Mr. McGee, our technical director, rose from his chair, tears building in his eyes. He began his speech to the cast and crew about the show's meaning to him. He confessed that every evening during the performance, he would sit in the back of the theater and cry. Twelve years earlier, his brother committed suicide after discovering he had AIDS, and as Mr. McGee watched our production of "Rent," he was able to mourn for the first time. That moment drastically changed my view of theater and, in some ways, of life itself.
Occasionally, people ask me why I am involved in theater. Before Rent, I was unsure how to respond. "Because I love to sing and dancing is fun too! Because my friends do it? Because I like cast parties?" Then I realized the answer was simple. By the dimming of lights and the donning of costumes, my cast mates and I transform the audience's world. No longer were they in Michigan, but in 1980s New York City. No longer in the affluence of our neighborhood, but the poverty of the AIDS-stricken Bohemian tent cities. We took Mr. McGee back to a painful moment in his life. We helped him come to terms with the reality of what had occurred. The healing process could now begin.
And yet, in all honesty, I don't do theater for others. I do it for myself. There is no greater feeling than an audience furiously applauding at a curtain call. And there is no greater growth than that which theater cultivates. The plethora of activities in which I am involved are all wonderful experiences, but nothing can compare to performing on the stage. The opening night of Rent was one I will remember for as long as I live. For the first time I truly understood the message. I connected with the suffering of the characters; I stepped into someone else's existence. My paradigms instantly shifted.
I am affected. As we sang the finale, I stopped to listen to the lyrics. "No day but today." Why should the characters we were portraying live their lives more fully than I live my own? I now appreciate the little things - coffee with a friend or dinner with my elderly grandparents. The carpe diem mentality permeates my daily life. Every home-cooked meal, every band concert and every otherwise ordinary moment is unique. Life, like the performance, is fleeting.
Now when people question my motivation for performing, I have a more fulfilling answer. I think back to Mr. McGee, the man usually yelling about spotlight accuracy or sound quality. Yet, through the combination of simple harmonies and lyrics my friends and I reduced this hardened ex-Marine to tears. That kind of power is emotionally moving. I think back to that moment often. After much ado, my answer to the question: the more I portray others, the more I learn about myself.
Occasionally, people ask me why I am involved in theater. Before Rent, I was unsure how to respond. "Because I love to sing and dancing is fun too! Because my friends do it? Because I like cast parties?" Then I realized the answer was simple. By the dimming of lights and the donning of costumes, my cast mates and I transform the audience's world. No longer were they in Michigan, but in 1980s New York City. No longer in the affluence of our neighborhood, but the poverty of the AIDS-stricken Bohemian tent cities. We took Mr. McGee back to a painful moment in his life. We helped him come to terms with the reality of what had occurred. The healing process could now begin.
And yet, in all honesty, I don't do theater for others. I do it for myself. There is no greater feeling than an audience furiously applauding at a curtain call. And there is no greater growth than that which theater cultivates. The plethora of activities in which I am involved are all wonderful experiences, but nothing can compare to performing on the stage. The opening night of Rent was one I will remember for as long as I live. For the first time I truly understood the message. I connected with the suffering of the characters; I stepped into someone else's existence. My paradigms instantly shifted.
I am affected. As we sang the finale, I stopped to listen to the lyrics. "No day but today." Why should the characters we were portraying live their lives more fully than I live my own? I now appreciate the little things - coffee with a friend or dinner with my elderly grandparents. The carpe diem mentality permeates my daily life. Every home-cooked meal, every band concert and every otherwise ordinary moment is unique. Life, like the performance, is fleeting.
Now when people question my motivation for performing, I have a more fulfilling answer. I think back to Mr. McGee, the man usually yelling about spotlight accuracy or sound quality. Yet, through the combination of simple harmonies and lyrics my friends and I reduced this hardened ex-Marine to tears. That kind of power is emotionally moving. I think back to that moment often. After much ado, my answer to the question: the more I portray others, the more I learn about myself.