Hello, Intrepid Readers! I am no longer in my Intermission period! I am now about a week and a half from opening night of The Trojan Women, playing Hecuba, the Queen of the Trojans (or, as I said last night, “I’M THE QUEEN OF THE FUCKING TROJANS!”)
Interestingly, while I was memorizing lines, I would come across some that would make me tear up as a I said them. This isn’t totally unusual for me–it also happened during Going Dark, especially in 2.4. Also usual for me, while I may tear up during memorization, I don’t onstage. I haven’t ever cried–like, legit cried–onstage. Ever. Even when my character is supposed to–what’s up, Veronica in God of Carnage! I see you, girl!–I couldn’t. Why? Fear.
Fear of being truly vulnerable. Fear of being truly seen. Fear of being seen as weak. That fear was the thing that held me back from being truly free on stage and from being my very best as an actor.
…well, y’all. It’s a new fucking day. And time for me to buy some waterproof mascara.
Why this play was the thing to break my record–it held strong for a good 25 years–isn’t entirely clear to me. I think part of it is being a mother, although I’ve played parts since being a mother; but, it’s not just that I am a mother. It’s that I am a mother with a particular set of given circumstances. Hecuba has witnessed the deaths of her husband and some of her children first hand. Her city has fallen. She will be a slave and/or sex slave. (In mythology, she is turned into a dog.) There is no hope. There is nothing left. She starts from a place of loss and just keeps. on. losing.
Another part of it is that somehow I’m not really afraid anymore. I’m not afraid of being vulnerable, or of being seen, or of being seen as weak. Why I don’t know exactly…age maybe? Like being in my early 40s means that I’ve started to run out of fucks to give about what other people think about me–especially when I’m onstage. It’s okay if I’m not “pretty” while I’m in character–and that used to be a concern of mine. Always looking pretty, even if things got dramatic.
I like to be in control and I like to win. This character is neither of those things. She is not in control and she does not win. Not even a little bit.
The given circumstances of motherhood and loss really hit me in different ways each night, but especially when Andromache describes being pregnant with, and giving birth to, her baby son. Andromache’s birth story is my story. My labor was so painful, I’m pretty sure it broke Geneva Convention rules about torture; but, when Little Discoball was placed in my arms, her dad and I both laughed and laughed with joy. So here I am hearing my story, looking at this little doomed baby doll, and I just…cry.
The other thing I’m really tapping into with this character are Details. You might know this as personalizing the part, but I think of it as Detail (shout out to Aaron Glover, for showing me the way of the Detail.) When Hecuba talks about her city, before everything went to shit, I picture my hometown of Houston–downtown, farmers markets, my friends there, the fountains, the parks, and those sunny days when the sky is so blue it’s like you can see into outer space–and I cry. When Hecuba talks about forgetting what her dead family member’s faces look like, I think of my father’s face…and I cry.
I’m also in this play with students and alumni, and if I don’t bring it EVERY. SINGLE. TIME–if I’m not training like I fight and fighting like I train–then what kind of teacher am I? So, tears. (subsequently, those moments when I really fuck up make me super mad at myself, but that’s also part of the process, so I’m learning to let it go and give myself some grace.)
What I didn’t think was going to be a particularly challenging part–I feel like I’ve got the Bad Bitch character down–has turned out to be one of my major breakthrough roles.
The record’s been broken, Intrepid Readers. Time to set a new one.
discoballtartuffe 