To Be, Or Not...

The only thing worth mentioning about the High School I went to is that one of the Manson family members who committed the infamous murders in 1969, Susan Atkins, went there. She and I had a lot in common. We were both a little quiet and self-conscious but enjoyed singing in the choir. We both moved to Los Baños from San Jose, California, had tiny mustaches, and spoke English. I wasn't surprised when I learned, according to Wikipedia, that Susan's grades dropped as soon as she began attending Los Baños High. We also had that in common. But instead of doing anything fun, like being stoned all day, not taking baths for weeks on end, and going on murderous crime sprees in the Hollywood Hills, I did what most gay boys living in a small town do: I joined the drama club.

 Los Baños High couldn't afford a theater department, but we did have one teacher who did the best she could with the money it didn't have. Mrs. Sinclair was new to LBH and new to teaching. She was young and pretty––a refreshing addition to the old hags that worked in the English department. In her first year at LBH, she started the drama club. I decided to join my senior year after learning that they went on a lot of field trips, which counted as excused absences. The club met at lunch once or twice a week and conducted short, five-minute performances during sports rallies, usually a scene from a major play. The only significant play we were planning to do was the Christmas play, but that, for reasons unknown, was canceled.

My first trip with the drama club was to an amusement park called Great America where I lost my mother’s new camera on a roller coaster and convinced her three large men had stolen it—my first real acting exercise.

“Mom, it was crazy! I was taking a picture of a beautiful fancy bird—”

“Un pajaro fancy? En el Parque?” she questioned. 

“Yes, it was a swallow!" I had no idea what a swallow was; being that she could barely speak a lick of English, I figured she probably didn’t either. 

“And then, these big men came out of nowhere and snatched your camera!"

"Mi, Camara!" she gasped.

"And then, some other guy pushed me to the ground, and––I can’t remember anything else. I must have blacked out. It was so scary, Mom.”  Like helpless a child, I lunged at her, burying my face into her side to hide the pride gleaming off my face from the outstanding performance I had just given, witnessed by no press or academy.

The only other trip I went on with the Drama Club, before I quite to join the choir, was to a theater workshop hosted at the community college in Merced––the birthplace of actress Janet Leigh, who most people recognize from the shower scene in the film Psycho. Merced was a much larger town than Los Baños. The forty-minute bus ride to Merced through California farm country felt never-ending. The landscape of rows of crops, dusty roads, and the occasional farmhouse blended in a blur. The droning engine and the calm scenery made it almost impossible to stay awake. 

At the workshop, we'd be participating in lessons on auditioning, reading lines, and memorization techniques, ending with a lecture from a guest speaker. I don't remember who, but I'm sure it was not Janet Leigh. 

Being from a poor immigrant family, I had never experienced the theater. I knew what musicals were because of films like Grease 2 and Little Shop of Horrors, but I couldn't name any others. I knew of Broadway, where musicals happened, but I didn't know anything beyond that. Spanish soap operas were our family’s theater. Our drama was angry actresses slapping each other around for fifty minutes. Or watching my mom go off whenever one of us forgot to wash the dishes. Just the year before, a friend turned me on to Baz Luhrmann's Romeo & Juliet. Well, if we're going to be honest, Leonardo DiCaprio turned me on to Leonardo DiCaprio and Baz Luhrmann's Romeo & Juliet. He was my second celebrity boy crush, succeeding Zack from Saved by the Bell. I watched the film over and over, and I memorized every line. During my frequent after school detentions, I would read Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet and imagine the film playing out in my head.  

On the field trip bus, I sat next to a girl named Cat. Probably short for Catherine. Cat was convinced that she would be discovered as an actress on this trip. I, too, had high hopes of discovery. It was 1997; we were seventeen and, according to Teen Beat magazine, at the prime age for being “discovered.”

“This is it for me,” Cat declared, snatching away the book of Shakespeare plays I had been reading to prepare for the workshops. “They’re going to see me and say I’m the next Alicia Silverstone,” she gloated.  

“This is just a workshop,” informed Mrs. Sinclair, whose job now seemed to be the destroyer of dreams. “They,” she motioned in air quotes, “won’t be there.” 

Cat settled herself back into her seat. "Cunt," she whispered. “She doesn’t know anything. I'm an amazing actress." Cat was plain-looking and confidently sassy. She was taller than most girls, barely had any eyebrows, and her thin blonde hair hung straight down, shoulder-length. By blonde, I mean the color that pretty-blonde turns if you go swimming at the public pool right after your mom bleaches it. Like most of ours, her clothes came from a second-hand store, but she didn't know how to make them look vintage. She just looked poor.

“You’ll hella be discovered,” she said, looking down at my shoes. “You have a look.”

My “look” usually consisted of thrifted bell-bottoms and any top that looked like it came off the wardrobe rack of Saturday Night Fever. Probably something one of Susan Atkins's foster boyfriend-brothers wore. My shoes were my trademark, though—black leather side-zip six-inch platform shoes (not heels), which I purchased at Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. The first day I wore those boots to school, my life changed. Sure, I was still bullied and called names, but instead of seeing those bullies as my enemies, now I recognized them as my fans. 

“No one dresses like you,” she continued. “And I bet you’re a great actor too.” 

“Oh, I am," I assured her. "You’ll see.” Cat wasn't the only one with delusional confidence.

We walked into the theater, where the seats were red, the ceilings tall, and the stage curtains hung high and glorious. “This is where I belong,” I thought to myself. “On the stage.” 

We sat third-row center stage. Close enough to be seen by someone important but far enough to judge the competition. 

“See that conceited blonde over there?” Cat asked, nodding toward a prettier, more expensive version of herself. “I bet I’m a better actress.” 

“Oh, for sure you are,” I said, then waited a few seconds. “Me too, right? I’m better?”

“Hell yeah!” she said, unconvincing and loud, before a shoosh notified us the workshop had begun.

In the first workshop, the professor took volunteers to read lines. I leaned into Cat, whispering that we should volunteer. She agreed. 

“Each volunteer will be partnered up and then given part of a scene to act out from the musical Oklahoma!” the professor explained. Besides being a state, probably next to Kentucky or Maine, I didn’t know anything about Oklahoma! “At the end of the exercise," he continued, "you’ll stay on stage, and we’ll give individual critiques.”

“We got this,” I said to Cat, raising my hand. 

I watched eagerly as he started choosing from the right side of the theater and worked his way center. When he finally picked me, I gasped in excitement and turned to Cat, who I found sitting with her arms crossed, sunk low in her seat. “What the fuck, Cat,” I whispered.

“Everyone, please approach the stage, and enter stage left.” 

"Fine," I thought. I didn’t need her. I walked to the stairs at the right side of the stage and got in line with the other volunteers. I could feel myself begin to sweat, my heart pounding against my chest. I was the only one in our group who had volunteered. Taking a deep breath, I thought, “It’s okay. You know Shakespeare! You got this.” 

“Oh. My. God. Is he for real?” I heard someone say. I looked up to see a fat, Mickey Mouse T-shirt wearing, I-want-to-be-a-Disney-Gay-when-I-grow-up kid my age pointing at my shoes. 

"I got them in San Francisco," I declared. 

"Oh! Cool," said the Disney gay, changing his tone. "I love San Francisco!" 

"I'm sure you do," I responded, and the kids, who appeared to be his classmates, snickered. 

My partner was the upscale version of Cat––a punishment the fates had bestowed on me for talking shit. We were given a small sheet of paper with a few lines and five minutes to review. 

“Do you want to spend a few minutes going over our lines alone and then a few more running it through together?” I asked my partner. She had her back toward me the whole time and finally turned, looked me up and down, turned back around, and said no. 

When we were called onto stage, we walked out and the bright lights made the audience impossible to see. I felt less nervous. This, after all, was where I belonged.

“You can go when you’re ready,” the director called out. 

I looked over at my partner and imagined standing next to Claire Danes. What would Leo do? I thought, and immediately after she gave her first line, I dropped to the ground and pounded the floor three times with my fist. The audience gasped, followed by a mixture of laughter. I had their attention. I clutched the leg of her low-rise, acid-washed flare jeans, and in my best British accent, I recited my first line.

“Thy rememberest the first time thy ever saw thee. Twas at the fair...” I paused. Looked at the director who was looking a bit confused. I had forgotten my lines but then remembered I still had the paper. I pulled it out and began to read, ad-libbing as many “art thou's” and “where for's” as I could, despite the look of terror on Cat 2.0's face. The audience continued to laugh.

“Yeah, I 'member, and yous ridin’ broncs that day,” she said in a shaky, what I now recognize to be, Oklahoma accent. 

“What is she doing?” I wondered. "She's terrible. Why is she talking like that?" I had to save our performance. I stood up, walked to the front of the stage, and shouted, “Hark! If there, thy, beist anyone in thine yard whom can hear my voice, thy would want themest to knowest that Princess Laurey Williams be my princess!”

The audience laughed even louder. I had absolutely no idea what I was saying, but it didn't matter. I was a hit! I turned passionately, walked over to Cat 2.0, and grabbed her by the shoulders this time. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked quietly, gritting her teeth. 

I leaned in and whispered, “Acting.” 

She pulled back. “Like what?” 

There were no more lines, but this was my only chance to show those people who discovered people that I was worthy of fame. What would Leo do? I wondered. And then it came to me. I moved in for the dramatic kiss. I closed my eyes, leaned in, and...

“End scene! End scene!” the director yelled. "Cut!" 

I nailed it. 

After the few minutes it took for the director to calm down the laughter and cheers from the audience, he called us to the front of the stage. “It’s time for your critique,” he said with his hand on his forehead. 

“You. Sucked.” I whispered to my partner through a forced pageant smile as we walked forward. Her jaw was still dropped. 

“Where should I begin,” the director asked, and the crowd laughed. He decided to start with my outfit. 

“For an audition, you want to wear something memorable. Maybe a color, like red. Sometimes going dressed as the character works.” He looked at my shoes. “I’m not sure if wearing those would work. Maybe it’s a bit much, but you have the right idea.” 

“Thank you!” I shouted as if he was paying me compliments. "They're awesome, aren't they?" The audience laughed again.

“May I ask, why the ad-lib? And what made you choose the,” he paused momentarily, “was that a British accent?” he asked. 

“Yeah, but like, in the olden days,” I educated the crowd.

“I see,” he smirked and looked down for a few seconds before continuing. “Maybe, in the future, stick to the script. Ad-libbing is usually better suited for film.”

“Got it! Thanks!” Excited and convinced that, after this performance, "they" would be approaching me, I sashayed off the stage, not realizing or caring that he hadn’t given my partner her critique and wasn’t finished with mine.

I returned to my seat and hopped back into the chair beside Cat—who, like the rest of my classmates, looked slightly embarrassed—and said, “I know, right. I fuckin’ killed it.” 

As I finished out the school year, barely making the grades to graduate, I carried that delusional confidence with me. It proved useful when I decided to leave acting behind and become a singer, starting the tradition of opening the Los Baños High School graduation ceremony with the national anthem. That legacy isn’t as famous as Susan Atkins’s, but at least mine wasn’t a legacy they’d rather forget. 

Eventually, that same confidence would guide me to performing community theater in Las Vegas. My time in the theater opening the doors to music, where I would train with some of the best vocal coaches in Pop and R&B. I would work as a songwriter in Nashville and at a dance company with no dance experience. 

Although "they," who I now know are agents, record deals, and million-dollar contracts, haven't found me, that same delusional confidence evolved into regular, hard-earned confidence. It gave me the courage to move to New York City and beat out higher-educated people for jobs I hadn’t dreamed of at Los Baños, and it gave me the courage to leave all that behind and become a writer. 

I’m still that kid in platform shoes. No matter what anyone says, no matter how much laughter is directed right at me, I still know it’s true––I fuckin’ killed it.