Refuge.

noun. a place free from judgement, critique, or cruelty; a place of peace.

place. Hamburg High School’s Auditorium

In defining space and place, one assigns unalignment to the former and emotional attachment to the latter. A space holds no significance to the inhabitant, like how the halls and classrooms of Hamburg High School are just that, halls and classrooms. In contrast, a place holds meaning and is valued by the inhabitant. A place is refuge from the halls and classrooms of Hamburg High School, from the harsh judgment of my peers. A place is where I embrace my full personality, where I become different people entirely for the thrill of it, where I make lifelong friends, and where I truly feel like myself. That place is the theater, my beloved sanctuary throughout high school.

January 17th, 2018. Midterm week of my sophomore year. The show was set to open next Friday, the 25th, and run through the following Sunday. Three shows total. Two nights, one afternoon. My “ticket booth”, a fold-up plastic table complete with a derelict metal money box and fat roll of bright red tickets, had yet to see much business. The few students and faculty that did want to see the show had already purchased their tickets at the beginning of the week, when sales first opened, and any family members of the cast interested in supporting their shining star had pre-ordered their tickets weeks ago. Plus, most students’ midterms took place at the very start of the week. For the majority, midterm week is a chance to take one or two exams on Monday or Tuesday, then scamper off to Myrtle Beach (why was it always Myrtle Beach?).

Save for the few downtrodden, unfortunate souls that have exams tomorrow (myself included) plus the bored teachers that are forced to monitor them, the halls of Hamburg High School will remain wholly unpopulated. Oh, and of course, the cast of Twelve Angry Jurors will be rehearsing from three to seven PM, all week. The minor characters: a judge, a courtroom clerk, a security guard, and four “courtroom audience members”, are overseeing the running of ticket sales. Today it is my turn to man the table from three o’clock to approximately four, or later if they take longer to get to my line. As the security guard, it is my job to unlock and open the door to the room the Jurors are kept in. I then step to the stage right side of the door, loudly announce “Ok, jurors, your time is up!”, then patiently wait to close the door again as all twelve file out one by one.

The scene they are rehearsing now occurs about five or six pages ahead of that closing line, so I must listen, and hope Mr. Ruffino will not make the antagonist re-do his final monologue for the seventh time in a row. However, ticket sales and security guard duties are far from my mind at the moment. Tomorrow, I have an AP US History midterm; the thought alone makes me shudder. Which is why the appearance of my replacement, one of the four “audience members”, fills my heart with pure joy and utter relief. The hour spent listening to the main characters bicker while I unsuccessfully tried to study went quicker than expected. Now, finally, it’s my time to shine.

Though the role of “security guard” was not quite what I had in mind for my first official high school performance, I still reveled in the chance to prove myself as a capable actor. Mostly, I was just happy to be included. Freshman year I had the misfortune of auditioning against mainly juniors and seniors, thus, no matter how dazzling a performance I gave, I had no chance of being cast. When the cast list was put up, I felt deflated, defeated. Theater was the one thing I knew I was good at, and it felt like the door to my precious community had been slammed in my face. Quite dramatic, I know.

Were it not for Mr. Ruffino, my cherished English teacher and director extraordinaire, I may have given up then and there. But I remember, after eagerly awaiting the cast list and facing crushing disappointment, how insistent he was that I try again next year. As I stood outside his classroom, staring at the piece of paper lacking my name, he greeted me warmly and gently reminded me that the upperclassmen get seniority over silly little freshman like me.

What if the seniors you cast can’t act for shit? I thought, bitterly, to myself. This sentiment, born purely from jealousy, was quickly dismissed, as he proceeded to tell me how impressed he was with my audition. He encouraged me to audition again.

So, I did, and I became the best goddamn security guard that stage has ever seen.

The auditorium of Hamburg High School was another world entirely. It was huge, complete with a mezzanine and a catwalk far above the seats below. Three sets of sturdy oak double doors lined its back, blocking out the constant cacophony of passing conversations and foot traffic. Its ceiling was lined with can lights controlled by a light switch the length of my forearm; it could be as bright as a summer morning or as dark as an underwater cavern in there.

I did not have an auditorium in my old private school; our derelict, tiny stage was in the gym. When performances were held there, we had to set up rows upon rows of metal folding chairs. It was a tedious, time-consuming process, which made me happy to see high-quality, cushioned chairs in the high school’s auditorium, permanently set in neat rows.

Unlike the old elementary stage, Hamburg’s stage had a whole, grand room dedicated to it. I was amazed when I first saw it, and slightly more intimidated when I first stepped upon it to perform. It is certainly impressive from the audience standpoint but being onstage was a completely different feeling. The stage itself was massive, with two sets of stairs on either side of it leading up from the audience. There were three rows of fully functional curtains, plus more space up above for backdrops to be added as needed. Its dull black floor was covered in paint splotches and old tape which once marked furniture placement for past stage crews. When the sets were fully constructed during musical and play seasons, the stage was transformed into a creative marvel. The elaborate, detailed set pieces were beautiful to admire from the audience but hid a labyrinth of wooden support beams behind their backsides. These were hazardous to traverse in the dark, which, of course, we had to do often when moving between scenes.

When you stand in the dead center of the stage, looking out into the sea of chairs, up into the clouds of the mezzanine, you feel small. The spotlight is on you, literally; it is enough to make a grown man shrink in fear. For some, though, it is exhilarating. To pour one’s heart into a performance and have hundreds of people watching is something I have yet to experience outside of acting. The faces watching me in avid interest, their curiosity piqued by my turn of phrase, is what I live for. Never one to shy away from center stage, my ability to push away the nerves and be consumed by my performance is something I am quite proud of. That is not to say I do not still get nervous. Certainly, stage fright does sink its teeth into my being before every performance, but years of practice and exposure have made the process of dispelling my nerves quite simple. After my first line, I am free. From there the progression of lines and scenes flows naturally, as if we are really talking, really having a conversation for the very first time.

But, of course, my ease on stage is largely due to the rigorous rehearsal schedule provided by my directors over the years. I remember spending the majority of my free time from December to early February in Hamburg’s auditorium. Rehearsals typically started around three o’clock and would stretch until six, seven, or even eight, depending on how close we were to the final show date. As luck would have it, my scenes ended up being rehearsed nearly every day. When I was a security guard, this meant rehearsing my line for approximately ten minutes, then waiting two to three hours to rehearse my other line. During my junior and senior years, however, I spent much more time being a ham onstage than observing in the seats.

Out of all the shows I have been a part of, Clue was by far the best. The last play of my high school career, it encapsulated what I love most about the theater: the camaraderie. As I was a senior and president of the drama club (two years running!), the rest of the cast regarded me with a certain respect. It had become my job to lead the overzealous underclassmen through rehearsal by setting a good example.

That “good” example was formed through constantly antagonizing Mr. Ruffino just enough to derail rehearsal without him getting angry. After a solid four years spent under his wing, I knew the man quite well, which came in handy when pushing his buttons. What can I say? Rehearsal is way more fun when the cast teams up against the director, especially when that director is the incredibly sassy Marc Ruffino.

Besides adding gray hairs to our poor director’s head, our cast bonded through the sheer amount of time we spent onstage together. If you are unfamiliar with the story, Clue is a ludicrous murder mystery involving six suspicious dinner guests, one Bond-esque butler, and one dead dinner host. I played the fiercely religious, shrill Mrs. Peacock. She was “the perfect part” for me, according to Mr. Ruffino. Of course, he was right as I am quite adept at being far too dramatic. I, the other five guests and the butler were onstage for nearly the entire play, so we either had to work well together or be miserable the entire time. Thankfully, we all got along splendidly. I thoroughly enjoyed the company of my castmates, and still laugh at the jokes and memories we made together to keep ourselves entertained during those long, tedious rehearsals.

Clue was my last good memory of Hamburg. Shortly after our final show, we were told school was cancelled for two weeks. Just two weeks, and then I would see my friends again. Dear audience, unless you have been living under a rock for the last two years, I am sure you know how that ended.

High school was no easy feat; it never is. Most people can relate to having tumultuous teenage years and the uncertainty that comes with maturing, and I certainly am no different. However, theater was a chance to escape this uncertainty. When I was onstage, I did not have to be myself. I could be a stuck-up security guard, a Shakespearean prankster, a perpetually frazzled old woman, you name it, but I did not have to be a cripplingly socially awkward sixteen-year-old, at least for a few hours. Strangely enough, I felt most myself when onstage. Acting became a form of stress relief during those years, and once I shed my misgivings and got lost in a new role, I would inevitably find myself. Slowly but surely, I gained more confidence and became more outgoing; that stage had healing properties.

By the end of my time at Hamburg, I was no longer the shy, reserved freshman observing quietly from the seats. I was the main character onstage, the star of the show. I had found my confidence, and, most importantly, I had friends.

I have no one else to thank but the stage.