Roar

A personal essay that explores a moment when I responded to a frequently asked question I’ve struggled to answer my entire life.

Photo by Callum Skelton on Unsplash

Beads of sweat drip down my forehead. My breath labors. My heart beats faster and faster and faster. “Everything will be okay,” I whisper to myself before panic sets in. “It’s only a few minutes and then the charade is over.”

But I know better. The experience will be chiseled into my memory. A voice inside challenges me. I shouldn’t be here. I must be here. I can’t go on. I must go on.

In this moment I straddle two blurred worlds: Frank, the aspiring actor whose dream is to act; or Snug, the timid character in A Midsummer Night’s Dream who can’t remember his lines.

“Why don’t you trust yourself?” I mumble. It’s the same question I ask myself before every performance. I ask it out of fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of being seen. Fear of not being seen.

It’s the same question that’s infected every aspect of my life. Relationships. Career. Dreams. The moment before I step on stage is a microcosm of all the moments in my life when I didn’t trust myself and gave up.

Right now I have to make a choice: embrace my fear or run away.

I’m with five other people who need me. All men. Peter Quince, Nick Bottom, Francis Flute, Tom Snout, and Robin Starveling. We’re the Mechanicals. All dressed like we’re ready to perform at a Renaissance Faire. Over my garb I’m wearing a fake lion’s tail, gloves that double as paws, and a headpiece with two furry ears.

Weeks of rehearsals, of gaffs and goofs, of missed cues and flubbed lines, of scene changes and blocking, of lost props and ripped costumes, of building relationships with your fellow actors, director, stage manager, and stage hands come down to our opening night performance.

Here and now.

I don’t know how many people are in the audience. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I am present. Not in my head. Every performance exists for that moment and then it’s gone. The only recording is what lives in the audience’s imagination after the curtain drops.

We walk single file down a dark hallway. A few are solemn like me. The others mumble something I can’t understand. I’m too much in my head that nothing makes sense.

There are strips of glowing green tape that illuminate the path forward. In darkness we must trust the path and each other. But I don’t trust myself. I hear faint noises echoing from up ahead. I don’t know what it is or what it means. The words sound like English. The voices rattle the nerves in my stomach.

I count my steps to take my mind off the situation. One, two, three, four…. Damn it. I’m supposed to say and do something, but I can’t remember.

We stop before a wall of heavy black curtains. I touch it to ease my mind. It’s soft and pliable. Velvety. My nerves are calm. The curtain reminds me of sleeping under a pillowy down comforter with the howling winds of winter outside. The kind of warmth that reminds you that you’re safe and nothing can hurt you.

A hand swats my hand away.

“Don’t touch. They can’t see you,” Peter Quince whispers. I nod my head in agreement. My heart begins to race again.

I hear the audience laughing. And then someone yells, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. Nick, Peter, and Francis try their best to hold in their laughter. Tom smiles at me. I force a smile back. I’m supposed to be upbeat and energized.

The curtain whips open. Nick, Peter, Francis, Tom, and Robin rush out to the center of the stage. Fearing the darkness behind, I rush out after them.

There’s no turning back.

I trip over my tail and a few voices laugh. My heart pounds in my chest. On the stage are three flats painted like the interior of a medieval castle. Theseus and Hippolyta greet us with forced smiles and robotic gestures. I’m dizzy from all the stimuli: the voices, the lights, the scenery, the actors.

We settle in. Peter starts the scene. The voice inside bullies me: Don’t ruin this for everybody.

I look out beyond the stage and see silhouettes sitting in seats. Some are larger than others. I can’t tell if they’re male or female, old or young. They lurk in a space that feels familiar but impenetrable. I hear laughter and snickering. “Oh look how cute they are,” says a woman’s voice. A few voices laugh in agreement.

I grab my tail and massage it to regulate my breathing and slow my mind. I know what I have to do.

No I don’t.

Everyone’s moving around the stage and talking and pointing. I retreat into my head to find my lines. Yes, there they are. Let me hold them and never let them go.

Now they’re gone. Damn it.

Trust yourself, instructs the voice.

I’ve trained for this. I know how to act. I breathe in and capture all that is pushing me to run. I exhale. I’ve got it. I remember exactly what I’m supposed to do.

My head ping-pongs back and forth as I watch and wait for my cue. Nick says something to Francis. Tom bumps into Robin. The audience laughs.

Okay, here it comes. I’m ready. I rehearsed it. Yes, I rehearsed it! Now it’s my turn to be in the moment.

And then the action stops.

The stage is silent except for the humming buzz of the stage lights. I’m forced out of my head. The stage has disappeared and its place is a large room. My eyes scan across the space. Everyone looks at me: Nick, Peter, Francis, Robin, Tom, Theseus, Hippolyta, the audience. In milliseconds I see their expressions degrade from joy to interest to worry.

I have to answer. People are counting on me. I’m counting on me.

I search deep down. I find something. I don’t know what it is but it’s powerful and raw. It’s coming. I can’t help it. It’s in the throat.

I look around in one last attempt to be saved. Nothing. I’m alone. I can’t run.

I respond to the voice inside, to the insecurities, to the negative self-talk and disbelief, to the other actors, to the audience, to all the times in my life when I gave up on myself and my dreams.

I open my mouth and ROOOOAAAARRRRR!

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