Naked & Fringed

So Fringe Play opens tonight. It might be scary, given that we've never had a full cast rehearse together. Or that I've never met several of the cast at all. Or the costumer designer. Or had tech. Hm. But Super Director/Writer/Actor Charles gave us a pep talk last night before we started a run, and he reminded us this is a workshop. It's a play in progress, and what matters is that we are true to the characters. So what if there's no blocking in the last scene? So what if we have new pages of monologues a day before the show? So what? An interesting experience, no doubt. But a challenging one, and, fittingly, a scary one. True enough.

We fling around the term 9/11 like dirty laundry. We use it every day. Cars wear "Never Forget" bumper stickers like elitist band-aids. (I loathe those bumper stickers. You think your peice of sticky plastic on your ugly truck is going to jog my memory? I seem to remember...oh, that's right, I remember all about it just fine without your egotistical help.) I think the problem is (and one which I had forgotten until rehearsals started)that we wall ourselves over in order to toss around our dirty laundry memories. It's human instinct.

Super D/W/A Charles sent out some videos yesterday of the initial news reports on September 11th. I had 15 minutes between work and my commute to Philly, so I started watching, thinking this will be good to see some of those news reports I hadn't looked at in years. Usually, I don't do a huge amount of research, relying instead on that Mamet-ian thinking that what is essential is the analysis of the scene, the understanding of the character's objective rather than what kind of bacon she ate for breakfast. (Organic. Pleeeease.) So, in a rather stupid move, I watched these two little videos, and I immediately started to freak out. I think what I did forget, instead of the general idea of 9/11 itself, an idea that can only be eloquently illuminated by a cheap-ass bumper sticker, is how terrified I was that day that we were all going to die. I was a senior at Upper Merion High School in King of Prussia, PA, in acting class of all places, when the first plane hit and we turned on the television. At first, it was a horrible accident, smoky and so strange, and sad. But when the second plane hit, suddenly the world started to cave in on itself. Were all the planes going to start falling from the clouds? Would all the buildings start collapsing into their roots out of terror? When Flight 93 crashed into that field in Pennsylvania, looking at my own mortality, even sitting at my faux-wood desk in Room 909, was my only option.

So. I watched those videos. Drove to rehearsal. Found a fantastic parking space. (Thank you, Julie, for your excellent karma.) Got to rehearsal. Ate a yogurt. Started the run. Listened to my castmate Michael's speech about making a decision between burning to death in a fire or jumping out of the 99th floor window. And I lost it. I started shaking. I was listening to the other speeches, and when I got up to do my 2nd monologue, I thought I was going to pass out. At the end of my speech, my character dies. I barely finished it. I kind of sped off stage. Which, fine, as an actor, what I should have probably done was lived in that moment, and breathed it in, and shared it with my castmates, and let it be what it was. And I did, for the most part. But in popped that human instinct, to shut it off, to hide yourself when you're vulnerable. So I ran offstage, huddled in the dark, and sobbed.

When you're onstage, and you find yourself finally tiptoeing into the picture, and you yourself are poking your timid little feelings out into the light, it can be utterly debilitating. It's not anybody's natural state to let it all out. Except for crazy people. Which is why crazy people are usually great actors. The trick is finding the balance between crazy and socially existent. (All my actor friends are nodding.)

It's exactly like being in a romantic relationship. How much do you let out in the first month of love? How much can you let out to your partner when you want to marry them? How much can you let out at all? What if they stop loving you? The goal, I guess, onstage, and in life, is to keep no secrets at all. To be truthful and to be naked. In this case, I actually I had no idea I was covering anything up at all. But crouching in the black backstage, once I let out some tears over my freakout feelings about 9/11, suddenly I got this rush of freakout feelings about a whole buttload of issues. I hate planes. I hate heights. I love New York, I hate New York. I believe in Obama so much. What if Obama doesn't win? I hate this war. I protested this war. I held up the sign with my brother and sister at the front of the March 17th March in Philadelphia on the 1st anniversary of the war, and screamed, "What do we want?! Peace! When do we want it?! NOW!" until my voice was gone and tears were streaking my cold face. My grandfather walked beside me in the January march on DC in 2004, and he started to cry when he realized he'd fought in WWII because he thought it would be the very last war. Oh look...it's 2008.

Doing a play about 9/11 is doing a play about today. Literally, I'm speaking lines about my life. I didn't know that when I signed up for this shindig. I thought, "Ah. Fringe. Another goal for the summer checked off!" It breaks my heart to think about the what if. What if Al Gore had won in 2000? What if we had protested the war more? What if I'd given up my artistic life and become a soldier? The day John Kerry relinquished the election to George Bush, the only person I could reach was my brother, Michael. He told me that we had to keep working for the America we were raised to believe in. Even if it doesn't exist, we have to keep believing that dream is possible. Even when bad things happen, and planes fall out of the sky, and our cities change, and our fears are released into the world, and we crack open our chests like dusty attic trunks, we have to keep believing in the possibilities of hope, and change, and America. That's the best part about Obama. He's not the keeper of hope, he's just a person who reminded us it's okay if we each have some.

I'm a little scared about our opening night. I'm a little nervous about how I'm going to react. It is my story, after all. And you know, this reminds me that I truly look forward to my drive across America in a month. I like looking at my country. I'll put on a bumper sticker that says, "Obama Biden 2008."