Confessions from a Sorta-Untalented Semi-Ex Theater Kid
Confessions from a Sorta-Untalented Semi-Ex Theater Kid
Written by Lucy Latorre
Art By Aleks Carney
According to my silver 2010 Acura, I’ve starred in 32 one-woman shows. I’ve won a Tony Award for “Best Performance of Maureen Johnson at a Dunkin’ Drive-Thru,” and I’m rounding the corner on a second award for “Best Production of Chicago Performed While Driving on Route 17.” To its knowledge, I’m a famous Broadway star, selling out shows every night. In reality, I’m your average 20-year-old college student just trying to get to her job at the local Kumon.
I’ve had an undeniable attachment to theater for as long as I can remember. Thanks to the magical work of director-choreographer Kenny Ortega, I was trained in the art of movie musicals, knowing every single word in High School Musical 2 by the age of three. I was doing the pony to Hairspray for hours on end, bending and snapping to “Dance on Broadway” in my living room. After starring in a semi-leading role in fifth grade, the stage was set (literally). I was a theater kid. A hardcore, pure-blooded, jazzy-handsy theater kid, and I was going to be in it for the long haul.
In middle school, the shows got longer, bigger, and way more serious. Finally, I could show the world what I could do! I prepped for hours for my audition, busting into the room with full confidence. My eagerness got a slap in the face. I was not a soprano. My upper range left something to be desired, becoming incredibly “screlt”-y and alarmingly harsh. Whenever I kept trying to hit a high note, it fell flat. My chorus teacher would hide winces each time I attempted anything over an A. Low notes, on the other hand, rang loud and true. Men’s songs became a godsend, and because of an affinity for Glee, showtunes in tenor keys were very easy to find.
Then came the harder slap: the after-effects of an early puberty. Growing up as an alto with giant boobs and wide hips meant that there were very, very limited parts to play. My voice was too low to play most of the female roles, but my body was too feminine for the audience to believe I was a man. In other words, no more tenor songs. My middle ground became dancing very enthusiastically with the ensemble in an ill-fitting and unflattering costume, eternally destined for a bit role. But, I was damn good at it. The often overlooked roles became my godsend. I hooked the audience as Chutney in Legally Blonde, Narrator #3/Knife in the Front Row in Beauty and the Beast, and the Announcer Jackie Scott in High School Musical. All memorable and important to the plot, but forgettable enough as to not overshadow those with lead roles. The perfect middle ground.
Or so I thought.
The theater world is a breeding ground for envy. No matter how bad I tried to suppress it, my jealous side told me that these roles were never enough. I wanted—no—deserved better roles, yet I was imprisoned in the back row and forced to sway. Sometimes I’d secretly pray for a lead to spontaneously trip down the stairs resulting in the director to cry out, “Who can we find to play the Baker’s Wife in such a short time?” allowing me to raise a humble hand, every note on file in my brain. Other times I’d wonder if maybe the problem was myself, how I didn’t look, act, or sound like the other girls. Abrasive and over-enthusiastic, my awkward face often wore an insecure frown. I was too ugly, too fat, and too untalented to ever be the star. And that totally sucked.
In junior year of high school, I failed my driver’s test because I drove on the wrong side of the road. There was a bus in the right lane and I thought, “Maybe that’s a lane for buses.” It was not, in fact, a lane for buses. Supposedly, that’s a big enough mistake to have to retake the test even if you absolutely nail the parallel park. I screamed and cried the entire ride home. This never would’ve happened to Rachel Berry.
Two weeks later, the night before my second test, I was freaking out thinking about getting behind the wheel. I kept imagining myself getting a license, shoving it in my wallet, and never, ever using it again. After about an hour of consideration, I realized that there’s a hidden feature in cars for eagle eyed users with vintage flair: CD players. The Rent CD that sat humbly on my shelf collecting dust finally had a purpose. The next morning, I immediately got in the car and blasted it from the speakers, singing at the top of my lungs. I had found the craziest life hack for driving anxiety in the world: musical theater.
Singing in my car began to be an outlet for other things, too. Parents fighting? The Book of Mormon. Failed a test? Little Shop of Horrors. Boyfriend of two months dumped you? Mamma Mia! Hit another car trying to park at ShopRite? Heathers: The Musical. This outlet simultaneously combatted the aforementioned jealousy problem, too. The roles that once made me feel limited became liberating again. By day, I was playing Dorothy Parker in Thoroughly Modern Millie, Girl Who Aggressively Cleans Table in Mamma Mia!, and the Butler in Joseph, but by night I was a sought-after star. I was the lead belting to a sold-out audience, and the crowd of crumbs and empty water bottles was going wild for me.
When I went to college, I tried my best to throw my hat into the theatrical ring as a Theater Education major to no avail. Turns out, Emerson’s theater program is filled with extremely talented future superstars who had significantly more training than a mediocre performance-on-wheels. It was time for me to reassess if performing on stage was really something I was committed to failing at, holding out hope that maybe it would work. I ultimately decided that it wasn’t. Frankly, as much as it breaks my heart to say it, I’m not going to make it to Broadway. I’m never going to be an Annie: not the orphan, the Oakley, or even the Ado. Switching my major to writing, I chose a career option that unfortunately cannot be practiced on the road. In the meantime, I’ll always have my car. In there, I’m free to pretend. There’s no audition, no callback, and no closing night. Every ride is a different cabaret of my design. So I give my regards to Broadway. It was a fine affair, but now it’s over, and all that jazz. Sincerely, me.