Reflect

The fourth floor of Salinas Valley Memorial Hospital exists somewhere in-between musty nostalgia and sterile premonition. Seventeen years later I look back at myself, chubbily nestled into gaudy paisley cushions, and try to remember what could possibly have held a six-year-old’s attention. From what I can recall it was split evenly between a half-eaten Subway meal (imitation crab salad with Sour Cream & Onion Sun Chips), a soon-to-be broken Game Boy, and balding middle-aged men that I had learned to recognize as doctors. That same level of devotion to the medical field has continued to this day.

For years I told myself, and was told, that becoming a doctor was what I wanted. I may have enjoyed making people laugh and was called the “Class Clown” on more than a few occasions, but the concept of professional performance simply did not exist within my immediate sphere of existence. How was I supposed to know otherwise? My immigrant parents and I certainly enjoyed artists and performers; never did it occur to me that being one myself could ever be possible, much less something I would want. Performance was entirely about the end product. Performance simply entertained. It wasn’t a discipline that could be studied and crafted. Whenever I spoke of studying science with my relatives, their faces lit up with interest. You could get PhDs that way. Becoming a doctor and establishing yourself financially so you could pay back the sweat and tears your parents offered in exchange for your education. That was tangible. Theater was not.

College turned my abstract love of entertainment into an outlet for creation, critical thinking, and collaboration. Yet, the freedom of attending a liberal arts institution was simultaneously the best and worst thing that had ever been given to me. Entire worlds of knowledge opened up at my feet. It was terrifying. Eighteen years of aimlessness and learned acceptance began to unravel around me. My life up to that point seemed like a natural progression of events. Do well in high school to get into a good college. Do well in college to get into a good med school. Do well in med school to become a doctor. Never once did I question my reasons for doing all of this. The funny thing is, there weren’t any, and every part of me was scared of accepting that. My plans and goals were quickly transforming into a crutch that supported my shaky existence.

My junior year of college was plagued by self-doubt. I didn’t want to continue to med school, but neither did I believe that anything would come out of a future in the arts. In my mind, there was no future. When stereotypes and cliches of the starving artist weren’t filling my head, it was the disappointment of my family. How could I possibly tell them that all those years of financial and familial hardships were going to be wasted? So I poured myself into my artistic work. I took classes on scenic design, acted onstage, and debated with friends just what the heck Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were trying to say. In time, theater became more than a way for me to escape. It became an essential part of my life.

There is no single moment I can point to where the flip switched on. Projects, plays, and assignments built up until one day I looked back and saw everything I had done, all the people I had met and worked with. Contrary to what I thought, theater was not an escape from my life. The two were more closely entwined than I realized. My sense of humor permeated my directing notes in Dead Man’s Cell Phone, while my anger and frustration exploded outwards as Stanley Kowalski. Theater shaped who I was, and in turn my work was informed by my personal life, thoughts, and choices. For the first time in my life I started to love who that person was. He knew what he wanted, but he recognized his limits. He had a view of the world that was unique to him and wanted to share it with others, while sharing in theirs as well. For the first time in his life, he knew who he was and who he wanted to be. It most certainly was not a doctor, but he liked it anyways.