An Artist Is Born: My History

I am a performer, a rag doll for art to maneuver its way through and pull me by my strings, a being for it to manipulate me to be…or not to be, that is the question. I am a lost soul standing tip-toed on the edge of a mountain being held up by passion, a spirit that dances through the do re mi fa so la ti doe’s of musical theater’s mouth. I’m perseverance at it’s best, I’m practicality at it’s worst, but I trust that everything is going to be okay because although my head screams be realistic every fiber of my heart screams screw being a doctor, a lawyer, a CEO of some bogus company. It wasn’t always this way.
I’m a New York-er, need I say more? As a kid the courage that you need to be an artist was a mere fear for my life daily. Not always that I’d die in some tragic accident or murder mystery, sometimes it was my social life (my non-existent one), or my moral life (again my non-existent one). I was a child, and though I was intelligent for my age, I was on a one way tract to being robotically manufactured by the peer pressure and expectations of every civilian known to man. Being an artist wasn’t even planted in my mind, it was scripted in my fate, written in my book of like, but the idea had yet to come. Sure, every kid sits in front of the t.v. googly eyed at the sites of Disney Channel and Nickelodeon wanting to be on those shows, but none of us really expected to actually want that in our lives as we got older. But I got older. And I wanted that. I would sit through grade school listening to every kid say that they wanted to be firefighters and policemen, doctors, veterinarians, or some cookie cutter idea that their parents planted into their heads. Then would come my turn and I’d say an actress, the kids would laugh or look at me with genuine confusion, and there my years in solitude were born.
I wasn’t the most popular kid in school. In fact, I went from 3rd grade to 7th grade as a classified mute. No friends and no social life. I was an emotionally and physically bullied. I’ve been beat up, torn down, self conscious and insecure, home life sucked, school life sucked, life in general sucked. I would read and write, trying to ease my artistic desires with something that was deemed practical, but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. Sure I’d think about acting, and search acting middle schools and their audition days, I’d find monologues and practice and then chicken out at the last minute. I took piano classes, chorus classes, art classes, and nothing, not a single inch of satisfaction. It wasn’t until the summer of my 8th grade year that I actually worked up the courage that I never had to audition for Pinellas County Center of the Arts, an arts high school in Saint Petersburg, Florida. There were sub majors such as performance theater, musical theater, technical theater, instrumental, vocal, visual arts, dance and so on. I think it’s pretty clear which major I was aiming for.
When I was informed of my acceptance into the arts high school I couldn’t have been more ecstatic, except for when I got my acceptance letter into Southern Methodist University (but we’re not there yet). I filled my high school years with my hopes and dreams, my passion, my heart and soul. I acted, stage managed, directed, produced, anything I could do to get my hands on theater-I did. I built things I never thought I would, I’ve seen things I never thought I’d see, I’ve played roles that have changed my perspective on life, won awards that I couldn’t even dream of winning when I was a kid. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere, to a family of kids that were just as emotionally unstable, as weird, as passionate as I was about this one thing in the world that made every other negative aspect of life okay, because we got the chance to escape our realities for a little while. Because we had the power to be someone else, to look, through different eyes, at a world that we’ve never seen before…to be cont.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *