By Jean Flynn
My high school drama teacher praised a friend of mine, a student director who had cast me in a show in the fall of 1979. "It's good," she said, "because you know, she'll never be able to do any real acting." He was appalled by this and told me so. I stashed this in my head, and didn't want to believe it. But I remembered it.
In spring of 1981 I was attending a small liberal arts college in Ohio. I sang and acted in high school and wanted very much to continue acting, as well as singing in college, as a favorite hobby. So I attended some audition. I forget what in the heck it was for.
I'd finished a scene and gone to sit down. At the time crutches were only necessary most of the time. So in a moment of vanity I did without. The rest of the hopefuls were all critiqued on their acting skill.
My notes began a bit differently and I thought: "Oh, no, here we go again."
"You have some sort of a disability, don't you?"
"No, Tom, actually I walk around like this for my health."
He laughed, and so did the rest...he went on to give me acting notes, just like the rest...and he looked thoughtful.
When I came back in the fall, I was finishing up a choir rehearsal when Mark, one of the Popular Theatre Majors That Everyone Knew came up to me after practice.
We chatted about the music for awhile, and then he said something along the lines of, "Look, I wanted to talk to you, because of course we're doing the fall play and Tom really wants you to read the play."
Me, dumbfounded. "He does?"
"Yeah, the first auditions are Wednesday and he wanted me to make sure you went and looked it up in the library."
So I did. "Blood Wedding," by Frederico Garcia Lorca...that was the show. Now, there was a bit part of a neighbor, or another couple of "character roles." I knew I could do them, but they weren't the role that jumped off the page. It was that of an old, wise, sometimes bitter Mother. Loads of angst, loads of lines, loads of dark drama.
8
The play didn't have a lead per se. But this was as close as I could get to one. I read the thing front to back, I decided to be glad the able bodied's noticed me. I was going to give my best shot at the Mother and be happy if I got the Neighbor, and at least for the moments of the audition, they would all be watching me! Noticed? They were going to see me! Overweight, disabled...and good at acting.
I went home and did one of those bargaining prayers that we sometimes do. "I promisepromispromise I'll never ask for anything again, oh please, I just wantthisonething...."
The night of the audition came. More and more people came and went, and were switched in and out of various roles...the director was TheGreatStoneFace, saying "Thank you," and nothing else after each scene.
I read for the Mother. I have no memory of which scene. After my acting partner and I were done, the place was completely silent.
Then the director said, "Nice."
What! He spoke...?!? I shimmied down to my seat, and Mark crowed in a whisper, "You were Excellent!"
And then, a bit later, the director asked me to read the Neighbor. A couple of theatre majors read for the Mother. It's okay really. The Neighbor was a door opening.
I told myself that all the way back to the dorm. It would be easier. Carrying a full load of classes and doing this stuff was hard work after all.
Next night at callbacks, the director did something unusual. He asked everyone to return. I was puzzled. Callbacks meant first cut. Why had no one been cut? He went up informally and sat on the stage, "You've all made the show."
Astonished cheers from everyone. "You might be extras or you might be characters or you might be leads, because I haven't really decided who I want to do which part. Because some people tried out that I haven't seen before, or that I didn't expect, and some didn't come to tryouts that I expected would try out."
So we all read again. And again. For many different roles. The director returned to StoneFace mode. We had no sense by the end of who would play whom. He advised that the final cast list would be posted next to his office by 10:00 am.
I didn't know if he was in the office or not, but I knew I had a class with him at ten. Acting One. So, I got in line with the others and waited to see my name....
Some things that happened stood out for me.
8
During the run of the play, the accommodation made for me meant that Mark would do my makeup every night. He did, and we had some cheerful chat as he changed my face and hair, aged me. Both the "Neighbor" and the "Mother" were old and the makeup took a lot of work. A stool that I was to sit on exploded under my weight during dress rehearsal.
"Are you going to do THAT in MY Show???!!!!"
"Not if you GET the Damn Chair Fixed!!!!!!!"
Everyone, including me, was instantly appalled. No one yelled at The Director. Ever.
But he got quiet. "How much sleep have you gotten this week?"
I'm ashamed to say that this provoked great truthful weeping on my part. "Not much." [sniff wahhh, sniff]
"Would it help if you missed my class tomorrow?"
I mumbled yes and vowed to make good use of my time off by sleeping late.
After one of the performances I collapsed on the backstage stairs crying. Everyone was concerned. But my friend Mark knew that school+standing+moving+sitting+acting had been a tough thing given my limitations.
He came and sat next to me, put his arm around me, and said, "Hey, its okay. You did it. You really did."
He and I were never close friends, but I appreciated what he did for me. He's gone now. I miss him.
8
At least one of the three nights, I'm not sure which, I happened to do a curtain call myself, alone, apart from the line. I got a standing ovation. Just me. Standing at the edge of that stage, and feeling the applause hit like a wall.
I was the Mother. That wasn't a role that could have been handed to a disabled person out of pity or guilt. And they had liked it... Some of the adults in the audience were amazed to find I was nineteen. They thought the limp and canes signified aged infirmity, not disability.
The next morning, when I went to classes, total strangers were stopping me around campus. "Hey, you were amazing!" "You did incredible!" It felt funny, it felt good, and it felt right.
When I arrived at choir rehearsal at noon, well there was standing ovation number two. And that was even better...they were performers, singers, actors. They were acknowledging good stuff when they saw it.
Another night, in his post show notes, the director looked at me and the young lead ingenue and said, "You made the hair stand up on the back of my neck tonight," sort of a so-good-it's-scary moment.
I continued to sing and perform smaller theatrical roles at school, but that play was my real moment in the spotlight. Life changes and mobility changes meant that I would not act again after college. I'm much heavier and much less mobile than those days.
But "real acting?"
Damn right.
These days, we've had disabled soap actors, little people on thrillers, guys in chairs in sports movies, and troupes of combined able/disabled actors. (There's one in my hometown, and no, I haven't gotten up the nerve. Yet. )
So I guess what I mean is ...don't just shoot for the small stuff. Dream big.
