I stood in the wings on opening night listening, not for my cue, but for the audience. I waited to hear their laughter—to me no sound would be sweeter, no sound better indicating success. I stood in the wings on opening night wearing trousers, a checkered shirt, and a bolo tie. Tubes hooked from the oxygen tank slung across my shoulders hooked over my ears and fed into my nose. My hair was messy and grey, my face wrinkled. The tank lacked oxygen; I can breathe fine on my own. And despite my aged appearance, I was a sixteen-year-old girl, transformed by theatrical magic into ninety-year-old Aubrey Verdeen.


At my small, all-girls school, it is almost a graduation requirement to play the part of a character of the opposite sex. I had been Gerald the janitor in our third grade play, First Ladies, Ladies First, a lost boy in our fourth grade rendition of Peter Pan, ninety-year-old Aubrey Verdeen in The Red Velvet Cake Wars, and Gandalf the Great in The Hobbit. It’s not that I didn’t want a more feminine role. I did. When I realized that Gerald was a boy, I tried to convince my teachers to rename him Geraldine. Upon learning I had not been cast as Wendy, I left the classroom and cried. In middle school I fought for the coveted female roles—a goddess in an original play, Sarah in Guys and Dolls. Halfway through high school, however, my appreciation of the theatre enabled me to understand what it means to play the old man.

Although I relished a part that offered a more appealing costume, I chose to audition for the less-glamorous role of Aubrey Verdeen for a reason. This elderly man said what I would never say. He dressed as I would never dress. I came to understand that acting is not about playing a character that is most like me, but taking on a role and shaping it in a way that nobody else can. So I adopted a southern accent, a convincing elderly voice, and slapped my knees as I cackled at my own comical lines. I allowed myself to be silly by letting go of modern-day conventions and my fear of embarrassment. I dove into the part. I became comfortable with discomfort. The audience laughed at my jokes and enjoyed the person I had created. The curtains closed, and I felt proud.

The Ellis theatre department has taught me that in my life, I will play the old man. I am prepared to take on roles that are far from who I am and where I want to be and I will shape them into something only I can create. I am comfortable with the discomfort of the new and different and am confident that I can play any part I am given. Underneath the matted grey hair and suspenders, I am an independent young woman ready to take on whatever the world has to throw at me.