I Quit

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the cast list of Peter Pan. Only one word echoed through my head, in perfect three-four time.

Failure. Failure. Failure.

That was the day I decided I was going to quit. Quit doing something I loved. Quit doing something that made me feel like a fish in water. Quit doing something that, once upon a time, made me happy. I couldn’t stop grinning after every performance. Dancing and singing in musical theater filled me with adrenaline, made me happy, enveloped me in a community of people who shared my interests.

Guess what?

I quit.

It’s very hard to explain my reasoning to people. They see talent—well, they’re the only ones. They get appalled when I utter those two little words, probably stemming from the “don’t quit” mentality that fuels our motivational speakers, music, movies, and fortune cookies. Who hasn’t heard the song “Never Say Never?” Would Troy Bolton have gotten into Juilliard if he gave up on the high school musical? “Quit” is a dirty word; I don’t want to be a quitter, I don’t want to be the one who gave up! But something I hope people come to understand is the motivation behind this outwardly perplexing decision.

There are two kid-friendly theaters in town, Cultural Park (well-known but less esteemed, more newbie-open) and Creative Workshop (small but wildly popular youth organization). My first play ever was at Cultural. Dobdinob. The smell of leather dance shoes, sweating beneath makeup, heartbeat haywire. I was eight years old. I remember that as I auditioned, I prayer, “Let me be a shrub! Let me just be a shrub!”

My wish was granted, and I made ensemble. I was in two songs and had no lines. I was thrilled to pieces! People were coming and paying to watch me—not parents, but real people! Right then and there I caught the bug. Theater types liken theater to the mafia; you get in and you never get out. After one taste I was addicted. It’s a rush. You slip into a persona, let your adrenaline drive higher and higher with physically exhausting dance numbers (while singing, mind you), and are cheered on with screams and adoration. Even today I admit I crave it. But I didn’t stay eight forever.

Unfortunately, somehow I never grew out of ensemble.

I auditioned at Cultural, auditioned at Cultural, auditioned at Cultural. They started to know me. I could practically wink an eye at an audition and get in. But there was a palpable wall between me and the directors. My parents didn’t sacrifice every waking minute to the theater. I didn’t take vocal lessons from the director’s wife. I was such a good-hearted kid; I thought so hard that if I just did better they’d like me more, if I just behaved better at practice, if I just practiced my dances more. Whenever my discontent began to stir, they tossed me a solo. I’ve had a grand total of two. The first was in a revue show. The second was a moment I can never forget.

It was a Christmas pageant; I was about thirteen. The director asked me if I wanted to choose a song for me to do—a reward for good behavior. I was thrilled. I came in the next practice with a CD of three songs for her to choose from. I stepped through the front doors, CD in hand brightly decorated with rainbow Sharpie, and started to walk across the foyer toward her. I saw her lift her head, which had been bent in fervent conversation with five of the “in” actors, and when her eyes met mine, I knew in an instant. She’d forgotten all about her promise. My heart was sinking even as I crossed the floor.

“Amy, we’re going to have you sing Frosty the Snowman!” she told me rapidly. Then she breezed past me and moved to the next actress.

I stood there clutching my CD of vocally impressive, challenging songs. Tears filled my eyes and I wiped them quickly. On opening night, I step-touched and belted Frosty the Snowman next to the snowman prop wearing an enormous grin on my face, relying on the quality of my voice and trying not to add too many vocal aerobatics, just as I’d been instructed. “It’s a classic carol, Amy, just sing it and be done,” the vocal director had snapped. Inside I felt like an idiot. I went backstage and the twenty-year-old star of the show was standing in the wings, looking a bit shocked at me.

“You really sing so well! Your voice sounds so mature!” she said. “It’s funny you never get better parts!”

Yeah, isn’t it, I thought.

I really did enjoy Cultural Park. I’m a bit too wide-eyed and naïve and innocent for my own good. I put my heart and soul into the shows, and sure, I didn’t get the best parts in the world, but I hadn’t been around as long as some people, I’d only been there for five years! At the end of the shows, I still felt really happy and good about myself.

Still, always the ambitious type, I figured with a shrug that I might as well give Creative Theater Workshop a stab. I’d heard good things, after all. Maybe I needed a fresh start!

The show I auditioned for at CTW was You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown! Now, I was already worried about this. The cap age was eighteen and I was fourteen, but I was five foot seven. This was another reason I persuaded myself that I never got any roles: I was so much taller than everyone else! Walking into the audition, my heart hit the bottom of my stomach, and I knew I didn’t have a chance.

I sang anyway. They didn’t offer me a callback. I wasn’t too devastated. I knew it wasn’t going to happen. But walking out the door, the director ran up to me, breathless.

“It’s nice to meet you, Amy, I’m Michelle!” she said enthusiastically. Little did I know how important this woman would be in my life. “Would you mind coming back Saturday at one to audition for Footloose? You’re younger than the age, but we think you’d make a wonderful reverend’s wife.”

Well, color me floored. I walked out rigidly. For once, my height had done me good. For once, for once, for once. I was halfway between crying and laughing.

At Footloose, I quickly realized another astonishing fact. These weren’t the Footloose auditions—they were the callbacks! I’d been invited straight to the callbacks, overstepping the auditions when so many other people hadn’t even made it through the first round!

The callbacks went great. I waited, and soon found that… I hadn’t been cast as the solo-bearing reverend’s wife. I stared at the email, troubled. But, I mean, I had been given a named role, Eleanor Dunbar. She had three lines. It wasn’t the best, but… it was a named role! After contemplating resigning the role for about four seconds, I realized how dumb I was being. Hey, I was in the show!

Footloose was lovely. But the whole time, I had a bit of an ulterior motive. Here I was at a brand new theater that had no preconceived notions of me—they didn’t know me when I was eight, like Cultural had, so of course they didn’t see me as a little kid like Cultural probably did! I made sure to be ultra responsible throughout the whole thing. I volunteered for everything that anyone needed. I was there to unload U-Hauls, build sets, fetch lunches, lend costumes. I found myself growing really attached to my cast mates. There was a fresh spirit at CTW that Cultural didn’t seem to have. Maybe… this was really my chance?

After each dress rehearsal at CTW Michelle would give a breakdown of how we did—giving us our notes, it’s called. After our notes for opening night, Michelle grabbed me after everyone else was dismissed. She looked stunned and told me how much I was appreciated! “You have such a little role,” she said, not denying the fact, “but you never let your character slip for a single second! You were acting every moment of the play, always having an expression on your face, interacting with the other actors even when you didn’t have a line! I almost wanted to slap you, you looked like such a crotchety old lady!”

She gave me a big hug. I stood there on the darkened stage and started to cry.

I’d never been given praise like that. Michelle didn’t even do that to the leads. She’d noticed me. She appreciated me. Oh my Lord. Finally, the theater valued me! I couldn’t believe it!

Things went downhill.

One of the things I wish I could have told my younger self is not to be that “I’ll do any position you give to me and do it wonderfully with a smile on my face” person. It kills me to say that. It makes me tear up. For your own morals, that’s exactly the person you want to be. Helpful, not a complainer, willing to anything for the betterment of the group. But… part of this quitting thing is me finally realizing that one of these days… I have to take care of me. The longer I stayed with CTW, the more I became less of a valued cast member who would do anything for anyone, and more of a beast of burden. My whole life from age eight and up I’ve watched people, the same people, over and over again be cast as leads and stars. They’re aggressive. Their parents are the “stage” moms and dads. They don’t mind having to get down and dirty. They won’t take any less. It seems like starting at the bottom and working your way up would be the way to prove your worth, doesn’t it? Not just demanding something? Shouldn’t you build up trust and receive it in return?

Sadly, the roles Michelle handed to me became less important… less important… less important. CTW’s practices lasted six hours every Saturday, and then when the show came on, every night for six hours for two weeks. I found myself in only one or two scenes per show. Sometimes only one dance. I would sit in hours-long practices, rocking back and forth, waiting eagerly for my turn.

It became less eager over time.

I’ll admit that one of the best shows I’ve ever been in was with them. Godspell. It’s the best role I’ve ever had—only one solo and no lines, but a reaaally good song. I wouldn’t give up having had that experience for anything. But I’ve come to realize something (I type with tears in my eyes).

I want to be that person that can be depended on for any and everything. But I don’t want to be taken for granted. I’m no longer eight year old me in Dobdinob. I don’t want to be a shrub. I curse my ambitions and pine after the attitudes of those kids who are in ensemble after ensemble after ensemble and it never bogs them down. But I’ve always craved the limelight.

Still, I continued performing my roles with enthusiasm. I mean, let’s face it. I love shows. It’s almost worth it to give up four months of my time even if I’m only in one dance every show, just for that adrenaline rush and the heat of the spot on my face. So I kept doing what I’d been doing.

We’ve hit present day. The shattering point.

Peter Pan.

What do they mean to me, those two little words? Dream role. Peter, you see, is traditionally played by a woman. The reason is that the harness that makes him fly is… difficult on men. Now we have more comfortable harnesses, but because Peter’s vocal range is very, very much a woman’s, a woman he remains.

Ever since my first solo (the only other one I ever had at Cultural Park), which was Peter’s signature arrogant song, I’d always wanted to play him. I’m tall, I have a pixie cut, I’m sometimes mistaken for a guy in everyday life. I figured I had as good a shot as anyone. So six months ago, when I was fifteen, I found out that both Cultural and Creative Theater Workshop were doing Peter! What luck, am I right? I’d rather be in CTW’s performance since I trusted them more, but I could audition for both and have twice the chances!

I quickly realized that I wouldn’t be back for vacation for CTW’s audition, so I quickly dialed Michelle and asked if I could come to the callbacks. She gave me an enthusiastic yes.

I agonized over this for the weeks I had left. You will never understand the agony of picking an audition song. I Googled, I flipped through my Broadway books, I tossed and turned. My mind kept returning to one song. I Gotta Crow. But no! I pushed it to the back of my brain, appalled. Singing Peter’s signature song?! That was plain arrogance! I mean—the snotty favorites of CTW who got every role could pull off a ballsy stunt like that, but, but, me? No. Nuh-uh! I’d just do the polite thing! My whole theater strategy was to kill them with kindness. I didn’t want to be… well, I didn’t want to be a standard theater b*tch.

A voice kept nagging. I kept hearing nevers.

I’d never gotten a lead. I’d never had more than three lines. I’d never had more than one song. I’d never been in every scene of a play. I’d never been given a significant named role. In fact, I’d only ever gotten one named role. The directors never sought me out. They never checked on me. They never socialized with me except for things related to my duties.

Suddenly?

I was feeling ballsy.

I walked in with my signature song. I knew how callbacks worked; I’d been to dozens. You sang a different song than at auditions and then you read from the script. I was already planning to ask to read for Peter. I walked in at the appropriate time and waited in the doorway until Michelle wasn’t busy. I approached to sign up.

She looked up at me. “Amy, hi!” she exclaimed. “No need. You don’t have to read for me, either. You’ll be in anyway. If you want you can take a seat over there.”

I simply nodded. I sat. I listened. I waited. Three girls sang. I watched. I applauded. I didn’t smile. Two more girls sang. I sat.

After being in the room for less than five minutes, I left. Michelle had dismissed me. I offered to sing for her. She declined. “Oh, I don’t need to hear you sing, Amy.” People aren’t cast as named roles without singing or acting.

The cast list came out the next day. Pirate #2.

I wouldn’t let myself cry.

“You still have one more chance,” I muttered. I remember leaving that callback that day. My aunt and my uncle and my mother were sitting, hopeful and expectant. Their faces fell so much when they saw me. I had been in there for such a short time. I didn’t want to look at them. I knew that they knew.

But I already knew I’d be doing the show. Even though I was taking a step to being more ballsy in my theater choices, it was crappy etiquette to quit. It was acceptable to quit when you had only just been cast—sometimes you have to decline roles and you can’t help it—but I didn’t want to do that. After all, you understand: I didn’t want to be known as a quitter.

So, I resigned myself to no social life for four more months. Oh well. I was used to pouring my life into shows. In any case, I had one more chance, one more saving grace, and that was Cultural’s show. I knew Cultural’s production wouldn’t be as grand as CTW’s would be, and it wouldn’t be as enjoyable either—those directors were prickly and unpleasant. But a lead was a lead. I wanted a lead. One lead. I just needed to sate my ambitions. At least I’d be able to say that I had been Peter Pan.

Considering the nature of this essay, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how that one turned out, but details are always nice. I thought it went really well. The owner of the theater, unlike his subordinates, really seemed to love me and was delighted to see me back. I told them I was only auditioning for the role of Peter. That’s a common thing to do in musical theater, usually too ballsy for me, but, well, I was toeing the line more and more. I hated being taken advantage of, dammit! I didn’t want to be a walking carpet anymore!

I sang my audition to the theater owner and a director who I’d never seen before, newly hired. This thrilled me. Someone who liked me and someone who didn’t have preconceived notions! She seemed floored by me and complimented me. Then—oh, then!—they began flooding me with questions. Would my parents be okay with me using the harness to fly? Would they sign a form of consent? Would you please read for Peter, please? I did the reading and then the dance audition. This was when they would give the callback slips out.

They passed me by.

I left confused. No callback doesn’t always mean no role, I told myself. I felt unconvinced. But at the same time, I felt as if the audition had gone very well. I shouldn’t have been optimistic. Can you guess? The theater’s favorite girl got the role of Peter! Wow! Shocker! That much didn’t surprise me. She was even my friend; I was happy for her on one level, but another level… felt stabbed in the chest that even an Asian girl would make a better Peter in their eyes than me.

I am wrapping up my story now. I was sad, yes. I was very sad. I had an opportunity for a dream role. The only other girl Peter’s age who auditioned was the girl who got it, and they chose her over me. But the other production of Peter is what finally made me quit.

As the months dragged, slogged, trudged past in that show, I just… I grew to hate the practices. I couldn’t take being a shrub. I was sacrificing so much of my time for so very little. I didn’t want to quit because I didn’t want to do that to Michelle. But, three practices in, Captain Hook quit for a better role elsewhere. The show was double-cast, so the other Hook was just going to fill in for him for all of the shows. This brought up my courage. I had a body double. I was only in one dance. I had no lines. I had no songs. There were two and a half months of practice left. This was making me miserable. I disliked it. Quitting had been on my mind for ages now. It wasn’t fun. It made me sad. I’d had enough.

So after much weeping and passive hand-wringing, my mother finally plopped me down in front of a computer.

“Email Michelle,” she said sternly. She knew about my tendencies to do anything to avoid conflict. I let out a groan.

For the next two hours, I hashed out a four paragraph email explaining that I was resigning. I didn’t want to state that my reason was “I hate the show”, so I gave the other (equally relevant, mind you) reason of having just won the torturous campaign at my school and being elected as student body President. As you know, I wrote, you only have so much energy in your week for so many things. And plays are no light business. I explained that I thought she and the cast was brilliant. I wished them the absolute best. It made me sad I couldn’t be in the show with them, but I hoped that this would not be too much of a stumbling block for her. After all, I added, I am only in one song so far, and have a body double. I would not leave you hanging if it were last minute or if I thought it would leave you in a bad position for the show.

I wished her well and sent. Then I sat down to watch TV.

It was a cool feeling. I’d done something for myself for once. Wow. It felt so good. I knew my mom had been right—I was so relieved I wouldn’t have to do that every Saturday now! Wow, all this free time was great! I cared for Michelle even if she drove me crazy with her casting favoritism, and I knew her pretty well. She was a reasonable, wonderful lady. She’d understand. After all, she told me I was valued and important to her!

Twenty minutes later, I looked up and saw my mom standing haltingly in the doorway. She held her iPhone.

“Ah… honey?” she ventured tentatively. “Well…” She paused. Then she dropped the bomb. “Michelle’s p*ssed.”

The next hour was spent in tears on the couch. I read Michelle’s reply. She accused me of being immature, untrustworthy, a coward, a liar, malicious, and a poor sport. “And all this time you had me believing you were a professional actress!” she typed. I sat, stunned, and read it to the end. Basically she said I would not be welcome in the next production of CTW, and even after that I would have to scrape from the bottom of the ladder to ever regain her trust, if she could ever believe anything I say ever again.

Theater’s funny. I felt terrible in my stomach. My mom sighed and gave me a hug. I tried not to let my mental health be wrecked by this, and waited until the next afternoon to reply so that I could answer calmly and kindly. My reply, if it interests you, was much longer than the first and something along the lines of, “Michelle, I must say I’m surprised by your answer! I did not think this would be your reply. I did not think I was cowardly, immature, or untrustworthy in my actions. I feel sorry that’s how it turned out.” I explained my actions some more, only slightly reproachful. I tried to be very levelheaded. I answered that I’d accept the penalty, of course, but hoped that in the future this would not be detrimental to our relationship. I finished up by adding that this would not affect her relationship with my mother, who had for a long time now been lending the building of the church she pastors to CTW for them to practice in it for free, as well as use choir robes and church property as costumes and props—even in shows I wasn’t a part of.

Theater. She’s a funny mistress. I just don’t like it anymore. But, as they say: she’s like the mafia. There’s no getting out. You get the bug, you get snagged, and you certainly, certainly never forget the feeling. Sometimes I yearn for theater so deeply that I feel sick almost to puking. It’s just not worth being disappointed anymore. Perhaps a better thing to say than “quitting” is that… this season in my life had ended. It once brought me happiness, but I guess I’ve grown beyond that.

The puking feeling is lessening. I don’t think about theater every day anymore. It feels as if I’m getting out an abusive relationship. Finally… finally… finally, I can start thinking about me. Just for once. Me.

I quit.