Ed. note: I had to remove the last two videos because the user removed them on YouTube.
Ok. I am Day Four into my personal politics-free zone, and I am doing surprisingly ok. I glance at the headlines just to see how much filibustering the Republicans are doing, and then I just shrug and go about my business. I mean, really, what good does it do for me to get all worked up over something I can’t change? And as many pundits have said, the bill will pass in one way or another, so why sweat all the political theatre that surrounds it?
Speaking of theatre. Today’s love is the theatre. Today’s video is from the tenth anniversary of the Broadway show, Rent. The song is, Seasons of Love, sung by the original cast. Hold up. I found a more apt version. I’ll put the ten-year anniversary version later, as well as the reprise, but this version is the original cast at the 1996 Democratic Convention. It’s a bit more apropos.
I love the theatre. Ever since I was a little girl, jumping off the coffee table and shouting, “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!”, I dreamed of being on Broadway. Yes, it was always Broadway. I never really cared about movies or television–it was always about the neon lights of forty-second street.
But, sadly for me, acting was never an option–for many reasons. One, I never saw anyone who looked remotely like me on stage, on screen, or on television. Remember, this was in the seventies. If you weren’t willing to be killed as an extra on M*A*S*H, you were pretty SOL. That didn’t really float my boat as I don’t do dying particularly well.
In addition, I am Taiwanese American–which means my parents are the best and the brightest that Taiwan has to offer. At that time, only people from the top university, Tai Da (National University) could come to the States, and that was after taking a test. In fact, in order to get into Tai Da, a kid would have to be put on that path in our equivalent of ninth grade. In other words, when people exclaim about how smart Asians are, it’s because of a great, big, brain-drain.
Anyway, I was expected from a young age to get the best grades in high school, attend college, graduate summa cum laude, and then go on to be a doctor or a lawyer. At the very least, I’d get my Ph.D. in Something Important. Acting? I don’t think so. It’s nice as a hobby, but as a career? Forget it.
I put it aside. I tried out for plays in high school, but I couldn’t break through. I was put in the chorus more often than not, and it’s only because one of the directors really liked me that I got a leading role at all. I tried out for one play in college, but I flubbed up the audition so badly, I never tried again.
In the meantime, I stuck to my writing. I stopped writing poetry to concentrate solely on prose, and while it was satisfying, it never quite filled a hole in my heart. I missed the theatre, even though I tried to deny it to myself.
After college, I joined Theater Mu–the only regional Asian theater at the time. Again, I was type-casted as the matronly type, in part because of my sturdy body. I took some workshops that really honed my acting chops, but I never really felt like Theater Mu and I were a good fit. Why? Because at the time, they were focusing on immigrant stories, which, quite frankly, did not interest me.
I quit. I decided to branch out onto my own. I started doing what I like to call Guerilla Performing. Someone would contact me and say, “Hey, Minna, how do you feel about performing in a Queer Asian Cabaret?” I would say, “Hey, great idea! What’s the theme?” And I would be off and running.
I loved being my own writer, director, stage manager, and costume person. I would think about the piece for several days, waiting for the idea to gel. Then, as it started blooming, I would sit at the computer and type frantically for days. I wouldn’t stop to eat, drink, sleep, or go to the bathroom. Well, no, that’s an exaggeration, but it felt like it sometimes.
Then, once I had the piece fleshed out, I would start practicing. And rewriting. And adding. And subtracting. I would decide what I was going to wear, and what I was going to take off. I practiced over and over (OCD tendencies do come in handy sometimes) until it was as near damn perfect as I could manage. Then, I would practice some more. And more. I usually ran through it once the day of the performance just to be sure.
Then I was off.
I love the anticipation of performing, though not so much the feeling like I’m going to throw up. I also don’t care for the lines racing through my head at breakneck speed or the hyperventilation, but I consider that a small price to pay for the exhilaration I feel when I am on stage. Nothing, and I mean nothing can replace the feeling of standing on stage with hundreds of eyes watching you, rapt in every word you are saying/singing.
I am the only person in the world at that moment. I own the stage, and I own the audience. There is a symbiotic synergy between me and them that cannot be broken. I give everything to the audience, and they give me admiration, attention, and adoration in return. They are seeing the essence of me, stripped off any frivolity.
Afterwards, I would be exhausted, drained, and not wanting to talk to anyone at all. I gave everything on stage, and I was done with it the minute I performed. People would want to talk about my performance (in fact, one woman wanted to worship at my feet), and it would be hard for me not to run from the room screaming. I considered that another small price to pay for the addictive high I got while performing. The problem was that the high onlylasted through the performance. It’s the reason actors keep acting, even when they should put down the script and walk away. There is simply no better feeling in the world.
I did one such performance while I was completing my MA in Writing and Consciousness in San Francisco, and my friends told me that I was a performer at heart. This is true. I love to write, but I live to perform. Which means I haven’t been living for years.
So, to that end, I have to find a way to get back into theatre again. At this point of my life, I highly doubt I will make it to Broadway, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.
A note: Rent spoke to me in so many ways when it first came out. I loved the issues it addressed as well as the fact that the characters were all oddballs. In addition, the actors were musicians first and often wore their own clothes to perform. I loved the diversity of the cast, and I loved, loved, loved the music. I got the soundtrack to the Broadway musical, and I played it for a month solid.
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