In my last post—the one where I had to come up with 7 things you might not know about me—I mentioned that my dreams of pursuing an acting career died a tragic death at the hands of a mean nun. The list also featured me almost dying in childbirth, the dubious nature of my Texas citizenship, and the fact that I used to be smart. But go figure—everybody is asking for the 411 on the angry nun.
My mother started taking me to the theater when I was very young. The first play I remember seeing was Brigadoon. I remember being enchanted by the whole experience—the darkened theater, the music, the way it felt more real than film ever could—it was magical.
I loved being on the stage, too. I got the lead–Josephine– in the 3rd grade Christmas play, which had to be moved up a week when my my family had to fly back to Connecticut unexpectedly for a funeral (which, I guess, is how one usually flies for a funeral–unexpectedly). Not only did I have all of my own lines memorized, but I’d memorized everyone else’s, too, so when a fellow cast member found themselves at a loss, well….
Tom: “I, uh…uh…uh…”
Josephine (me): “You look like you have a headache.”
Tom: ”Yes, I have a headache. And uh…uh…”
Josephine: “Do you wish you had something to make your head stop hurting?”
Tom: “Yes, I wish I had something to make my head stop hurting.”
Josephine: “Would you like to borrow this pillow? You could tie it to your head.”
And yes…those are actual lines from the play. I didn’t write it. An actress works with what she’s given…. But anyway, the experience led me to believe that I was destined for the stage—today, Josephine; tomorrow, somebody with way better lines than Josephine.
Now, my small Catholic school didn’t offer many dramatic opportunities. I mean, other than the opportunities for me to dramatically try and talk myself out of trouble. And while those performances outshone my earlier role in terms of true acting, they were generally far less successful.
Then, in 7th grade, it happened—the answer to my dreams: Drama. The school was offerering drama as an elective. Oh happy day, oh joy-of-joys! This was it, this was my ticket to stardom. My—oh no, gasp!—it wasn’t true. The celluloid fantasy that had begun rolling in my mind came to an abrupt halt. There, next to the word “drama,” was my three-word undoing: “Teacher–Sister G.”
See, the good nun and I shared a little bit of history. Not the good kind, either. Almost 30 years this side of Catholic school, I realize that she probably did have my best interests at heart. If she had a heart. But at the time, all I saw when I looked at Sr. G was 4 feet, 11 inches of archnemesis in a black veil and sensible shoes.
You think I’m exaggerating? As soon as I finish feigning shock and insult, I’ll elucidate….
We are talking about a woman who looked at a piece of my artwork and told me I had “…no artistic talent whatsoever.” Oh yeah, harsh. Wait—it gets better.
When I volunteered to wash the blackboard—a job which nobody else was jumpin’ at—she actually insulted my blackboard washing skills, at which point I might have said something along the lines of I am so sorry my work doesn’t meet your standards; how about after I graduate I apply for blackboard washing school instead of going on to college, and then maybe I’ll be worthy of washing your precious blackboard. And maybe she started crying and everybody in the classroom scooted their chairs a few feet back out of lightening bolt range. Hypothetically speaking….
And when my best friend—who happened to be a boy—kicked me in line, and I kicked him back only she didn’t see him kicking me, and then I told her that he kicked me first, she had the nerve to say, “well, that’s different. He’s a boy. It’s unladylike for a girl to kick a boy.” And I might have said something that vaguely sounded like I’ll remember that if I’m ever being attacked in a dark alley, and I’ll just let them go ahead and rape me and beat me to a bloody pulp, because I sure wouldn’t want to be unladylike. And she might have started crying again, and I might have silently said my Act of Contrition because First Friday confession was still a ways off and I really didn’t want to end up going to hell for making a nun cry. Twice. Hypothetically speaking….
And now this woman held my destiny in her hands like a ruler, waiting to bring it crashing down on my knuckles.
Oh, the irony.
So I signed up anyway. No way was this woman standing in the way of my dream. The class would be performing Hansel and Gretel. Not exactly an ensemble cast. The evil stepmother gets a couple of lines, the wimpy father gets a couple, and then there’s Hansel, Gretel, and the Wicked Witch. Everybody else gets to be “the chorus.”
I didn’t want to be in the chorus.
For one thing, the only talent that Sr. G was more critical of than my artistic ability was my musical ability (she was also the choir master).
My mother had done drama in high school and college. She was thrilled. She convinced me to audition for the Wicked Witch. Every afternoon, she ran lines with me, coached me on my cackle until I had it down. The morning of the auditions, she wished me a broken leg as I got out of the car.
I tried to tell myself the knot in my stomach was excitement. I tried to pretend that the woman who hated me wasn’t the same person who was going to be evaluating my audition….
“Ashley, you’re trying out for the witch?”
Now as a kid, I wasn’t afraid of much. Except maybe vampires. And tornadoes. And finding myself stuck underneath a table that’s bolted onto what used to be the floor of a huge cruise ship but has now become the ceiling thanks to an enormous tidal wave…. But the point is, fear never kept me from doing anything.
Until that day.
I couldn’t do it. I looked up at Sr. G, and all I could think about was how this woman would love nothing more than to tell me I had no acting talent whatsoever. “No, Sister. I’m going to be–” and to this day, when I remember that moment, I plead with that 12 year old girl not to finish that sentence—-”in the chorus.”
To be fair, the girl who got the part—the ONLY other girl who signed up to audition (oh yeah, I chickened out of an audition against one other person) was perfect for the role. She would have gotten it even if I’d gathered up my ovaries and tried out. And even if she hadn’t been the teacher’s pet.
So there you have it. That’s why I’m sitting in this cold house during this freakishly cold Texas winter instead of in year-round-spring Hollywood or on the French Riviera. It’s why I finally broke down and asked my 14 year old to cut my hair because I realized I’m never going to have the time (or money) to go in for a real haircut. It’s why I am up to my navel in laundry and dishes and snotty noses and dirty diapers. It’s why I read SkippyJonJones (in my very best Spanish accent) to a 6 year old instead of reading lines to a casting agent. It’s why the only encore I’m asked for is when one of my children asks me to come back to their bedside for just one more goodnight kiss.
Thank you, Sr. G, wherever you are. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
Tags: acting, angry nun, archnemesis, blackboard, Brigadoon, Catholic school, childbirth, Christmas play, drama, Texas, theater
