The huge growth of our community theater program this year brought in a great deal of new and older talent. The result was that Ben, who previously had featured roles in every performance, had been cast in smaller roles and didn’t get as much stage time as he expected.
Though I certainly sympathized with him, I also saw this year as an opportunity for Ben to learn how to share the stage gracefully with others. As he watched his close friends be cast in more featured roles, I hoped Ben would become gracious with his own loss in the face of someone else’s success. If his passion for acting and performance is to grow, then he will need to find a way to embrace rejection and failure. He will have to learn to separate himself from his acting, to love his friends for their achievements in spite of himself. In short, he would need to grow some character.
Amazingly, Ben never uttered a word of disappointment. He was thrilled to sing his only solo as a member of the band in Grease. He memorized his few lines as the Constable in Fiddler on the Roof and labored over the many different approaches he could take delivering them. Throughout the year I was on the lookout for any cue of leaked discontent or frustration, but there were none. He happily chattered away about what happened during rehearsal. He sang in the shower, in the car, at the table. He practiced choreography alone in his room. He talked about the show and his friends. He was resilient and he was happy.
I was certain that the summer performance would have thwarted all that. When Ben refused to tell me the part he got, I knew we’d have a problem. After some cajoling, he finally told me: while his closest friends had all been given lead roles, Ben, once again, would be in approximately four scenes. Tears welled-up in his eyes. He expressed his disappointment that night, and I braced myself and Josh for the return of “Crabby Ben,” the child who lives with us when there are no plays to rehearse. But the frustrated actor never appeared. Ben went to work being the best damn Mayor that Whoville had ever seen.
Last week was the summer performance. After the show a group of mothers congratulated each other on our children’s fabulous work. One of them told me how much she admired Ben. “Did you know,” she began, “that when Joey was sick that entire week, Ben stood in for him?”
I didn’t know. I wasn't surprised, but I suddenly understood. His friend had been out sick for an entire week with a virus and very high fever. Ben, who has a habit of learning everyone’s lines, songs, and blocking, had seized the rehearsal spotlight. I joked with the mom, “that must have been just what he needed to feed his craving.”
The mom replied, “well sure, all the kids know each other’s parts. But how Ben handled the senior center practice performance was amazing.”
My brow furrowed in confusion and she could tell I had no idea what happened during the field trip. Then she explained: “Joey was still sick and Ben knew that Joey would be devastated if anyone stood in for him. Ben knew that part inside out, but he refused to perform it in front of an audience in deference to Joey.”
A lump grew in my throat; I fought to suppress my tears. In an instant I realized the magnitude of Ben’s sacrifice, his unwavering loyalty and his quiet humility. I guess I was too late with all that character building stuff. Ben had done it without me.
Though I certainly sympathized with him, I also saw this year as an opportunity for Ben to learn how to share the stage gracefully with others. As he watched his close friends be cast in more featured roles, I hoped Ben would become gracious with his own loss in the face of someone else’s success. If his passion for acting and performance is to grow, then he will need to find a way to embrace rejection and failure. He will have to learn to separate himself from his acting, to love his friends for their achievements in spite of himself. In short, he would need to grow some character.
Amazingly, Ben never uttered a word of disappointment. He was thrilled to sing his only solo as a member of the band in Grease. He memorized his few lines as the Constable in Fiddler on the Roof and labored over the many different approaches he could take delivering them. Throughout the year I was on the lookout for any cue of leaked discontent or frustration, but there were none. He happily chattered away about what happened during rehearsal. He sang in the shower, in the car, at the table. He practiced choreography alone in his room. He talked about the show and his friends. He was resilient and he was happy.
I was certain that the summer performance would have thwarted all that. When Ben refused to tell me the part he got, I knew we’d have a problem. After some cajoling, he finally told me: while his closest friends had all been given lead roles, Ben, once again, would be in approximately four scenes. Tears welled-up in his eyes. He expressed his disappointment that night, and I braced myself and Josh for the return of “Crabby Ben,” the child who lives with us when there are no plays to rehearse. But the frustrated actor never appeared. Ben went to work being the best damn Mayor that Whoville had ever seen.
Last week was the summer performance. After the show a group of mothers congratulated each other on our children’s fabulous work. One of them told me how much she admired Ben. “Did you know,” she began, “that when Joey was sick that entire week, Ben stood in for him?”
I didn’t know. I wasn't surprised, but I suddenly understood. His friend had been out sick for an entire week with a virus and very high fever. Ben, who has a habit of learning everyone’s lines, songs, and blocking, had seized the rehearsal spotlight. I joked with the mom, “that must have been just what he needed to feed his craving.”
The mom replied, “well sure, all the kids know each other’s parts. But how Ben handled the senior center practice performance was amazing.”
My brow furrowed in confusion and she could tell I had no idea what happened during the field trip. Then she explained: “Joey was still sick and Ben knew that Joey would be devastated if anyone stood in for him. Ben knew that part inside out, but he refused to perform it in front of an audience in deference to Joey.”
A lump grew in my throat; I fought to suppress my tears. In an instant I realized the magnitude of Ben’s sacrifice, his unwavering loyalty and his quiet humility. I guess I was too late with all that character building stuff. Ben had done it without me.
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