How it started…How it’s going…

This month, October 2023, marks the 40th anniversary of me being in my very first musical, Annie. This means that I have been singing, performing, or somehow involved with Musical Theatre for 40 years. (!)

This milestone made me think about who I was then, who I’ve become since, and more importantly, who I was meant to be.

But the real revelation was that I’d forgotten who I’ve always been.

My 10 year old self, who spent almost a year of her life blissfully rehearsing and performing in Annie, the Amy who was unapologetically, unabashedly FULL OF JOY for Musical Theatre and sang unashamed and uninhibited: SHE is who I’ve forgotten and who I desperately need to reacquaint myself with.  

Right from the beginning, I loved every aspect of the art form: the singing, the acting, the rehearsing, the learning, the watching, the performing. I didn’t doubt myself, I didn’t question whether I could or should, whether I was good enough. I knew deep in my soul, as well as I knew my own name, that I was where I belonged. I had discovered my true self.

I had found WHO. I. WAS. MEANT. TO. BE.

But once I started pursuing singing as a career, which essentially started not long after Annie, my training, mostly excellent and effective, but often brutal and disheartening, slowly but surely taught me to question and doubt who I knew I was.

I wasn’t good enough UNTIL…

I wasn’t good enough YET.

I might be good enough SOMEDAY.  

And somehow I allowed all those UNTIL’S and YET’S and SOMEDAY’S to chip away my joy bit by bit, piece by piece, year after year, to be replaced by an incredible amount of self-doubt and let’s face it, self-hatred. I only saw the flaws and believed the no’s.

Eventually I stopped singing altogether and wondered whether my joy for it was gone for good.

But it wasn’t; it isn’t. It never really left. It was just hiding under all that other nonsense that I had somehow allowed to take precedence. It hurts my heart that I allowed this to happen. I’m not sure how it did.

But that essential me never really disappeared. I am still that girl who found her purpose in singing and performing, and 15 years later, teaching, Musical Theatre. How do I know? I know because when I work on Musical Theatre repertoire with my students, I am excited and energized by the fun and beauty of it. But mostly I know because when I finally do sit down at the piano to sing myself, when I silence that dark, destructive voice in my head, I can sing for an hour or more, happy and carefree. The world melts away.

The PURE JOY of expressing myself through song comes roaring back.

And when I’m done, I have more energy and endorphins than when I started. As the brilliant Jade Simmons told me, “if that isn’t purpose, I don’t know what is.”

So now at 50 years old, I am celebrating the anniversary of ME discovering MYSELF… again.

And the 40th anniversary of Diablo Light Opera’s 1983-84 production of Annie.

Here’s what I wrote about the experience previously minus the existential angst:

When I was 10 years old, I was cast as Duffy in Annie with the Diablo Light Opera Company, now the Diablo Theatre Company.  It was in the midst of the early 1980’s fervor for that wildly successful new musical. At the time, every little girl clamored to be on stage wearing that curly red wig, hugging that shaggy blond dog, and belting their brains out. But ironically, I was not one of them. I wanted to be Eliza (Julie Andrews), or Marian (Barbara Cook), or Adelaide (Vivian Blaine). Thanks to my mother, I grew up listening to records of all the old school musical theater with the original casts. I knew every word to such classics as My Fair Lady , Music Man, and Guys and Dolls. Annie was way too new for the Cheifetz household. I auditioned on a whim because my friend wanted to be Annie more than life itself and somehow she convinced me to audition with her. I have no idea how I came to this wild decision since I had never done anything remotely like this in my very young life. But I learned a song from the show (little did I know you should never do this) and auditioned in a theatre with 500 other hopeful little girls and their anxious parents. I thought I would die from fright. To this day I don’t know how I got through it- I don’t remember the actual singing, just my heart pounding so loudly that I thought everyone must be able to hear it. When I finished and found my mother, I burst into tears from fear and relief. Fast forward a few weeks and two callbacks later and I was cast in one of the 12 coveted orphan roles (double cast for child labor laws).  And my friend, you ask? Well, she didn’t even get a first call back. So much for that friendship…

For the next year of my life I was happily immersed in the wonderful world of Musical Theater and the land of Annie. We did 64 performances- one entire year of my life was Annie Annie Annie. And it was fantastic. I was entranced by the process, the theater, the actors, the director, the stagehands, the orchestra; everything. When I wasn’t on stage, I tucked myself out of the way in the wings, watching every minute of almost every show. I knew every note, every lyric.

But of course, the best part of my Annie experience was the people: the incredible cast, the camaraderie of my fellow orphans, the marvelous musicians, and production team, and last but certainly not least, the brilliance, love, and support of our director, Rhoda Klitsner. I could write a book on the fabulousness of Rhoda and her husband Stu, who became my lifelong friends and mentors, but I will focus on Rhoda here. She introduced me to performing Musical Theater in the most wonderful way possible: instruction with love, respect and patience, professionalism with friendship and kindness, striving for excellence with humor and understanding. She showed me what a director can do for you and how joyous being on stage can be. Rhoda was simply the best.

And I should mention here that this experience was not just profound for me, but also for my fellow urchins since most of us are still connected on Facebook to this day!

I was devastated when it ended because at the time it never occurred to me that this joy could continue. I thought of it as a one-time thing.

But of course, it wasn’t the end; it was just the beginning.