(no subject)
The first time I ever felt proud of someone, it hadn't meant a thing to anyone else.
It was a play, and it was the first time I had to be the director. I've always had to play mother roles, or anti-hero roles, and someone else was always in charge of production. I never had to worry about making scripts, about bringing curtains for props, about using paints and oil pastel to make scenery out of cardboard. I never had to care about practice venues and snacks and drinks and accommodations for my groupmates. I just to memorize my script and play my part.
I never had to coach someone how to act.
I've only ever played mother roles, too. I had no idea how to mimic, much less instruct someone about the inner workings of fatherly emotion.
And it was a KING at that.
We struggled a lot. That one scene where the king speaks his only lines and just utterly spouts hopeless drabble about the fate of his daughter took us nearly three hours to perfect. I had no way of coaching him other than acting it out myself and trying to demonstrate how it was to be done. It hadn't helped that I, myself, had no idea how to express the things the king wanted to say. I couldn't feel the connection I usually felt with the other characters I've played, being that I had no prior experience even remotely close to those of a king willing to lose his kingdom, wealth and life for the sake of his daughter. It was, to say the least, alien to me, and I couldn't synchronize enough to guide my classmate.
But somehow, after two hours of running lines and practically failing, I had a breakthrough. I had stopped trying to act the lines, and started thinking about how I could make my classmate feel what the king had felt. I tried talking it out with him, tried creating a scene to get him "into it." It took us another hour to get to a point where I was satisfied to an extent, but I decided that it would have to do. I sent my group mates him with a heavy heart, knowing that come the performance the following day, we would be facing the "judges" unready.
But surprise me, he did, that classmate of mine. He later confessed to me that it had been the nerves and had gotten him to do it, but reasons be damned, he performed magnificently. He was great. Even our teacher was blown away - and that was saying something. With just three lines, he was able to silence the room of disinterested judges, quiet them with those powerful words said in a whisper. I was very very proud, and I would have cried, if not for the fact that my scene was immediately after his. The feeling of being able to help that person shine so much... indescribable. It was as if I was soaring right there with him on the stage, the heat in my gut as insistent as if I had been the one to accomplish such.
He didn't win the best supporting actor award.
I was surprised by how disappointed I was at the decision. For him, for me, it didn't matter. He should have won. He was the best, and everyone knew it. I had so wanted for him to win, wanted so much, even more than for myself. I did cry a little when he didn't, the disappointment was so much I couldn't breathe for some time. It just felt... so unfair.
But he had laughed it off, saying it was a fluke, saying that it wasn't something he'd wanted to win anyway. And as he said those words, I wanted nothing more than to smack him, smack the smile off his face and yell at him that he lost something that was rightfully, rightfully his. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he didn't have more faith in himself, that he didn't care for the award, no matter how small or silly it might have been. It wasn't fair that he had so much potential, it wasn't fair that I, for that one glorious moment of good acting, had envied him and wished it were me instead. It just wasn't fair.
It surprises me just how much people take things for granted. We often see the abilities of others and praise them, but we rarely ever see our own. I knew he had potential. I felt it, felt it so deep in my gut, I would've bet all I had that he would win the stinking award. Had I known how to protest back then, I would have done so for his sake. He had so much potential, so so much... and I just couldn't accept that he wasn't acknowledging the gift. Even laughing if off... I wanted to strangle him.
He never drabbled into acting again, after. Up to now, I wonder how much things would have changed had he won that award. I wonder how much I would have changed.
I wish I hadn't felt so proud.
It was a play, and it was the first time I had to be the director. I've always had to play mother roles, or anti-hero roles, and someone else was always in charge of production. I never had to worry about making scripts, about bringing curtains for props, about using paints and oil pastel to make scenery out of cardboard. I never had to care about practice venues and snacks and drinks and accommodations for my groupmates. I just to memorize my script and play my part.
I never had to coach someone how to act.
I've only ever played mother roles, too. I had no idea how to mimic, much less instruct someone about the inner workings of fatherly emotion.
And it was a KING at that.
We struggled a lot. That one scene where the king speaks his only lines and just utterly spouts hopeless drabble about the fate of his daughter took us nearly three hours to perfect. I had no way of coaching him other than acting it out myself and trying to demonstrate how it was to be done. It hadn't helped that I, myself, had no idea how to express the things the king wanted to say. I couldn't feel the connection I usually felt with the other characters I've played, being that I had no prior experience even remotely close to those of a king willing to lose his kingdom, wealth and life for the sake of his daughter. It was, to say the least, alien to me, and I couldn't synchronize enough to guide my classmate.
But somehow, after two hours of running lines and practically failing, I had a breakthrough. I had stopped trying to act the lines, and started thinking about how I could make my classmate feel what the king had felt. I tried talking it out with him, tried creating a scene to get him "into it." It took us another hour to get to a point where I was satisfied to an extent, but I decided that it would have to do. I sent my group mates him with a heavy heart, knowing that come the performance the following day, we would be facing the "judges" unready.
But surprise me, he did, that classmate of mine. He later confessed to me that it had been the nerves and had gotten him to do it, but reasons be damned, he performed magnificently. He was great. Even our teacher was blown away - and that was saying something. With just three lines, he was able to silence the room of disinterested judges, quiet them with those powerful words said in a whisper. I was very very proud, and I would have cried, if not for the fact that my scene was immediately after his. The feeling of being able to help that person shine so much... indescribable. It was as if I was soaring right there with him on the stage, the heat in my gut as insistent as if I had been the one to accomplish such.
He didn't win the best supporting actor award.
I was surprised by how disappointed I was at the decision. For him, for me, it didn't matter. He should have won. He was the best, and everyone knew it. I had so wanted for him to win, wanted so much, even more than for myself. I did cry a little when he didn't, the disappointment was so much I couldn't breathe for some time. It just felt... so unfair.
But he had laughed it off, saying it was a fluke, saying that it wasn't something he'd wanted to win anyway. And as he said those words, I wanted nothing more than to smack him, smack the smile off his face and yell at him that he lost something that was rightfully, rightfully his. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he didn't have more faith in himself, that he didn't care for the award, no matter how small or silly it might have been. It wasn't fair that he had so much potential, it wasn't fair that I, for that one glorious moment of good acting, had envied him and wished it were me instead. It just wasn't fair.
It surprises me just how much people take things for granted. We often see the abilities of others and praise them, but we rarely ever see our own. I knew he had potential. I felt it, felt it so deep in my gut, I would've bet all I had that he would win the stinking award. Had I known how to protest back then, I would have done so for his sake. He had so much potential, so so much... and I just couldn't accept that he wasn't acknowledging the gift. Even laughing if off... I wanted to strangle him.
He never drabbled into acting again, after. Up to now, I wonder how much things would have changed had he won that award. I wonder how much I would have changed.
I wish I hadn't felt so proud.