Wednesday, January 21, 2015 // The Statement
6B
C
onfidence is an elusive savior.
It comes when you’re most vulnerable, when
you’re staring at the underside of a black velvet cur-
tain waiting for it to part, as you’re praying the lights will
be bright enough to distract you from the hundreds of eyes
staring right back at you. It tiptoes into your consciousness
and assuages your doubts with a comforting whisper. Hey,
you’re gonna be really good at this. The voice quiets just as
the lights blast your face. You’re alone, but not really.
The performance was a blur, because all you can remem-
ber is the feeling of all those eyes watching you. They paid
attention. They witnessed your greatness and your genius
themselves. Yes, genius. You’re not exaggerating. You fuck-
ing killed it. You’re pretty sure somebody called you the
next Kate Winslet, and you’re not at all concerned that
maybe you kinda made this up. You’re awaiting a call from
the Darien Doings, because you know the small-town news-
paper is definitely gonna do a profile on their hometown
hero/star. Can you convince your parents to let you move to
Hollywood? Is this how Kate Winslet got started? That little
voice never shuts up, and it tells you to chase more, more,
more opportunities to stand with those lights on you and
force everyone to listen.
I’ve known since I was a kid that I wanted to be an actress.
Check my fifth-grade yearbook, and under the picture of my
chubby, bespectacled little self, you can find a caption say-
ing that I wanted to be a “dolphin trainer and a movie star”
when I grew up. But that yearbook is a dumb liar, because I
didn’t just want to be an actress. I wanted to be an actress,
with every fiber of my heart and soul and being.
But I mostly kept quiet about those ambitions, bottling
up all my schemes in my head like some diabolical movie
villain. I auditioned for smaller roles in elementary school
plays, choosing to let my star dim and allow the lesser
beings to showcase whatever lame talent they had to offer.
I was biding my time, waiting for my big breakout role to
come along. But that little voice always crept around, whis-
pering that I was better than all these fools and deserved to
be the one in the sparkliest costume.
My childhood best friend was a natural onstage, her
singing talent carrying over into charismatic acting. Where
I had the precise and methodical brilliance of a Winslet,
she was a bright and charming Julia Roberts, lighting up
every stage she walked on. She didn’t actively seek out lead-
ing roles, but they always happened upon her. She rarely
had to audition, and people approached her to star like she
was the only natural choice. Cleopatra in our fifth-grade
ancient Egypt pageant. Rosie in “Bye Bye Birdie.” Mary
in our church’s Christmas play. Meanwhile, I stood in
the background, a seething Christmas Angel plotting her
revenge.
See, I knew I was never going to play Mary. I was kinda
intense and not a particularly smiley or maternal 12-year-
old. Objectively speaking, even though I had far more tal-
ent than my competition, casting me as Mary would be a
mistake. But then I got to thinking. What Christmas role is
perfect for a stoic and flat-chested kid? I was sick of being an
angel, singing in a chorus with two other girls who picked
their noses and didn’t read for fun. I was sick of being
lumped together with losers when I should be the one with
the lights on her face, the one the whole audience stared at.
I was cast as Joseph, father of Jesus Christ. (Also, none of
the boys were interested, but I like to think I’d have gotten
the part anyway.)
In my biblical headdress and cloth robes, you could hardly
tell that the father of the Lord and Savior was being played
by a vaguely Jewish little girl. I practiced diligently with my
best friend, who was — surprise, surprise — Mary again. We
really listened to one another, bouncing back flawless per-
formances as a realistic husband and wife. In my free time,
I taught myself to cry on cue, because even though nobody
in the audience would be able to see the minutiae of my
facial performance, I couldn’t realistically act out the birth
of my son without shedding a hard-earned tear. When the
time came to actually perform, I did so without abandon or
embarrassment. I was an amazing Joseph, and as I let go of
that practiced single tear, I knew the audience was weeping
at the vastness of my raw talent, and could care less that I
was a girl.
Some friends and family may tell you that this perfor-
mance was the highlight of my career. They’re probably
right. After I hung up my Joseph robes at age 15 (when even
the loosest garments couldn’t hide the fact that I was defi-
nitely a lady), I mostly retired from the stage. I liked to think
that inherent desire to be in the spotlight was a silly child-
hood dream, akin to my yearbook wish of being a dolphin
trainer.
But I missed it. I tried to channel the same confidence I
had onstage to other areas of public performance and failed
every time. As I’d walk up to the podium at a Model UN con-
ference to address the general assembly about the impor-
tance of nuclear power development in Kazakhstan, I’d look
out again at those hundred eyes staring right back. There
was no drama, no curtain pulling back, no bright lights.
Here, people cared only about the words I said, not how I
said them. I couldn’t be great. With my heart pounding and
voice cracking, I addressed the assembly and wished I had
the comfort of everything being pretend.
I had to get that feeling back. Confidence, or maybe
something greater. Maybe the feeling of being truly great
at something.
It strikes you when you need it most. Sitting at a desk
behind another black curtain, dressed in a blazer and heels.
You know there are probably 200 people sitting in the audi-
ence, but you’re not nervous. You let the energy feed you,
fill you with light and squash your nerves until they’re
imperceptible. The feeling is indescribable, but you can only
compare it to leaving your own body. You aren’t yourself
anymore. You could be anyone, everyone.
You become like one of those stage lights, a shining object
that grows brighter with each smile and each laugh. This
might not be where you belong, but it’s where you need to
be. Somebody might tell you you’re the Next Tina Fey. The
little voice in your head tells you anything is possible.
ILLUSTRATION BY MEGAN MULHOLLAND
Personal Statement: My elusive savior
by Chloe Gilke, Managing Arts Editor