The words to the song, Ain’t no mountain high enough, Ain't no valley low enough,”echoed in my mind. Two minutes and thirty seconds felt more like ten years when it came to dancing with my best friend in the garage. Dusty, faded, old white paint, was a view that I starred at for what seemed like an eternity. The paint rose and came to be what was the ceiling, and the view then turned into five parents sitting in lawn chairs. I realized that the gargantuan smiling adults was what I loved most. Yes, a dance move to a hair flick, five year old me was intrigued with the ability to change the mood of a group of people. Performing in front of a crowd turned from a method of torture, to something I voluntarily wanted to do.
Moving from New York to North Carolina took its toll on my ambition to shine. It wasn’t until one ride home from school in fifth grade, when I heard those same words, “Ain't no mountain high enough, Ain't no valley low enough,” that I danced to in my garage. It was that moment I decided to take on the same passion for performing that I had in kindergarten.
An auditorium always brought me comfort, no matter if it was in a Broadway musical, a production at my hometown theater, or at an audition at my school. It’s my home. The auditorium of my high school is surreal. I admire the fake, cherry wood, and crimson fabric chairs that rip every time someone sits in them. They’ve been there on the toughest days of my life as well as the days when excitement spewed from my body. The battered up black wooden stage is my escape when I can no longer take the view of the threaded red curtain. This piece of wood means more to me than any other piece of equipment. Beaten and battered, this is the floor where Margaret and Ursula strutted to the ball, Stella thrust her way across the audience to a twirl, Narrator Number Five struggled to get her lines out while still holding the candle that was dripping hot wax on the hands nervously gripping it, and where Maria hurled herself and the pillows of red and gold onto her frantically driven husband. Life flows in and out of this theater; it has seen more drama queens, divas, terrified freshman, easy going seniors, and roaring directors than it should, but these very people are what make this place as special as it.
“He eats a-like a fat a-pig.” This line recited over and over in my head as I paced in the dressing room. Tripping over the seam of my pants, as my stiffly curled hair stayed in place no matter what sudden move I made; I ran over every scene as if it was the last thing I was ever going to do. My eyes never once looked at the mirror, to see the red lipstick and dark makeup sprawled all over my face. I knew that if I looked myself in the eyes my nerves would convince me that I could not go on. Sitting down, I imagined myself as a freshman in the seats of the auditorium, so innocently waiting to recite my monologue to the class. Finally, looking in the mirror I realized nobody else out there could do this. I was the only one. The nerves were still there as I waited outside the door to the stage. They were the good nerves. The nerves the push you to take risks and live for the moments that will mean the most to you. The second I spurred through that door I became the Maria that Lend Me A Tenor needed. The day of a near breakdown turned into a night that I will never forget.