December 13, 2013. That was the day I knew that all I had wished for and worked for might actually happen. I was 16 years old and about to sing my first solo ever to a crowded warehouse building with a makeshift stage, wearing a halter dress in 40 degree weather. It was a perfect day. I had dreamed of singing on stages before, and I’d been in countless ensembles and background parts, heck, they’d even let me sing the “still I think he’s rather tasty” line in "Aladdin," but this was definitely a first. My drama ensemble had a new young director, a girl who I looked up to (and still do!) and who saw something in me. She had written a World War Two era USO style show, and had cast me as Betty Hutton, a 1940s siren with red lips and killer comedic timing. For the first time, I was given a shot to stake my territory in the world of performing, and this was the night to do it. On stage, by myself, the spotlight shining on my nervous frame. The song started, I sang my heart out, and the song ended. Applause. And I knew.
I knew that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. It was a feeling I wanted to feel over and over again, as long as I could. Seeing people laugh because of my art, change their minds, be frustrated, smile, cry, be moved to any emotion because of my efforts put on display is the best feeling. Stanislavski said “love art in yourself, and not yourself in art.” Seeing people’s reactions shows me the art in myself where I haven't seen it before. It is exhilarating and breathtaking and wonderful. I want to chase after it in every way I can, whether I be singing, (trying to) dance, acting, writing (hey hey!), or just talking. On days that I feel restless, like I have nothing to do and like everyone around me knows exactly where they are headed, I have to remember, the stage is calling. And until then, I have to prepare, to practice, to rehearse, to dream, to plan, to pray, and to remember why I am working towards what seems to some like an unattainable goal. God has given me this gift, and I must take care of it; I mustn’t let it slip away or become rusty. It is like a muscle. Muscles can’t lift a 50 pound weight with no effort, without having exercised before. In this same way, I can’t attempt to sing like a pro or be able to follow along to a tap number without putting in the work before. The work matters. Remember what your work is for, no matter what your gift is. Remember the feeling.
The stage is calling, and I must go.
“Act well your part; there all the honor lies.” –Alexander Pope, "An Essay on Man"
