with a little bow on its neck that I had fondly named "PJ," a nod to my adoration of PB & J, as well as an acronym for "pajamas." I knelt down before the lights came up, and traced the scuff marks on the ground with my hands, made by the traffic of tap dancers, jugglers, furniture, and endless props that paraded onto the stage every night. Now in position to start my number, the lights came up. I sat, just like I had for weeks during rehearsal, in the middle of the stage with a single spotlight on me. I remember the dead quiet, being able to hear my own breathing. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath and I felt my own heartbeat speed up. The pianist was late for his cue. I sat on the ground in anticipation, trying to prevent myself from panicking.

Finally, I heard the notes ring through the theater and I started singing. I had never felt more alive in my entire decade of existence. I sang out to the black abyss beyond the stage, and suddenly, everything else that existed beyond those gorgeously ornamented walls completely fell away. I had survived the unanticipated error of the pianist without even flinching, and the pride glowed from within me as I heard my own voice, singing every note perfectly. I felt how much my words mattered, and I felt everyone listening. When you’re ten, no one listens. They nod politely and smile, affirming your bizarre ramblings and doing their best to seem interested, or they scold you for saying the wrong thing. For the first time in my life, they all were listening. I sang the powerful and emotional lyrics of the song, not just to my neurotic mother, to the other cast members, or to CJ the stage manager, but to everyone. All 400 of the strangers in that audience, sitting on the old-fashioned red velvet seats with their expensive shoes on the printed carpet, were moved by my words. I had the power of influence by doing what I loved, and I knew then that I would never let that feeling slip away.