I became a "little person" this semester. No, I'm still very tall and my feet are still big. I just became unimportant enough to notice that no one cares about the "behind the scenes" of life.
The Penn State thespian production of Jesus Christ Superstar graced the stage of Schwab Auditorium Palm Sunday weekend. But while consecutive sold-out audiences re-lived the meaning of Easter, I was only able to hear and see a distorted version of the world outside the glass window of the sound booth, which enclosed me with my 100-pound spotlight.
As a superstar myself, shining a light on other people was less than the ideal job, in my mind. Despite dancing like nobody was looking, singing like I was in the shower, and acting like I didn't need the money, I had tried and failed to make the cast.
But before I took a seat on the bitter bus, my metaphorical vehicle for hating what I couldn't have, I decided to stay with the show, just in a different way. I joined the lighting crew, a facet of theater I knew absolutely nothing about. To convince perhaps no one other than myself that I was still essential to the show, I ran the spotlight.
It was a different kind of spotlight than I was used to -- for one, I was not in it. But more importantly, through learning more technical aspects of the production, I realized the importance of the "behind the scenes" people, giving me a refreshing prospective as an actress and young person. All that from a light? Oh, yes, oh, yes.
The part of the production that I had always been part of was the selfish, demanding diva that equated a show with acting, singing and dancing. For my work, I was greeted by thunderous applause that motivated me to try out again next semester.
As an actress, as far as I knew, the set was built by the Schwab ghost somewhere between my departure from Thursday night's rehearsal to my arrival at Sunday night's rehearsal. By some phenomenon of electricity, the lights also started working. I knew work was done, I just didn't know who did it or even how much.
Each light used in a scene is individually hung on a huge pole that takes three large men on a rope to return it to its proper position, 20 feet in the air. The color comes from cutting specially ordered plastics that are individual to each show. To make the light fill only a certain area of the stage, the shutters on each light must be adjusted by hand on a cart suspended in midair. As an audience, we take for granted that the actors will be amazing, after all, that is our Hollywood. But to convince an audience that it is dawn or dusk, a character is evil or kind, or even to focus your eye to a particular area of the stage, the lighting is just as much a celebrity.
The light was heavy and just tall enough to force me to contort my body into a shape that fit sideways under the light. When Judas did cartwheels, I did cartwheels. I "followed" him everywhere.
It was OK that I wasn't the one getting the applause; I could hear it outside the booth. But what was really hard to swallow was the fact that most of the cast didn't even know my name. The set, lights and costumes are designed by a slew of people that the audience never saw. Without them, the actors would be in jeans set in whatever light was outside, on the very convincing black stage floor and curtain.
By assuming a different role, I have become a stronger actress. From the little booth above the stage, all the work that I suddenly became responsible for made my appreciation for the "behind the scenes" people nearly lift the old Schwab roof.
This epiphany for the "behind the scenes" work is really not so new to me, or any Penn State student for that matter. As members of a 40,000-plus campus, becoming a shining star is difficult. Just when we think we have established ourselves as "someone," it's time to get a job. While companies from all over the country come to Penn State looking for outstanding students in academia, leadership, and honors (not one, but all), it is expected that students anticipating employment don nothing other than the black suit and prepare a resume nothing short of the standard style.
This paradox of standing out yet conforming has caused great hordes of uniformed employees-to-be to descend on the Bryce Jordan Center this past week. We are told to get involved, to be a leader, to have an impeccable academic record ... but don't stand out too much or blend in too little ... or dress too flashy or too plain ... or act too pushy or too laid-back ... or wear too much perfume or smell like body odor.
Being students of a large campus and future employees makes our individuality seem unimportant. My spotlighting experience proved that we so called "little people" are not little at all. Though it is merely one small line under my Thespian involvement on my resume, it is one of the most valuable. I was not a leader and it did not boost my GPA. But it does show that I am committed and refrained me from riding the bitter bus. These experiences are what make me who I am, yet do not speak through my resume or my black suit.
I learned to appreciate "the little people" by becoming one: I worked "behind the scenes"; I went to the job fair; I go to Penn State.
