The Girl Who Ate the Stars

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When I was fifteen years old, I became a silent film star.

It happened incidentally. I was two days into my first year of high school and I’d heard the drama department was holding auditions for the fall plays that day. They were going to be putting on a trifecta of one act plays, each directed by a different student. As someone who had always loved drama and was looking for something to join to make friends in this crazy new school where she knew no one, this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

So I sent a text to my mother, begging her to let me stay. She soon sent a text back, granting my request. From there, I grabbed an acquaintance so that I’d have someone with whom to sit during the audition, tried my inexperienced hand at applying makeup, and dutifully trekked down to the dining hall (though, really, given the amount of food consumed in this all-girls’ school, it should have been called the “mess hall”), where auditions were being held.

We were a frightfully small school, back then: barely 130 students in total. It was our fourth year being open and our first year with a senior class. There was never a senior class more beloved, more revered. Being there at the same time as they were like witnessing the assumption of Elijah into heaven, seeing great people going on to great things they more than deserved. They were goddesses.

Had there been any senior students in drama, I doubt I would have auditioned. I was only two days in and I already sensed their supremely elevated status. To cross them would have felt like blaspheming. But, as luck would have it, only freshmen, sophomores, and juniors had come, that day. And so, I, with about thirty of my closest strangers, came to the audition and sat in a chair and waited. I can honestly say there’s no feeling in the world like waiting to audition. You’re nervous. You’re excited. You’re sure you’re going to fail and, yet, you’re praying you’ll succeed. Your insides are this big ball of ugh. It’s heaven and it’s hell and completely insane. And then, you audition.

When I got in front of the student directors and the drama teacher, I wasn’t expecting a big part. I thought I’d end up as some bit player, strut my moment on the stage, then quietly slink off into the wings, to wait for another play in which I’d hopefully get a bigger part. Sure, I wanted a great part; but I never in a million years would have expected one. I was but an underling freshman. And, so, when I began to read aloud the monologue provided for me, I was in that, “Well, I have nothing to lose, anyway, so I might as well give it my darndest,” mood; that mood where you don’t really care about something, while at the same time, you really, really, want to succeed. I call it the eye of the hurricane moment. As a result, I probably looked far more relaxed and confident during my audition than I actually was. The entire time, I kind of just wanted to run off the stage and go cry into my locker and eat my feelings or something equally bad for me. But, I didn’t. In a way, I couldn’t. I’d already committed to this, even though I didn’t yet realize it and I had to be strong. I had to be confident.

Now, I’m pretty good at channeling my pain into something productive. Kids picked on me: I developed a wicked sense of humor. People criticized me: I honed and refined my arguments. I got bad news from a doctor: I fought, kicking and screaming, for the right treatments. I’m completely out of my league and totally uncomfortable; but, I don’t stand to get a big part anyway: I channeled all that nervous energy, all that worry, all that fear, into one of the greatest performances I’d ever given. The words rolled off my tongue like magic, like swirls of fairy dust speaking enchantment into the universe. I was Audrey Hepburn with her pearls and sunglasses, I was Vivien Leigh in a dress made of curtains, I was Mary Pickford, catching Douglas Fairbanks’ eye. I was Julie freaking Andrews, dancing through the Austrian mountains and jumping into street art.

I was incredible.

And, other people thought so, too. When I finished, there was no, “Thank you for coming, please move along,” there was no “Our people will call your people.” There was clapping, real, genuine clapping. The type of clapping you can’t do out of pity; the type of clapping you mean. I almost passed out. They like you. They really like you. These were the words I whispered to myself, shocked. Middle school hadn’t been a good time for me; I hadn’t really had any friends. I was that weird kid who spent all day in a book and loved debating more than actually talking. But here? In high school? In the theatre? Here, I fit in. A puzzle piece had snapped into place and, no, the puzzle wasn’t complete, but it was getting there. And for the first time in a long time, I was pretty sure that puzzle was going to be a really cool one.

What followed after that wasn’t nearly as earth-shattering. I went on to get the role of the magic mirror, a snarky, sassy old thing that I’ve been told stole the show, which couldn’t have happened without the phenomenal cast that supported and worked with me. They were crazy, had weird rituals like insisting this one monkey prop be in every show, and drove me absolutely insane. And I loved ‘em for it. These people taught me how to be a part of something bigger than myself, how to work with and rely on other people, and how to be myself around other people. They’re not blood, but they’re the family I chose for myself. I got nicknames: Mur, because my name is Mary and every Mary was a Mur there, and Pickford, after Mary Pickford, the famous silent film actress who I was told I rather resemble. I also got from them an extreme amount of confidence -- so much so that when I audition now, I’m hardly even a bit nervous. Instead, I am like those seniors I so revered. I’m calm, I’m cool, I know my value and no one can convince me to the contrary. I am fully myself.

          Becoming myself, of course, wasn’t an overnight occurrence. I had to work hard on my acting

and my inner self to get to the point I’m at, today: happy, confident, comfortable. But without theatre,

without my talent for acting, I would have never gotten so far, so fast. I would have never met some of

my best friends; I would have never developed such a high amount of self-esteem; I would have never

become Mary Pickford. I am the girl who ate the stars, the constellations of fear and the comets of

worry, and in doing so, became brighter than the sun.
-Pick