by Hawkins Bacon
Growing up, it seemed like everyone had things I wasn’t allowed to have. My parents didn’t buy clothes or toys with any popular characters on them so I never had real Batman or Spider-Man figurines or pajamas. They thought I’d have a better imagination if I could only create my own characters, so they got me generic action figures from Goodwill, one of which I’d named Bob and another I’d named Magneto (after the real one). I wanted light-up Skechers, but my mom got me Keen sandals instead, because the ones I wanted would have been “distracting in the classroom,” but they weren’t allowed anyway at my Montessori school. They read The Hobbit to me when I was seven, but wouldn’t let me see the Iron Man movies until I was older because of the violence–even though there’s tons of fighting in Middle-earth. I asked for an iPhone when I was ten, and they got me a handheld transistor radio instead. As I grew up, I thought my parents were uncool and unreasonable and since I didn’t have the cool stuff other kids had, I lied or exaggerated to impress people, and honestly, I liked the attention from these
meaningless little lies.
When I started Mrs. Howard’s Piano class during my freshman year at St. James High School in Murrells Inlet, I discovered a better way of getting attention; I was always misbehaving and got chewed out frequently. One afternoon, an older student with shoulder-length blonde hair walked into the classroom when I had stayed late to practice one of my songs for a recital that Friday. I overheard him speaking to the teacher about a musical they were rehearsing and this kid–Alex–was the lead. Noticing me, Mrs. Howard asked if I’d be
interested in future productions.
Before this moment, I never would have considered theatre. I was always overly-aware and self- conscious of what people thought of me; I was far more comfortable joining the soccer and cross country teams. I knew nothing about acting, but I’d decided that I was willing to try, regardless of whether it was cool or not. Meeting Alex
had given me confidence.
That year, I played Max in Bright Star and Pepper in Mamma Mia! My teacher was giving me a chance to show both the skills I’d practiced and the skills I didn’t know I’d had and I took full advantage. Playing a character on a stage with a live audience reacting to my performance felt electric. It was like I was the main character in my own movie. The intricacies of hitting the right notes in songs with correct form made me want to learn more, and eventually, in my junior year, I played the main antagonist in Footloose, Chuck Cranston. I loved arguing with Ren McCormack–played by Alex–as our characters fought over a girl.
The first solo I sang on stage was “Greased Lightnin’” as Kenicki from Grease. Backstage before I was set to perform, I couldn’t stop thinking about what my friends would think. What if I was actually bad? What if people made fun of me even if I was good? My fears quickly disappeared when I stepped onto the stage as I heard friends in the audience cheer my name. I started singing and loosened up with every line. No one laughed. No one booed. No one recorded it to make fun of me later. The performance opened my mind to being true to myself and making me aware that I didn’t need to care what everyone thought of me. The only person’s opinion that mattered was mine. After I had done my first solo, I was never scared
to go on stage again.
Even though I’m used to performing live now, meeting with the audience afterwards is still a little awkward for me. There’s a vulnerability in those moments that you cannot hide behind costumes, lights, or music. I’ve realized now that if you’re creating good art, that vulnerability will probably always be there, no matter how experienced or popular you become. When you’re performing on stage it’s like you’re playing pretend again–like you did as a kid–inviting hundreds of faces in the audience to join in the fun.
Now, I’m a freshman at Coastal Carolina University, majoring in Theatre, and currently performing in an ensemble role in the Fall production of Grease. Looking back, I wonder if my parents were right in forcing me to use my imagination when I was young. They put me in the position of creating new stories and playing out different roles every time I picked up a toy. Rather than repeating stories I already knew, I was able to make my own meaning out of what I was given. In many ways, that’s what I do now on stage when I’m performing. After overcoming years of being afraid of what others think of me, I’m not so scared to stand out anymore, even if I am wearing some uncool shirt my mom bought on eBay.