At about 8:12PM EST on Tuesday, November 18th,
2008 in Raleigh, North Carolina, you said “Momma, Momma, Mommy”, and I started
to cry. You said the words in a strong
and booming voice. You were not at all in distress. And yet I couldn’t stop the tears from
flowing.
I don’t know
if I ever told you my sweet little daughter, but when he was a young man your
grandfather was a musical prodigy. He
was an orchestra conductor and composer of classical music. In his early teens, your grandfather studied
under the distinguished orchestra conductor Herbert Von Karajan.
Karajan was
known for two things. The first and most
important is that he was a masterful conductor. He was the best and most
prominent conductor of his era, and maybe of the 20th century. He had what in the conducting world is known
as “two right hands”. That means he
could skillfully conduct different parts of the orchestra simultaneously by
using both of his hands independently of each other. This is apparently very
difficult. If you ever study classical
music maybe you’ll try it yourself.
The second
thing for which Karajan was known is that he was apparently in the Nazi party
in the 1930’s and early 1940’s and was a Nazi sympathizer. This was not so great for your grandfather
since he was Jewish. Nonetheless, I
guess your grandpa was indeed gifted because Jewish or not, Karajan took him on
as a student in the early 1940’s, which was a great honor. At thirteen, your grandpa had gone to
Salzburg, Austria along with several other young men from different parts of
Europe to audition for the great Karajan.
Each of the
candidates was asked to conduct a movement of a symphony with Karajan’s
orchestra while Karajan observed. One by one your grandpa and the other young
men (no women were allowed in those days) took their turn. Finally, as one of the candidates led
Karajan’s orchestra through a movement of one of Mozart’s symphonies (listen to
Mozart’s music sometime, it’s magnificent) he worked up quite a sweat. According to your grandpa when the young man
finished, Karajan took the baton out of his hand and said “This is Mozart. We don’t sweat with Mozart”. I love that story.
You might have
inherited some of your creative genes from him.
You certainly got creative genes from your sister Jamie. As you know, when Jamie was twelve she toured
with the national Broadway tour of Annie, first playing the role of July, and
then Pepper. From the time you were
about three years old whenever you saw anything related to Annie you wanted to
be in it, “just like Jamie”.
When you
were five, you auditioned for the role of Molly in a local children’s
production of Annie organized by a group called the Broadway Bound
Players. Broadway Bound Players is a
great acting program for young children.
The quality of acting is not always great, but everyone who auditions
gets a role no matter what. At age four
you had played a mouse in one of their productions of Cinderella, and the
producer thought you were ready to “move up” to a speaking part. But at the audition you fell apart. It was very unlike you, as you’ve been
incredibly self-possessed and confident from the time you were born. Yet on that day, in that moment, when your
turn came you froze. Even with the
gentle coaxing of the producer and director, after a few tries you started to
cry, said you didn’t want to be in the play, and that was it.
On the ride
home I imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios. I silently wondered if this
would mark the beginning of an irreversible downward spiral in your life; your
confidence ruined, your dreams shattered forever, drug and alcohol addiction
just around the corner. Fortunately your mom, being the uber parent she is,
understood you were five years old, had simply had a difficult moment, and consoled
you as only a mother can. You asked if you could audition again next time, and
with the resilience that only a five year old can summon, went on to other
things. Or so it seemed.
In January
2008, Mom found out there was indeed another audition for Annie. But this time it wasn’t for a pay-to-play
kids’ production. It was for a replacement cast for the national Broadway tour.
At that audition Martin Charnin, the
director and one of the creators of Annie, told your mom that they were not
replacing the Molly character, which was the only character you could play
given your age, but that you had a lot of potential. He explained that if you took dance and voice
lessons religiously for the next eight months, he would “be inclined to make
you his next Molly” when the new tour went out in November. Both your mom and I were floored, and when
Mom told you what Martin had said, you decided you wanted to pursue singing and
dancing classes. And you did.
In June, the
tour came to Southern California and we took you to see the show. As chance
would have it, at intermission we saw Martin in the lobby and went to say
hello. He was very nice but it was clear
that Martin had no recollection of you at all and had no idea who you
were. I remember it dawning on me at the
time that, like any good director who works with young people, he probably
offered great encouragement to all the kids who exhibited the least bit of
potential. Following the audition in January, Laura and I had started to wonder
aloud how we would deal with six or more months of life on the road if in fact
you got the next tour. After that encounter in the lobby, it felt obvious no
discussion was necessary and we stopped talking about it altogether.
Then came
September, and the auditions in New York for the new national tour. You were excited to go and we wanted you to
have a wonderful experience, but we were careful to manage your expectations.
The audition dates coincided with the weekend of your seventh birthday, and we
made a point of telling you this weekend in New York was a birthday present,
with the audition just one part of the adventure. We also made plans for your friend Riley to
come see you from Philadelphia, for you guys to visit the fabulous American
Girl store in the city, and who knows what else. Then off you guys went to the Big Apple.
Midday
Saturday, your mom called me to say they were about to make the first round of
cuts, and that you would be among them.
I asked her how she could possibly know that and she said you had come
out during one of the breaks and told her they had not asked you to do some
specific dance that the Molly character does.
My heart
sank. Of course I wanted you to get the
role if that is something you wanted. As
importantly, like any parent I was desperate for you not to feel the pain of
rejection. I had secretly asked whatever
higher power is out there that you’d at least make it through the first cut.
You had worked very hard for this audition by any standard, let alone that of a
six year old. I hoped you would be able
to experience a little of that wonderful feeling of achievement and fulfillment
that ideally should always accompany hard work and commitment, but doesn’t
nearly enough. I hung up, tried to imagine what might be going though your
tender mind, and thought about what I could say to you when we spoke that might
provide you both comfort in the present and inspiration for the future.
I also tried
not to look at the clock. About an hour
later when the phone rang I desperately didn’t want to answer it. But when I
did your mom told me you had made the first cut. When I could breathe again I congratulated
you on your great work and then relaxed. Prayer answered. The phone rang again a couple of hours later,
then once or twice more after that, and each time your mom was calling to say
you had survived another cut. By day’s
end you were one of the finalists going back Sunday morning.
I had a
sleepless night. I was certainly no longer
relaxed and I felt helpless to do anything except worry. Early Sunday morning
Mom called and said it looked like you were one of two for the role of
Molly. The final phone call came around
noon. I will always remember your mom’s
words when I picked up the phone. “Hi honey”, she said lightly. “Mackenzie
wants to tell you something”.
Six weeks
later, you and Mom got on a plane to Jacksonville to start rehearsals and three
weeks after that I sat in a darkened theater in Raleigh, North Carolina, my heart
pounding, your mother’s hand in mine. At about 8:12PM EST, the curtain went up
on the 2008-2009 national Broadway tour of Annie. “Momma, Momma, Mommy” said Molly, the
youngest orphan, and I began to cry.
All my
everlasting love,
Dad