I'm a theatre nerd. The Tony Awards are my super bowl. Every year, I sit down to watch the two hour program on my couch with snacks in hand, feet up on the coffee table, and social media at the ready to post about any and every nomination. That is the world of which my grandest dreams are made of, and when I was young, I would close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to walk in one of those fancy dresses, watching America's best theatrical performances ever.
When I was 18 years old, my aunt was nominated for Best Leading Actress in a Musical. I woke up at 4:00 am just to turn on the computer with my mother the day that the nominations were announced, and we both screamed when we heard her name. However, a few weeks later, I learned I wasn't going to be sitting on my couch that first week in June with my faithful chips and social media. Instead, my aunt insisted that, as a high school graduate, I receive a very special gift. I was going to sit in one of those red velvety chairs and watch the scene with my own eyes. I was going to the Tony Awards myself.
I graduated high school, and a week later jumped on a plane to New York City. I immediately felt ownership of the place. Not only had I been to the city many times before, but this time, I was going to the Tony's. I belonged there. Those marquees were just waiting to have my name in lights, and I was going to prove to the universe that the Tony Awards were where I was meant to be.
The weekend was chock-full of celebrations and parties, and I got to go to every single one of them. I had three different dresses, just for the cocktail parties and dinners that took place the day before the ceremony. I met stars of the shows I could only dream of ever being a part of, and I took every opportunity I could to let everyone know that I was going to be a Theatre Major to study performing arts. I wanted to feel like I belonged there. I was a budding artist, but an artist none the less.
The longer the parties went on, and the more people I met, the more questions began to form in my head: How come some of the ensemble members are nicer than the stars? Why am I always asking the questions? Does anyone care that I'm even here? Does anyone even notice me?
Instead of feeing like I belonged, I began to feel extremely intimidated. All of these women were extremely beautiful, and they all knew it. Some were beautiful because of their confidence, and others' confidence was clearly over-bearing and self-centered. As soon as drinks were served, I sat back and observed the behavior of these "stars" and most of them looked no different than some of my own 17 and 18 year-old friends after an opening night party. I thought being famous meant that everyone had their eyes on you all the time. As I found out, these famous people were extremely human. They liked to gossip, they liked to eat, and they liked to let loose (sometimes a little too much).
As we went home, I described all my new discoveries to my aunt and uncle. I told them that I found some of these people to be incredibly enchanting, and others to look like big teenagers. And I will never forget what they told me. My aunt looked at me and said, "Angel, sometimes these people are asked to do crazy things, and it makes them crazy people. You'd be surprised what some people will do to become famous for a day."
My aunt and uncle went on to tell me how they lost so many job offers because they refused to make a fool out of themselves for something that they didn't believe in. If a show asked them to do something that might be compromising to their character, and didn't provide any reason as to why that choice enhanced the story, they refused the role. They have created the reputation for themselves as "goodie-two-shoes" actors, and so have many of the actors and actresses that I had met that night. Because of those choices, they had to work doubly as hard to get nominated for the roles they were in. And it was after this conversation that I gained a much better appreciation for the performers of high integrity and character. As they were few and far between, it warmed my heart to know that my aunt and uncle were two of them.
The next day at the ceremony, we took several hours to get ready. Fancy dresses, hair dressers, make-up artists, and personal stylists filled our hotel room in Times Square. We got to the event, and literally every single person there looked immaculate. You could tell that these people had spent hours upon hours and dollars upon dollars on their appearances for that night. We sat down, and I was shaking with excitement. I couldn't believe that I was actually there, with an award winning director sitting right in front of me, world famous choreographers across from me, and brilliant performers at every corner. All of these people have worked for countless years to get to the seat they were at tonight, and there I was, sitting in my seat because I was related to somebody with impeccable talent. I can't begin to describe how small I felt in that space. The show began, and with millions of emotional highs and lows throughout the course of the night, it ended. And everyone moved on with their lives. Some lives were absolutely shattered, and yet they picked themselves off the floor and moved toward the next goal. Some were motivated to do just as good if not better in the next season of Broadway shows. The minority was celebrating their immense success in that year's broadway season for the night, and then going back to work on their newest project the next day.
When all of the after parties ended, I had met hundreds of extremely important people, and I couldn't tell you what their names were even if I tried my best. I sat down on the bed, ready to take out hundreds of hairpins out of my aunt's helmet of an up-do, and I reflected on everything I had seen that night. I had seen humility and extreme pride. I had seen generosity and selfishness. I had seen innocence and greed.
But the most prominent of all, I had seen pure joy as well as fake contentment. At the end of the day, that is what this night was all about. Those who were fulfilled in their passion for the theatre were happy for whoever won whatever award, no matter the circumstances. They didn't care how old someone was, or how they were dressed. They laughed at every joke, and cried in every empathetic moment, and I realized that it was those who felt true joy in the theatre who deserved to be famous. They were the ones who deserved the recognition and the praise. Those who wanted attention drawn only to themselves seemed empty and broken. It looked to me as if fame was only a mask to hide so many other flaws that these selfish performers were too afraid to deal with on their own.
My alternate reality of the theatre world had been broken, and the new reality set in. The theatre, just like every other place in the world, has actors and actresses who would use themselves to make the art form thrive, and there were others that were there to make themselves thrive through theatre. That day, I refused to be a part of the theatre if it was only to glorify myself. I would do the theatre no good if I caused it to shed light on my own selfishness instead of the stories and the goodness that it can portray of others. But maybe, just maybe, I could do the world some good if I held the feelings and stories of others as more important than my own.
When I came home, so many friends asked me all about my trip, and every time I told the story, I opened with the same line: being famous for a day is hard work.
