Thanksgivikkahs and To-Do Lists

The alarm went off at 4:30am. She had gone to bed at 1am. She couldn't figure out if she felt sick from a lack of sleep or the dehydration caused by the acne drug she was taking. She gulped down a glass of water. Smee meowed incessantly. "Quiet, Smee, you'll thank me later when I feed you later." Adventures in cat sitting. She hated cats. Smee was no exception. How could anyone love an animal who would rather sit in a cardboard box than cuddle you?

As she stepped out onto 42nd Street at 5am, she remembered a time, years ago, when she was up at a similar time on a long ago Thanksgiving day, to walk the parade as a clown. To her 11 year old self, NYC was the city where stories happened the way they happened in the movies; where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks meet atop the Empire State Building and live happily ever after. As she walked the deserted streets of the city all those years ago, she felt a pang if what might be and what the years could bring. NYC was a symbol dreams to be chased and goals to be met. At that age, she wasn't sure exactly what those goals and dreams were, but she knew how that life felt. It felt like this: to be walking the city at 5am 2 decades later, on the way to the Shubert Theatre. She was not about to meet a young Tom Hanks atop the Empire State Building, she was about to do something even better.

It was Thanksgivikkah 2013, a year when Thanksgiving and Chanukah collided for the first and last time for thousands of years. A once in a lifetime celebration. How appropriate that she was starting the day performing on the Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She had thought that nothing could be more exciting than sitting on the stage of the Radio City Music Hall waiting to perform in 2013 Tony Awards. As she stood outside Macy*s at 7am and saw the cameras set up for their dress rehearsal, she decided that this moment was possibly more exciting. She was choked up from cold and when her emotions started to get the better of her, she felt a feeling in her chest; a physical manifestation of "thankfulness." It felt achy and full. She wanted to bottle it up so that she could forever remember it. It's a curious thing about feelings; no matter how full they are in the present, they are altered by time and memory. This "thankfulness" was something she really rather not be altered.

It was really really cold. She sat on the set with the kids, wondering how long they would be pre-set there before the broadcast began and they could dance. Anything to bring feeling back to their hands. Without warning, the parade hosts started talking about MATILDA THE MUSICAL. "Here we go," she thought. "Don't fuck up." As she danced, mucus started to run down her nose. Every inhale she took was icy cold. Her hands refused to warm up. But, the crowd cheered and clapped and she loved every second of it. When it was over, she felt exhilarated, despite the pain in her chest from the cold air. That was so much cooler than walking the parade as a clown.

When she got back to her cat sitting adventures, Smee didn't care that she had just performed live on TV for all of America, or that the first thing she needed to do was make herself a cup of Lady Grey. Her stared her down until she finally fed him. "That's cats for you," she thought. And then she sat with her cup of tea and thought some more. About how it's possible to dream something all the years of your life and then suddenly be living it. "I can do anything," she thought. And not with arrogance, but with hope and determination. She pulled out her notepad and wrote. She still preferred writing the old fashioned way, no matter how advanced technology was becoming. She wrote herself a to-do list for the next decade. A woman who does not make promises that she does not intend to keep, she then folded it up and promised herself to fulfill her list. It was then and there that the next chapter of her story was determined. 

That evening, she was treated to the lighting of the menorah and a homemade feast of all the traditional Thanksgiving fare, with latkes and apple sauce to appease the Gods of Jewishness. As she sat and watched her cousin carve the turkey, she felt that none of these exciting endeavors of hers would mean anything were it not for the people in her life to share it with. Dancing on the parade was cool; watching the turkey being expertly carved in a warm home surrounded by family was just as cool.

The night drew to a close as the house emptied of guests. "I'm going to hell for gluttony," she said, as she stuffed her bag with a leftover caveman turkey leg and a kosher chocolate lollipop with a menorah on it. She stood on the train platform and felt, as Thanksgivikkah wouldn't come round again for thousands of years, that she had played her part in celebrating it aptly, for today was one for the books. "We are lucky," she thought, as she stepped out of the cold into the warmth of the heated train, "to have so much to be thankful for." As she walked the streets of NYC upon her return, she saw the familiar sight of homeless people trying to take shelter from the cold along with the unfamiliar sight of blocks of people lined up for Black Friday sales, and the lightness in her step became heavy.

When Smee pressed her for his evening meal, she fed him distractedly. It didn't feel right, having so much when others had nothing; to give thanks then go out for more before the day was even over. She added something to her to-do list. Then she went to sleep, thankful for the heat, the turkey leg in her fridge, and the comforter under which she lay with her full belly. 

Family Matters

CHAPTER 1: Prelude to the Journey



Family comes first. And yet, my immediate family, within which the family core and values are as strong as the Trunchbull's hammer throw, have somehow managed to end up in 3 different countries on two different continents. I blame my dad's wanderlust; whatever genetic predisposition inside of him that possessed him to leave Long Island and eventually meet and marry a Malaysian native girl in a town of Malaysia that is not Kuala Lumpur (were there Long Islanders from his hometown of Merrick who were even aware that other towns existed in Malaysia?) seems to have been instilled in me. And let's not forget my mom's singular ambition to get out of her hometown, Miri. She often says that my dad had to travel halfway around the world to find her and take her out. But enough about them; they'll wring my neck for writing an entire paragraph about them, as it is.



So, back to my initial point: I live in NYC, and between my sister and parents, there are Rubin representatives in England, Spain, and France throughout the year. Lucky ducks. The one downfall of our international family is that we only get to talk via Skype once a week, and that once-a-week Skype date can, in some cases, be challenging to plan, or may not even happen during a busier week. Time difference is a bitch. So forget about actual, physical, face-to-face time (FaceTime on iPhone doesn't count, but thanks, Apple). The last time I saw my family was in July of 2012. The last time I saw my family Stateside was summer 2009. Ergo, my number one priority once I booked MATILDA was to figure out when an appropriate time would be for them to come to NYC so that: A. We could hang out, and B. They could (finally) see me on Broadway.



Their plane was due to arrive in the afternoon on a Monday, which is my day off from work. I told them I'd wait for them in my cousins' apartment with my cousins who would be joining us for dinner. As I knew I wouldn't have much time to spend with my family during a work week, any free time I had was reserved for one thing: EATING. I couldn't wait to introduce them to my favourite restaurants. Before committing acts of gluttony, they had to arrive, and I took myself to JFK to surprise them at arrivals. They were super duper surprised!!! It was such a joy to see their excited and non-expectant faces, and I burst into tears and couldn't stop, to which my dad asked, "what is wrong with you?!" It had been an overwhelming time as it was: proof being on my body where I had red bumps on my torso, which I of course promptly showed them while waiting in the taxi queue. Nerves of having many people booked to see me in the show that week mixed with Accutane side-effects mixed with having worked non-stop since December were showing up physically and by the end of the week, the bumps on my torso were joined by a very itchy rash on my thighs, and what felt like chemical burns on my arms, and two styes in my right eye. The impish Vacation Gods were taunting me, and I was ready to submit to them. I just had to get through one more week because the Working Gods are far stronger than their impish brothers and sisters.



In the week that followed, we ate a Schezuan meal, congee in Chinatown, ramen, Japanese BBQ, and sipped tea at both Harney & Sons and Radiance Tea House. In a normal week, my free time is spent either taking dance class or working out with my personal trainer, but this week, those acts of well-being were substituted with eating. So much eating. So, really, even though I had been on in the show all week, it had been a relatively relaxing week and I felt less tired than I usually do at the end of the week. After 4 hours of sleep on Saturday night, I woke at 5:30am on Sunday, alert and ready to run the Color Run, the world's happiest 5k! I'm so glad that my dad had decided to join me and my colleagues for our morning of color running in Brooklyn because we had a blast! The weather was perfect, and these sorts of events are a great substitute for socializing to your average night out at a bar. I've discovered that I'm an adventurer at heart (I'm starting to realise that it was perhaps the desire for adventure more than the desire to be on Broadway that urged me to move from London to NYC) and I think my goal is to do something like the Color Run every 3 months or so. But let me take this opportunity to say that anyone who lives in Brooklyn who gives me grief for living in West New York, NJ is CRAZY. Crazy! The commute was soooooooo loooooooong.



That afternoon, for my last performance of the week as The Acrobat (after I spent a panicked turn in the shower scrubbing color from my skin upon which the bluish tint so stubbornly sat) I was the lucky gal with sixteen family members in the audience. I had family come in from Europe, Long Island, and Westchester to watch me run around the stage as a glasses-wearing schoolgirl searching for Amanda Thripp, living the Broadway dream I have talked about at every Jewish holiday at the kosher hotel between bites of matzoh ball soup and flanken. It was cool, performing for them. I had emailed them exactly what to look out for so they'd know how to pick me out. What was even cooler was bringing them onstage afterwards. For me, the stage is my 2nd home, an extension of my office, if you will. For them, standing on a Broadway stage was VIP treatment to the max. We ate family style afterwards at an Italian restaurant, the adults at one table, the "kids" at the other, just like old times in the kosher hotel. It was lovely for us all to be together, and for me at least, the most important thing about that day was not that my family got to see me on Broadway, but that my being on Broadway brought the family together for the first time in four years.



Chapter 2: Roots



When my family and I found out that I would be on in MATILDA for a week and that they would make a trip Stateside to see it, we decided that I would take my week's vacation right off the back of that. As a visit to my aunt's (dad's sister) family in the Carolinas was overdue, it seemed that a road trip to the Carolinas would be a super fun way for us to spend time together and see other parts of the country. While I'm relatively well-traveled internationally, the same cannot be said for my domestic travels.



Our first stop was in Washington D.C. Along the way, we stopped at a rest stop for breakfast, which consisted of Cinnabons and Starbucks, neither of which my parents were accustomed to, obviously. Who drinks Starbucks in Europe?! My dad is always complaining that he can't get a good cup of coffee in the States. When the cashier asked for my dad's name to write on his cup, it seemed to take him by surprise! Anyway, my only reason for mentioning our rest stop is to mention our discussion over breakfast. We listened to my dad talk about his parents' generation and I learned new things about them and their lives and the types of people they were. As I write this now I wonder if these were things my grandparents would have ever spoken about to me if I had ever bothered to ask. I just knew them as Grandpa Morris, Grandma Edith, Aunt Fran, and so on, and was too young to contemplate that they were people with colored histories during which they built roots from which my family has grown.



We reached D.C. by early afternoon. There is a loveliness to D.C. which surprised me. The architecture, the cleanliness, the slower pace, everything about the city made me feel completely relaxed. The beautiful weather probably accounted for a lot of those feelings, but I daresay I fell in love with the city. Had it a theatre scene as vibrant as London or New York, I think I could even set up home there! We spent our first afternoon playing tourist and walking to the memorials via Georgetown. First though, we needed food, and I had come across Rasika in my research. It is rated #4 in the city and just happened to be a few minutes' walk away from the hotel. It was one of the best Indian meals we have ever had, and that is really high praise coming from the Rubin clan. It's the best Indian meal I've had since I left London 4 years ago. As much as NYC is a culinary delight, it lacks really great Indian curry, and y'all can stop recommending places to me because they never live up to my expectations! Rasika, on the other hand, is well worth a visit if you're in the area and love a good curry.



My sister and I started the next day catching up with an old camp friend at Lincoln's Waffle Shop, just opposite Ford's Theatre. I'm not a huge waffle fan, but how can you go to a waffle shop and not order a waffle? Much to my surprise, the waffle was not big and fat, which kills my appetite, but flat and crunchy. It was super delicious! I also ordered scrapple, which I'd never seen on a menu before. You know what? I know it's supposed to be really gross, and as I was googling it, I was scared that google was going to tell me that it was pigs' shit, but turns out it's all the trimmings that the butcher throws out. It was also delicious. All those trimmings are not good enough for other people? I'll take them! Gladly! Yum!



Well-fed, we walked to the Holocaust Memorial Museum. I debated on whether to go into detail about our visit in this blog entry and decided that it's an experience that I would rather discuss with people privately. What I will say about it, is that my mom said, upon exiting, "it is every human being's duty to go." Also, there was a train carriage there which was used to transport Jews to a concentration camp, and when I walked inside, I swear I felt spirits there. Though a visit to the Smithsonian had been on our list, we were completely drained after spending a lot more time than anticipated at the Holocaust museum, so what did we decide to do next? Eat! Of course! We walked to Fish Wharf and after a day and a half of seeing people all suited up, we finally saw some of the other half of the city hanging out at an awesome outdoor fish market, which we would have loved to frequent if our feet weren't swollen from half a day of walking, so we went to a nearby seafood restaurant and indulged in some Americana seafood buffet. The food was less than mediocre, but we sat there at length, discussing our visit to the Holocaust museum and the Holocaust itself. I asked many questions, but there was one question that none of us were able to answer: if you were living during the Holocaust and were not a Jew, what would you have done? Would you have done nothing? Been a complier to the Nazis? Put your own life at risk to help the Jews? We all know what type of person we would want to be, but in reality, who are we really? A haunting, but important self-reflection.



I was actually sad to leave D.C. and would love to return again. Our next port of call was Williamsburg, VA. We spent the afternoon walking around colonial Williamsburg after which we made a unanimous decision to have Red Lobster for dinner, which was absolutely delicious, but let me tell you, I zonked out afterwards and when I woke up, felt dehydrated and lethargic. Eating like that all the time is a sin, and I really should be fasting on this Yom Kippur to atone for such sins, but I have never fasted and am not about to start after half a week of complete gluttony. That evening we took a ghost tour which was awful. I had taken one other ghost tour in Edinburgh which was far superior so was disappointed by the tour in Williamsburg. I feel that historic Williamsburg is a bit pricey on the whole, and was not sad to leave for the Carolinas the next day.



So, here I am in North Carolina. Ballantyne, Charlotte, to be exact. The weather today has taken a turn. After a week of scorching hot sunshine, it is cold and grey today, a metaphor for the Rubins coming to the end of this family road trip. Last night we ate Yom Kippur dinner with my aunt and cousins after a visit to my aunt's new home in York, SC. The adults never made it to temple and instead watched the little ones perform plays after dinner. We had brought two flamenco dresses for my two little cousins and the older one put hers on straight away while I showed the younger one how to open a fan. I look at them and see myself and my sister, for we were once putting on plays and dressing up. And so the world turns and things change but yet things are the same because it seems we all follow the blueprint of those who have come before us, back to the beginnings of our ancestry. Is that far too simple a way of thinking about it? I feel that, for all the complexities of the human race, we really are that simple. Like the trees, we plant roots and from those roots we grow and our families grow and everything is passed on and on, timeless and forever.



We have a couple more days left of our road trip. Unbelievably, this is the first time that I have been away from NYC that I do not miss it. This is not a reflection of my feelings for the city, but a reflection on the peace that I have felt to be with my family and discover new things and have new adventures. Traveling serves as a reminder that things are relative and that there are many experiences waiting to be had. I can't wait for the next Rubin road trip! I'm trying to convince them that next shall be the Grand Canyon. Until then, I'm due a vacation in Europe next year, so I had better start planning that. So many things to do and so many places to go! We are the lucky ones who can travel. While the majority of Americans probably don't hold passports, I count myself in the bracket of those lucky enough to have the choice to travel. Before any of that though, I must return to reality and work off these pancakes, waffles, BBQ ribs, etc etc etc. NYC, I'll see you in a couple of days. Get ready to whip my butt!

Colour Me (Half) Asian: Supporting Asian-American Actors

About a year and a half after I moved to NYC, I was lucky to be cast as Gertie in an all-Asian reading of OKLAHOMA, directed by Baayork Lee, of A CHORUS LINE fame. Still quite green to the politics of show business in NYC, I had, until I started rehearsal for the reading, been naively unaware that there was an Asian community of actors in the city, most of whom not only knew each other, but loved each other as family. Though raised by a Chinese mom in Singapore, I have never defined myself as any particular race or "colour." Sure, I refer to myself as a Chinese-Jew, but I certainly never limit myself to what being Chinese and/or Jewish embodies (and, anyway, I am most Chinese-Jewish in my love of eating, a love which both cultures share). I was not singled out for being different when I went to high school in the Jewish suburb of Chappaqua, Westchester, and when I left Chappaqua and continued my higher education in London, I was set apart by my American accent, not my race. The closest I ever came to feeling "boxed in" by my heritage was when I was in ballet class in college and we had a substitute ballet teacher in who, at one moment, pointed to me and said, "little Japanese girl, come here." It took all of my might not to burst into laughter and denounce her ignorance in my broad American accent. 

Perhaps I never saw myself as "different" because I spent the first 10 years of my life living in Singapore and going to an international school with friends from all over the globe: Pakistan, Australia, Japan, Sri Lanka, Sweden; you name the country, I probably knew someone from there at school. We were all from completely different backgrounds, and yet our differences were what made us similar; we were all children whose parents came to Singapore from another country, and in that way, we were all the same. My parents tell this story of this time my twin sister and I were allowed to pick out one doll each, and my sister chose a black doll. We didn't distinguish, because we grew up never having to, and so didn't know how to. By the time we left Singapore, at the age of 10, my sister and I probably had more friends whose first language was not English, and it never occurred to us that that sort of childhood was not the norm.

Consequently, I never grew up feeling different or expecting to be treated differently because of my race. When I went to college to major in theatre dance, I credit my teachers for never teaching me that I should expect to be typecast. I left college and went on to play Vietnamese in MISS SAIGON, Puerto Rican in WEST SIDE STORY, and Cuban as the Havana feature in GUYS AND DOLLS, alongside some Caucasian roles, as well. Did it ever, for one second, occur to me that I was doing an injustice to those roles by not being of authentic ethnicity? Not for one second. An actor's job is to act, and I did my research, as any actor does. I bought a book of Spanish curse words during GUYS AND DOLLS rehearsal, so that I would improvise in the correct language. We watched documentaries about the Vietnamese war which included interviews of prostitutes so that we understood what was really going on in Vietnam at the time "The Heat is on in Saigon" starts MISS SAIGON. I never ever felt like a fraud because I was not of the correct racial background. You do not have to have lived it to be able to act it. What you do need is compassion and empathy to gain an understanding of what it would be like to live it, so that you can put yourself believably in someone else's shoes. This mentality served me well in London.

Then I moved to New York, and all of a sudden, it didn't matter how much research and preparation I would have been willing to do for a role. I was too Asian, not Asian enough, too mixed race, not mixed race enough, etcetera. I was everything but right. I'd go to a MISS SAIGON call and look too Caucasian. I'd go to a commercial casting for a mixed race part and everyone else there would be some sort of black mix. I wouldn't even bother going in for regional theatre seasons casting traditional musicals such as those by Rodgers and Hammerstein, because they would inevitably not be looking for someone who looked like me. I couldn't figure out where on earth I fit in. However, I still never saw my "look" and my heritage as something that made booking a job any harder for me than anyone else, and I never felt that I had less opportunities. Sure, there were many jobs for tall blonde dancers, but there were also many tall blonde dancers fighting for those jobs. When auditions came around looking for someone of my look, such as Liat in SOUTH PACIFIC, it reinforced my faith that it was just a matter of time before I walked into a room and was immediately "right" for a project. It was just a matter of time before the people sitting behind the desk had as much imagination as I had determination to work hard in any role I'd be given the opportunity to play.

After two years of not booking work other than a workshop here and there, that time came when I auditioned for Royal Caribbean's production of SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER. Again, I did not feel like a fraud when I learned I'd be playing the Italian Brooklyn-ite, Stephanie Mangano. I worked with an awesome dialect coach and got a tan, and, presto! I was Chinese-Jew turned gum popping Italian chick from Bay Ridge. Stephanie is a girl with big dreams of a life in Manhattan. How much more authentic could you get than me, the chick who packed up a life in London to move to Manhattan? It would have been a shame to lose out on the part because of my ethnicity. If the spirit is right, everything else can be worked around. I truly believe that. 

So, what's my point? My point is that I feel very lucky that I have not experienced what many of my Asian counterparts do: that there are not enough roles written for Asian actors, and that there is not enough imagination to have Asian actors fill roles that are not specifically written for them. I do understand that I am set apart a little from this because I am half-Asian and have a very different look to someone who is fully Asian.That being said, I could not have been more proud to be a part of OKLAHOMA with a cast of supremely talented Asian actors, or believe more in the importance of the work that Baayork Lee et al. are doing to expand the vision of what the Asian community has to offer. Politics aside, I love to see shows that have colour blind casting, and that's not because I'm a Chinese-Jew, but because I love to see the world onstage reflect the world that is really around us. Who of my musical theatre generation didn't love Disney's colour blind casting of CINDERELLA starring Brandy as Cinderella, Paolo Montalban as the prince, Whoopie Goldberg as his mom, and Victor Garber as his dad? I didn't care for one second that the prince was Filipino, his mom African American, and his dad Caucasian. It is the opinion of this tiny Chinese-Jew that such diversity should not be limited to shows that are set in an imaginary world. I don't personally need actors to look alike if they are to convince me that they are a family and love each other a family. Case in point: 110 IN THE SHADE starring Audra McDonald whose stage family included a Caucasian dad and brother and an African American brother. Suspension of my disbelief in them as a family took no effort due to the stellar cast.

I don't want this blog entry to be about politics. It's a celebration of my belief that there is a place for everyone in this business, and that there are people willing to give Asian and half-Asian actors a chance at playing a multitude of roles. I must, of course, finish with a MATILDA anecdote: I shared a photo of the cast list on Facebook and my aunt commented that the list reads like a who's-who of the United Nations. I responded to her that we indeed have actors of all colours, shapes, and sizes in our cast. She commented that diversity is great in the theatre. It sure is, folks. Diversity is not only great, but important in the theatre. I am proud to be part of a show that, at any given snapshot of a moment, could look like an ad for the United Colours of Benetton! 

Tomorrow night, Baayork presents an all-Asian production of HELLO DOLLY, and I look forward to supporting my Asian colleagues in their graceful step towards giving Asian-American actors a stronger voice within the theatrical community. 

Preaching the Shit out of Love

This is not going to be well written; it's almost midnight and I'm a tad hormonal. I just don't understand how it's the year 2013 and America is still discussing whether or not same-sex marriage is kosher (it's Passover, I had to). I don't know the facts and I don't know anything about politics, and I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. Correct me if I'm wrong: the Declaration of Independence states, "All men are created equal." "Equal" means...well...equal...right? And I just googled the Constitution on Wikipedia and it states that by putting the constitution in place, the American people are to be provided (a) justice, (b) civil peace, (c) common defense, (d) those things of a general welfare that they could not provide themselves, and (e) freedom. A government of "liberty and union, now and forever." "Liberty and union, now and forever" means...well...liberty and union, now and forever, right? RIGHT? Why is America not practicing what it so clearly preaches? WHY?? It's right there, in black and white, no? Am I missing something? Tell me if I am because it's driving me insane (you don't believe me? I'm up writing a blog entry after midnight on a school night). Unless I'm mistaken, taking away someone's right to marry means taking away the same choices that the majority of Americans are allowed to make, which means that there is a lack of that "equal" and "liberty" stuff, which means it goes against the American constitution, so...why the fuck is our government still discussing it?!

You know what really bugs me? These Justices (is that what the're called?) are, I'm assuming, some of the most educated people in America. Why aren't they all like, "why the fuck are we discussing this?" Because I'm definitely not more learned than they, and if I were a Justice and was asked to make a decision about same-sex marriage, I'd be like, "why the fuck are we discussing this they are American human beings which makes them exactly the same as every other American human being so of course they should fucking be allowed to get married I can't believe I had to get out of bed at 5am for this shit just fucking let them live like everyone else and do it now so that I can get the fuck out of this stuffy room and go have a cup of tea." These Justices are supposed to be setting an example for the rest of the country, not faffing about over basic human rights.

I don't even know what the arguments against same-sex marriage are. Is it because it's un-constitutional? Because that idea is just wrong and shouldn't be up for debate. "We the people" includes every single American that walks the Earth. "We the people" is colorblind, class-blind, sex-blind, and so why should it be anything but sexual preference blind, as well?  Is it because it goes against what the bible says is right? So what? So does gluttony, and I practice that daily and no one is debating over my right to be glutinous. And the very notion of freedom declares that we have a right to choose to believe in God and the Bible or not, so how dare anyone have the right to infringe legally on others' beliefs or non-beliefs. Is it because it is a bad example for kids? I mean...do I need to write down examples of kids born into marriages of a mother and father who ended up severely fucked up and/or caused mass destruction and/or committed mass murders? Just as growing up with one mother and one father does not guarantee the healthy mind of a child, growing up with two fathers or two mothers does not guarantee the unhealthy mind of a child. Is it because, if your neighbours happen to be a same-sex couple and they get married, they will cause your family unhappiness? That's bullshit. Junior high "she has braces so we can't let her sit at our lunch table or she'll make us all unpopular" kind of bullshit. First of all, happiness is a choice that comes from within. If you're unhappy, you should work on not being unhappy instead of wasting time judging other people. Second of all, I'm pretty certain that that same-sex couple who just got married down the road are far too obsessed with each other to give a shit about you and your family.

The idea that not everyone in the United States of America in the year 2013 does not have the right to marry the person of their choosing is preposterous and I am ashamed on behalf of the people of this country who do not view it as so. This is not an argument about the bible or who makes who feel uncomfortable or who is gay, straight, into black men, or into Asian chicks. It's about whether the American people agree that every single American has the right to make the same choices as everyone else, regardless of sexual preference. Why are we even discussing this? Why am I writing a blog about it? Because I believe in love and choice and freedom for ALL and showing those kids that I work with on a daily basis that the most important things in any relationship, friendship or otherwise, are love, kindness and mutual respect. With all those things, how can there be anything but happiness? I feel lucky to be the sort of person whose FB feed turned red today. History does change. History is changing. I wish for the generations that come after us to look upon ours and see that we chose unconditional love for each other and in the way we raised our children. So let's fucking make it happen so that I can stop swearing.

Scootering on the Edge of...[Fill in the Blank]

My last blog entry, which you can read HERE was written in Dec 2012 and about the moment I found out that I was going to be on Broadway. It is now March 2013. In the time that has passed, I have learned to do the following: ride a scooter, jump onto a vault on one foot and forward roll off it, communicate with different types of children, communicate with different types of adults, speak in a Welsh accent (this is still a work-in-progress), tie a tie (badly), and stay calm when stuck in an elevator with 5 people at a time when I'm supposed to be leading a rehearsal. I have not learned how to stay calm under the pressure of the possibility of being thrown into a scooter dance track that I have never rehearsed, how to churn out 11 dance tracks out of memory, how to stay focused at full attention during every second of a 12 hour working day, or how to physically be in two (or three) places at the same time. This is also a work-in-progress. I live in a constant state of anxiety that I'm afraid the gratitude I have does not quash. I am anxious of hurting myself. I am anxious of hurting someone else. And I am anxious of, Lord forbid, hurting a child when that child is my responsibility. My position might be better served by someone with a calmer and cooler disposition by nature. Well, too bad, they got me, and I fight every day not to let myself be overwhelmed by a series of "what ifs," a one sided dialogue that cycles around in my brain like tiny termites on tiny scooters, eating away at my confidence, patience, and at the very worst, my humour. Because, if my insecurities stall me from laughing at any given situation, then it's bad news.

"Won't you be bored?" many people asked me when I told them I would be a Swing. At the time, I was too freaking excited to let such notions dampen my spirits. Now, I say emphatically, nay, EXASPERATEDLY, that I am TOO FREAKING BUSY AND ANXIOUS TO BE BORED. I spent the better part of the shows this week writing out cheat sheets for the Swing kids. Should they be thrown into one of their tracks at the last second, we need them to be overly prepared. So, I sat in my dressing room hunched over my notepad writing out examination question and answer forms to give them. I don't have cramps in my body from dancing, but I have cramps in my hand from writing. Go figure! I have not held a pen without putting it down for this long since I was in boarding school and writing essays out by hand (because in those days, teenagers didn't study via computer and google, but via pen, paper, and the library). You, my dear reader, will either find it fascinating or eye-roll inducing that my astrologer told me a couple of years ago that I could make a decent living working with other people's children. Additionally, when I consulted her before I was offered Matilda, she asked me if I had auditioned for a big sister role because my chart showed alot of big sister energy. Ladies and gents, I had absolutely no idea that there would be a children's dance captain on the show, let alone know that I was being considered for it. I would have never ever pegged myself as someone who would work so closely with kids. And yet, it is determined by the stars and things happen in ways in which you never imagine. These kids look at me during warm-ups like I'm in charge, and when they ask me questions, they really believe that I have all the answers, when the truth is I don't have all the answers, and I don't know if I ever will. But, by the stars, I will go and find the answers for them. By the stars, they will not be underprepared. I know this because they have been drilled within an inch of their (and my) lives by an intrepid dance team made up of a couple women whom I wish I was as tireless as. I am so not tireless. All I want to do sometimes is crawl into a little warm space and drink some carefully steeped oolong and read a book on Taoism. 

Amidst the anxieties stated above, I get constant vomit inducing pangs of reminders every day that I am, in fact, first cover to a couple of the adult tracks. See, I forget. I hang out with the kids (and when I say "hang out," what I really mean is, "make sure they know exactly where they go to onstage when they're on a scooter, etc etc etc") and I forget that I'm actually an adult and need to know what I'm doing as an adult so that I can be ready to go onstage as an adult. The thought of this makes my armpits break out in a cold sweat. I am not cut out for this kid of pressure. I get so nervous that I can barely focus. In fact, I have no idea how I got this job, my nerves were so bad. As if being prone to awful nerves wasn't a pain in the butt enough, I go into work every day and face fears that I never thought in my darkest nightmares I would have to. The very first time I saw "gym session" scheduled, I assumed we'd be learning how to cartwheel (a skill I do not have), maybe learn how to do backwards walkovers (ditto). When I turned up to work and saw a trampette and a vault...well...all I can say is that I was lucky I was wearing a sleeveless top. It didn't help that every single one of the kids jumped onto the vault with absolute ease, putting me to shame. It's fine, I feel too anxious to feel any embarrassment. Then I remember that I have to work on the salsa section that the adults do, and I think to myself, "F this vault shit, I gotta go salsa!" 

And so it goes, round and round every day, like those scooters, around in one big circle of anxiety and aggravation and I cry sometimes and I laugh at myself for crying and pick myself up then I fall down again, and on and on and on, and during my day off which is not really a day off, I work on my taxes and do my 2 loads of laundry which takes like 3 hours per load and dance through the show in my living room which I have no idea is actually helpful, and I think that something has to give. Then I remember that I'm making my Broadway debut in a special and magical show; that I am in the middle of living inside the biggest dream I ever had, and I think, "Celia, of course this isn't EASY! When is anything you REALLY want ever EASY?!" And I remember that I almost don't remember what boredom feels like because, since starting this process in the beginning of December last year, among the many things that I have felt, boredom is not one of them. 

I guess you want to know if Broadway is everything I thought it would be. The answer is, No. I didn't expect it to be this hard, or all-consuming, or that I'd have to do anything but sing, act, and dance. But, if you believe in the stars, as I do, then you believe that what's meant for you won't pass you by. I am meant for it, and it is meant for me, and there are moments between the anxiety that I feel like the luckiest (and, at tiny, fleeting moments, bravest) woman in the world. I welcome it all with open arms, mind, and heart, but, let me tell you: anxiety and hard work is one thing, however, if I end up with my first strand of gray hair or WRINKLES because of this job, I will pick up a scooter and throw it out the window, just as Miss Trunchbull did to little Julius Rottwinkle.

The Phonecall: A (Melo)Dramatic Scene, Written by a Narcissist

Time: A Tuesday. Election Day 2012.

Setting: A tea shop in SoHo

Celia (27-30), an actor who works in the shop, is a tiny Chinese-Jewish woman. Attractive in a cute and quirky way, she wears big, thick framed glasses. She has been antsy for over a week due to having taken part in the final callback for a Broadway show. The worst part, as every actor will admit, is the waiting. Celia has never been so close to a Broadway contract. Though she is consistently mistaken for (much) younger than she actually is, she is not a spring chicken. Time is ticking. Money is dwindling. Desire is rising. She leaves the shop floor to check her phone. The screen says: "1 missed call: Agent. 1 voicemail: Agent." Her heart rate rises rapidly. She goes into the bathroom and closes the door. The voicemail she picks up from her agent says: "Hi Celia, call me back." Her hands start to shake. The immediate thought of, "Oh my God, maybe I got it," is quickly replaced by the thought that, if it is bad news, she will have to go back onto the shop floor and smile at customers as if everything is not just fine, but great. She has done this before. It is not easy. The shaking has spread throughout her whole body and her armpits have broken into a sweat. She takes her trembling hand and dials her agent. She is having trouble focusing her thoughts when he answers.

Celia (working hard to control her voice from warbling): Hi, it's Celia.

Agent: Are you somewhere you can scream?

Celia: Um...I...what?

Agent: Are you somewhere you can scream?

Celia: I...um...I'm at work. 

Agent: ARE YOU SOMEWHERE YOU CAN SCREAM???

Celia (the ability to focus diminishing): Um...um...uh...I...I'm in the bathroom. Why? Tell me? Oh my God, why?

Agent: You're going to be in a Broadway show....!!!!!

She inhales ferociously and loudly. Silence. She doesn't scream. Silence. She holds her breath. Silence. She cannot remember how to exhale. Silence. Silence silence silence. She can only hear the disconnected sound of her heart pounding in her head. She stammers:

I can't breathe. I'm shaking. I'm shaking! 

Everything is fuzzy. A fuzzy blur. Jumbled. Like the pieces of a puzzle, unopened. Then, she has her first rational thought: "I am at work."

Celia: Um...I...I have to go back to work. I'm at work. I have to go back. I can't talk now. Can I call you later? I'll call you later. When I can talk.

Agent (laughing): Okay, call me when you are able to talk. 

Dazed, Celia goes back onto the shop floor. She cannot shout it aloud. She looks at her two colleagues. A smile the size of a frying pan spreads across her face as she softly says:

I'm...gonna...be...on...Broadway. (Silence. They stare at each other.) I think...I need to clock out and take lunch. She finally lets out a squeal. She has told someone. Which means it's real.  Hugging and squealing ensues.

Celia clocks out. She calls her agent. She calls her parents in Spain. Her Dad's first response is "MAZEL TOV!" She tells them to call her sister in Paris. She texts her best friend in London. She texts her cousin (in New York). She cannot call or text anyone else; she has no time. She still has tea to sell. She remains calm and carries on. The rest of her day is spent guiding customers through tea. When people ask how she is, she does not declare, "I JUST BOOKED MY FIRST BROADWAY SHOW!" She replies with still composure, "I'm fine, thank you." That evening, Obama is re-elected. Celia has far more important things on her mind. Like the fact that, after a lifetime of dreaming, wishing, praying, crying, dancing, fighting, loving, singing, acting, hoping, believing, and learning, she is going to sing, dance, and act on Broadway.

Time: The next day.

Celia wakes up. It is just like any other day. She steeps a cup of tea and quietly sips it while eating some biscuits. While watching a clip of the show she finds online, she starts to cry. A cry she didn't even know was on its way. Alone in her room, she starts to let herself believe that her biggest dream of all has become a reality. Silence. The tea sits. the computer runs. And the tears fall. When a dream comes true, it makes no noise.

My Sandy (and Windy) Adventures

On Sunday evening, my venue of work, Harney & Sons, shut its doors at 5pm instead of the usual 7pm, in accordance with the early closing of the subways due to an impending visit from Hurricane Irene's big sis, Sandy. Instead of making my way back home to New Jersey, I walked just a few blocks to the Chinatown apartment of some friends whose cat I am taking care of for the week. Sandy, who had not yet made her appearance, was already proving to be a nuisance. I had planned to go home on Monday to pick up some clothes for the week, and now that the subways were closed, my plan had turned to dust (sand?). Not sure when I'd have a chance to get back home, I thought that I'd just have to wait until Tuesday to go shopping.

When I awoke on Monday to a little bit of drizzle, I was dismayed that everything was shut down, because I would have seized the opportunity to buy a couple of clean items of clothing. Let's just say, in light of what happened in the next 24 hours, I am lucky that I am a neurotic Jew who packed 4 pairs of underwear for what I thought would only be a couple of nights before I could get home to pick up more clean underwear.
After an uneventful Monday (when I actually got all caught up on emails and such, by being house-bound), Sandy showed up that evening. The blackout came at around 9pm. It still didn't occur to me that the power outage would last beyond a day. My electronics were charged up, candles were lit, and my book about reincarnation was entirely appropriate. I read by candlelight, having fun with the whole romantic aspect of an otherwise dreary situation. And, at least the kitty was still sane, if not a little anxious and confused.

My romantic inclinations ended on Tuesday morning when I woke up to find that I had no phone service or wifi service. Oh. Okay. Well, no biggie, I could deal with a day of nowt. I thought it might be an adventure to see what was happening in the aftermath of Sandy (whose visit I kind of just slept through), so I headed outside to scope things out. Absolutely everything was shut down. Okay. There went my (entirely imbecilic) idea of relying on restaurant food post-Sandy. I had boiled 4 eggs the night before, so I had some protein, and there was some fruit in the apartment, and cereal. Hmmmm. That would be sufficient for me, but I wondered if I could possibly find something a little more exciting. There was one grocery shop open, and though I really didn't need anything, I joined the line to get inside just to, you know, get the full 4D experience of the day after tomorrow. I bought a can of Cola. As I walked the streets, I saw a lone vendor selling wontons. Hmmmm. If I didn't find anything else, I'd go back for some. Trust a foodie to be picky about food under such circumstances. I DID find something else. A Halal cart! Yup, there it was, a miracle within the rain and the bleak and palid streets! You don't have to convince me to eat street meat, even when it's not post-hurricane, so I got on line for some hot food. I must have waited a good hour. Well, not like I had anything else to do that day. I got my street meat, and passed by the wonton stall again. 4 wontons for $1. Okay! I got 8 (lukewarm) wontons. For the rest of the day, I read, and when it got too dark to read, I worked on my laptop until it was almost out of juice. Oh dear. By the night time, I was lonely and anxious that I wasn't able to receive calls and/or texts. I knew my parents wouldn't worry, that they'd assume that I would be okay, but it would have been nice to send them an assuring email (they live in Spain). I went to sleep at 9:30pm, slightly perturbed, and wondering how long this lack of contact to the outside world would last. I had spent the day with no electricity, no heat, no hot water, no phone service, no wifi service, no real food, and one book. A repeat might have driven me more insane than I already am.

I awoke at 3:30am and turned on my phone to see if there was progress in cell service. I had received a text! Another miracle! One of my friends who lives in midtown had graciously offered use of his apartment, should I need it. By this point, I hadn't eaten a proper meal since Sunday, hadn't showered since Monday afternoon, and both my phone and laptop were about to die. I text him immediately, saying, "I'm coming over. Text me when you wake up."

On Wednesday morning, I packed my bags with my dirty laundry and laptop and headed to Midtown. On foot. That's like, over 50 blocks. On my way to my friend's house, I passed a hotel which had generously set up a phone/laptop charging point. What a relief! There were people huddled about, and though everyone was desperate to re-charge (we're New Yorkers; if we can't access email in 10 minutes, we start sweating), everyone remained calm and patient, and waited for an outlet to become free. People were in good spirits, despite the situation, and my heart was filled with the kindness and generosity of strangers. Strangers helping each other; it exists and it is amazing.

I spent the rest of the day hanging out with Seth, and letting people know that I was okay. I did laundry, drank tea, ate hot food, and took a hot shower, all of which felt novel. Feeling human again at 9:30pm, I headed back to Chinatown. It's a little unnerving to be a pedestrian at night in a city where there is no light, and cars are driving without the aid of traffic lights. Though the streets were not entirely deserted, it was almost pitch black, and I kept thinking, "I could totally get raped, and no one would know because it's too dark to see a thing." Oy. I made it back home without being touched, thank goodness.

Thursday and today have been spent walking into Midtown and spending the day hanging out at people's houses whose power hasn't been effected (lucky buggers). I even managed to get to ballet class yesterday. Gotta work off that street meat! As work has not been open since Sunday due to the lack of power, I have the exciting task of going in to empty out the fridges of the rotting perishables. Can't wait!

I received word this morning from my flat mate that the power and internet at home in New Jersey are back on, hallelujah! But the kitty needs me until his parents get home on Sunday, so I'm racking up karma points by taking care of him. He's a fickle one, too. Just like every man I've dated. He loves me one minute and can't stand me, the next. And yet, I walk 3 hours a day to make sure that he is fed and taken care of. And that, my friends, is the way a loyal Libra shows her unconditional love in the aftermath of Sandy's hectic visit. Stay warm and safe, New York City.

Oh, one more thing. I am sure that the men and women at the power companies are working tirelessly to bring us back to normality. We can place blame all we want, but the fact is, we had a natural disaster, or, as the Brits say, "an act of God." It is not easy to prepare for Mother Nature's unpredictable wrath. People are doing the best they can. I'm just glad I'm still here. It'll take more than a hurricane to blow me away!

Contradictions In a Woman Who Wants It All

I have not written a blog entry in a really long time. I have not written a blog entry about my dating escapades in an even longer time. So, here it is, 2-in-1; 2 for the price of 1; killing two birds with one stone. Et cetera, etceteros, and so forth.

I met a man recently whom I was really into. Like, superly duperly into. I believed that he was superly duperly into me. Turns out, after about a month, that he was superly duperly NOT into me. Ah, therein lay a big rub. Being a woman of utmost humility and modesty, I spent a couple of days trying to come up with a rational answer of HOW this guy could NOT be into me. I mean, he laid eyes on me, Asian cheekbones and all; he had been privy to my dazzling intellect and humour during our lengthy conversations; he even had the pleasure of watching me eat tripe and intestines in a Vietnamese restaurant, once. So, HOW, after all these exhibitions of my fabulousness, could he NOT be into me??? Folks, there is no rational answer. Love and lust are not rational, and the practical side of my brain was left confused, while the more emotional other side was left (completely) disappointed.

I sulked for a couple of days. And when I mean sulk, I mean that I, like a child, behaved as if the world is an unfair and unjust place, because if a woman such as myself, who is a great catch, has not been caught and is now THIRTY YEARS OLD…well…OBVIOUSLY there is just something wrong with the world. How dare it treat me in this unfair manner. You’ll be rolling your eyes by this point and be relieved to hear that I then got the fuck over myself.

How exactly does a tiny Chinese-Jew who is focused on, Mission: Get on Broadway, get the fuck over herself? She grounds herself back into what is real and who she truly is. This is what is real: I moved to NYC in 2009 with one goal -- to sing, dance, and act on the Broadway stage. I am not more myself than when I am alone in my apartment belting out musical theatre showtunes. I do not feel a more familiar surrounding than the backstage of a theatre or inside the ballet studio. No matter how sad, overwhelmed, anxious, or stressed I can be, I walk into a ballet studio, take my place at the barre, and feel safe and in control. Then I take ballet class where the feelings of turning out and pointing my feet and physically responding to the music are as familiar to me as walking and writing. So, after being rejected and sulking, I worked on some audition material and went to ballet class and sang and danced my sadness away (almost).

I want to fall in love. I really, really do. But, I always ask myself the question: if I had to choose between love and being onstage, what would I choose? I have never been able to make a choice. I really don’t know how to make that choice. I really don’t want to. However, it constantly feels as if the Powers That Be are forcing me to choose. When I’m dating and excited about someone, they pull me back and ask me, “why are you wasting time on this frivolity when you should be concentrating on your career?” When I AM concentrating on my career, I leave no place in my soul whatsoever for any man to chisel his way in. Which is a shame, because I really do feel like I deserve to be in love and be on Broadway AT THE SAME TIME.

Now, with a closed heart and no distractions, I plough ever forward, with a couple of major auditions coming up that I am ready to take by the horns. I cannot control love, or when I will fall into it. I cannot control outside factors in a casting process that will either make the job mine or mine for the losing. What I CAN control is who I am as an artist, and shall continue to do just that. My journeys to Broadway and True Love are very rarely easy, smooth, or simple, and constantly filled with rejection. But, boy, I must be crazy, because I am having so much fun!

The Art of Friendship

Solid, true friendship really does last the tests of time and distance. It's pretty awesome to look back on a decade (or more) of close friendships and the memories that they have brought. It's even more awesome to meet close friends now, seeing that they have achieved the things that they set out to achieve. Whether it be booking jobs, becoming a parent, or travelling the world, my friends are living the lives that they planned for themselves. I know this, because I was there during the inception of their many dreams. I was in the college singing class witnessing beakthroughs in vocal techniques, when we all fantasized that these baby steps would lead to a professional contract. I was there for the end of many a relationship when we all believed that it was for the best (which, it always was, as marriages and engagements to the right partners have proven). I was on the other end of the phone many a time, freaking out that someone had just booked the contract of their dreams. I think about the shows that I have travelled to see, the weddings I have attended, the offspring that I have met, and I feel a warm sense of pride for my friends.

I never worry that living across an ocean would weaken the bonds. In the age of social networking, it is incredibly easy to keep in touch with people and keep up to date on each other's lives. I couldn't make the wedding of my friend, Jo, who graciously told me, "it's only a day, and we will be friends forever!" 

My dad asked me the other day if, now that I have lived outside of the U.K. for 3 years, it still feels worth the effort to come back and see old friends, and I responded with a stoic, "absolutely." Being with old friends who knew you before you truly became an adult, before you achieved your biggest dreams, it's like coming home. There is no standing on ceremony or walking on eggshells. There is no need to stroke each other's egos. Long-term friendship breeds honesty, respect, comfort, and love. It is a reminder of who you truly are, without the pressure of having to be anything different. You can speak candidly and openly about any subject, and boy, can you laugh. Laughter between old friends; that unabashed, unhindered guffaw: is it not the best kind of laughter? Most of all, it is an acceptance of each other which has lasted over the years. We all have our flaws, and we have all pissed each other off. I remember having an argument with my best friend, Mark, during the year on tour when we first met in 2004, and I yelled at him in front of other colleagues, "YOU MAKE ME FEEL THIS BIG!" as I held my fingers up to indicate a tiny size. We didn't speak for a few days. When I saw Mark a couple of days ago, we reminisced, and couldn't even remember why we were arguing. These things happen. The important thing is that, when these situations arise, good friends realise that the friendship itself is worth more than a petty argument, or a petty flaw in the other person that irks us. And, thank goodness for that, because I am most definitely a culprit of irking others with my strange ways.

I like to think of myself as someone who is pretty good at bringing people together. When I was still living in London in 2007, I went to NY in the summer and organised a big summer-camp reunion. The last year I was at summer camp was 2000, and I had managed to stay close with most of my camp friends. I had numerous people come to me during the reunion to say that they hadn't seen each other in years, and it was because of me that we were all together again. I even had someone say to me, "I left the house because you!" It was a nice thing to hear. 

I have always been good at friendship. That is not to say that it comes easily; the art of friendship requires a good effort. If I care about someone, I will be one of the first people in line to buy a ticket to their show. I will be straight on the phone calling them if I've heard through the grapevine that something is amiss. I will cross an ocean to see them (time and money permitting). This trip back, I'm managing to see almost everyone who is most important to me. Most of them have already met each other in the past, or at least know of each other. As I said, I am good at bringing people together. I saw one of my friends comment on another of my friend's Facebook wall recently, and I wrote, "how do you two know each other???" I then had to go back and write, "Oh, you know each other through ME!" I had completely forgotten that I had introduced them.

It has been wonderful to reconnect with people, as if no time has passed. We are the same, but different. Mark joked to me the other day, that, while everyone else is getting fatter with age, he and I are getting skinnier. We had a right giggle about that, and I have to say, that all my friends are looking fantastic. Everyone is in great shape and wrinkle free! We are coming into our 30s, and even with so much happiness already, I feel that the best is yet to come for everyone.

I am a Libra who was born in the year of the dog. Librans are responsible for bringing people together; we are the communicators. Dog is man's loyal best friend. Thus, I'm a dog who seeks to unite. Unless I dislike you. Then I will pee on your foot. 

The Telling of Stories: A Discussion on Live Theatre

I am very sad to have missed last night's broadcast of the 66th annual Tony Awards. The ship which I am working on did not televise it, and though waking up this morning with a view of the gorgeous French Riviera (Villefranche, to be exact) was quite a nice compensation, I very much miss the tradition of gathering at a friend's house to watch and support the Broadway community. It is important to begin by saying that I have the utmost respect and admiration for the artists who work on Broadway, and for the work that they create. When I enter an audition room and recognise dancers whom I have seen in Broadway shows, I feel incredibly honoured just to be dancing beside them at the same audition call. To be sure, it was on Broadway that I saw Lincoln Center's revival of CAROUSEL, which would plant a seed that would later grow into an idea that would change my path forever. At the time, I was still a little girl with fierce ambitions to be a principle ballerina with New York City Ballet. I would happily sit through many versions of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake" to watch Odette flutter to her death, or see the title couple's magnificent pas de deux during the balcony scene in Sir Kenneth Macmillan's version of Prokofiev's "Romeo and Juliet." When my mom told me that I would have to sit through a show where the pointe shoes would be replaced by a bunch of acting, I was sure that it would be a couple of hours of complete boredom. In fact, CAROUSEL moved me to tears. This was possibly the first time when I was made aware that the telling of story though song, dance, and book could be so affecting. Broadway is where stories are told as such in the highest calibre, which is why I currently live in NY; to grab the chance at joining the ranks of all the amazing artists who make Broadway the center of the theatrical universe.

In light of the (interesting) public discussions about this year's Tony Awards featuring a performance broadcast from a cruise ship, I feel a need to address a few issues. To be clear, as supportive as I am of the cruise industry for creating employment opportunities for artists like myself, I do not think that the Tonys, which recognises excellence on Broadway, should be showing clips from any show that has not been part of the current Broadway season. However, this view, which many Broadway artists very fairly share, has been accompanied with the more unfair, somewhat elitist view from many of the same that the calibre of live theatre which is found on Broadway cannot been found anywhere else. This is the argument that I beg to differ. As remarkable as Broadway is, it is not a flawless entity that can do no wrong. I have seen more than a few Broadway shows which I have walked out of wonderfing how on earth the creative team sat there during dress and tech runs and deemed it good enough by any standard, let alone the Broadway one.

People go to the theatre for different reasons. Some people go to see dancers kicking their legs to their face. Some people go to hear the golden voices of fantastic singers. I go to be told a story. I want to walk out of the theatre aching for a discussion, because the story that I have just watched unfold before my eyes has been intensely thought-provoking. In my opinion, theatre should always fuel a discussion. Isn't that why we create? To explore the world in which we are living by holding up that famous proverbial mirror? Yes, there is something to be said for a good old fashioned book musical with fabulous production numbers accompanied by a fun, fluffy script. However, I am always most drawn to theatre that tells me a story uniquely enough to be pushing boundaries. I want to be made to think, I want to be made to ask questions, and I want to perhaps have my mind changed about topical ideas. While Broadway has always told, and continues to tell many great stories in ways that are ground-breaking, it is certainly not the only platform on which such live theatre can be seen.

Now, please bear with me as I refer to three pieces of theatre which I have seen, but which I cannot remember clearly. I may not be able to speak of them in specific detail due to my lack of memory on the specifics, but I can definitely describe how I felt during and after these shows, which I remember clearly.

Arguably, my number one theatrical experience was in Orlando, when I went to see Cirque du Soleil's LA NOUBA. Anyone lucky enough to catch a non-touring Cirque show will know that these theatrical spectacles are in a league of their own, not just as a circus, but as a live theatre event. I say non-touring, because, while both fantastic, there is a substantial difference in the Cirque shows which tour, and the shows which play in a space that is custom-built for the productions. I was in my first year of college when I saw LA NOUBA. I remember being awe-struck from the second I entered the space, which created a mystical, fantastical world even before the show began. This feeling stayed with me long after I left that space; to this day, I still reference the production when discussing great theatre. The storytelling of LA NOUBA is unparalleled. Why? Because the obvious love that went into that production from all departments created a world so specific and detailed, that I would venture to say that it was flawless. From the perfect type of eyebrow painted onto each performer to the perfect piece of rhinestone sewn onto each costume, each bit of detail had so obviously been discussed and mulled over and discussed some more before the creative team decided that it was the right choice for their story. Then, you have the actual performances. My goodness, who has watched a flying trapeze act and not felt an array of emotion? From fear to awe to elation? In the Cirque, the performers (the best in their field) of the acts are not presented to us as mere circus artists. They are characters within the story, or physical representations of the theme. The flying trapeze artists might represent wind while the contortionist might be playing the Goddess of Air. The clowns who enter between each act to give us a break from the spectacle by rooting us back into the honesty of the story actually come on now and then to tumble with the circus artists! They are acrobats as well as comedians as well as brilliant dramatic actors! My oh my. Thus, I left the theatre having been taken on a remarkable journey. I didn't understand the foreign song lyrics, nor was there text to help tell us the story. But, I understood, and left with jaw agape by the perfect union of physical and visual brilliance.

As a teenager, I spent a couple of years in high school at a boarding school in Surrey, England. Our theatre department took us to see The Globe's all-male production of Shakespeare's ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, starring the incomparible Mark Rylance as our tragic heroine. Most people reading this will be well acquainted with The Globe. Many audience members stand, as was the practice in Shakespeare's day, and the actors may refer to the audience during their asides. If an audience member is feeling particularly rowdy, he or she may just holler back, and it wouldn't be considered ill-mannered. The onstage action, from lack of scenery, and live musicians during scene changes, are kept as close to the tradition of Shakespeare's day as possible. I have not had the pleasure of seeing Mark Rylance onstage since his performance as Cleopatra, nor did I know at the time what a world renowned actor he was. I remember watching his dying soliloquy and having to remind myself that this was actually a man onstage. I have seen all-male casts of Shakespeare's plays where the men playing the females purposefully heighten the female qualities, both vocally and in their physical mannerisms. It is a storytelling device that I have found works for comedy. For example, having seen a touring production in England of an all-male cast of TAMING OF THE SHREW, I laughed out loud througout at the lead actor's hysterically histrionic performance of Katherine. The production of ANTHONY AND CLEOPATRA was quite muted, as far as the flamboyant tendencies went. There were no Pantomime "Dames" onstage. All the men who played female characters played them with absolute truth, with perhaps a singular feminine wave of the hand or lift of the eyebrow for a subtle comic effect. In an age of hydraulics and high production values, I believe it to be a feat to keep an audience's rapt attention with only the simplest costumes and set pieces to accompany the scenework. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA did just that. Not being a Shakespeare scholar, I didn't understand fifty percent of the actual text. The quality of the acting alone told the story. Nothing else was needed, and as Rylance, with his grief-stricken painted face, played Cleopatra's death, I was aware that I had just witnessed a three hour masterclass in acting and storytelling through text. I am reminded of an acting teacher's constant words: "Go back to the text." Too often in the theatre, the text is sacrificed to show off other flashy devices. The text should be our bible; the story must start and end with the text. I will never forget ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA for being such an honest example of this.

Lastly, I will note a production of Sarah Ruhl's PASSION PLAY, which I saw in Brooklyn. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the name of the theatre, isn't that awful? I went to see the play to support an old camp friend. The story takes place in three acts, in three different time periods, in three different locations. During each time period, a community is putting on a production of PASSION PLAY (a dramatic presentation of the passion of Jesus Christ) for Christmas, so at times, the audience will witness a play within a play within a play. Every actor plays the same role in each time period. For example, it is always the same actor playing each character who is rehearsing to play Jesus in the different time periods. Among the many issues PASSION PLAY discusses, there is the one of how taking on a role like Jesus can affect your own reality and personage. Will it change you? Will you begin to believe yourself to have the qualities that Jesus had? Will people perceive you differently? I discussed the play for days afterwards with the friend whom I had seen it with. Isn't this the best type of theatre? The kind that keeps you asking questions? The space was a non-conventional one; I believe that it used to be a church. It was one big room, with no proscenium arch or raised stage. There were huge (when I say huge, I mean GIGANTIC) boxes that were moved around the space by the actors to signify scene changes, and on which playing levels were made. It remains one of the most innovative pieces of theatre that I have ever seen. It moved from scene to scene seamlessly, and we were immersed in these worlds as if watching an Imax 3D movie. The action was in and around us, even, at times, above us. The acting was grounded in authenticism, and I remember thinking, and still do, that if I am ever lucky enough to be cast in such a production, I would be incredibly honoured.

You may have noticed that I have not discussed any musical theatre. The honest, somewhat sad truth is that, more recently, commercial musical theatre productions are leaving me a little cold. Recent productions that spring to my mind as bold an innovative: Roundabout Theatre's multi-racial casting Broadway revival of 110 IN THE SHADE; The Chocolate Factory's stunning London revivals of SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE and LA CAGE AUX FOLLES; Donmar Warehouse's 2003 production of PACIFIC OVERTURES (I'd like to believe that the Donmar's 2007 production of the original London cast of PARADE which I was proudly in is also in that league); Broadway's JERSEY BOYS. Moments of musical theatre that I will never forget: Audra McDonald breaking my heart in her rendition of "Old Maid" in the aforementioned 110 IN THE SHADE; Brian Stokes Mitchell finishing a flawless rendition of "The Impossible Dream" to a mid-show standing ovation in the Broadway revival of MAN OF LA MANCHA; Robert Cuccioli's continued transformations between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde when the two characters confront each other in the original Broadway production of JEKYLL AND HYDE; walking out of the original Broadway production of DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS right at the beginning of its run and having a very strong physical sensation that told me that Norbert Leo Butz would win the Tony that year for best actor in a musical (he did).

Thus, here we are, back to the Tony Awards, and back to Broadway. I love musical theatre, and I love Broadway. The Tony Awards are specific to Broadway, but live theatre is not. Just as I will never underestimate the brilliance of Broadway, nor will I forget the unparalleled theatrical experiences that I have had in places a far cry from Broadway. It is so important that, even if we are disappointed in the Tony Award producers for featuring non-Broadway performances, we do not begin to snub our noses at live theatre elsewhere. Anyone who truly thinks that if it is not on Broadway, then it is not worth it, is severely under-cultured, or severely under-travelled. (Or both.) As far as I am concerned, if a production is keeping me and/or my friends in employment and paying us so that we can eat and pay our rent while we get to do what we are most passionate about, and do it for an audience that may not necessarily have the funds or means to get to Broadway, then it is most definitely worth it.

Dear Mom

A playwright friend contacted me to ask if I would be interested in participating in her new project. The new play would focus on mother-daughter relationships, and she asked if I would consider writing a letter to my mom as part of the material that would be collected for the play. Here is the letter that I wrote:

Dear Mom,

I have vivid memories of falling asleep to the sound of you cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner. The clattering of the dishes and the running of the tap as you washed up served as comforts to a little girl who was terribly afraid of the dark. I’m sure that you remember that it took me until I was well into my teens to be able to sleep properly some nights without my bedside light on. Those sounds of you clearing up for the evening and putting the house to sleep assured me that I was safe and protected. I remember coming to you for such protection once when some of my friends told me that they didn’t want to play with me anymore because I was a bully. When I came to you crying, you did not take me in your arms and hush me, telling me that I was a good girl; you replied, “serves you right for being a little brat.” Tough love, they call it. I couldn’t be more thankful that you raised me on tough love. You never led me to believe that I was good at something that I wasn’t. You hit me once until your hands were black and blue because I was acting like a spoiled brat (a story that I’ve heard many times, but that I have no recollection of). When you watched my ballet classes on parents’ nights, you didn’t tell me that I was a beautiful dancer, but that I should smile more. To this day, if you don’t have anything positive to say, you remain quiet, rather than lie to my face. Consequently, I have grown into a woman who appreciates honesty, and who cannot be anything but honest. I am well acquainted with my flaws, and do not live in a state of delusion. I still ask you for your opinion when I am tired of the bullshit I hear from others and I know that you will give a straightforward answer. You taught me, “the only people you can rely on to be truly honest are your family.” We don’t stand on ceremony in our family, and for that, I am proud and grateful. We have enough people around us who lie to us, even if it’s an attempt to protect us. In our family, we need not lie to each other, because we protect each other with unconditional love and honesty.

When I look in the mirror these days, I see you in some of me; in my cheekbones. In my severe jaw line. In some of my facial reactions. I have you to thank for my slim figure. Partly because of your great Asian genetics, and partly because you made sure that I didn’t get fat by calling, “Celia! Are you going to the refrigerator?!” when I was a teenager and I’d try and sneak in a snack after dinner. To this day, I still obey your rule of only one piece of bread before the main course. I still hear your voice in my head as I reach for the bread basket: “Celia, ENOUGH. You’ve already had one piece of bread. You have an entire meal coming.” I acquired my rule of one soft drink a week from you, because you only used to let me drink it as a treat. And thus, I am almost 30 and still have visible ribs.

You took absolutely no interest in my studies whatsoever, even though I barely scraped by with C's. Not because you were a neglectful parent, but you had the instinct that I would learn when I was ready. You were not a pushy parent who ever made me do anything I didn’t want to do (how un-Chinese of you). You knew that, when the time was right, I would make my own choices as to what was important to me. And, if I may say so, I ended up making pretty decent choices. I choose to be a decent person and to work hard. Alas, you never taught me how to save my money from working hard, but instead gave me this nugget of advice when I purchased my first Louis Vuitton bag: “Celia, a Vuitton is for life.”

I remember telling you in the car on the way home from ballet class that I didn’t want to be a ballerina. All those years of time and money put into the prospect of my becoming a ballerina gone to waste, and I cried when I told you, because I thought that you would be so disappointed in me. But, you told me that I wouldn’t have to be anything that I didn’t want to be. And when I decided that I was going to be an actress, I think you thought for the longest time that I was going through a phase. I think that you are still wondering when that phase will end. Being an actor is not considered by the Chinese to be a noble profession. But, you humour me and support me, because you know that it is my passion. You and Dad always told me, “you do whatever makes you happy, as long as you don’t hurt anyone.”

So, thanks, Mom. Because of you, I was using chopsticks when other kids were still trying to handle a knife and fork. How unique. You are one half of the reason that I am the unique (and skinny) Chinese-Jew that I am very proud to be. I love you.

Idiots Abroad: A Tale of a Man and an Elevator

Tourists are weird. When I'm a tourist, I believe that I, too, am a weirdo. What is it that turns normally bright, alert people into stupid, idiotic versions of ourselves when we travel? I have definitely been that tourist who has asked where the bathroom is, only to have a waiter point to a door that is clearly marked, "toilette." Once, I visited that Sistine Chapel, and I was that ignorant bafoon who huffed too loudly, completely unmoved by the experience, "is this it??"

 I do fancy myself as a pro-active traveller; I may ask stupid questions from time to time, but on the whole, I manage to visit foreign places while taking care of myself quite successfully. I certainly always try not to look like that idiot abroad. You know, those loud Americans on the tube in London who create a bad name for the entire country. And then there are those travellers who just don't give a shit about how they look to an outsider's eye. Like this man I met today by the elevators. I was on my way back to my cabin after our weekly guest safety drill which we do at the beginning of every cruise. At this point, guests have only been onboard for a couple of hours and have not yet had time to acquaint themselves with the ship. Such as the man by the elevators and his two kids.

He asked me how to get to the Screening Room to watch a movie which was playing, which is actually a very valid question. Because of where our onboard ice rink is, you cannot walk from one end of the ship to the other on decks 2 and 3 (well, crew can, because we take those "private area" routes, but guests cannot). The Screening Room is on deck 2, but this man and his kids were on the wrong side of deck 2, so I explained to them that they had to go up two flights to deck 4, walk across the ship, then come back down to deck 2 on the other side. This would take all of 5 minutes. 3 minutes at a brisk pace. I could probably make it in under 2 minutes at the speed of which I walk in New York. They responded as if I had told them that the only way to get to the Screening Room was to run a marathon. "But, HOW do we get to deck 4??" The man asked in exasperation like a 12 year old child. I am surprised he did not accompany his whining with stomping of his feet. We were standing right by stairs and elevators, both of which I pointed out to him. "Show me," he said, pointing to the elevator. So, I took the 3 steps to the elevator (we were that close to it), and pressed the "up" button for them. Oh, the things one can be degraded to when in a customer service position. "Now, you're going to take this to deck 4," I said very slowly...

 As we waited for the elevator, the man pulled out his Cruise Compass (a daily planner which tells guests of all the activities onboard), to ask me about a couple of activies: the sail away party at 5pm, and the parade at 6pm. I explained each activity to him and where to go for them. He asked me which was better, and I told them that they were both really fun, and that his kids would enjoy each of them. Then, I kid you not, he whined,"guide me, tell me what to do!" To which I calmly said, "Sir, one activity is a 5pm, and one activity is at 6pm, so you can easily do both of them." "But, help me, guide me!" he kept saying. Good grief. I mean, I already went 3 steps out of my way and pushed the elevator button for him, what else did he want me to do? Escort them?

 As we were still waiting on the elevators, I told him that they would get to the Screening Room much faster if they just took the stairs. He gave me a disgusted, couch-potato pout, and one of his kids giggled and playfully punched his dad in his middle-aged gut while I said, "it's only 2 flights of stairs, you can walk that easily." I, myself, make it a habit of taking the stairs instead of the elevators. The only time I use the elevators is when I'm going from my cabin on deck 2 to the restaurant on deck 11. While riding it, I am always surprised at how many people take it to go up or down one flight. Healthy, able-bodied people, I mean, who can't be bothered to just walk one flight of stairs. I really will never understand how or why people are this type of lazy.

 But, let's get back to Mission: Getting Man And His Kids To the Screening Room As Quickly As Possible So I Don't Have To Listen To His Whining Anymore. I was in the process of repeating to them that they could go to both the sail away party and the parade, when the elevator finally arrived. "Look! There's the elevator!" I yelled, and urged them inside before they could protest. The door closed as I yelled, "go to deck 4 then walk to the other side and come back down to deck 2!"

 I have no idea if they made it to the Screening Room, or if they decided to go to the sail away party or parade or eventually realised that they could make both. Just as I left them, another couple asked me where the sail away party was. When I told them that they could take the elevators all the way up to deck 11 and watch it there, they said that the Cruise Compass said it was on deck 2. Knowing that this was probably not the case, I asked to look at their Cruise Compass, and sure enough, it said, "Sail Away Party..............Deck 11." I pointed it out to them, and repeated that they could take the elevators upstairs. They looked at me like I was crazy, without saying thank you. I walked away thinking, at least I'm not the idiot who looked at "deck 11" and thought the two ones together meant "deck 2."