To a world that never seems deprived of death and war, peace seems unattainable, a measly idea that idyllics can dream about and cynics discourage by saying that is foolish. In society today, peace is a foolish dream. In a world were there is always the other side, the enemy, is peace really attainable? With the primal instinct of always wanting to be right and to be the best, peace can never happen. People always must be right, and the quest to prove that often leads to war. But is war programmed in humans, or is carefully taught? A famous Rodgers and Hammerstein song says that hate is carefully taught to young children. If hate is never taught, would peace occur? Peace can be talked about, fantasized about, but is it to late to achieve global peace because to many people have been taught to hate? Has the world famous feeling of love become the world famous feeling of hate? Peace can happen; it’s not just an idea or a foolish dream.
By creating such a long tradition of war, peace seems impossible to most. Since the American Revolution, people think that fighting can get them what they want. Has this idea that war leads to freedom and peace been drilled into the heads of children for so long that that is all the human race knows? People can talk about peace all they want, but without any actions taken, does it matter what people say? If a famed painter says he has a new style of painting, does it count if he never divulges what that style is or paints that way? No. Does it count if Pulitzer winning author says that they have a new storylines and characters for a new play, but never writes it? No. The media can publish so many stories that it seems like the play should have been written, but if it never is, the characters never become people and the story doesn’t make an impact. Every generation that passes without any actions taken towards creating one peaceful earth is another generation that forgets about peace in the same way that the new painting style that was never painted and the unwritten play would be forgotten. Every generation that passes without any actions towards peace, peace fades farther and farther into the background like old photographs of deceased family members. The idea of peace dies faster and faster, and in its place is war and hate.
In order for war not to claim victory over peace, no one can forget the horrors of wars past; the horrors of wars present and the horrors of wars to come, the brutality of war cannot be forgotten. With every war that occurs, the people on earth, no matter where they stand on the issue, become more and more sterile towards those affected. When it comes to war, everybody is the enemy against peace and nobody is right, everyone is wrong. War cannot prevail over peace, and in order for this not to happen, everybody needs to come together and fight against making peace a foolish dream.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
War and Peace Draft 1
To a world that never seems deprived of death and war, peace seems unattainable, a measly idea that idyllics can dream about and cynics discourage by saying that is foolish. That is what peace is to people today--- a foolish dream. In a world were there is always the other side, the enemy. With the primal instinct of always wanting to be right and to be the best, peace can never happen. It can be talked about and dreamed by idyllics and cynics can discourage. People need to realize that peace can happen; it’s not just an idea or a foolish dream. Daily, papers and television news shows reports the death tolls, disabandoned people count, the increasingly high rape numbers of girls and a very young age. Conflicts between multiple countries and threats being made of having nuclear weapons appear routinely. There are never any stories of countries trying to help suffering countries without the use of bullets and bombs. Bullets and bombs are not the answer, and no matter how cliché it sounds, it never is any less true.
By creating such a long tradition of war, peace seems impossible. It is not impossible. People can talk about it all they want, but without any actions taken, does it matter what people say? If a famed painter says he has a new style of painting, does it count if he never divulges what that style is or paints that way? No. Does it count if Pulitzer winning author says that they have a new play, but never writes it? No. Every generation that passes without any actions taken towards creating one peaceful earth is another generation that forgets about peace in the same way that the new painting style that was never painted and the unwritten play would be forgotten. Every generation that passes without any actions towards peace, peace fades farther and farther into the background like old photographs of deceased family members. The idea of peace dies faster and faster, and in its place is war and hate.
In order for war not to claim victory over peace, no one can forget the horrors of wars past; the horrors of wars present and the horrors of wars to come, the brutality of war cannot be forgotten. With every war that occurs, the people on earth, no matter where they stand on the issue, become more and more sterile towards those affected. When it comes to war, everybody is the enemy against peace and nobody is right. Everybody needs to come together and fight against making peace a forgotten ideal.
By creating such a long tradition of war, peace seems impossible. It is not impossible. People can talk about it all they want, but without any actions taken, does it matter what people say? If a famed painter says he has a new style of painting, does it count if he never divulges what that style is or paints that way? No. Does it count if Pulitzer winning author says that they have a new play, but never writes it? No. Every generation that passes without any actions taken towards creating one peaceful earth is another generation that forgets about peace in the same way that the new painting style that was never painted and the unwritten play would be forgotten. Every generation that passes without any actions towards peace, peace fades farther and farther into the background like old photographs of deceased family members. The idea of peace dies faster and faster, and in its place is war and hate.
In order for war not to claim victory over peace, no one can forget the horrors of wars past; the horrors of wars present and the horrors of wars to come, the brutality of war cannot be forgotten. With every war that occurs, the people on earth, no matter where they stand on the issue, become more and more sterile towards those affected. When it comes to war, everybody is the enemy against peace and nobody is right. Everybody needs to come together and fight against making peace a forgotten ideal.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Anything Goes- Including Your Voice (WA-2 Final Draft)
Tuesday morning- I woke up after the first tech rehearsal with no voice. My throat was cloaked with multiple layers of sandpaper. It sounded as if I had been smoking for fifty years. Opening night for Anything Goes was Friday. As Reno, my voice was crucial. As a senior in high school with ambition in musical theatre, this role was crucial to me. I had been working my entire life for this opportunity. My step- dad was in theatre, so he started me in theatre as soon I could dance (which was practically before I could walk). I had performed my fair share of small roles from Baby June in Gypsy to Random White Girl #3 in West Side Story. Now I was Reno in Anything Goes. And I had no voice.
My step- dad, Greg, had no sympathy. He had warned me at Monday’s rehearsal not to push over the pit and the tap dancers. I would have a mic for the performances.
‘Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push,’ Greg said over and over again. I still pushed and now I have no voice.
The news of my voice spread like a tornado whipping through the cast, leaving the remains of a once fantastic musical in its wake. The director kept a calm façade and said that he would figure something out. Greg, who was the vocal coach, began rehearsing the understudy. The director found me in the hall; his dark brown eyes had a sparkle like sparks flying from coal.
‘Allyson,’ he said, ‘we got the mics.’ He simulated the pea sized mic near his ear.
I was confused; I knew that we had been fundraising for these new, wireless mics for the actors. He continued, barely giving me time to respond.
‘Well, we were only going to turn the mics on when you sing, but why don’t we just keep your mic on the entire time? That way you don’t have to strain your voice. Now get to class, I’ll see you at rehearsal!’
I almost hugged him. I was Reno. At lunch, I left school to get tea with honey for my voice. The air seemed crisper than it had when I had left for school. I called my step- dad in the car to give him the news. He was pleased, but still concerned that my voice might not come back. He also reminded me how whispering would only hurt my voice more; I should continue to talk at a normal level but drink lots of tea.
Thursday- My voice came back, but it wasn’t only Greg that was scared that I would lose it again. Now that I had my voice, the nerves kicked in. Opening night loomed closer. I knew I was prepared; we had been in rehearsal for 5 months. I just wanted to not to be Allyson. For 2 days, I just wanted to be Reno Sweeney, the glamorous night club singer.
Friday night- the lights in the audience went down. It was so dark, you couldn’t tell where the auditorium ended. The lights that were aimed at the stage looked like lasers in a rainbow of colors. I was in the lobby of the theatre with my seven ‘angels’ behind me, ready to make my dramatic entrance as Reno. The orchestra played the first chord, before going into the theme of the title song. I was shaking so hard I thought that the bobby pins in my short hair would fall out. I smiled and asked myself how many times in the course of the past five months had I heard that tune? I could have sworn my heart beat that rhythm. I stood by the door to the theatre, anxious for my cue. I finally heard ‘We want a picture of you coming up the gang plank.’ I pushed through the doors and headed towards the rainbow of laser lights, with my angels parading behind me. As I walked towards the stage, I felt the slow decline of the floor under my feet; I had to be careful not to hit the filthy orange chairs filled with audience members. I knew somewhere in the auditorium sat my mom, proud of her little girl. She was probably shaking more than me. My friends from dance school sat in those orange seats, proud of the girl that they had spent years dancing with. The three stairs that led to the stage were the hardest three steps that I ever had to climb. I was wearing character shoes, which unfortunately have an inch and half heel. I knew I could dance in those shoes better than I could climb stairs in them. I was worried my voice would be shaking who I spotted my mom sitting fourth row center. I knew the only thing that would make her breathe for the first time since that same chord in the overture that made me start to shake, would be if I nailed my first song, ‘You’re the Top.’ While Mike, who was playing Billy, sang the beginning, I began to feel less and less nervous. I hadn’t put this much work into this role to end up sounding like a sixty year old chain smoker. I sang, trying to ration my voice so it would last. At the end of the song, I was worried about how the audience perceived it. They loved it, and my mom was finally able to breathe.
Saturday Night- We had finished the final performance. There had been a Friday night, a Saturday matinee and a Saturday night. Each performance, I became more and more confident and morphed more and more into Reno. As the last curtain fell, my adrenaline was still flowing. I turned to the other actors and felt so proud of them. They were my best friends, my family. We didn’t want this to be over. After this, we would all be separated. At the cast party, I knew I wasn’t Reno anymore. I was Allyson again. The space in my stomach where the nerves had lived all weekend now felt empty. This show had been my life for five months. In the blink of an eye, it was all over.
My step- dad, Greg, had no sympathy. He had warned me at Monday’s rehearsal not to push over the pit and the tap dancers. I would have a mic for the performances.
‘Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push,’ Greg said over and over again. I still pushed and now I have no voice.
The news of my voice spread like a tornado whipping through the cast, leaving the remains of a once fantastic musical in its wake. The director kept a calm façade and said that he would figure something out. Greg, who was the vocal coach, began rehearsing the understudy. The director found me in the hall; his dark brown eyes had a sparkle like sparks flying from coal.
‘Allyson,’ he said, ‘we got the mics.’ He simulated the pea sized mic near his ear.
I was confused; I knew that we had been fundraising for these new, wireless mics for the actors. He continued, barely giving me time to respond.
‘Well, we were only going to turn the mics on when you sing, but why don’t we just keep your mic on the entire time? That way you don’t have to strain your voice. Now get to class, I’ll see you at rehearsal!’
I almost hugged him. I was Reno. At lunch, I left school to get tea with honey for my voice. The air seemed crisper than it had when I had left for school. I called my step- dad in the car to give him the news. He was pleased, but still concerned that my voice might not come back. He also reminded me how whispering would only hurt my voice more; I should continue to talk at a normal level but drink lots of tea.
Thursday- My voice came back, but it wasn’t only Greg that was scared that I would lose it again. Now that I had my voice, the nerves kicked in. Opening night loomed closer. I knew I was prepared; we had been in rehearsal for 5 months. I just wanted to not to be Allyson. For 2 days, I just wanted to be Reno Sweeney, the glamorous night club singer.
Friday night- the lights in the audience went down. It was so dark, you couldn’t tell where the auditorium ended. The lights that were aimed at the stage looked like lasers in a rainbow of colors. I was in the lobby of the theatre with my seven ‘angels’ behind me, ready to make my dramatic entrance as Reno. The orchestra played the first chord, before going into the theme of the title song. I was shaking so hard I thought that the bobby pins in my short hair would fall out. I smiled and asked myself how many times in the course of the past five months had I heard that tune? I could have sworn my heart beat that rhythm. I stood by the door to the theatre, anxious for my cue. I finally heard ‘We want a picture of you coming up the gang plank.’ I pushed through the doors and headed towards the rainbow of laser lights, with my angels parading behind me. As I walked towards the stage, I felt the slow decline of the floor under my feet; I had to be careful not to hit the filthy orange chairs filled with audience members. I knew somewhere in the auditorium sat my mom, proud of her little girl. She was probably shaking more than me. My friends from dance school sat in those orange seats, proud of the girl that they had spent years dancing with. The three stairs that led to the stage were the hardest three steps that I ever had to climb. I was wearing character shoes, which unfortunately have an inch and half heel. I knew I could dance in those shoes better than I could climb stairs in them. I was worried my voice would be shaking who I spotted my mom sitting fourth row center. I knew the only thing that would make her breathe for the first time since that same chord in the overture that made me start to shake, would be if I nailed my first song, ‘You’re the Top.’ While Mike, who was playing Billy, sang the beginning, I began to feel less and less nervous. I hadn’t put this much work into this role to end up sounding like a sixty year old chain smoker. I sang, trying to ration my voice so it would last. At the end of the song, I was worried about how the audience perceived it. They loved it, and my mom was finally able to breathe.
Saturday Night- We had finished the final performance. There had been a Friday night, a Saturday matinee and a Saturday night. Each performance, I became more and more confident and morphed more and more into Reno. As the last curtain fell, my adrenaline was still flowing. I turned to the other actors and felt so proud of them. They were my best friends, my family. We didn’t want this to be over. After this, we would all be separated. At the cast party, I knew I wasn’t Reno anymore. I was Allyson again. The space in my stomach where the nerves had lived all weekend now felt empty. This show had been my life for five months. In the blink of an eye, it was all over.
Monday, October 20, 2008
WA 2 Draft 2
Tuesday morning- I woke up after the first tech rehearsal with almost no voice. Opening night for Anything Goes was Friday. As Reno, my voice was crucial. As a senior in high school with an ambition in musical theatre, this role was crucial to me. I had been working my entire life for this opportunity. My entire life had been spent in the theatre. My step- dad was in theatre, so he started me in theatre since I could dance (which was practically before I could walk). I had performed my fair share of small roles from Baby June in Gypsy to Random White Girl #3 in West Side Story. Now, curtain up, light the lights because it’s my turn. I was Reno in Anything Goes. And I had no voice.
My step- dad, Greg, had no sympathy. He had warned me at Monday’s rehearsal not to push over the pit and the tap dancers. I would have a mic for the performances. Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push Greg said over and over again. I still pushed and now I have no voice as evidence.
The news of my lost voice spread quickly around the cast like wildfire. The director kept his calm façade and said that he would figure something out. Greg, who was the vocal coach, began rehearsing the understudy incase, god forbid, she had to be used. Then my director found me in the hall, his dark brown eyes had a shine that reminded me of sparks excitingly flying from coal. He pulled me over, his hands practically jittering as if he had received a standing ovation. Or just been told that he couldn’t perform.
‘Allyson,’ he said, ‘we got the mics.’ He created an imaginary pea sized mic near his ear.
I was confused; I knew that we had been fundraising for these new, wireless mics for the 6 leads. He continued, barely giving me time to respond.
‘Well, we were only going to turn the mics on when you sing, but why don’t we just keep your mic on the entire time? That way you don’t have to strain your voice. Now get to class, I’ll see you at rehearsal!’
I almost hugged him. I was Reno. At lunch, I left school to get tea with honey. The air seemed crisper than it had when I had left for school. I called my step- dad in the car to give him the news. He was pleased, but still concerned that my voice might come back. He also reminded me how whispering would only hurt my voice more; I should continue to talk at a normal level but drink lots of tea.
Thursday- My voice came back, but it wasn’t only Greg that was scared that I would lose it again. Now that I had my voice, the nerves kicked in. Opening night loomed closer. I knew I was prepared; we had been in rehearsal for 5 months. I just wanted to not to be Allyson for 2 days, I wanted to be Reno Sweeney, the glamorous Evangelical night club singer.
Friday night- the lights in the audience went down. It was so dark, you couldn’t tell where the auditorium ended. The lights that were aimed at the stage looked like lasers in a rainbow of colors. I was in the lobby of the theatre with my seven ‘angels’ behind me, ready to make my dramatic Reno entrance. The pit played the first chord, before going into the theme of the title song. The nerves were making me shake so hard I thought that the bobby pins in my hair would fall out. I smiled and asked myself how many times in the course of the past five months had I heard that tune? I could have sworn my heart beat that rhythm. I stood by the door to the theatre, anxious for my cue. I heard ‘We want a picture of you coming up the gang plank.’ I headed towards the rainbow of laser lights, with my 7 angels parading behind me. As I walked towards the stage, I felt the slow decline of the floor under my feet; I had to be careful not to hit the filthy orange chairs filled with audience members that came to see me. I knew somewhere in the auditorium sat my mom, proud of her little girl that used to wear coke bottle glasses. My friends from dance school sat in those orange seats, proud of the girl that they had spent years dancing with. Some had even been in previous shows with me. Probably the most important audience members that sat in those filthy orange chairs was a representative from my dream school- Columbia College of the Performing Arts. He was there to see me, to see Reno. The three stairs that led to the stage were the hardest three steps that I ever had to climb. I was wearing my character shoes, which unfortunately have an inch and half heal. I knew I could dance in those shoes better then I could climb stairs in them. This was good, since my first song, ‘You’re the Top’ was practically as soon as I got on stage. I braced myself. I was worried my voice would be shaking like my mom, who I had spotted in the fourth row center. She was shaking for me. When I saw how nervous she was, I knew the only thing that would make her breathe for the first time since that same chord in the overture that made me start to shake, would be if I nailed this song. While Mike, who was playing Billy, sang the beginning, I began to feel less and less nervous. The nerves had transformed into excitement. I hadn’t put this much work into this role to mess up now. I sang, trying to safe my voice, while still sounding good. At the end of the song, I was worried about how the audience thought Mike and I did. I felt good about it, and when we hit that last chord, I knew Mike did too. Just because we were happy, doesn’t mean the audience thought it was good. The audience loved it, and my mom finally was able to breathe.
Saturday Night- We had finished the final of the three performances. There had been a Friday night, a Saturday matinee and a Saturday night. Each performance, I became more and more confident and morphed more and more into Reno. As the last curtain fell my adrenaline was still flowing. I turned to the other leads and felt so proud of them. They were my best friends, my family. We didn’t want this to be over. After this, we would all be separated.
At the cast party, I knew I wasn’t Reno anymore. I was Allyson again. The space in my stomach where the nerves had lived all weekend now felt empty. This show had been my life for five months. In the fall, I would leave for Chicago to be a musical theatre major at Columbia College. The theatre scout had liked me enough to give me a full dance scholarship. This was the only comforting part of the show being over.
My step- dad, Greg, had no sympathy. He had warned me at Monday’s rehearsal not to push over the pit and the tap dancers. I would have a mic for the performances. Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push Greg said over and over again. I still pushed and now I have no voice as evidence.
The news of my lost voice spread quickly around the cast like wildfire. The director kept his calm façade and said that he would figure something out. Greg, who was the vocal coach, began rehearsing the understudy incase, god forbid, she had to be used. Then my director found me in the hall, his dark brown eyes had a shine that reminded me of sparks excitingly flying from coal. He pulled me over, his hands practically jittering as if he had received a standing ovation. Or just been told that he couldn’t perform.
‘Allyson,’ he said, ‘we got the mics.’ He created an imaginary pea sized mic near his ear.
I was confused; I knew that we had been fundraising for these new, wireless mics for the 6 leads. He continued, barely giving me time to respond.
‘Well, we were only going to turn the mics on when you sing, but why don’t we just keep your mic on the entire time? That way you don’t have to strain your voice. Now get to class, I’ll see you at rehearsal!’
I almost hugged him. I was Reno. At lunch, I left school to get tea with honey. The air seemed crisper than it had when I had left for school. I called my step- dad in the car to give him the news. He was pleased, but still concerned that my voice might come back. He also reminded me how whispering would only hurt my voice more; I should continue to talk at a normal level but drink lots of tea.
Thursday- My voice came back, but it wasn’t only Greg that was scared that I would lose it again. Now that I had my voice, the nerves kicked in. Opening night loomed closer. I knew I was prepared; we had been in rehearsal for 5 months. I just wanted to not to be Allyson for 2 days, I wanted to be Reno Sweeney, the glamorous Evangelical night club singer.
Friday night- the lights in the audience went down. It was so dark, you couldn’t tell where the auditorium ended. The lights that were aimed at the stage looked like lasers in a rainbow of colors. I was in the lobby of the theatre with my seven ‘angels’ behind me, ready to make my dramatic Reno entrance. The pit played the first chord, before going into the theme of the title song. The nerves were making me shake so hard I thought that the bobby pins in my hair would fall out. I smiled and asked myself how many times in the course of the past five months had I heard that tune? I could have sworn my heart beat that rhythm. I stood by the door to the theatre, anxious for my cue. I heard ‘We want a picture of you coming up the gang plank.’ I headed towards the rainbow of laser lights, with my 7 angels parading behind me. As I walked towards the stage, I felt the slow decline of the floor under my feet; I had to be careful not to hit the filthy orange chairs filled with audience members that came to see me. I knew somewhere in the auditorium sat my mom, proud of her little girl that used to wear coke bottle glasses. My friends from dance school sat in those orange seats, proud of the girl that they had spent years dancing with. Some had even been in previous shows with me. Probably the most important audience members that sat in those filthy orange chairs was a representative from my dream school- Columbia College of the Performing Arts. He was there to see me, to see Reno. The three stairs that led to the stage were the hardest three steps that I ever had to climb. I was wearing my character shoes, which unfortunately have an inch and half heal. I knew I could dance in those shoes better then I could climb stairs in them. This was good, since my first song, ‘You’re the Top’ was practically as soon as I got on stage. I braced myself. I was worried my voice would be shaking like my mom, who I had spotted in the fourth row center. She was shaking for me. When I saw how nervous she was, I knew the only thing that would make her breathe for the first time since that same chord in the overture that made me start to shake, would be if I nailed this song. While Mike, who was playing Billy, sang the beginning, I began to feel less and less nervous. The nerves had transformed into excitement. I hadn’t put this much work into this role to mess up now. I sang, trying to safe my voice, while still sounding good. At the end of the song, I was worried about how the audience thought Mike and I did. I felt good about it, and when we hit that last chord, I knew Mike did too. Just because we were happy, doesn’t mean the audience thought it was good. The audience loved it, and my mom finally was able to breathe.
Saturday Night- We had finished the final of the three performances. There had been a Friday night, a Saturday matinee and a Saturday night. Each performance, I became more and more confident and morphed more and more into Reno. As the last curtain fell my adrenaline was still flowing. I turned to the other leads and felt so proud of them. They were my best friends, my family. We didn’t want this to be over. After this, we would all be separated.
At the cast party, I knew I wasn’t Reno anymore. I was Allyson again. The space in my stomach where the nerves had lived all weekend now felt empty. This show had been my life for five months. In the fall, I would leave for Chicago to be a musical theatre major at Columbia College. The theatre scout had liked me enough to give me a full dance scholarship. This was the only comforting part of the show being over.
Friday, October 10, 2008
WA- 2 Draft 1
Tuesday morning- I woke up after the first tech rehearsal with almost no voice. Opening night was Friday. As Reno, my voice was crucial. As a senior in high school with an ambition in musical theatre, this role was crucial to me. I had been working my entire life for this opportunity. I had been in theatre my entire life. My step- dad is the pianist for most of the musical theatre in Charlottesville, and he put me in theatre since I could dance (which was practically before I could walk). I had performed my fair share of small roles from Baby June in Gypsy to Random White Girl #3 in West Side Story. Now, curtain up, light the lights because it’s my turn. I was Reno in Anything Goes. And I had no voice.
My step- dad had no sympathy. He had warned me at rehearsal yesterday not to push over the pit and the tap dancers. I would have a mic. Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push he said over and over again. I still pushed and now I have no voice as evidence.
At school, the news of my lost voice spread quickly around the cast. Panic spread like wildfire. The director, though, remained his calm façade and said that he would figure something out. My dad, who was the vocal coach, began rehearsing the understudy incase, god forbid, she had to be used. Then my director found me in the hall, his dark brown eyes had a shine that reminded me of sparks excitingly flying from coal. He pulled me over, his hands practically jittering from excitement.
‘Allyson,’ he said, the sparks that were in his eyes were apparent in his voice as well. ‘We got the mics.’
I was confused; I knew that we had been fundraising for these new, wireless mics for the 6 leads that were about the size of a pea. He created an imaginary mic near his ear and continued,
‘Well, we were only going to turn the mics on when you sing, but why don’t we just keep your mic on the entire time? That way you don’t have to strain your voice. Now get to class, I’ll see you at rehearsal!’
I almost hugged him. I was going to be able to play Reno. At lunch, I went to get some tea with honey. The air seemed crisper than it had when I had left for school. I called my dad in the car to give him the news. He reminded me how whispering would only hurt my voice more; I should continue to talk at a normal level but drink lots of tea.
Throughout the week, I drank boatloads of tea. My voice came back, but everyone was scared that I would lose it again. I was excited that I had my voice, but now the nerves kicked in. Opening night loomed closer. I knew I was prepared; we had been in rehearsal for 5 months. I just wanted to not to be Allyson for 2 days, I wanted to be Reno Sweeney, the Evangelical night club singer.
Friday night- the lights in the audience went down. You couldn’t tell where the auditorium ended. The lights that were aimed at the stage looked like lasers in a rainbow of colors. I was in the lobby of the theatre, ready to make my dramatic Reno entrance. The pit played the first chord, before going into the theme of the title song. I smiled and asked myself how many times in the course of the past five months had I heard that famous tune? I stood by the door to the theatre, waiting impatiently for my cue. When I heard it, I opened the door and walked towards the rainbow of laser lights, with my 7 backup singers parading behind me. As I walked towards the stage, I felt the slow decline of the floor under my feet; I had to be careful not to hit the filthy orange chairs filled with viewers that came to see me. I knew somewhere in the audience my mom sat, proud of her little girl that used to where coke bottle glasses. My friends from dance school sat, proud of the girl that they had spent hours on end dancing with and singing show tunes with. Probably the most important audience members that sat in those filthy orange chairs was a representative from my dream school- Columbia College of the Performing Arts. He was there to see me, to see Reno. We had three performances, Friday night, a Saturday matinee and a Saturday night. Each performance, I became more and more confident and morphed more and more into Reno. As the last curtain fell Saturday night, my adrenaline was still flowing. I turned to the other leads and felt so proud of them. We didn’t want this to be over.
At the cast party, I knew I wasn’t Reno anymore. I was Allyson again. In the fall, I would leave for Chicago to be a musical theatre major at Columbia College for the Performing Arts on a full dance scholarship. I hope that I will have many more roles as good as Reno. My parents were concerned that I would never get a job. They had faith in my talent, but as my dad has learned, there are many talented actresses auditioning for the same few roles. Playing Reno made me realize what the most successful actresses have gone through, and I know I can handle it.
My step- dad had no sympathy. He had warned me at rehearsal yesterday not to push over the pit and the tap dancers. I would have a mic. Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push he said over and over again. I still pushed and now I have no voice as evidence.
At school, the news of my lost voice spread quickly around the cast. Panic spread like wildfire. The director, though, remained his calm façade and said that he would figure something out. My dad, who was the vocal coach, began rehearsing the understudy incase, god forbid, she had to be used. Then my director found me in the hall, his dark brown eyes had a shine that reminded me of sparks excitingly flying from coal. He pulled me over, his hands practically jittering from excitement.
‘Allyson,’ he said, the sparks that were in his eyes were apparent in his voice as well. ‘We got the mics.’
I was confused; I knew that we had been fundraising for these new, wireless mics for the 6 leads that were about the size of a pea. He created an imaginary mic near his ear and continued,
‘Well, we were only going to turn the mics on when you sing, but why don’t we just keep your mic on the entire time? That way you don’t have to strain your voice. Now get to class, I’ll see you at rehearsal!’
I almost hugged him. I was going to be able to play Reno. At lunch, I went to get some tea with honey. The air seemed crisper than it had when I had left for school. I called my dad in the car to give him the news. He reminded me how whispering would only hurt my voice more; I should continue to talk at a normal level but drink lots of tea.
Throughout the week, I drank boatloads of tea. My voice came back, but everyone was scared that I would lose it again. I was excited that I had my voice, but now the nerves kicked in. Opening night loomed closer. I knew I was prepared; we had been in rehearsal for 5 months. I just wanted to not to be Allyson for 2 days, I wanted to be Reno Sweeney, the Evangelical night club singer.
Friday night- the lights in the audience went down. You couldn’t tell where the auditorium ended. The lights that were aimed at the stage looked like lasers in a rainbow of colors. I was in the lobby of the theatre, ready to make my dramatic Reno entrance. The pit played the first chord, before going into the theme of the title song. I smiled and asked myself how many times in the course of the past five months had I heard that famous tune? I stood by the door to the theatre, waiting impatiently for my cue. When I heard it, I opened the door and walked towards the rainbow of laser lights, with my 7 backup singers parading behind me. As I walked towards the stage, I felt the slow decline of the floor under my feet; I had to be careful not to hit the filthy orange chairs filled with viewers that came to see me. I knew somewhere in the audience my mom sat, proud of her little girl that used to where coke bottle glasses. My friends from dance school sat, proud of the girl that they had spent hours on end dancing with and singing show tunes with. Probably the most important audience members that sat in those filthy orange chairs was a representative from my dream school- Columbia College of the Performing Arts. He was there to see me, to see Reno. We had three performances, Friday night, a Saturday matinee and a Saturday night. Each performance, I became more and more confident and morphed more and more into Reno. As the last curtain fell Saturday night, my adrenaline was still flowing. I turned to the other leads and felt so proud of them. We didn’t want this to be over.
At the cast party, I knew I wasn’t Reno anymore. I was Allyson again. In the fall, I would leave for Chicago to be a musical theatre major at Columbia College for the Performing Arts on a full dance scholarship. I hope that I will have many more roles as good as Reno. My parents were concerned that I would never get a job. They had faith in my talent, but as my dad has learned, there are many talented actresses auditioning for the same few roles. Playing Reno made me realize what the most successful actresses have gone through, and I know I can handle it.
Monday, September 29, 2008
WA 1 Final Draft
As the plane began to move down the runway at the Traverse City airport en route to Detroit, I was suddenly glad for the excruciatingly load roar of the plane. Because of the noise, nobody could hear my sniffles and the plopping sound of tears falling on the letters in my lap. The tears represented more then the end of summer break. It was as if each tear was a memory of Interlochen that I would never have again. I was thankful that the engine could cover the screaming sounds of the stories that were streaming down my face. These were my memories, I didn’t want to share them, but most importantly, I did not want to forget them.
In the middle of June I arrived at Interlochen, an arts camp with 81 years of traditions, including uniforms of light blue polos and navy shorts, knee socks, knickers, and train-letters. It’s a camp full of aspiring musicians, actors, artists, dancers and film makers. In the entirety of the camp, all 2,000 campers, I didn't know anyone. The buildings all looked unfamiliar-Kresge and the Bowl, Stone and Corson, Pinecrest. Amidst all the fear and nerves I was feeling, I knew I really wanted to be there. Compared to the hot, heavy, humid Virginia air, the crisp Michigan air felt light and clear, like a new music to be learned. I was scared to see my parents leave; I could only hope that the girls that I would be spending 6 weeks living with would like me. As time passed, contrary to what I believed, I missed my parents less and less. I dreaded the day that they would come and take me away. The girls in my cabin who were once perfect strangers grew to love me, and I loved back. The once seemingly unfamiliar landscape and buildings became more familiar to me than Charlottesville.
Interlochen became my home, and the girls in my cabin became my family. We joked that our counselors were like our parents, and we even ventured to call them 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' every once in a while. People say that you never really get to know someone until you live with them. One girl, Lindsey Wells would leave all of her knee socks and polos around the cabin. When we tried to eat on the communal table, all we could see were clothes label on the inside collar that read ‘Wells.’ Another girl, Maryn, had to brush her eyebrows with a special eyebrow brush every morning after she woke up and every night before she went to bed. Angie never slept in pants. Ellen had to sing while she brushed and straightened her hair every morning.
When I got in the rental car with my parents at 6 am I grabbed for my envelope of train letters. I had been up for an hour already with my friends Molly and Genevieve. Throughout the summer, we had formed traditions such as frolicking to Frohlich, the piano/ percussion building, and daily rendezvous on the road after classes. We would watch all the staff walk by on the way to their cabins and talk about our days. I had an 8 am flight, so my parents were coming at 6. We had decided that on the last day, before any of us had left, we would have our final frolic to Frohlich and our final rendezvous. The time I was with my parents, I was already crying. I couldn't imagine what these letters would do to me.
Train letters are an Interlochen tradition. Your friends write you a letter telling you everything they didn't get to tell you and things they already have told you, but are bare repeating. They remind you of things that you've done together. When Interlochen began, people used to read their on the train, which is how they got their name. Now, everyone read them on the way home, regardless of the transportation. During the last week of camp, I had been eyeing the envelope with my name on it fill up with the letters. I had to resist every temptation to read what my friends had written while we were all still together. I had to wait until I left so that I could make use of every last second we had together.
The letters were packed with emotion. Like a suitcase after a long journey, there were so many memories jammed into one page. Some of them I didn’t even remember, but had made an impact on my friends. I couldn’t hold my tears couldn't hold back.
On the plane, I read the letter from Genevieve. I had stopped crying before I got to security in the airport, but Genevieve's letter did me in. Her letter was so concise, yet so intense that I just began to sob right on the spot. I'm fairly sure the man in the seat next to me did not have the faintest idea of how I felt. Genevieve has straight, a medium shade of brown hair that stops past her shoulder. She has hazel eyes, a Chicago accent and is very sarcastic. She wrote:
"Sara, I love you more then anything I've loved anything in my life. You may wonder why? You may not. Either way, I'm going to tell you anyway. You are amazing! You're super- talented, have awesome hair, are really pretty in general, are fun and funny, and are super nice. Most importantly, you supply me with a general supply of tic- tacs."
Some people wrote another type of train letter. Molly was one such person. Molly has hair resembling Rapunzel- thick, long and blonde, and a quick wit. She wrote about memories of some of the things that we did together:
"Who will I rendezvous with? Who/ where will I frolic with/to? Whose iPod will I borrow? Who will I eat with at Stone, fantasize about the reading orchestra, sing Company with, get kicked out of Corsen and DeRoy, follow the guy who thinks he's my teacher's potential lovers and be crazy with?"
The memories made me smile and feel good, but the tears were still flowing because I knew that we could never frolic to Frohlich or rendezvous in the road with Molly anymore. We wouldn't be able to make any new stories or continue any traditions that we had formed.
When I got off of the plane, I had read a dozen or more letters. By the time I landed in the Detroit airport, I had regained my composure, with only bloodshot eyes and a flushed face to hint at my previous state. I checked my phone, and it said that I had a voice mail from Jane, my viola teacher from Interlochen. Jane is one the people I had grown closest to at Interlochen. She was everyone's mother, and loved every one of her students just as much as she did her own children. I listened to her message, already trying to blink back the rivers I could feel forming in my eyes. Jane apologized for not getting me my train letter in time, and was calling to leave me a train voicemail instead. By this point, the streams I had successfully managed to hold back suddenly became like Niagara Falls and I could do nothing to stop it. I was a huge spectacle in the Detroit airport, Jane's message pushed me into tears that I knew wouldn't be the last I shed about being home from Interlochen.
When our plane from Detroit landed in Charlottesville, I knew summer was officially over. I felt empty, like the body of a viola that had just been shut back in its case for the final time. I knew I had left something in Interlochen, Michigan. Who knew that the city- girl that I am could miss rural Michigan so much. What I learned is that the place doesn’t matter. It’s the people that you are with. We could have been in Boston, Chicago, LA. or Enid, Oklahoma and we still would have been happy together. Since my return, I have read and reread those letters from the girls with whom I had spent six weeks. In the meantime before next summer, my envelope of train- letters sits in my backpack. I want to carry the memories with me all the time, just to make sure I don't forget anything about this summer.
In the middle of June I arrived at Interlochen, an arts camp with 81 years of traditions, including uniforms of light blue polos and navy shorts, knee socks, knickers, and train-letters. It’s a camp full of aspiring musicians, actors, artists, dancers and film makers. In the entirety of the camp, all 2,000 campers, I didn't know anyone. The buildings all looked unfamiliar-Kresge and the Bowl, Stone and Corson, Pinecrest. Amidst all the fear and nerves I was feeling, I knew I really wanted to be there. Compared to the hot, heavy, humid Virginia air, the crisp Michigan air felt light and clear, like a new music to be learned. I was scared to see my parents leave; I could only hope that the girls that I would be spending 6 weeks living with would like me. As time passed, contrary to what I believed, I missed my parents less and less. I dreaded the day that they would come and take me away. The girls in my cabin who were once perfect strangers grew to love me, and I loved back. The once seemingly unfamiliar landscape and buildings became more familiar to me than Charlottesville.
Interlochen became my home, and the girls in my cabin became my family. We joked that our counselors were like our parents, and we even ventured to call them 'Mommy' and 'Daddy' every once in a while. People say that you never really get to know someone until you live with them. One girl, Lindsey Wells would leave all of her knee socks and polos around the cabin. When we tried to eat on the communal table, all we could see were clothes label on the inside collar that read ‘Wells.’ Another girl, Maryn, had to brush her eyebrows with a special eyebrow brush every morning after she woke up and every night before she went to bed. Angie never slept in pants. Ellen had to sing while she brushed and straightened her hair every morning.
When I got in the rental car with my parents at 6 am I grabbed for my envelope of train letters. I had been up for an hour already with my friends Molly and Genevieve. Throughout the summer, we had formed traditions such as frolicking to Frohlich, the piano/ percussion building, and daily rendezvous on the road after classes. We would watch all the staff walk by on the way to their cabins and talk about our days. I had an 8 am flight, so my parents were coming at 6. We had decided that on the last day, before any of us had left, we would have our final frolic to Frohlich and our final rendezvous. The time I was with my parents, I was already crying. I couldn't imagine what these letters would do to me.
Train letters are an Interlochen tradition. Your friends write you a letter telling you everything they didn't get to tell you and things they already have told you, but are bare repeating. They remind you of things that you've done together. When Interlochen began, people used to read their on the train, which is how they got their name. Now, everyone read them on the way home, regardless of the transportation. During the last week of camp, I had been eyeing the envelope with my name on it fill up with the letters. I had to resist every temptation to read what my friends had written while we were all still together. I had to wait until I left so that I could make use of every last second we had together.
The letters were packed with emotion. Like a suitcase after a long journey, there were so many memories jammed into one page. Some of them I didn’t even remember, but had made an impact on my friends. I couldn’t hold my tears couldn't hold back.
On the plane, I read the letter from Genevieve. I had stopped crying before I got to security in the airport, but Genevieve's letter did me in. Her letter was so concise, yet so intense that I just began to sob right on the spot. I'm fairly sure the man in the seat next to me did not have the faintest idea of how I felt. Genevieve has straight, a medium shade of brown hair that stops past her shoulder. She has hazel eyes, a Chicago accent and is very sarcastic. She wrote:
"Sara, I love you more then anything I've loved anything in my life. You may wonder why? You may not. Either way, I'm going to tell you anyway. You are amazing! You're super- talented, have awesome hair, are really pretty in general, are fun and funny, and are super nice. Most importantly, you supply me with a general supply of tic- tacs."
Some people wrote another type of train letter. Molly was one such person. Molly has hair resembling Rapunzel- thick, long and blonde, and a quick wit. She wrote about memories of some of the things that we did together:
"Who will I rendezvous with? Who/ where will I frolic with/to? Whose iPod will I borrow? Who will I eat with at Stone, fantasize about the reading orchestra, sing Company with, get kicked out of Corsen and DeRoy, follow the guy who thinks he's my teacher's potential lovers and be crazy with?"
The memories made me smile and feel good, but the tears were still flowing because I knew that we could never frolic to Frohlich or rendezvous in the road with Molly anymore. We wouldn't be able to make any new stories or continue any traditions that we had formed.
When I got off of the plane, I had read a dozen or more letters. By the time I landed in the Detroit airport, I had regained my composure, with only bloodshot eyes and a flushed face to hint at my previous state. I checked my phone, and it said that I had a voice mail from Jane, my viola teacher from Interlochen. Jane is one the people I had grown closest to at Interlochen. She was everyone's mother, and loved every one of her students just as much as she did her own children. I listened to her message, already trying to blink back the rivers I could feel forming in my eyes. Jane apologized for not getting me my train letter in time, and was calling to leave me a train voicemail instead. By this point, the streams I had successfully managed to hold back suddenly became like Niagara Falls and I could do nothing to stop it. I was a huge spectacle in the Detroit airport, Jane's message pushed me into tears that I knew wouldn't be the last I shed about being home from Interlochen.
When our plane from Detroit landed in Charlottesville, I knew summer was officially over. I felt empty, like the body of a viola that had just been shut back in its case for the final time. I knew I had left something in Interlochen, Michigan. Who knew that the city- girl that I am could miss rural Michigan so much. What I learned is that the place doesn’t matter. It’s the people that you are with. We could have been in Boston, Chicago, LA. or Enid, Oklahoma and we still would have been happy together. Since my return, I have read and reread those letters from the girls with whom I had spent six weeks. In the meantime before next summer, my envelope of train- letters sits in my backpack. I want to carry the memories with me all the time, just to make sure I don't forget anything about this summer.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
WA 1 Draft 2
Most people miss people more and more as time passes. In the middle of June I arrived at Interlochen, an arts camp with 81 years of traditions, including the uniform and knickers. I didn’t know anyone, the buildings all looked unfamiliar- Kresge and the Bowl, Stone and Corson, Pinecrest. Amidst all the fear and nerves I was feeling, I knew I really wanted to be there. The sky was blue and the air was crisp and clear, like a new book waiting to be read. I was scared to see my parents leave; I could only hope that the girls that I would be spending 6 weeks living with would like me. As time passed, I missed my parents less and less. I dreaded the day that they would come and take me away. The girls in my cabin who were once perfect strangers did grow to love me, and I grew to love them too. The once seemingly unfamiliar landscape and buildings became more familiar to me then the place I called home.
Interlochen became my home, and the girls in my cabin became my family. We joked that our counselors were like our parents, and we even ventured to call them ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ every once in a while. People always say that you never really get to know someone until you live with them. Well, we knew everything about everyone in our cabin. Personal hygiene was no longer private and living habits revealed themselves more and more throughout the summer. Like sisters, we confided our problems to each other- secrets we could not even confide in with our best friends at home. Huddled on our bunk beds way past when the rules said the lights should be off, we would sit with flashlights and talk late into the night. Throughout the entire summer, the thought of having to write train- letters loomed over us all. Train-letters marked the end of a segment of our lives that we didn’t want to end.
As soon as I got in the rental car with my parents at 6 am I grabbed for my envelope of train letters. I had been up for an hour already with my friends Molly and Genevieve. Throughout the summer, we had formed traditions such as frolicking to Frohlich, the piano percussion building, and the most important were our daily randez- vous on the road after classes. We would watch all the staff walk by on the way to their cabins and talk about our days. I had an 8 am flight, so my parents were coming at 6. we had decided that on the last day, before any of us had left, we would have our final frolic to Frohlich and our final randez- vous. So by the time I was with my parents, I was already crying. I couldn’t imagine what these letters would do to me.
Train letters are an Interlochen tradition. Your friends write you a letter telling you everything they didn’t get to tell you and things they already have told you, but are worth repeating. They remind you of things that you’ve done together and what about you they love. When Interlochen first was started, people used to read their on the train. Now, you read them on your way home, regardless of the transportation method. During the last week of camp, I had been eyeing the envelope with my name on it fill up with the letters from the girls whom I had begun to think of as family. I had to resist every temptation to read what my friends had written while I was still with them. I had to wait until I left and make use of every last second we had together meaningful.
The letters were packed with emotion and six weeks full of feelings, like a suitcase after a long journey. There were so many memories jammed into one page that my tears couldn’t hold back. My letters were filled with all sorts of compliments and memories. As good as the compliments made me feel, the tears where flowing faster and harder then before.
On the plane, I read the letter from Genevieve. I had stopped crying before I got to security in the airport, but Genevieve’s letter did me in. Her letter was so concise, yet so intense that I just began to sob right on the spot. I’m fairly sure the guy in the seat next to me did not have the faintest idea of how I felt and thought I was crazy. Genevieve has straight, a medium shade of brown hair that stops half way down her bicep. She has hazel eyes and a Chicago accent. Genevieve always says how much she hates people, but she likes an unusual amount of people at Interlochen. She is fairy sarcastic, and so she managed to keep herself in this letter and still tell what she wanted to say. She wrote:
“Sara, I love you more then anything I’ve loved anything in my life. You may wonder why? You may not. Either way, I’m going to tell you anyway. You are amazing! You’re super- talented, have awesome hair, are really pretty in general, are fun and funny, and are super nice. Most importantly, you supply me with a general supply of tic- tacs.”
Some people wrote another type of train letter- like Molly for instance. Molly has hair resembling Rapunzel- thick, long and blonde, and a quick wit. She wrote about the memories of some of the things that we did together:
“Who will I randez- vous with? Who/ where will I frolick with/to? Whose iPod will I borrow? Who will I eat with at stone, fantasize about the reading orchestra, sing Company with, get kicked out of Corsen and DeRoy, follow the guy who thinks he’s my teacher’s potential lovers and be crazy with?”
The memories made me smile and feel good, but the tears were still flowing because I knew that we could never frolick to Frohlich or randez- vous in the road with Molly anymore. We wouldn’t be able to make any new stories and keep up the traditions that we had formed.
When I got off of the plane, I had read a dozen more letters that I had similar reactions to that of Genevieve and Molly’s. By the time I landed in the Detroit airport, I had regained my composure, with only bloodshot eyes and a flushed face to hint at my previous state. I checked my phone, and it said that I had a voice mail from my viola teacher from Interlochen, Jane. Jane is one the people I had grown closest to at Interlochen, besides Molly and Genevieve. She was everyone’s mother, and loved every one of her students just as much as she did her own. I listened to the message, already trying to blink back the rivers I could feel forming in my eyes. Jane apologized for not getting me my train letter in time, and was calling to leave me a train voicemail. By this point, the rivers I had successfully managed to hold back suddenly became like Niagara Falls and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I was a huge spectacle in the Detroit airport, but nonetheless, Jane’s message pushed me into tears that I knew wouldn’t be the last I shed about being home from Interlochen.
Since August 3rd, I have read and reread those letters from the girls that I had spent six weeks living with countless times. I have shed countless tears over the memories I have for this summer, for these girls. We fantasize about having a summer just like the last one, yet we are all on edge about next summer. We would be in a new, older, more competitive age group. All we can do is hope that the hard work we put into our audition CD is good enough for us to have another summer all together.
Interlochen became my home, and the girls in my cabin became my family. We joked that our counselors were like our parents, and we even ventured to call them ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ every once in a while. People always say that you never really get to know someone until you live with them. Well, we knew everything about everyone in our cabin. Personal hygiene was no longer private and living habits revealed themselves more and more throughout the summer. Like sisters, we confided our problems to each other- secrets we could not even confide in with our best friends at home. Huddled on our bunk beds way past when the rules said the lights should be off, we would sit with flashlights and talk late into the night. Throughout the entire summer, the thought of having to write train- letters loomed over us all. Train-letters marked the end of a segment of our lives that we didn’t want to end.
As soon as I got in the rental car with my parents at 6 am I grabbed for my envelope of train letters. I had been up for an hour already with my friends Molly and Genevieve. Throughout the summer, we had formed traditions such as frolicking to Frohlich, the piano percussion building, and the most important were our daily randez- vous on the road after classes. We would watch all the staff walk by on the way to their cabins and talk about our days. I had an 8 am flight, so my parents were coming at 6. we had decided that on the last day, before any of us had left, we would have our final frolic to Frohlich and our final randez- vous. So by the time I was with my parents, I was already crying. I couldn’t imagine what these letters would do to me.
Train letters are an Interlochen tradition. Your friends write you a letter telling you everything they didn’t get to tell you and things they already have told you, but are worth repeating. They remind you of things that you’ve done together and what about you they love. When Interlochen first was started, people used to read their on the train. Now, you read them on your way home, regardless of the transportation method. During the last week of camp, I had been eyeing the envelope with my name on it fill up with the letters from the girls whom I had begun to think of as family. I had to resist every temptation to read what my friends had written while I was still with them. I had to wait until I left and make use of every last second we had together meaningful.
The letters were packed with emotion and six weeks full of feelings, like a suitcase after a long journey. There were so many memories jammed into one page that my tears couldn’t hold back. My letters were filled with all sorts of compliments and memories. As good as the compliments made me feel, the tears where flowing faster and harder then before.
On the plane, I read the letter from Genevieve. I had stopped crying before I got to security in the airport, but Genevieve’s letter did me in. Her letter was so concise, yet so intense that I just began to sob right on the spot. I’m fairly sure the guy in the seat next to me did not have the faintest idea of how I felt and thought I was crazy. Genevieve has straight, a medium shade of brown hair that stops half way down her bicep. She has hazel eyes and a Chicago accent. Genevieve always says how much she hates people, but she likes an unusual amount of people at Interlochen. She is fairy sarcastic, and so she managed to keep herself in this letter and still tell what she wanted to say. She wrote:
“Sara, I love you more then anything I’ve loved anything in my life. You may wonder why? You may not. Either way, I’m going to tell you anyway. You are amazing! You’re super- talented, have awesome hair, are really pretty in general, are fun and funny, and are super nice. Most importantly, you supply me with a general supply of tic- tacs.”
Some people wrote another type of train letter- like Molly for instance. Molly has hair resembling Rapunzel- thick, long and blonde, and a quick wit. She wrote about the memories of some of the things that we did together:
“Who will I randez- vous with? Who/ where will I frolick with/to? Whose iPod will I borrow? Who will I eat with at stone, fantasize about the reading orchestra, sing Company with, get kicked out of Corsen and DeRoy, follow the guy who thinks he’s my teacher’s potential lovers and be crazy with?”
The memories made me smile and feel good, but the tears were still flowing because I knew that we could never frolick to Frohlich or randez- vous in the road with Molly anymore. We wouldn’t be able to make any new stories and keep up the traditions that we had formed.
When I got off of the plane, I had read a dozen more letters that I had similar reactions to that of Genevieve and Molly’s. By the time I landed in the Detroit airport, I had regained my composure, with only bloodshot eyes and a flushed face to hint at my previous state. I checked my phone, and it said that I had a voice mail from my viola teacher from Interlochen, Jane. Jane is one the people I had grown closest to at Interlochen, besides Molly and Genevieve. She was everyone’s mother, and loved every one of her students just as much as she did her own. I listened to the message, already trying to blink back the rivers I could feel forming in my eyes. Jane apologized for not getting me my train letter in time, and was calling to leave me a train voicemail. By this point, the rivers I had successfully managed to hold back suddenly became like Niagara Falls and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I was a huge spectacle in the Detroit airport, but nonetheless, Jane’s message pushed me into tears that I knew wouldn’t be the last I shed about being home from Interlochen.
Since August 3rd, I have read and reread those letters from the girls that I had spent six weeks living with countless times. I have shed countless tears over the memories I have for this summer, for these girls. We fantasize about having a summer just like the last one, yet we are all on edge about next summer. We would be in a new, older, more competitive age group. All we can do is hope that the hard work we put into our audition CD is good enough for us to have another summer all together.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
WA Draft 1
As soon as I got in the rental car with my parents at 6 am I grabbed for my envelope of train letters. I was already crying, I couldn’t imagine what these letters would do to me. Train letters are an Interlochen tradition. All of the girls in your cabin write you a letter telling you how much they love you, why they love you and retell stories that you have done together over the course of 6 weeks. When Interlochen first was started, people used to read them on the train. Now, you read them on your way home, regardless of the transportation method. I had been watching the big envelope with my name on it fill up with the letters from the girls I had begun to think of as family. I had to resist every temptation to read what my friends had written. I had to wait until I left. The letters were so filled with emotion and six weeks full of feelings packed into one page that I couldn’t hold back. They were filled with all sorts of compliments and memories. As good as the compliments made me feel, the tears where flowing faster and harder then before.
On the plane, I read the letter from my friend Genevieve. I had stopped crying before I got to security, but Genevieve’s letter did me in. Her letter was so concise, yet so intense that I just began to sob right on the spot. I’m fairly sure the guy in the seat next to me did not have the faintest idea of how I felt. Genevieve always says she hates people, but she likes an unusual amount of people at Interlochen. She is fairy sarcastic, and so she managed to keep herself in this letter and still tell what she wanted to say. She wrote:
Sara I love you more then anything I’ve loved anything in my life. You may wonder why? You may not. Either way, I’m going to tell you anyway. You are amazing! You’re super- talented, have awesome hair, are really pretty in general, are fun and funny, and are super nice. Most importantly, you supply me with a general supply of tic- tacs.
My friend Molly’s letter was another type of train letter. She wrote about the memories of some of the things that we did together:
Who will I randez- vous with? Who/ where will I frolic with/to? Whose iPod will I borrow? Who will I eat with at stone, fantasize about the reading orchestra, sing Company with, get kicked out of Corsen and DeRoy,follow the guy who thinks he’s my teacher’s potential lovers and be crazy with?
It made me smile and feel good, but the tears were still flowing because I knew that we could never talk in person about all of those things again. We wouldn’t be able to make any new stories and keep up the traditions that we had formed.
When I got off of the plane, I had read a dozen more letters that I had similar reactions to that of Genevieve and Molly’s. By this time, I had regained my composure, with only bloodshot eyes and a flushed face to hint at my previous state. I checked my phone, and it said that I had a voice mail from my viola teacher at Interlochen. I listened to it, already trying to blink back the rivers I could feel forming in my eyes. She apologized for not getting me my train letter in time, and was calling to leave me a train voicemail. By this point, the rivers I had successfully managed to hold back suddenly became like Niagara Falls and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I’m sure I was making a huge spectacle of myself in the Detroit airport, but nonetheless, Jane’s message pushed me into tears that I knew wouldn’t be the last I shed about being home from Interlochen.
Since August 20th, I have read and reread those letters from the girls that I had spent six weeks living with countless times. Every time, my eyes well up with the memories I have for this summer, for these girls.
On the plane, I read the letter from my friend Genevieve. I had stopped crying before I got to security, but Genevieve’s letter did me in. Her letter was so concise, yet so intense that I just began to sob right on the spot. I’m fairly sure the guy in the seat next to me did not have the faintest idea of how I felt. Genevieve always says she hates people, but she likes an unusual amount of people at Interlochen. She is fairy sarcastic, and so she managed to keep herself in this letter and still tell what she wanted to say. She wrote:
Sara I love you more then anything I’ve loved anything in my life. You may wonder why? You may not. Either way, I’m going to tell you anyway. You are amazing! You’re super- talented, have awesome hair, are really pretty in general, are fun and funny, and are super nice. Most importantly, you supply me with a general supply of tic- tacs.
My friend Molly’s letter was another type of train letter. She wrote about the memories of some of the things that we did together:
Who will I randez- vous with? Who/ where will I frolic with/to? Whose iPod will I borrow? Who will I eat with at stone, fantasize about the reading orchestra, sing Company with, get kicked out of Corsen and DeRoy,follow the guy who thinks he’s my teacher’s potential lovers and be crazy with?
It made me smile and feel good, but the tears were still flowing because I knew that we could never talk in person about all of those things again. We wouldn’t be able to make any new stories and keep up the traditions that we had formed.
When I got off of the plane, I had read a dozen more letters that I had similar reactions to that of Genevieve and Molly’s. By this time, I had regained my composure, with only bloodshot eyes and a flushed face to hint at my previous state. I checked my phone, and it said that I had a voice mail from my viola teacher at Interlochen. I listened to it, already trying to blink back the rivers I could feel forming in my eyes. She apologized for not getting me my train letter in time, and was calling to leave me a train voicemail. By this point, the rivers I had successfully managed to hold back suddenly became like Niagara Falls and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I’m sure I was making a huge spectacle of myself in the Detroit airport, but nonetheless, Jane’s message pushed me into tears that I knew wouldn’t be the last I shed about being home from Interlochen.
Since August 20th, I have read and reread those letters from the girls that I had spent six weeks living with countless times. Every time, my eyes well up with the memories I have for this summer, for these girls.
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