THE NARRATIVE ARC
Finding the Me I’ve Been For Years
Going home is possible, and it may change you all over again.
Recently I had the chance to have a bit of a reunion and homecoming to my college alma mater. The gathering was partly prompted by the pending demolition of the sacred building where we held all our classes, where so many of us had sweat, bled, and cried our way through the challenges of our program.
I know that sounds dramatic — and it should. I was a theatre major in college. It was all about drama.
But this isn’t an exaggeration. The program was highly ranked and considered one of the best training grounds in a university setting, with solid connections to an array of professionals working in theatre, television, and film. It was also typical of its time and approach to training.
Based strongly on the philosophies of Stanislavski, with instructors directly influenced by teachers Lee Strasberg and Stella Adler — none of which is likely to mean much to someone reading this — the technique of preparing a young hopeful actor involved breaking them down to build them back up. It was run much like a conservatory.
Many students didn’t survive long enough to be rebuilt. Some of my classmates have since described the experience as traumatic and abusive.
They’re not wrong.
I wasn’t a beloved star student. I also wasn’t completely thrown out and tossed aside. I was somewhere in between, like a B student in an A+ world.
When I heard about the pending demolition and the opportunity to visit the mecca my immediate response was, “I have to go!”
And my next thoughts were all about reasons why I shouldn’t. I feared that that place would’ve changed and I’d rather remember it all for what it was then. I felt anxiety over running into people I’d rather not see, or (worse) having to talk about my recent theatrical endeavors with some extremely successful folks whose careers look nothing like mine.
Look, I’ve had a fine professional theatre career, for about 30 years, as an actor, director, writer, and creator. It’s just that I’ve not been nominated for awards like an Emmy or a Tony, and it would be challenging to make professional small talk with those classmates.
(We’ve all seen A Star is Born, right?)
Anyhoo, I’ll cut to the chase here — I ended up going, and my husband tagged along with me so that he could finally see the campus. He’d heard so much history, not only from me but from some of our close friends who were my friends from college. He’s heard the tales about the place, time, and people. Also, mine was a vastly different college experience than he’d had, so he was curious enough to want to join. (I had very clearly given him the “you don’t have to come” talk because it could be super boring for him and he still wanted to be there.) We decided to make a weekend of it, a little road trip to what I always described as the “middle of a cornfield.”
It was a beautiful early summer weekend, and the sun shone across the flat lands of Illinois. That’s something that I sort of despised growing up, but love to see now. There’s a big chunk of virtually hill-less land across that state, and you can see forever. It feels like possibilities.
When we arrived in town, my husband was immediately suspicious of everything because the university wasn’t in the middle of a cornfield, it was in the middle of a small city. I argued that the town wasn’t so big, and right outside of town, across the road, was nothing but cornfields for miles and miles.
The arrival on campus was surreal. I was reminded how beautiful some of it is, with classic collegial-looking brick buildings, lush lawns, mature trees, and beautiful gardens. I hadn’t been back in over 20 years, and while some of it looked exactly the same and completely unchanged, other things were totally new.
“There used to be a building here, I think?”
“That used to be a field where we had picnics and the marching band practiced.”
“What the hell is that!?”
Even the hotel we stayed at near campus (and there didn’t used to be any hotels near campus) turned out to have been built on a block that had been completely razed, eliminating many of the old haunts and memories. I was sleeping over the grave of the pizza ovens that fed generations. Suddenly I wanted deep dish.
But walking up to the theatre building, and then into it, was like stepping back in time.
Emotional recall (if that term means anything to you) is very real. The faculty had arranged for alumni to be able to tour the now-closed building, and walking up the stairs and in the hallways brought back such physical and emotional memories it was almost overwhelming. I immediately felt a rush of anxiety, coupled with excitement, wondering what was going to happen in class today.
Was I prepared? Will I be crucified? Am I worthy of being here?
All these insecurities that had plagued me as I struggled through that program for four years rushed back at me as if I had never left. As if I had never moved on at all. The “breaking me down” happened in so many rooms, many more it seemed than the “building me up” part. At least according to my memories.
I had to acknowledge out loud the vivid emotional memories coursing through me to my husband and fellow alums, almost as if to cast out the demons.
Each room we explored brought about another memory, a tale. Some of them good, some funny, some sad or angering. It was all there. My husband later said it was like watching real-life flashbacks in a film. While he, obviously, felt nothing walking through an old run-down building, what he saw from us and the numerous others meandering through were very palpable emotions.
Room by room, we came across the memories of our greatest challenges and our brightest accomplishments. In one tiny empty office, I found myself choked up as I recounted a confrontation with one of my best — and most difficult — teachers. I was taken aback at how deeply I felt it all.
Over those couple of days, we meandered around the entire campus and saw all the places I had lived, studied, slept, cried, and laughed. (And got drunk.) The weekend included catching up with old friends and faculty over food, drinks, and laughter.
There were also moments of feeling a bit old as we mingled with the current students. (Had we really been that young? Damn. So bright-eyed and hopeful.)
And yes, there was at least one celebrity, who was gracious and real and down to earth, and nowhere was there any difficult shop talk.
My big take away though was the view of myself from that time. I felt all the feels and recognized how my insecurities, naiveté, and dreams all got me through that program back then. But I could also suddenly see that I’m no longer that person. I’ve grown so much as an artist and as a human.
I mean, ok, of course, I have, otherwise what have I been doing for 30 years?
But I hadn’t put it in perspective. Until I went back in time and could see and feel in a real visceral way who I was then and what I was all about at that time — only then could I truly understand, see, and appreciate how long and busy that path has been since. Suddenly I recognized how college was a basis for getting me started, but the work that would come after would truly shape and develop my skills.
This is not at all what I was expecting from this weekend trip. I hadn’t seen that coming.
When it was time to leave, I found I had a renewed sense of self. I had taken the nostalgic path, appreciated it for what it was, appreciated me for who I was then, and then set my sights back on the road to go home, to who I am today. Now recognizing not only where I’ve gone, but that there’s a me yet evolving.
And that’s all a good, new, and exciting thing to look forward to.
