I want to take a moment to reflect on my days with Troupe 2047, Vero Beach High School's ever-so-scintillating competitive theatre bunch.
The 2008-2009 squad is currently in Tampa for arguably the most important five days of any theatre-obsessed high school student in Florida. They are at the Florida State Thespian Festival. This event, my friends, is heaven.
The first year I graced the streets of Tampa wearing that elastic necklace name tag (no doubt spelled wrong, either on the part of Dee Rose or of the student staff of the sequined Michael J. Higgins himself) was 2004, when I was a freshman at VBHS. I roomed with juniors and seniors and felt so overwhelmingly cool.
But, that first year, I didn't actually participate in theatre. At all. Well, except for the fact that I performed and garnered a superior rating with my monologue pair. Seriously, though, other than that, I carried around my camera and, accompanied by the beautiful Liz Blackburn, flirted endlessly with the boys who we found sitting around in the convention center. I put way too much effort into dressing up for the evening mainstage outings, worried that I might run into someone who could judge me for not shaving my legs or for having frizzy hair.
This was the year Liz and I became enamored with Eric Diaz, who we nicknamed "Bang Bang"...because one of his Critics' Choice Award-winning monologues was from Bang Bang, You're Dead. Not as perverse an origin as many would have thought, I'm sure. Bang Bang was the source of many a song and sigh. And he promised us each a dance at the final closing night shabang. He totally failed to deliver and (as a result of Liz and me creepily catching him as he walked back to his hotel from the ceremonies) gave us random, unromantic slow dances with no music.
Although I had the time of my life, I consider that first year a little bit of a fluke. Who pays upwards of $300 (this was before the high school started legit fundraising initiatives) to try to pick up guys?
Regardless, I couldn't WAIT to get back to Morsani Hall my sophomore year. That year, I took workshop upon workshop and saw handfuls of individual events. I met people, sure, but our discussions were based on theatre, not what our plans for the evening were. I found the experience infinitely more rewarding and thus planned to act the same the two years after.
Junior year, there was a little snafu with the unofficial Anything Goes cast party, whereby a drunken cast member apparently nearly died (I wasn't there and don't really know the specifics), so the entire troupe was punished by leaving the festival a whole day or two early. This, dear friends, was torture. Unless you have been to the state festival, you cannot possibly understand the agony. The pain. The pissed off nature of all of us who weren't involved in that tactless night at Michelle's house. We were missing the dance. Never mind the final ceremonies – we were missing the largest orgy north of Miami. We were missing the climax of the festival.
Nobody almost died closing night of Cinderella the next year.
Senior year, I was District XI Student Representative, so I was even further involved than in the two years prior. I felt a sort of responsibility and proudly donned my District Rep ribbon, letting everybody know I was someone they could trust and ask questions. I'm not sure anybody actually asked me questions, but at least I felt important. That's essential to the self-esteem of a high school senior. We all wanted to feel cherished heading off to college, especially to Northwestern, where everybody arrives from high school with twenty leadership positions on their resume.
The most jarring realization following these state festival experiences is that they are nothing but a memory - they merely exist to remember fondly and tell stories about. Those of you who are there now or are just coming back from there probably won't believe me when I say this, but...the Florida State Thespian Festival does not live on forever. When you're there, you think it's the single most important event or place of your life. On the bus ride home, you begin the countdown to the next one. Or you cry silently because you are a senior, and this one was your last.
You will never again come nearly to tears when Michael J. Higgins says, to a packed Morsani Hall during the opening ceremonies, "Welcome home." You will never again cheer in unison with thousands of other thespians - from now on, you will not be united with them at all; they will turn into distant "friends", competition, or forgotten acquaintances. You will never again feel the rush of getting a superior rating at state. You will never again complain of the overpriced food at the convention center. You will never again sit around that lovely fountain at the end of that long walkway at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. You will never again wait in the Morsani Hall lobby for an hour to get good seats to that night's mainstage. You will never again complain of the mold in the Tampa Theatre. You will never again admire the ceiling art of the Tampa Theatre.
Today is Friday; closing ceremonies are tomorrow night. Then, it is over. Everybody leaves Sunday morning or early afternoon. You'll probably witness throngs of students loading their own buses for departure before you have even dressed. Let it sink in. It will all be gone tomorrow.
Monday, when you go back to school, nobody will care what amazing adventures you had over the past five days. You will have to write papers, do problem sets, and take tests just like all the other students.
It's exactly the same when you go off to college. These past four years you had with Troupe 2047 mean nothing. Except to you. So, remember these moments vividly and completely. Don't waste a second. Who knows: Maybe when you get to college, you'll have a fellow once-Florida State Thespian to reminisce with. I've had a couple such encounters. These people have come to me only in chance meetings, and we've only talked about the festival once.
It's a time for you. Embrace it while you can.
The 2008-2009 squad is currently in Tampa for arguably the most important five days of any theatre-obsessed high school student in Florida. They are at the Florida State Thespian Festival. This event, my friends, is heaven.
The first year I graced the streets of Tampa wearing that elastic necklace name tag (no doubt spelled wrong, either on the part of Dee Rose or of the student staff of the sequined Michael J. Higgins himself) was 2004, when I was a freshman at VBHS. I roomed with juniors and seniors and felt so overwhelmingly cool.
But, that first year, I didn't actually participate in theatre. At all. Well, except for the fact that I performed and garnered a superior rating with my monologue pair. Seriously, though, other than that, I carried around my camera and, accompanied by the beautiful Liz Blackburn, flirted endlessly with the boys who we found sitting around in the convention center. I put way too much effort into dressing up for the evening mainstage outings, worried that I might run into someone who could judge me for not shaving my legs or for having frizzy hair.
This was the year Liz and I became enamored with Eric Diaz, who we nicknamed "Bang Bang"...because one of his Critics' Choice Award-winning monologues was from Bang Bang, You're Dead. Not as perverse an origin as many would have thought, I'm sure. Bang Bang was the source of many a song and sigh. And he promised us each a dance at the final closing night shabang. He totally failed to deliver and (as a result of Liz and me creepily catching him as he walked back to his hotel from the ceremonies) gave us random, unromantic slow dances with no music.
Although I had the time of my life, I consider that first year a little bit of a fluke. Who pays upwards of $300 (this was before the high school started legit fundraising initiatives) to try to pick up guys?
Regardless, I couldn't WAIT to get back to Morsani Hall my sophomore year. That year, I took workshop upon workshop and saw handfuls of individual events. I met people, sure, but our discussions were based on theatre, not what our plans for the evening were. I found the experience infinitely more rewarding and thus planned to act the same the two years after.
Junior year, there was a little snafu with the unofficial Anything Goes cast party, whereby a drunken cast member apparently nearly died (I wasn't there and don't really know the specifics), so the entire troupe was punished by leaving the festival a whole day or two early. This, dear friends, was torture. Unless you have been to the state festival, you cannot possibly understand the agony. The pain. The pissed off nature of all of us who weren't involved in that tactless night at Michelle's house. We were missing the dance. Never mind the final ceremonies – we were missing the largest orgy north of Miami. We were missing the climax of the festival.
Nobody almost died closing night of Cinderella the next year.
Senior year, I was District XI Student Representative, so I was even further involved than in the two years prior. I felt a sort of responsibility and proudly donned my District Rep ribbon, letting everybody know I was someone they could trust and ask questions. I'm not sure anybody actually asked me questions, but at least I felt important. That's essential to the self-esteem of a high school senior. We all wanted to feel cherished heading off to college, especially to Northwestern, where everybody arrives from high school with twenty leadership positions on their resume.
The most jarring realization following these state festival experiences is that they are nothing but a memory - they merely exist to remember fondly and tell stories about. Those of you who are there now or are just coming back from there probably won't believe me when I say this, but...the Florida State Thespian Festival does not live on forever. When you're there, you think it's the single most important event or place of your life. On the bus ride home, you begin the countdown to the next one. Or you cry silently because you are a senior, and this one was your last.
You will never again come nearly to tears when Michael J. Higgins says, to a packed Morsani Hall during the opening ceremonies, "Welcome home." You will never again cheer in unison with thousands of other thespians - from now on, you will not be united with them at all; they will turn into distant "friends", competition, or forgotten acquaintances. You will never again feel the rush of getting a superior rating at state. You will never again complain of the overpriced food at the convention center. You will never again sit around that lovely fountain at the end of that long walkway at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. You will never again wait in the Morsani Hall lobby for an hour to get good seats to that night's mainstage. You will never again complain of the mold in the Tampa Theatre. You will never again admire the ceiling art of the Tampa Theatre.
Today is Friday; closing ceremonies are tomorrow night. Then, it is over. Everybody leaves Sunday morning or early afternoon. You'll probably witness throngs of students loading their own buses for departure before you have even dressed. Let it sink in. It will all be gone tomorrow.
Monday, when you go back to school, nobody will care what amazing adventures you had over the past five days. You will have to write papers, do problem sets, and take tests just like all the other students.
It's exactly the same when you go off to college. These past four years you had with Troupe 2047 mean nothing. Except to you. So, remember these moments vividly and completely. Don't waste a second. Who knows: Maybe when you get to college, you'll have a fellow once-Florida State Thespian to reminisce with. I've had a couple such encounters. These people have come to me only in chance meetings, and we've only talked about the festival once.
It's a time for you. Embrace it while you can.
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