VOICES
The theatre
BY ANN DUDLEY
I was a shy child, almost painfully so. But
when I was 10, my mother came into my
room one Saturday morning and announced
that she thought it would be a good idea if I
took some acting classes at the Portland Civic
Theatre.
The first class started in half an hour, so
I’d better get hopping if I was going to do
it. I had to factor in the travel time, the get-
ting there a few minutes early time, and so
on. That meant there were only a few minutes
left for me to throw on some clothes and get
in the car.
But before I jumped into high gear, I had
a flashback of the last time I was in a show at
the Firehouse Theater. I was 4, perhaps 5. I
don’t remember the play, but I do recall want-
ing to play the fairy. That role went to the
pretty girl with long blonde hair. I, with the
pixie cut, got the role of alligator and had to
crawl around on my belly. I hated it.
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I had a feeling that I didn’t really have
a choice about this offer. I’m not sure now
whether it was my mom was trying to get me
out of my shell or assuaging her love of act-
ing, theater and movies.
But that was the start of eight years of act-
ing lessons. Oh, and there was also ballet,
tap and singing lessons too. Turns out, while
I may not have been very good at it (I was
horrible at learning lines), a part of me really
loved it. I made a lifelong friend and am still
friends with a few of my fellow childhood
thespians and one of our acting coaches.
There are a few priceless moments from
that era of my life that always come to mind
when reminiscing about it.
In one production, I played a chorus girl
in a western show. The costume didn’t allow
me to wear a bra, which I needed. During a
change of costume from townsperson to cho-
rus girl, my bra that I had worn as Townsper-
son Number One got caught up in the cho-
rus girl dress for Chorus Girl Number Five.
SO IT WAS THAT I RETURNED TO THE THEATER AFTER A
YEAR’S HIATUS. I TOOK PRIDE IN THE FACT THAT I HAD
BEEN THOUGHT OF, OUT OF THE BLUE, TO STEP INTO A
ROLE, AND THEN COMPLETE THE RUN OF THE SHOW.
I LEARNED SO MUCH FROM THOSE EIGHT YEARS.
MOST IMPORTANTLY, I LEARNED ABOUT (AND
ACCEPTED WITHOUT QUESTION) DIFFERENT
LIFESTYLES, PERSONALITIES, FRIENDSHIP AND
CAMARADERIE. THANK YOU, MOM, FOR GIVING
ME THE NUDGE I SO DESPERATELY NEEDED.
While I was doing the can-can on stage, I
looked down and saw my bra flapping along
with me. I danced off stage, yanked the
offending appendage off, and rejoined the
line-up, red faced with embarrassment and
my friend and fellow chorus girl laughing her
head off.
I always hated wearing coats as a child,
and I still am prone to not wearing them. In
late grammar school, there was one that I par-
ticularly loathed. It was blue and made of a
material that produced the sensation of being
steamed alive.
When horsing around with some friends
after school, one of the boys got a hold of my
sleeve and there was a loud ripping sound.
The sleeve was torn largely from its socket.
For some reason, my mother decided to
repair it using black electrical tape. On the
outside.
So now, not only was I wearing a coat I
hated, but a coat ungracefully patched. Along
the way, the coat disappeared. I had no idea
what had happened to it. Five years later, I
am in the audience for a production of “The
Glass Menagerie.” The girl playing Laura
entered the stage. (A girl none of us particu-
larly cared for. Perhaps we were jealous she
got the coveted role or maybe because she
was a snotty snob.)
I sank lower in my seat. “It couldn’t be,” I
thought. But as Laura turned, I saw the elec-
trical tape patch job. My quiet humiliation
and the thought that the girl who was playing
Laura must never find out that that had once
been my coat. The family in that play were
supposed to be poor. From the wrong side of
the tracks. The situation also played out in
my head as to how it had come into the cos-
tumer’s hands. I had most likely left it behind
long ago during a class or rehearsal. I never
claimed it. The costumer tucked it away, only
to be brought out, perfect for the role it was
in.
And yet, the most poignant and most sig-
nificant of my memories is also one of pain
and personal triumph. To set the scene as it
were, I had gotten a bit mouthy to my dad.
This was in the late 1970s.
My father was old fashioned. Once my
father sat down at the table, he wasn’t getting
up until he was through. That meant that my
mom and I were getting up when he deemed
he wanted salt, seconds, a napkin and so on.
One night I’d had enough, and most likely
said he “could get up and get it too, you
know” or he could “do more, like help with
the dishes.” The next night, he came home
from work and announced that I would no
longer be taking acting classes because my
mom needed help around the house. My pun-
ishment for speaking up was to have the thing
I loved taken away. I spent the next year
after school and on weekends ironing. Iron-
ing sheets, dish towels, his shirts and boxers,
along with my own clothes. This was in addi-
tion to having always helped with the dishes
and other housework as needed from a young
age.
That is, until I got the call. It was the the-
ater. The director of the children’s production
was calling. Someone in the cast had bro-
ken their arm and couldn’t perform that after-
noon. Could I replace her? I would need to
go to the theater that morning, learn the lines
and blocking and perform two shows that
afternoon.
My fate was in my dad’s hands. My dad
relented and let me perform, but I knew ,
though, that the only reason why I was per-
mitted to fill in was because someone who
was an authority, the director and the head of
the acting school, thought I was good enough
to do it.
So it was that I returned to the theater after
a year’s hiatus. I took pride in the fact that I
had been thought of, out of the blue, to step
into a role, and then complete the run of the
show.
I learned so much from those eight years.
Most importantly, I learned about (and
accepted without question) different life-
styles, personalities, friendship and camara-
derie. Thank you, mom, for giving me the
nudge I so desperately needed.
This essay was produced through a class
taught by Tom Hallman Jr., a Pulitzer Prize
winning reporter at The Oregonian.