The Awakening of Spring: A Children's Tragedy

For the last several weeks, I have been in rehearsals for my most recent play, "Spring Awakening," a musical that chronicles the lives of pubescent teens as they struggle to find their place in the world.  Moritz is plagued by wet dreams.  Georg has fantasies about his well-endowed piano teacher.  Ernst struggles with his homosexual attraction to fellow classmate Hanschen.  Then there's Melchior, a young man who seems to have it all together.  A young man who sees the follies of the adults around him and has in some ways eaten of the tree of knowledge.  He has an insight into sexuality that escapes his comrades, without actually experiencing it himself.

The girls experience their own plights.  Martha reveals her father abuses her, as her mother looks on.  Ilse is thrown into the streets to fend for herself among the bohemians and also falls victim to sexual abuse.  And Wendla desperately craves to feel something - anything - as her naivete tortures her curious soul. 

Wendla and Melchior realize their greatest fears and greatest passions in each other.  Melchior leaves Wendla bruised and broken after she begs him to beat her, like Martha's father beats her.  Upon their mutual and emphatic apologies, they share what Melchior calls "paradise" and lose their virginities to one another.  He impregnates her and is sent to a reformatory, while a heartbroken Wendla meets her end at the hands of an abortionist and an abandoning mother who had previously refused to tell her how children are conceived.  Melchior returns to find that Wendla has died, and has to face life alone.  A real life story with no Disney frills.  Just the grit that comes with living with the consequences of life's decisions.

"Spring Awakening" speaks to me in a way that no other play ever has.  It's about children who just want to know what life is about.  It's about parents who refuse to light their way, for the sake of chastity and pride.  It's about narrow-mindedness and the fact that no matter how much adults shelter their children, children will find the answers to life's burning questions. 

Now, four years after seeing it for the first time, I have the honor of playing Wendla.  Over the course of the rehearsal process, she has taught me so much about my own life and reminded me about my own childhood tragedies.  There have been more nights than I care to admit that I have left the theater in tears, thinking about this sad little girl and the many ways in which I relate to her.  As I massaged the welts left from a beating scene gone too far, I remembered the nights as a child that I fought through tears to examine red handprints on my legs.  When I sing Wendla's plaintiff final song, "Whispering," I remember the times I never felt like I could live up to expectations.  My connection to her makes my performance raw and real, and I am so proud to tell her story...because it's a story that needs to be told.

I told my family about the play, and it was met with mixed response.  The question of whether my father and step-mother would attend remained an open one.  But on opening night, I received the following text message from my step-mother:  "We have read about the play and watched the trailer and you sing beautifully.  However we are struggling with the subject matter.  We also don't want to watch you suffer and die.  We love you and are proud of you, but we will wait to see you in your next play."

My heart hit the floor.  For two reasons.  First, this play was written for the prudes who refuse to face the realities of this world, and unfortunately, my parents are proving to be those people.  Second, no matter how much they love me, they love their comfort more.  Each night after the show, I see parents hugging their children and congratulating them on performing such a challenging, beautiful play.  They appreciate the art, even if they don't agree with it, and they prove that they are proud of their children.  I only wish my own parents could set aside their conservative bias for 90 minutes to support their daughter.  Unfortunately, that prayer will go unanswered.  

Despite my disappointment, though, Wendla has reinforced that this is what I am meant to do, regardless of the support (or lack of support) I have.  Without thought or question, I gave up my winter break to drive 30 miles one way to play rehearsals every day, where I am hit, slapped, and molested by my fellow actors.  I take my clothes off on stage.  I let a fellow actor I've known for just a few weeks kiss me and touch my bare breasts.  I come home with bruises.  I happily give everything I have to this play, this character, this story because my passion outweighs any obstacles that I may face.  

So while I may never get the recognition or appreciation from my family that I feel is due me, I will press on.