My Post-Benefit Tribute to Carol Drennan
March 5, 2007
My first weekend getaway of the year – flying solo, but with a wedding ring. On the way to my hometown, but staying in a hotel like a tourist. Going to see old friends, with whom I had not kept in touch. Thus began my trip home for a benefit to honor the memory of Carol Drennan, my high school drama director who recently lost her battle against lupus.
Leaving my husband for the first time since our wedding four months ago was hard. I completely understood – he didn’t want to be a third wheel on my two-day date with my high school theater friends. There was a lot of catching up and reminiscing to be done – it was better I did it alone.
I landed Saturday afternoon, picked up my rental car – throwing caution to the wind, I declined the additional insurance coverage offered by the company (did I mention that I can count on one hand how many times I have ever driven a car?), and headed to the hotel. I checked in, unpacked my toiletries and my outfit for Sunday, and sprayed the room with my perfume to make it feel more like home. I had plans to visit my favorite mall on earth, located strategically two minutes from my hotel, but I decided to stop in at the tech rehearsal to say hi to the old gang and then be on my merry way. As anyone who knows me could have predicted, I never got to the mall.
Driving down the curvy road to the school parking lot for the first time was a trip. Not having my own car as a teenager, I was always a passenger. Being in the driver’s seat added a whole dimension of meaning to my journey. I made the choice to travel 650 miles to be there, to support a cause I only peripherally understood, and re-connect with people I hadn’t seen in 15 years. A choice some called foolish, but seemed obvious to me.
I entered through the main doors into the high school foyer and went into the back door of the theater. Everything was so familiar. The stairs, the seats, the mezzanine, the stage, the sound board, and the light booth – all where I had left them at graduation. I was worried I wouldn’t recognize anyone or no one would recognize me, or even worse, they would wonder what I was doing there. Would they welcome me back with open arms or would they just smile politely and say how nice it was to see me, all the while looking around for someone else to talk to?
My first fear was quickly dispelled when I immediately recognized everyone and everyone immediately recognized me. They looked, sounded, and acted like the people I had spent so much time with so many years ago. Despite the time and geography that separated us for more than a decade, we all fell seamlessly back into our theater roles: student director, house manager, stage manager, props, lighting, and sound. I was assigned my old front of the house duties upon arrival. With that, I was put at ease that my worst fear would not be realized – I did have a place there, I was needed, I was welcome.
I toured the audience, bouncing from person to person, hugging, crying, and catching up; then I went backstage. It was there that I realized, although I split my time among every non-athletic extracurricular activity offered, I spent more time in that place than any other during my four years of high school – including my family’s house. The Green Room that hosted many an a cappella concert (I don’t know how, but someone always seemed to have a pitch pipe on hand), the brown lockers and shiny floor in the girls’ dressing room, the warm, bright lights of the make-up room (where we used to paste pictures of our friends around our mirrors), the wood smell of the set construction area, the fermented fumes of the paint room, and the hidden treasures of the prop room – all brought back fond memories.
The most powerful place for me, though, was just off stage – right or left, it didn’t matter. That was where I would sit, watching the most gifted dramatists in school “act well their parts,” the most talented singers fill the auditorium with their voices, and the brilliant technicians seamlessly coordinate props, curtains, sounds, and lights. It was there that I could be part of the action and excitement, on-stage and off. Standing there, remembering all we had accomplished with each show, I couldn’t believe we were only teenagers.
Then I started to think about my place in it all: why did I spend so much time in the theater? I never craved the spotlight of the stage, but preferred to live the musical/drama/comedy that was my own life. I wasn’t very good at building things, but liked watching the progression of the set coming together. I had no patience for the sound or light boards, but was fascinated by those who commanded their effects. I could always find countless reasons why others were so involved, but it took me being away from it all to discover why I fit in.
My talents lie in organizing, supporting, and nurturing. Just like today, I needed to have a place, I needed to be needed. In the theater, I always had a home and a family that required tending – patrons that needed to be welcomed, a stage that needed to be cleaned, costumes that needed tailoring, runners who needed lint brushed off their blacks, actors who needed help wiping off there Aboline. There was a whole cast and crew who needed someone to believe in them so they could do their best.
Carol Drennan saw this in me and encouraged it. She gave me projects that made use of my non-technical skills and set an example for me to be a leader and mentor. She affected my life in ways I am only now beginning to understand. Even her famous ending to rehearsal notes, “Questions, comments, problems with your life?” found its way into my everyday conversations without my recollection of its source. I will always remember the woman who gave me a home and family and taught me how to care for and believe in them. I realize now that I learned from the best.
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Comments»
OK…you made me cry.
**hugs**
Thanks, Ang.