I don't care about THE SEAGULL, part one

So, as you may have guessed from my previous two blogs, I am a theater major. Being a theater major means a lot of things. It mean that I can't get my nose pierced or cut my hair off or dye it blue, in case I'm cast in a classical Shakespeare play. It means I can't get sick, ever. It means I have no free time . . . ever. And it means that I face a lot of rejection.

I don't mean romantic rejection, like at a bar or a party--

ME: Hey, do you want to dance/make out/get coffee sometime?
GUY: I'm not sure; what's your major?
ME: Theater. Directing and acting.
GUY: Haha, NOPE! Also you're not that hot*.

No, I mean a different kind of rejection, one that is infinitely more hurtful. I'm speaking, of course, of the academic, professional, and infinitely more personal rejection that comes when you audition for a play. You get your hopes up. Maybe you get called back. You start to connect, really connect, with your character. You believe, in your heart of hearts, that this is the role you were meant to play. And eventually, the director posts the cast list--and your name is not on it.

I experienced this phenomenon the first week of my freshman year, when I auditioned for Measure for Measure with an ill-chosen monologue from one of the Henry plays. Paul Moser, shrewd and intimidating then-chair of the theater department, asked my what my action was.

"My what?"

"Your action. What are you trying to do?"

"Um . . . I'm acting?"

Needless to say, I did not win the leading role of Isabella and stun the entire school with my legendary talent as I had initially hoped. But I did take an acting class, and then another, and eventually I learned what an action was, and how to play one, and not to indicate my emotional state. I came to enjoy directing, and decided that it was better for me than acting. But I kept auditioning for plays on the mainstage, even though I was never cast.

When I found out last spring that this fall's mainstage would be Chekhov's masterpiece The Seagull, I was thrilled for a split second. Then I remembered. I'm not good at acting. I don't even like acting*. And the whole department, Chekhov geeks every one, was sure to come out and audition.

"I don't care,*" I told my roommate.

"I don't care,*" I told my mom. "I mean, yes, it is one of my favorite plays ever. And it would be really gratifying to be in a mainstage show, AND one directing by Paul Moser. And of course I'm going to audition. But I really don't care about The Seagull. I really don't care at all*."



*lies