A Castle of Sand(96)

One day, he asked me if I would like to come to work with him. It was national ‘take your child to work day,’ and workplaces all across the country were participating. It sounded much better than being at my tutor’s place all day (in those days, I was tutored; it was just a few years before we discovered I could get a good education online), so I agreed. I was surprised that he would let me out of the house for so long. You see, the other thing you should know about me, is that before this, I hadn’t dared to really have dreams. My mother died of AIDS when I was just a baby, and while my father was lucky enough to escape being infected, her blood runs through my veins. I was diagnosed as HIV positive when I was barely a week old.
My father has always been overly protective of me, keeping me homeschooled, warning me not to exert myself, barely letting me be in contact with other people. And while I understand his concern, things are different now than in my mother’s time. People with HIV can survive for years living a normal life, and even once the virus becomes full blown AIDS, ten or twenty years are not unheard of. I try not to think about when that will happen, because it’s inevitable. For now, I have mostly good days. Lonely, but good days.
Anyway, I’m getting off-topic. The point is, the next day I was up at the crack of dawn, dressed in my best clothes, making my hair as neat as possible, excited to go to work with him. We left earlier than he normally would so that we could walk together. I was practically bouncing off the walls.#p#分页标题#e#
The school was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen: historic and sturdy on the outside, and the walls inside were filled with colors. There were murals, art work and old photographs from shows mounted on the walls. There were hundreds of black and white pictures of the students in various plays, their costumes and makeup outstanding. I had never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. But that wasn’t the best part.
Dad had me sit on a stool with him, watching him take orders and cook up breakfast for the two hundred students about to arrive at the cafeteria. But when breakfast was over, he winked at me and told me this was the best part of the job; that he could take long breaks in between. He led me down the hallway to the grand theater which was placed in the center of the school. Putting a finger to his lips to signal that I should be quiet, he opened the door and snuck me into the back row. On stage, the lights dimmed and the soundtrack played. Rehearsals for that year’s production were just starting.
This is when my fate was decided. I don’t think I closed my mouth the entire time we were there. I didn’t say a word; my mouth just hung open in awe. That year they were doing a musical—Les Miserables—and their opening night was just days away. The actors were ready to perform, with their lines memorized and dance steps learned. I watched, as if I were in a dream, as they entered the stage, one by one, their costumes grand and elaborate, and their performances spot on. I cried when Fantine perished, and clapped when Cossette was safe. I sat on the edge of my seat, my hands over my eyes, as Javert ran about the stage, looking for his prey. And when it was over, my eyes were sparkling. I was on my feet, applauding and cheering.
“Did you like that?” Dad asked, beside me, reaching out to stroke my hair. And then I turned to him, and sealed my fate.
“Dad, I want to be an actress.”
It was out of the question, before the words even left my mouth. He was too protective of me. I was too fragile. The tuition fees were too high, even if I stayed at home and became only a day student. They had a rigorous audition process, and students from around the world came to try out—having been trained and performing since they could walk. Students who were to grace the stages of this school would go on to appear in Hollywood; their names in lights. They would sing on Broadway and at the Metropolitan Opera. They would tour the world. Their parents were wealthy - perhaps successful actors themselves. This was not the school for a chef’s daughter who had a dream, and nothing more.
That was nine years ago, and I haven’t forgotten a moment of that day. Although it may not be a reality, this essay asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, not what I was going to be. Every year, I watch the Oscars with the knowledge of one who has seen the films a thousand times. I download bootleg copies of West End performances, and order theater textbooks from university bookstores, even though I’m not enrolled in their courses. I think every single one of my pleasure reads is about actors, about the stage or the screen. I still memorize monologues and I post them on YouTube, although no one ever watches. It doesn’t matter. The pure joy of doing that is enough for me.