Into the Light
Growing up in a Filipino household meant that song and dance enveloped every aspect of my life. I grew accustomed to constant karaoke sessions held to impossibly high standards at every family gathering. My parents enrolled me in piano lessons, followed by school talent shows and recitals. If there was an opportunity related to music, they would immediately seize it.
My parents’ digital camcorder captured all my earliest childhood performances, its shaky and low-definition footage characteristic of the early 2000s. In each video, no matter the year, I am standing stiff under the auditorium lighting. My mouth moves to the lyrics of the song, but the rest of my body is tense.
To anyone else, it might appear that I was afraid to be on stage. Instead, it was the opposite. I loved performing my favorite songs and letting the music wrap around me. It did take some time for me to grow comfortable in front of an audience, though.
The first musical I watched was a production of Annie, when I was nine years old. My mom had just learned about a theatre company for children nearby, so we bought tickets to the show to check it out.
The moment the main lights dimmed, there was nothing that could pull my attention away from the actors onstage, many of whom were kids around my age. They performed synchronized choreography and harmonies that I hadn’t seen or heard before. There were older kids, too. One teenage girl played Miss Hannigan, and I watched with amazement as her acting took on a range of emotions, from giggly and inebriated to sharp and callous. It made me wonder if I could do that, too.
I auditioned for my first show with the company when I was ten years old. Though I’d grown up in an environment constantly surrounded with music, I had never entertained the idea of performing in a musical. Since my sisters wanted to audition, I went along with them.
There were a few details I remembered from the audition. The stark, nauseating fluorescent lighting. The sound of the sheet music crinkling in my fist. The rapid jumping of my right knee. The thundering of my footsteps as I took to the stage for the first time, my brain blanking as the director’s eyes met mine. The jolt in my chest as the pianist began to play. The warmth blooming in my face as my voice trembled. The stiffness draining out of me when it was all over.
When the cast list came out, I found my name at the bottom. I was part of the ensemble, the nameless group who supported the leading characters. Nevertheless, I quickly grew to enjoy playing in the ensemble. I found comfort being out of the limelight, of not having all eyes fixed on me. The costumes of the ensemble always changed, never relegated to one character. The versatility of it was exciting, and also seemed like a lot less pressure than being a lead role.
I watched performances on Broadway. When my mom showed me a video of Lea Salonga as Eponine in Les Misérables, it enchanted me. It was one thing to watch the musical with no knowledge of the actors. But another to know that one of the lead roles was a Filipino woman just like me. Her voice—and how it could be simultaneously tender and powerful—drew me in.
Not only was she a renowned Broadway actress, she was also the voice of two Disney princesses: Mulan and Jasmine. Neither of the princesses were Filipino. Still, I felt a semblance of representation knowing who sang the songs for the iconic animations. The songs were the soundtrack to my childhood, ones I could still recall years and years later.
Watching her perform made me realize that I believed I didn’t belong in certain places. My local children’s theatre provided a lot of opportunities for me. But there was no changing the fact that people in the company—the performers, crew members, directors, the friends I made—were predominantly white.
The summer before my freshman year of high school, I received a letter in the mail detailing the list of shows that the company was planning for the 2018-2019 season. The musical for the year was Once on This Island. I had known nothing about it.
After a quick Google search, I discovered that the 2017 Broadway revival of the show included Lea Salonga as Erzulie, the Goddess of Love. Her character sang a song called “The Human Heart.” I remember the way I reached for the computer to turn up the volume on the YouTube video of her performance. The lullaby riff captivated me in the first few seconds, followed by the ensemble’s soft harmonies. Her voice glided like a bird over the guitar’s light instrumental and the piano’s repetitive melody. Its gradual ascent transfixed every part of me.
In the days leading up to the audition, I found myself humming “The Human Heart” to myself, wondering if I could truly handle the part. Getting cast in the ensemble for show after show led me to believe that it was all I would ever achieve.
I pictured Lea Salonga’s performance and her confidence as she played Erzulie, and I decided that I wanted to play her, too. To be proud of who I was and what I could give to the audience. To be comfortable taking up space.
The idea of being scrutinized by the entire audience was terrifying. But the possibility of being recognized and worthy of a lead role was thrilling.
I used Lea Salonga’s Erzulie to ground myself for the audition. My heart still raced and my hands shook, but the sensation was familiar. I knew I could do it.
The director called my name, and I stepped onto the stage, my chin tilted up in fake confidence. The music began. I sang the first verse of my audition song, keeping eye contact with the directors. When I finished, I smiled. Releasing an unsteady breath, I hoped it would be enough.
The email came three days later. My name was at the top of the cast list, right beside “Erzulie.” My eyes scanned the page again and again, and the answer was still the same. I would be Erzulie!
I was fourteen. It was exhilarating. The moment I received the script, I highlighted all the lines I would perform. Soon, I would cover the book with my hastily-written notes.
I was open to more experiences and interactions. I stayed late to rehearse with the others, realizing that I could rely on them for support when I doubted myself. I made conscious choices about how to play Erzulie. I listened to the directors to figure out how to bring a unique quality to my character. And as I rehearsed “The Human Heart,” I looked inward to find what had stirred in me when I heard it sung by Lea Salonga. What I wanted most was to invoke a strong reaction in others as well.
On opening night, I leaned against the brick wall, my eyes unfocused and unseeing. The audience’s chatter traveled through the narrow passage to the cast backstage, quiet with anticipation. I tried to go through the lines that I remembered, but my mind was empty of everything.
One of the youngest girls in the cast took my hand, shaking it up and down in excitement. I smiled back automatically, realizing how excited I was, too. Then, the noise of the audience trickled away, replaced by the music of the opening number. I took a deep breath and stepped into the light.
Looking back, my once-strong feelings toward that moment have faded with time. Though I’d outgrown my passion for performing, no one could tell me I didn’t belong or that I was not capable. Nothing could diminish my feelings of accomplishment. It gave me confidence at the most insecure stage of my life. I could handle the pressure of performing a principal role in a musical. And I was grateful for everything that I’d learned.
© Anna Sophia Claudio
Anna Sophia Claudio will graduate next spring with a bachelor’s degree in English from Towson University. This is her first published work of creative nonfiction.
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