Remember your blocking, your lines, your cue. 

I am 13 years old. I don’t know what acting is. I can’t spell monologue. 

Ignore the lights, the audience, the stage. 

I don’t know what the theater is, what it means to pretend, how to cheat out and project.

Search for motivation. What does my character want in the scene? How do I pretend to want something?

Practice and rehearse. Run lines with strangers. Run lines until the lines are no longer strange and the strangers are no longer strangers.

Do they practice like I practice? Do they run lines alone, hoping their voice mimics the ones they hear? Do they rehearse each conversation, each scene, each monologue?

I am 13. I don’t understand high school. I don’t understand why people bully me or why I feel compelled to bully them back. I don’t know why girls or boys I like won’t talk to me. Everyone is so popular, so polished, so rehearsed. 

Auditions are up for The Crucible. Everyone does The Crucible. I could do The Crucible.

I am 13. I am a hot mess. They don’t like my pacing, my delivery; they don’t think I bring anything to the production. They think I would be better off collecting tickets offstage.

I did a performance in class. There is no dialogue, no monologue, just movement. They can’t hear me think if I don’t speak. Their brows are furrowed; their expressions curious. They laugh. I can make them laugh.

This audition will not escape me. I am not collecting tickets. I reach for my font of inspiration. My muse. My north star.

I am performing a monologue from Street Fighter. I have studied Jean Claude Van Damme. His mannerisms. His panache. His splits. I will impress them. They will like me. People will finally listen.

I get on stage. I perform. I deliver. Everyone listens. Everyone watches. Everyone understands.

Behind the scenes, I didn’t understand their language, their movement, their performance. Until one day, in a dim-light classroom, someone delivered a line I would never forget: Everything was a performance. 

All you have to do is practice. All you have to do is rehearse. All you have to do is find people to run lines with.

And I found them. And they understand. They understand what it feels like to never belong, to wake up looking for a reason to go to school each morning, to some nights going to sleep hoping you won’t wake up.

For the first time in my life, somebody understands why I practice blocking, why I run lines with myself. Someone understands why I can’t let them know how I feel backstage. 

I am 32 years old. I am still practicing. I am still rehearsing. I am still reciting monologues on the drive to work. I am still planning my blocking. I found my reason to go to sleep and still get up in the morning. I am still afraid.

In her years at Tualatin High School, Jennifer Hunter-Tindle has directed, guided, and inspired countless students. Among them I count many who, like me, feel lost and unwelcome. Together in dim-light classrooms, we were welcomed into a place to belong, rehearse, and practice. A reason to get up in the morning. A place we dream of at night. Together we learned to face our fears and get on stage.

In difficult times, our response is clear:

Remember your blocking, your lines, your cue.

If all the world’s a stage, why are we cutting theater programming?