This is a piece I wrote following my Chicago MFA auditions back in February. It is essentially the precursor to my upcoming journey at UCSD (hence, it is a bit longer that most of my posts will probably be). Enjoy!
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February 2010
I’m up in the air, on my way to Chicago. Out of the plane window I see below me a blanket of clouds, and the atmosphere expands endlessly into the distance. As I look down on cities, farms, and open tracts of land, I think of how small and insignificant I am in the scheme of the universe: a mere human being, just a miniscule piece of bone, flesh, and blood that could cease to exist at any moment. In some ways, it makes my current journey seem trivial; just one of six billion life stories that will play out over the course of the coming few days. This acknowledgement provides me with a healthy perspective on the whole adventure, one to which I’d be able to return at any point during my trip when I might be taking the entire process – or myself – too seriously.
I arrive in Chicago, ready to try my wheels at the audition circuit for three of the best graduate acting programs in the country. My personal research up to this point has indicated that I am potentially one of very few individuals with an obvious physical disability to ever undergo this process. I have only found information about a couple of actors with disabilities who have auditioned for or completed intensive conservatory MFA programs. (Even the number of people with disabilities who have served in the Peace Corps appears higher than MFA acting programs.)
I hypothesize that this is due to several considerations. One, there is a dearth of individuals with disabilities involved in professional acting due to a lingering misinformed societal perception that dis-ability means not able…to do many things, including act. Two, businesses that utilize actors have not overwhelmingly incorporated disabilities into the character landscape. While they’ve been sprinkled here and there, PWDs are not incorporated regularly into general story lines of plays, TV shows, or movies. This has been changing (albeit slowly) as people with disabilities show up more in the “real world” thanks to numerous factors making it more possible for them to lead “normal” lives; they consequently appear more frequently in storylines that reflect the “real world.” However, PWD roles are still regularly offered to able-bodied actors who crave the opportunity to challenge themselves by playing disabled characters. (Understandably…who wouldn’t want that opportunity?)
Three, there’s a societal assumption that people don’t want to see disabilities in entertainment – the general public wants to see attractive and “un-flawed” specimens of humanity. Knowing this, who would tell a kid with a disability to cultivate his or her talents as a performer if the general perception is that there is no place for disability in the performing arts? And four, disability is a logistically complicating factor for schools and theatre programs that, in many cases, are just beginning to make accessibility inroads for audiences (accessible seating, hearing devices, and sign-interpreted, captioned, and audio-described performances). To delve further into expanding the inclusiveness of environmental and attitudinal aspects of theatre (including backstage facilities, rehearsal space, theories, and techniques) could be overwhelming to any program willing to undertake the challenge. Moreover, it would require substantial flexibility and internal strength from any individual willing to put himself or herself, disability and all, into the milieu of a difficult and inaccessible business. For people whose lives are already complicated by the details of living with a disability, this challenge could prove unrealistic.
Because of these and other factors, I understand why so few people with disabilities would go up against thousands of able-bodied, talented applicants to vie for a few coveted spots in these prestigious acting programs. But there I was, embarking upon a journey that felt nearly as daunting as my recuperation from a catastrophic car accident eight years earlier.
My own disability – chest-down paralysis from a spinal cord injury – was a normal reality for me now. In working with a Denver theatre company for actors with disabilities called PHAMALY, I had been given unbelievable opportunities over the past several years to re-embody my theatrical self as a person with a disability. I learned to use my physicality and my manual wheelchair as an asset in approaching the characters I played, and I felt comfortable as an actor on wheels. I had come to believe in myself as a great performer, and had been honored with various awards and accolades in the Denver community. But, I wondered whether people outside of Denver who had not been exposed to a group like PHAMALY would see me in the same way.
This was my primary rumination in the couple of days before the auditions: overwhelming uncertainty about how I would be received by the schools and auditors. They could be intrigued by my physicality; they could be elated about an opportunity for a new and different challenge; or they could be patronizing and laugh me out of the room with disbelief. My most realistic assumption was that they would be gracious and potentially surprised, thinking, “Hmm, well, that was different.” But, when it ultimately came down to the decision, they would see my wheelchair as too much of an imposition to my participation in their program. I was hoping to be proved wrong.
I don’t usually get nervous, largely because of the world-view perspective I return to in any situation that might make me anxious (yogic breathing helps too J). Yet, lying in bed the night before the auditions, my heart was pounding and my stomach churning. I thought about what one of my friends had told me before the trip: no matter how the auditions went, the simple act of rolling into this situation would potentially effect some sort of change in the theatre community. This was an exhilarating idea, but also daunting.
DAY ONE
Audition number one: University of California, San Diego, 10:35am. Side note: although my personal statement and recommendations had commented tangentially on my disability, I had not officially communicated to each school that I used a wheelchair. On one hand, inquiring about accessibility would have been an excuse to give the auditors some awareness of my coming. However, I was worried that an accessibility inquiry would automatically put me on unequal ground, and make me seem more needy than other applicants before I had even auditioned. I had decided to take my chances in assuming that the hotel audition rooms would be accessible – luckily, I was correct.
In exploring the rooms the night before the audition, I identified my greatest foe: carpet. I can certainly push my chair on carpet, but the difference between moving on a hard theatre stage and rolling atop semi-thick carpet pads is surprisingly substantial. Every push on carpet takes significant effort, and my momentum gets sucked up by the fibers. As a result, some of the slight acting/movement choices I can make on a hard surface – such as my signature backward-roll initiated by a feather touch to my wheel rims – would be impossible. Moreover, I was to discover that a full day of pushing back and forth between audition rooms over cushy carpet left me surprisingly exhausted.
I digress – 10:35, UCSD, audition number one: I was feeling invigorated. I checked in with the UCSD table monitor and waited to be called. Several applicants were milling about nervously (I’m sure the hotel staff was perplexed by the odd and overly-edgy young adults who lurked around the hotel for two days, talking to walls and doing lip trills). I thought about my performance history and audition preparation that had led to this moment, and allowed myself to be happy about everything I had already accomplished. This was simply icing on the cake (and the thought of icing made me smile).
The three individual auditioners who preceded me were thanked by the monitor and told they were finished for the day. I was up. The monitor said the auditors needed a minute (I wondered, to talk about the girl who had just auditioned, or about me?). Finally they were ready – the dean of the school, and a professor of movement, both of whose bios I had reviewed in my preparation (score one for me). I introduced myself personably, launched into Neil Labute and Shakespeare, and it went off without a hitch. The dean asked me about my reasoning for grad school, and I delivered what I thought was a pretty solid answer about how I desired opportunities for training and growth beyond those available to me in Denver. I wanted a challenge. (Score two for me.) The dean asked me if I thought I could actually work as a professional actor, and without hesitation I said “yes,” adding a side remark about how the LA Times had recently commented on 2009 as having been the year of the wheelchair character. They thanked me, and I rolled out, taking on the carpet and the door with smooth vigor.
I waited for a moment as the monitor went inside. I prepared myself for, “Thank you, you are finished for the day.” She reappeared, and smiled, motioning me over to the table. “Let’s see, I have to remember what I do for a callback.” Yesssssssss! She asked me to return at the end of the day, and to prepare one or two other pieces. (Hmm, I should have worked a little more on those back-ups.)
I rolled around the corner and down the hall where my mom was waiting inconspicuously, and in American Idol fashion I produced my colored callback slip. “Holyyyy shit,” she said, smiling. And the day had begun.
Audition number two: Yale, 3:00pm. After retreating for a few hours to my room to practice my back-up monologues and formulate a couple of brilliant questions about UCSD, I headed downstairs to Yale. Rounding the corner to head down the hallway where Harvard, Yale, NYU, and a couple of additional top schools were situated, I had a mini-shot of anxiety well up: the already-narrow hallway had been filled with chairs, and there were countless auditioners filling the path. (Oddly enough, the audition spaces seemed to metaphorically represent the environments of the schools: UCSD’s room was California-spacious, the mood was relaxed, and auditioners seemed cool as they prepped to go in. In the Eastern hallway, it was cramped, non-conversational, tense, and all business. At least there wasn’t snow to wheel through.)
I took a breath, and started down the gauntlet of primped, primed, and petrified auditioners, attempting to disturb people as little as possible as I barely eeked past each polished shoe or toenail. As I moved along, I was a bit surprised that some of these folks were actually applying to top schools that would certainly demand a bit of intelligence:
ME: (Drawing stares from every auditioner as I dare to open my mouth and speak) Oh, excuse me, I’m just gonna sneak by you right here.
PETRIFIED POLISHED PIPSQEAK: (Sitting with head down, apparently oblivious to the English language) Mmmm.
ME: (Patting PPP’s leg gently, trying to bring him out of Mercutio or Bottom or Edmund and back to himself for a brief second) Sorry, can I sneak by you right quick?
PPP: Oh, yeah, sure. (Moves his foot back an inch, still fully in the wrathful path of my toe-crushing wheels.)
ME: (Seriously?) Oh, yeah, actually, haha, my butt is a bit wider than that.
PPP: Oh, sure, sorry. (Moves foot back one more inch.)
ME: (Okay, SOMEONE can’t take direction!) Uh, yah, if you can scoot a little farther, I don’t want to hit your cute shoes.
PPP: (With a sudden exhale of mild exasperation, standing up and moving his backpack and chair with dramatic effect.) Huh.
ME: Great, thanks. (Dumbass.)
This short scenario repeated itself a few more times as I moved down the hall, and I was briefly reminded of the small frustrations that are avoided by those who don’t have to move through the world with an alternative physicality.
I finally reached the Yale vicinity: an efficient machine of two audition rooms simultaneously shuffling actors in and out. The process for Yale was slightly different – a group of 15 or so actors was given an on-the-hour start time, knowing that they would be called sometime during the following 60 minutes. But they were running late, and so I attempted to wedge myself into a hallway niche and stay out of the way.
Finally we were brought into the room, where the dean and another acting professor cordially welcomed the group and explained the process. Each actor would audition for one auditor, after which he/she would potentially be invited to stay at the end of the hour to audition for both auditors, and then possibly interview at the end of the day. One of the auditors said he wouldn’t be shaking any hands because of germs, and that two chairs situated halfway down the long room delineated the boundary between his space and the actor’s space. (Whaaaa?) We were shuffled out, and the process began.
I was scheduled to audition in the dean’s room towards the end of the session. Sitting in the hallway, I chuckled at the mildly absurd cacophony of yelling and singing that leaked from different audition rooms. Eventually I was up. Introduction, Labute, Shakespeare, thank you. Success. The dean asked me if I had another piece prepared, and I was glad I had just prepped my back-ups in my room. I did a piece by Paul Zindel, and the dean told me to check the list for end-of-hour callbacks.
I exited the room and realized that waiting for Yale would potentially infringe upon my UCSD callback. A flurry of empty-stomached pushing over carpet from one end of the hotel to another ensued as I bounced between the audition to determine how I should negotiate waiting for the Yale callbacks while not being late for UCSD. Stress developed as I inched slowly down the PPP hallway gauntlet two more times. I finally resigned myself to trusting that Yale would wrap up in time. It was 4:15pm (UCSD was at 4:30pm, an 8-minute push away): the Yale monitor put up the callback names, just 2 of 15 auditioners: mine was one of them.
I was thrilled, but my head was mulling over the time crunch, a hungry stomach and full bladder. The auditors were ready, so I tried to put my head back into audition space. I entered the room, and they asked me to do Shakespeare (hmmm, interesting request, given that they had likely seen the same Shakespeare pieces countless times that day). Launching in, I realized that the flurry of activity minutes earlier had disrupted my focus, and my actions were slightly off from my verbiage. But I finished, and the dean told me to check back again at the end of the hour.
Once more down the gauntlet, a sprint to the elevator, and curses slung at the carpet as I raced to the UCSD audition. Just as I arrived, I was invited in to the room with 5 other actors who had been called back. Exhale.
The dean spoke to us about the faculty, California, and other aspects of the program. Unlike other programs that would hold callback weekends at the school, UCSD would make their decisions after the audition tour, meaning that I was essentially sitting in the “final” callback. I asked about the school culture and the rapport between students and faculty, as well as about teaching opportunities that the dean had mentioned. I felt good, and the vibe was comfortable.
The group session finished, and I raced upstairs, thinking that the end-of-day callbacks for Yale would be starting. But they were finishing their 4pm session, and end-of-day callbacks had not yet been posted. Once more down the gauntlet, more huffing and cursing, and back to USCD.
I was 5th out of 6th to go in for the callback, and again I did my contemporary Zindel monologue. The dean asked if she could give a bit of direction on my Labute piece. She said it felt as though I was still holding the monologue a bit outside of myself, rather than internalizing the hurt that the character felt about being dissed by her boyfriend. She was right…I took a breath and connected more deeply with the emotion. I felt good about my reading, and was pleased that, in a momentary opportunity for directorial feedback, I had already learned something about how I was conveying the part. To have three years of such feedback would be thrilling.
They asked me about my recent performing, and I shared some thoughts about PHAMALY. The movement professor remarked that PHAMALY had a good reputation, and that he knew of the company and artistic director Steve Wilson from working at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. (Score three points.) I told them about how I believed training would give me some measure of legitimacy so I wouldn’t be considered a joke if I ever went on auditions. (This momentarily brought back a memory of a “Fiddler on the Roof” audition where I was told that the director had decided not to cast me because she thought it would be too difficult for the audience to see a wheelchair-bound Hodel waiting for the train to Siberia). I told them of my passion for using theatre as a catalyst for social change. They asked if I had mobility beyond my chair, such as the use of crutches, and I told them no (in my mind I wondered whether the question was intended to assess my physical ability, or to give them justification for rejecting me). I quickly followed up by telling them of my experience pulling my body across the stage floor in Man of La Mancha. The movement professor said he thought he had seen a picture of that. (Score three more.)
I did what I could to convey my passion, my personality, and my eagerness in a matter of minutes, and then I thanked them for the opportunity. The dean said that no matter where I ended up, she thought I would do something great. I had nailed a successful callback.
I raced back upstairs to Yale, one more time down the gauntlet, and saw “Reagan” on the list. But, it wasn’t “Regan”…it was someone else with the last name “Reagan.” No worries, I thought, and I felt surprisingly content as I rolled over a couple toes on my way back down the hallway. My nerves and adrenaline finally began to subside, and I headed upstairs to collapse in my room.
DAY TWO
Audition three: ACT, 9:30am. I was tired and mildly irritated about pushing down the gauntlet hallway again. But I felt excited about this audition, knowing that ACT has a bit of a reputation for outside-of-the-box thinking. I passed Yale and had a pleasant exchange with the table monitor (who was now my best friend because of my multiple encounters with her the previous day). I reached the end of the hallway, and found ACT’s cramped waiting area. No table monitor, but auditioners talking and interacting personably. How nice, I thought! I breathed, ran through my monologues a couple of times in my head, and decided to suspend focus time to chat with an auditioner: Jack from Idaho, a genuinely nice guy with a Joseph Gordon-Levitt smile. He told me about his journey to Chicago, and about his other auditions at a nearby hotel. He mentioned he had changed his choice of monologues that morning, and I knew he was a theatre kid through and through. He was just starting his longest audition day, and I was relieved to be nearly finished with my audition adventure.
I was called in by one of two ACT auditors, a choreographer-physiqued voice teacher who was accompanied by a sophisticated-looking dean. The vibe in the closet-sized room felt surprisingly more uncomfortable than any I had encountered (was it me?). Once again, I did Labute and Shakespeare, feeling focused and reinvigorated as I finished the set with gusto. The dean smiled and asked where I was from. Taking a beat, she asked in a mildly interrogating tone, “Who…is your favorite playwright?”
My mind went completely blank. Talking about theatre was usually my strong point, but my brain was completely failing me. I couldn’t think of my love for Anna Deveare Smith’s solo performance plays, or Tom Stoppard’s brilliant language. I said something about August Wilson and his play series in Denver. “Hmmm,” she said. “And, what is your favorite genre?” More blankness. Shit, I knew I should have eaten before the audition. What the hell?! No thought of my jolly love for musicals, my intrigue around African American drama, or the ensemble theatre that I felt epitomized the true theatre experience. Nope, just some ambiguous comment on realism and genuine types of theatre where actors aren’t being actors, they’re bringing something of themselves into their characters. (What?!?!) “Okay, thank you,” she said. Yep, that was that.
As I left the room, I knew I wouldn’t be called back. I proceeded to stew in self-criticism, forgetting the positivity of the previous day, and tunnel visioning around my sudden inability to communicate insight or depth about an artistic craft that I adore. Although, I also thought about the vibe in the room and the dean’s questioning. In a sudden flash of brilliance (or defensive rationalization), I realized that the universe had somehow influenced my brain in the post-audition moment to forget anything insightful I might have conveyed. I had to conclude that this had occurred for some meaningful reason; it was someone’s way of telling me that ACT wasn’t the school for me.
I was done with the gauntlet, so I sent my mom to check the callbacks – there were only male names listed. No worries, I thought, it’s as it should be.
* * *
Flying back to Colorado, once again above the clouds and feeling dwarfed by the enormity of the world, I returned to my macro perspective on this adventure.
I thought about the extent to which I felt prepared for this audition experience, in stark contrast to when I had auditioned for undergraduate theatre programs as an extremely self-conscious high school senior. I had done that sweet girl justice.
I thought about how lucky I was to have such wonderfully supportive family and friends that had stood by me in every new crazy endeavor I embarked upon. My grandpa Pop Pop’s mantra crossed my mind: “If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.”
I thought about the likely possibility that I would not be accepted to any of the MFA programs, and this thought was neutralized by a spontaneous brainstorm on the myriad of theatrical opportunities that might be available to me if I were not involved in an MFA program for the next three years. Perhaps one of these opportunities would end up being my greatest chance to effect social change using the performing arts.
I thought about how during six days in Chicago, I had seen only three other people using wheelchairs. None of them had been at the hotel, and I hadn’t seen one other person with anything resembling a physical disability amidst the hundreds of fellow auditioners. But I imagined how many PWDs would have wanted to be there alongside me if their circumstances had allowed for it.
I thought realistically about how I may not end up being the right fit for these MFA programs for reasons completely unrelated to my disability. Maybe they wouldn’t like my intonation, comedic timing, or my facial expressions. Maybe they’d be looking for an incoming class of ethnic actors, or BFA undergrad theatre majors, or waif-like ingénues – all of which I was not.
I remembered what I always preach to others: every person on this earth has a perspective that is shaped by his or her experience, and no perspective is absolutely “right.” In theatre MFA programs, a limited few are given the power to judge who is “good enough” for admission. But, this judgment can be influenced by countless uncontrollable factors, such as socially-constructed concepts about beauty or ability; or an applicant’s personal connections to a school or program; or the way an auditor is feeling in the audition room after several straight hours of monologues (and maybe even an undercooked lunch or a previous late night of wine-swigging). Accordingly, another person’s opinion is no more valuable or accurate than your own, and you can’t allow someone else to determine your worth. No offense to MFA program deans, but they, too, are miniscule pieces of bone, flesh, and blood, and will not ultimately determine my future participation in or impact on the world of theatre.
I landed. Within a few hours I had plunged back into the countless activities that fill my life, and thoughts on MFA admission took a spot on the back burner. The experience had been a complete success, and no matter what the admission decisions yielded, I had already achieved the greatest end-outcome I could hope for: to call myself an actor.
* * *
