By Melanie Lech
The roar of the crowd filled my ears. Thousands of people cheering my name, begging me to grace them with my presence amongst the stage.
Save for the fact that there were actually fewer than 100 people in the audience who were only gently chattering with one another, giving no thought to me aside from ‘is she for real?’
It was one of those let’s-expose-you-to-a-potentially-embarrassing-situation-so-you-can-grow-as-a-person shenanigans. The eighth grade teachers actually believed that crap worked. This play would not give me success; it would give me an aneurism.
The auditioning process was traumatic. In a small slot of time, my fellow homeroom students and I were subject to a cruel set of tests. We were—get this—forced to obtain a script, accept a sample role, examine the lines for a few minutes, and then read out loud for the rest of the class to hear. The brutality of this may horrify you. I myself have already tried to file a complaint to Child Social Services seven times. When I read off my lines, my stomach must’ve been evaporating. But then something both amazing and tragic happened. Mrs. Guy informed me that I was a talented actress, and I received a lead role. The role I would play was that of a lion. A male lion.
Time to prepare was scarce. I was new to the world of theater, and the prospect of memorizing line after line and performing was intimidating…but welcome. With the repetition of each line, I felt a surge of confidence. I could act. I was funny. I was that lion, minus the spare parts.
The script was tweaked enough that I could be a lion who never indicated its gender. We cut the kissing scene, thank Heavens. (I have my limits.) My once-best-friend but now arch-nemesis’ mother had created a lion mask for me to wear. But I was on the lookout for sabotage—I refused to suffocate to death. To my appease, the mask was altered, and I was able to function whilst it adorned my face.
I was ready for this. I was ready for this. I was ready to pee my pant—the curtains were drawn and our play began. I recall my first line. A yawn followed by, “Brother.” Things went well, I remembered my parts. Mostly. I covered for a fellow cast member multiple times. I didn’t even throw up onstage or have a seizure. The play went on, the logistics of it all escape me. It eventually came to a stopping point. Applause, I remember. Accomplishment, I recall. “We couldn’t hear any of you the whole time,” Andrea reported.
Performing that play taught me lessons I remembered, forgot, then forever implanted in my soul. Letting people see who I really am wasn’t terrible after all. Acting in this play? It wasn’t so much an act as it was a revealing of the characteristics of my personality. It was finding the guts to get up in front of a mass of potential critics and letting them take a peek at the very essence of me. It was realizing, regardless of how they reacted, even if they had hurled tomatoes or heavier objects such as televisions at me, that I was capable of big things.