Since October, from 3-5 pm after school, myself, along with the rest of the actors in The Addams Family musical, have been anticipating opening day since the beginning of the new year.
Coming into this production I didn’t expect anything. I’d probably get a small insignificant role, miss insignificant practices, and finally push my role to some other poor soul that would feel honored in being a part of this musical. I was sorely mistaken.
At auditions, I had decided to go for the role of Morticia, Wednesday, and Fester Addams, knowing deep down in my stomach I wouldn’t get any of the parts. There were roughly forty auditioners, all of who were going for vocally demanding roles. Many talented singers, dancers, actors, and those that specialized in all three aspects of performing. I felt insignificant. My audition was sure to be lost among the many dazzling performers.
Outside Raider Hall everyone that showed up was given a number to pin to their shirt and would be called numerically. Full Disclosure, I am horrible at auditioning. I have no self-esteem. I’m here only because of being convinced by my friends, to at least try. Trying won’t hurt anyone, right?
I’m number 24.
I’m listening to everyone sing.
I can feel the bricks that I’m standing on shift back and forth; I’m anticipating the moment where they will swallow me whole.
They’re practicing last minute their vocal runs, their steps, their monologues. The experienced dancers have glistening buds in their ears as they twirl and rhythmically tap their feet to the songs that they plan to audition with. The vocalists have their eyes closed, feeling every note they sing. The up-and-coming Oscar winners have color coded flashcards with their monologues, they get teary when the right words come, get angry when the moment arises, show misery in their eyes like they’ve lost their family.
Me. I’m in the corner trying to keep down the little lunch I had earlier.
I’m going to audition with Waving Through A Window from Dear Evan Hansen. There’s a girl I can hear singing the same song.
She’s number 23.
She’s hitting all the notes.
She’s going to wow the judges first.
Well, there goes my shot at being a part of this musical. I might as well go home. There’s no way that I can out do her.
“Number 23. Whitney?”
Oh god, I’m next. Okay, calm down. It’s fine. You’ll do great. You’ve been practicing for, like, two weeks, coming in during break and lunch and running the song with the choir teacher, Ms. Horne. You’ll do better than great. You’ll be awesome! You’re going to get a role and be a part of something greater.
Make friends and close bonds with everyone, at closing night be reciting inside jokes about the time someone’s voice cracked or when everyone caught the two love birds locking lips. Imagine the laughs you’ll have about tripping over shoelaces and stumbling onto the floor, accidently whacking someone with props. Yeah. Yeah!
“Number 24. Marcos?”
I don’t remember how I did. All I remember is tripping on the last stair to the stage and practically running out the theatre when my turn was finished.
The week roles by and I can feel my regret gnawing at me. You should’ve done more. You should’ve done more!
“Hey, Marcos. The cast sheet is up on the drama door if you want to see it.”
No, I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see anything. I want my eyes to melt out of my skull and for the world be cast into darkness… but did I make it?
“I think it would be better if you broke the news to yourself.”
Ugh. Fine.
A walk that felt like eternity. It’s okay if I’m not chosen, it really is. I’m still going to go to the musical despite not being picked. Sitting with my friends in the audience and cheering on everyone that made it. Number 9 really did sound like Adele. 15 has been in dance since freshman year. I’m glad I stayed to hear 32 practicing his monologue, he’ll probably get the main character.
Well, it seems like I’m going to be obligated to go to every performance now, because I made it into the production.
Fester Addams-- Played by Marcos Saldana.
This can’t be real. There’s no way.
If you have questions please ask Ms. Koizumi.
Heck no. I’m not going to tell her that she probably made a mistake in choosing me, what if she chooses someone else…
… what if the role is meant for someone else.
I should probably clarify with her. I don’t even remember how my audition went. I can’t believe that I actually got the part, let alone one of the main characters.
Uhh, Ms. Koizumi. Hi, my name is Marcos. The cast sheet on the window, is it the actual cast sheet?
“Yeah, why? You’re playing Fester Addams. Is there a problem?”
No. No problem. I was just making sure, you know, checking in with you.
“Yes, you got the part. Now you’re biggest worry is to get here every day of rehearsals. Our first production meeting is this Friday.”
Oh, okay. Uhh, thanks!
On that day I was given a schedule of rehearsals, a permission slip, and a character analysis packet. At the beginning it was intimidating. I’m in a room filled with really talented individuals. I didn’t feel like I actually made it, like what I did was so small compared to everyone else. The months went by in a flash and opening night had finally arrived. All of our work had paid off, we were able to raise, roughly, $5,000. Enough money to be able to produce another play and musical for next year.
There were moments during rehearsals where I didn’t feel up to par with everyone else, lines I forgot that were devastating, steps in the choreography that I missed that kept stabbing at my consciousness. I was ready to leave the production, but I felt like it was my moral duty to do what makes me happy. Performing makes me happy. Being a part of a cast is something joyous to me. I’ve met people that I would’ve never met any other way.
I’m grateful for the experience. I don’t regret anything. The hours paid off, the practice was worth it. Even after the production I’m still receiving praise about my performance, about our performance.
If you’re thinking about doing something, but you’re too scared to take initiative, just remember “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” (Wayne Gretzky).
Coming into this production I didn’t expect anything. I’d probably get a small insignificant role, miss insignificant practices, and finally push my role to some other poor soul that would feel honored in being a part of this musical. I was sorely mistaken.
At auditions, I had decided to go for the role of Morticia, Wednesday, and Fester Addams, knowing deep down in my stomach I wouldn’t get any of the parts. There were roughly forty auditioners, all of who were going for vocally demanding roles. Many talented singers, dancers, actors, and those that specialized in all three aspects of performing. I felt insignificant. My audition was sure to be lost among the many dazzling performers.
Outside Raider Hall everyone that showed up was given a number to pin to their shirt and would be called numerically. Full Disclosure, I am horrible at auditioning. I have no self-esteem. I’m here only because of being convinced by my friends, to at least try. Trying won’t hurt anyone, right?
I’m number 24.
I’m listening to everyone sing.
I can feel the bricks that I’m standing on shift back and forth; I’m anticipating the moment where they will swallow me whole.
They’re practicing last minute their vocal runs, their steps, their monologues. The experienced dancers have glistening buds in their ears as they twirl and rhythmically tap their feet to the songs that they plan to audition with. The vocalists have their eyes closed, feeling every note they sing. The up-and-coming Oscar winners have color coded flashcards with their monologues, they get teary when the right words come, get angry when the moment arises, show misery in their eyes like they’ve lost their family.
Me. I’m in the corner trying to keep down the little lunch I had earlier.
I’m going to audition with Waving Through A Window from Dear Evan Hansen. There’s a girl I can hear singing the same song.
She’s number 23.
She’s hitting all the notes.
She’s going to wow the judges first.
Well, there goes my shot at being a part of this musical. I might as well go home. There’s no way that I can out do her.
“Number 23. Whitney?”
Oh god, I’m next. Okay, calm down. It’s fine. You’ll do great. You’ve been practicing for, like, two weeks, coming in during break and lunch and running the song with the choir teacher, Ms. Horne. You’ll do better than great. You’ll be awesome! You’re going to get a role and be a part of something greater.
Make friends and close bonds with everyone, at closing night be reciting inside jokes about the time someone’s voice cracked or when everyone caught the two love birds locking lips. Imagine the laughs you’ll have about tripping over shoelaces and stumbling onto the floor, accidently whacking someone with props. Yeah. Yeah!
“Number 24. Marcos?”
I don’t remember how I did. All I remember is tripping on the last stair to the stage and practically running out the theatre when my turn was finished.
The week roles by and I can feel my regret gnawing at me. You should’ve done more. You should’ve done more!
“Hey, Marcos. The cast sheet is up on the drama door if you want to see it.”
No, I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see anything. I want my eyes to melt out of my skull and for the world be cast into darkness… but did I make it?
“I think it would be better if you broke the news to yourself.”
Ugh. Fine.
A walk that felt like eternity. It’s okay if I’m not chosen, it really is. I’m still going to go to the musical despite not being picked. Sitting with my friends in the audience and cheering on everyone that made it. Number 9 really did sound like Adele. 15 has been in dance since freshman year. I’m glad I stayed to hear 32 practicing his monologue, he’ll probably get the main character.
Well, it seems like I’m going to be obligated to go to every performance now, because I made it into the production.
Fester Addams-- Played by Marcos Saldana.
This can’t be real. There’s no way.
If you have questions please ask Ms. Koizumi.
Heck no. I’m not going to tell her that she probably made a mistake in choosing me, what if she chooses someone else…
… what if the role is meant for someone else.
I should probably clarify with her. I don’t even remember how my audition went. I can’t believe that I actually got the part, let alone one of the main characters.
Uhh, Ms. Koizumi. Hi, my name is Marcos. The cast sheet on the window, is it the actual cast sheet?
“Yeah, why? You’re playing Fester Addams. Is there a problem?”
No. No problem. I was just making sure, you know, checking in with you.
“Yes, you got the part. Now you’re biggest worry is to get here every day of rehearsals. Our first production meeting is this Friday.”
Oh, okay. Uhh, thanks!
On that day I was given a schedule of rehearsals, a permission slip, and a character analysis packet. At the beginning it was intimidating. I’m in a room filled with really talented individuals. I didn’t feel like I actually made it, like what I did was so small compared to everyone else. The months went by in a flash and opening night had finally arrived. All of our work had paid off, we were able to raise, roughly, $5,000. Enough money to be able to produce another play and musical for next year.
There were moments during rehearsals where I didn’t feel up to par with everyone else, lines I forgot that were devastating, steps in the choreography that I missed that kept stabbing at my consciousness. I was ready to leave the production, but I felt like it was my moral duty to do what makes me happy. Performing makes me happy. Being a part of a cast is something joyous to me. I’ve met people that I would’ve never met any other way.
I’m grateful for the experience. I don’t regret anything. The hours paid off, the practice was worth it. Even after the production I’m still receiving praise about my performance, about our performance.
If you’re thinking about doing something, but you’re too scared to take initiative, just remember “you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take” (Wayne Gretzky).