My Dreams and My Father's Dreams

I saw my father’s dream come true in the lobby of Chicago Shakespeare Theatre.

I was there for a quick, two-night trip to see him star as Saruman/Elrond,  covering Gandalf,  in the Lord of the Rings musical. (There is a Lord of the Rings musical) (I loved it) (Pretty harmonies) 

We were standing in the lobby and a very tall Latino man in Hobbit-ears (or whatever they’re called) approached my father like a five-year-old at Disneyland and asked if he could please sign his playbill please - he had flown from Mexico with his girlfriend - this is her - hi - and it would mean to much to him. My father, hair fluffy now that it had escaped from its long white wig - smiled a smile that took over his whole face and obliged. The picture of class. Jackie Kennedy comes to mind. 

“I can sign yours too,” he said kindly to a shy girl with pointy ears and a whole get-up. She had been looking over towards him, too shy to approach. 

And it was in this moment I realized that my father’s dream had come true. Or one of them. Or my impression of what his dream might be. He was starring in hit show - a world premiere - doing the work of his life* - and not only that, but he was loved and admired by not just theatregoers -  but loved and admired by people  who his art had touched and who loved him, without knowing him, simply for being a part of that art. 

I stepped out into the small lobby away from the lobby. I cried. 

“It’s incredible - it’s truly amazing how your father has worked as a stage actor his whole life in one city,” my boyfriend says, months later. 

“And supported two kids,” I reply. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” 

My father moved to Chicago after he graduated college (USC BFA if you care about that sort of thing) and began working as a stage actor right away. He worked in musicals at your big Chicago musical theatre houses as well as straight plays and classics from storefronts to the Goodman. He made a living.  He established himself as a key player in the community - notably being many theatres’ go-to man for understudying and audition reading. While this might not seem especially glamorous, this speaks to his accountability, work ethic, and reliability. And not every daughter can use those words to describe her father. 

No one can call my dad’s career unsuccessful - it has been and continues to be impressive and prolific. 

But did I feel his dream had come true? I would worry, sometimes as a child and even now  - has he grown too old to play Jamie in Last 5 Years, Captain Von Trapp,  Mr. Banks? (Yes, Maybe, No) Would parts he was supposed to play pass him by because of circumstance, a New York hire, a scheduling conflict? They often did. He worked on many world premiere musicals that “had legs” only to realize the legs weren’t going to walk anywhere. And if he was bitter about this, I was very rarely aware, because my father is someone who accepts realities (usually) and he knew that this fickleness, drama, and disappointment was simply a fact of life as an actor. 

But we all have quiet dreams inside our hearts. And I wept with relief and joy when the Latino Hobbit Man looked at my father with admiration and gratitude. 

And I think I wept for myself too. 

I wept because I thought once that my dreams were a mirror image of my dad’s. I thought I too would be an impressive and prolific theatre actor in Chicago. 

As a child, my favorite thing to do was go to opening night parties. (This surprises absolutely no one) 

I loved to be picked up from school and change into a velvet dress and white tights in the back of our Honda Civic. Complete the look with mom’s lipstick (“There’s a pink one at the bottom of my purse”) and patent leather velcro strap mary janes, and I was ready for an opening night at Marriott Lincolnshire Theatre. My mom would drive us to the show - where she would send my father hard candy backstage. I don’t know why - that is just what she did. We would run into approximately 27  people my mother knew on the way in. I would pee before the show started as instructed. We would watch the musical which was sometimes good and sometimes bad it doesn’t really matter  and then AFTER - 

We would go to a tent outside the Marriott Lincolnshire Hotel. And there would be a step and repeat and cocktail tables and the smell of food in trays. There would be a carving station. And all of these marvelous actresses in heels would come and talk to us - and men in suits with brightly colored ties - and they’d tell my father how great he was and they’d ask me what grade I was in - I'd tell them proudly what show I’d be working on next - and I’d be sassy and demure (before that was a thing) and land my laughs in conversation the way I’d seen my mother do and I then I would be quiet and smile because I understood that that was also part of being liked. I was working as a child actor in those days, and felt certain that these nights were the first chapter in a biography detailing my life as a famous musical theatre actress. 

I wanted to be in this world of people that seemed pre-ordained for me - I knew surely one day I too would star in a musical at Marriott Lincolnshire Theatre and bring my children to opening night. 

But it turns out that life and selfhood are more complex than the simple dream of a seven-year-old drunk on Shirley Temples. My dream took me to acting school - which took me to playwriting - which took me to New York - which threw me headlong into the tornado of my 20s - through countless day jobs - through wild nights through Tinder until there was Hinge - through waitressing - through new friendships and lost friendships - career success - a broken heart - falling in love again - falling flat on my face - winning awards! - questioning everything -

Until I realized the life I wanted looked fundamentally different from the one I had. 

“Don’t let your dreams ruin your life,” said my friend one night, at a bar. 

My last career pivot had been easy - if I wasn’t going to be an actress, I would be a playwright. I was simply better at writing plays and I seemed to have a real shot at being successful with it. 

But my life wasn’t working.

I’ll spare you why working as a freelance writer is hard - of course it’s hard - and if you don’t know why, ask someone who lives in New York. 

The pressure of my own dreams - the perceived pressure from others - it zapped me of my joy. 

I needed something else. 

I had an epiphany about my values - I needed fulfillment and joy daily in a way that my life as a writer could not give me. I needed to feel I was putting good out into the world in a more tangible way than most writers get to feel. 

Cut back to me crying in the lobby next to the lobby of Chicago Shakespeare Theatre with the Latino Hobbit Man. 

I was weeping with relief that my father was living his dream, and that I had been brave enough to allow mine to change. That I could be proud of him. That there was no voice in my head demanding I reach some faraway goal. Silence. Peace. 

I haven’t written in many months. There was no happiness in it. My mind was like an algorithm calculating what play I could write next that would get picked up by whatever contest or that so-and-so might like who knows someone at that theatre that does new plays. I was exhausted, demoralized, poor, and bitter in an unsustainable way.

And so I decided I was going to be an elementary teacher, that I would be good at that, and it would bring me joy.

So that’s what I did. And I am. And it does. That is for another piece of writing. But despite my fears that people would think I was “settling,” or no one would remember I was a playwright anymore, or that people would stop being my friend (some did), when I started teaching I felt… happy.  I recalled defining “vocation” in my 6th grade Religion workbook.  Life got easier and harder and simpler and better. 

I want to find a way to have my new dream and my old dream at the same time. 

I want to teach children - I want to sit on a desk and laugh with them about a book. I want to grade their papers and talk to their parents and open their ketchup packets. 

And I’m starting to write again. It’s been so long it feels like trying on jeans that are too small. 

I am so different at 28 than I was at 22. 

Maybe dreams change. Maybe they splinter off in new directions. Maybe they’re like snowflakes and no two are the same. Maybe our daughters see them differently than they really are. Maybe they come true. Or maybe they stay in our hearts and grow with us - reminding us of who we used to be and who we aren’t yet all the while saying

You can

You can

You can

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*I would argue the work of my dad's life was actually Nine at Porchlight Theatre in 2010, but who's to say