In this blog I have oft acknowledged myself as a nomad. I call myself that not because I am person without a home, but rather because I am creature who counts the hearts of many places and people to be her home. Despite my wandering ways, my inherent nomadism has always been transposed with purpose; I go where I’m called, wherever the compass deep within my vitals points me. But for all my years of wandering, my due north has always remained constant: London.
For almost all of my living memory, London has been the scene of my hopes and aspirations. To me, London belongs to the stuff of dreams and legends. It’s magic come to life.
During the opening number of the musical Into the Woods, each of the fairytale characters laments that which they do not have; ‘I wish.’ As Cinderella wished to go the ball, I wished for the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art (LAMDA), the oldest acting school in the UK and one of the greatest acting institutions in the world.
And like Cinderella, I got my wish.
But what happens when you wish upon a star and ‘Poof’ you’re there. How does it all measure up, when one very really walks through a world that once was only the stuff of dreams?
Into the Woodsis a brilliant musical because it defines the parameters of its world with the barbed duality of fairytales. On the one hand, fairytales always come to a happy ending: the forlorn young (and I mean young) woman finds her prince, the evil monster is destroyed, poverty is lifted and all becomes right with the world. These endings are immensely satisfying. How could they not be? They are tidy, they are clean, they offer us balance and symmetry. But that’s because they’re not actually endings. It’s the end of our audience participation in the tale, but life for Cinderella does not simply cease the day after she marries the prince. Somewhere, trailing off of the final flourished word of these venerable folk tales, a dawn rises on the day after happily ever after. And, even though we’re never privy to that world, we know that that’s the unspoken epilogue of all these stories. It’s why for all their satisfying qualities, fairytales are often quite unsatisfying. They’re not complete, they’re just truncated.
Hence why the Shakespearean tragedy is so much more satisfying on a visceral level. The only truly satisfying, unquestioned, finite ending is death. And all of Shakespeare’s tragedies end in the death. There’s no question regarding ‘the day after’ at the end of a Shakespearean tragedy because everyone is probably dead. Or at least all the characters you care about. Unless you’re a major fan of Fortinbras or Friar Lawrence, but those are your own crosses to bear. Those are endings that provide satisfaction, albeit at an immense cost.
I’ve been granted the wish of my life—the circumstances of any decent fairytale. And yet I have within me a discord far more familiar to Hamlet than Snow White.
I find my arrival in London to be defined by contradictory emotions. I am so happy to be here and so sad for what I have left behind. The wonderful thing about dreams, fantasies, hopes, is that they can walk side by side with our real lives—the lives we foster and grow whilst in the pursuit of our dreams. Yet when the dream comes true, when one gets into LAMDA, there is a breaking of that synchronicity. Suddenly, we no longer have a dream and a life that exist in tandem, but two lives that cannot co exist. We are forced to put one before the other, to play favorites, between the two lives that nourished our body and our soul. And in between those two great mechanisms we find our heart struggling desperately not to be crushed.
It hurts. It hurts to leave behind, even if only temporarily, those lives of ours that spring up betwixt our stumbling quest to materialize that sacred wish. Because they are important, as important as the dream, for without both we could not live. We need our dreams but so do we require life. I was a child who had no better friend than her imagination. I have always believed our tender hopes, and our desire to see them manifested, are essential to our human condition. But life cannot simply be a wish.
London, LAMDA. This has always been my dream. I’ve left home so many times. Yet this departure seemed to rip into the deepest parts of me. How could a part of me not want this? How could I betray myself in such a way? How could a part of me be so euphoric about leaving? How could I betray myself in such a way? It’s difficult to reconcile the way heartbreak and happiness can co exist, to be so blissful and so bereft.
But aren’t those the paradoxes that form the foundation of the world? What is theatre but a paradox inside a paradox inside an actual box? Is that what dreamers, travelers, actors, nomads, writers, advocates, artists, wanderers, people must learn to do? To balance, what we hold dear with what we dearly wish to hold?
Admire them though I do, I’ve no wish to live in a tragedy. Admire them though I do, I’ve no wish to live in a fairytale. So what then? What lies between?
Every time I leave on any kind of adventure—-returning to college after winter break, traveling to Bangladesh for a summer, moving to London for a year—my mother always tucks away a secret note somewhere in my luggage. They are always beautiful cards filled with glitter, love, and sentiment. But even though my mother had already out done herself, with two, count’em two, cards, she also included a separate letter. (It would seem my possession to write should come as no surprise.)
In her letter to me she opened with a quote from the Talmud, “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”
Who I am as an actor, lover, artist, friend, daughter, feminist, writer—it’s a work unfolding. Every category of self I belong to requires my commitment and dedication. But they do not, and never have, required my perfection. Sometimes we feel grief at our happiest, sometimes we find joy in the deepest of mournings. None of these feelings exist in a state of mutual exclusivity with each other. They all exist on the same color wheel of emotionality. The crime is not that I am sad to leave behind the life I built in America, the crime is not how wondrously happy I am to be starting this expedition in London. Both possess an essential part of my life’s work and as such, I am not free to abandon either.
The good wanderer knows that the departures that rip you to shreds are the only ones worth having. Because if you can endure that kind of pain then you’re on the only kind of adventure worth having.
I imagine that as a nomad, artist, global citizen—my life will always be a bit stop-start. As happy to be where I am as where I’m going. But one joy is not a betrayal of the other. I love a good fairytale as much as a good tragedy. My sadness does not lessen the more time I spend in London, but nor do my joy and gratitude abate one ounce. Rather, what I come to understand is that both can live at peace with one another. For what unites these seemingly disparate sentiments, my seemingly separate lives, is the work I know I must do. My world, my family, my dreams, my love, my hopes, my friends, whatever or whoever they be, are the offshoots of what roots me as a human being, that which makes me myself.
What lies between a fairytale and a tragedy? The work.
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