Twelve feet in the air, I stand bracing myself with my sweaty palms between two steely bars. I am shaking and my toes are gripping the soul of my shoes.
In my life, writing has always been an escape. A way to process and visualize my thoughts on paper. I wrote this narrative essay in my Freshman year in college and it was published by the University the following year. I’m sharing it here now, because I’m seeing the truths talked about in this, written in 2016, still speaking loudly to Bonnie in 2022.
It is an especially warm July evening, but I wear a sweater in the auditorium of the Cleburne Conference Center. Twelve feet in the air, I stand bracing myself with my sweaty palms between two steely bars. I am shaking and my toes are gripping the soul of my shoes. My mouth goes utterly dry as I attempt to call to my companion. Jay scales the platform in a measure of seconds compared to the two minutes it took for me to climb the ladder around the back. He is too scrawny. He chuckles at me as he swings onto the wooden board we now share. I feel my foundation sway beneath me and my stomach lurches. As I lunge forward he reaches to me and slips his hands to my waist to steady me. I take a deep breath and look at him to see if he is still laughing at my fear. A boyish grin spreads across his face. In the protection of his hands, I feel secure. My heart rate slows and I am able to see clearly. He is amused. I let out a laugh that resonates through the auditorium. Though Jay is not afraid of heights, he and I share the fear. The fear of not having somewhere to stand. The fear of falling.
Jay and I had only met one week earlier. As complete strangers, we sat on a couch in a cramped office off of the main studio.
“Want to run lines?” I threw out. He grinned.
“Nah, I’d like to meet you first.” Jay and I auditioned at Plaza Academy for the roles of Maria and Tony in West Side Story only eight days before rehearsals began for the production. On the first day of rehearsals, the other roles were auditioned and we were shooed into another room.
“Favorite color?” I said, sinking low onto the couch. He thought for a second.
“Grey.” He squinted oddly at me.
“Turquoise.”
“I’m color-blind.” He stated plainly. A few minutes later we were talking about junior high.
“I’m different. But I used to love myself for my differences! I was cocky and crazy.” He then began telling me about an accident he had in high school. A Pitbull attacked him scarring his face, knees, and arm. The gash on his face required reconstructive surgery, and the nerves were irreparably damaged in his left knee. “I just wasn’t the same. I was so self-conscience about my face and my voice. It took a while, but finally I came to a place where I realized I could be comfortable in my skin and confident in who I am.” At first, I believed him. But more and more I realized that there was still something in him that held him back from feeling truly confident. We talked for the rest of the hour.
As rehearsals progressed, our friendship did too. I felt like I had known him for four years instead of only four days. We made it to the stage the second week into rehearsing. On the first day of tech rehearsals, we began using the scaffolding. Every time I climbed the ladder, I felt my heart pound and my hands tremble. My legs would freeze and struggle to steady beneath me. Singing on the scaffolding was a different story. For five minutes, I had to completely suspend my fear. For five minutes, I had to forget how terrified I was to be so far from the ground. For five minutes, I had to forget who I was. No matter how scared Bonnie was, Maria still had to sing.
Then it happened. Jay fell. Not off the scaffolding, or the edge of the stage. And not metaphorically either. He fell on me. In the last scene of the second act, Tony was shot by another character right before Maria’s eyes. Every night a shock would fill my heart as I watched Jay slowly fall into my arms. One night his fall was miscalculated, and as his limp body fell into me, a sharp pain coursed through my back. I ignored it for about ten minutes, thinking it was going to go away, but it grew. The pain grew stronger and more intense very gradually, but when it reached its peak, it was surprisingly overwhelming. Like when you notice you have a rash, but you ignore the itchiness and the aggravation, until one morning you wake up and all of your skin is effected, and you can not escape the burn. Not only did I now face two more weeks of shows with an injured back, but I also had a scaffold to climb every day. I have heard it said that pain can distract you from your fear. What if your pain adds to your fear? What if you knew that if your foundation fell beneath you, you would have no way of protecting or bracing your fall? You would be helpless.
Into the second week, Jay began experiencing pain of his own. His kneecaps kept giving way from beneath him. Backstage he would writhe and grimace in pain, but onstage everything seemed to come together, and our pain seemed to disappear. We struggled and pushed through. Somehow we were able to forget everything and just live in the reality of the stage. It took a lot of perseverance, but an actor must be willing to set aside his pain. To set aside his fear. To perform.
As the show progressed and we fell into a rhythm, my relationship with the other actors and their characters also began to blossom. McKenna played the character of my brother’s girlfriend. We were very different, much like our characters. Though we were near in height, her presence filled a room and her voice was much deeper. She had a maturity I lacked. In rehearsals and early in the production run, I noticed her fear of her own singing voice. With a powerful belt she could fill a room. However, in a moment of doubt, she would lose her nerve, and with it her commanding voice. I recognized her fear. How many times did I doubt myself? One night in the last week, we were singing “A Boy Like That” and as I watched her sing with passion, a lump flew to my throat. I struggled to suppress it as I stepped forward to interrupt her. Exhaling, my voice met hers with equal intensity, and with a plea of affection. She turned from me in frustration, so I calmly soothed her by telling her my love for Tony was all I have and need. As I sang, she turned back to me tenderly, finally listening. Our hands reached to each other, and my lighter skin met her caramel fingers. Her voice raised to mine, and we harmonized the last line.
“When love comes so strong, there is no right or wrong.” Our eyes filled with tears as we took a deep breath and sang, “Your love is your life.” In that moment, I watched the fear slip from her eyes.
I will not ever forget the first time I watched Jay prepare for Act 2. He was back behind the stage crying. I assumed he was getting into his character, so I approached him cautiously. The second act begins after Tony has experienced two powerful and dramatic deaths, and he must now tell Maria. I gradually moved closer to him and placed my hand on his shuddering shoulders. He muttered something, and then placed his hands on my arms and whispered in my ear.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” I was stunned. He was asking my forgiveness for killing someone. I remember the staggering weight that I felt in that moment. It felt like a hot blanket was smothering me and I couldn’t catch my breath. He grunted softly and asked for my forgiveness again, a bit louder. I swallowed hard. He moved away toward a wall and kicked it so hard I thought he would fall back against me. I began shivering and could not see him. He cried out. Than we entered the stage. I never felt so close to my character than in that moment.
Jay was afraid of not having somewhere to stand. I think he found a piece of himself in the character of Tony. He was searching for answers and kept coming back empty. He needed forgiveness and acceptance. He needed to find a place. His fear prevented him from seeing the good around him, the opportunities and love he had at his fingertips. Tony found what was calling to him. He fought his fears and he fought cultural norms. Tony made the decision that what he loved was more important than his fear.
The scaffold became my friend. I was still terrified of it. However, it no longer was a symbol of my fear, but an illustration of my courage. I had to decide that something was more important than my fear.
