My second attempt at auditioning for an acting role in New York City, the memories are so clear of my other attempts since they are always the times that I am faced with the behemoth of my unexamined Asian identity (first attempt was for an organization called 2nd Generation that produces new works by Asian American writers and directors. Lines from sides included, "I was wet like the hot springs at Chengdu!" and every, every play was overeducated. Ahhh .... us). These are roles to fit into. I would like to dare Sandra Oh to perform M Butterfly.
But this was a new play, 3 years in the making, by a Japanese American mongrel, speaking to mongreloid experiences:
about ophelia3:
A woman swept up in the rhythms of a foreign city discovers that she can live without ever uttering a word. The fragile microcosm of expatriated schoolgirls is shattered with the arrival of a new teacher and transfer student. Cultures clash in a theater producer's office and the translator bears the brunt. Japanese-American writer-director Aya Ogawa weaves a haunting exploration through movement and music of themes arising from the character of Ophelia in Shakespeare's Hamlet. Multiple disparate stories of disjoint and disconnection portray the convergence of dream and reality in a globalized world.
You are auditioning for the role of CISSY
CISSY. Schoolgirl. Asian (preferably East Asian, but not Japanese) Must have authentic Asian accent when speaking English, great physicality, and STRONG and unique singing voice. Must work well in ensemble.
I must say, I could have spent more time preparing except for the other audition I did the day prior and my insistently in-my-grill houseguest for the most of that Sunday.
I must say, I don't think I would have been any less nervous or neurotic otherwise. Coming before a panel of other obviously hybridized people doesn't make it any better. The fear of fraudulence is epic. "Authentic Asian accent"?! I've never spoken with an Asian accent in my life. She wants us to sing a pop or folk song, preferably in a language other than English. I mouthed silly nothings for Chinese New Year assemblies in middle school in Hong Kong, drooled in Mr Kong's Chinese class, and fell asleep with my one-on-one home tutor. The fighting spirit in me that has sought dance above all else honorable has been to insist that I am not Chinese--some would say, by ignoring the question of "What I am" all together.
But this refusal to be defined has its precedents, its glories, its downfalls. The Malay Straits-born Chinese have for generations considered themselves "orang china bukan china"--people Chinese, not Chinese. The conflicted personality is what has enabled us, inside of merchant port culture, to be the open, tolerant, and syncretic poster children of globalization, usually towards the goal of learning and advancement rahter than power. I often use the analogy of the televised speeches made at former Education Minister's wake to demonstrate how and how deeply Singaporeans' allegiances are forged through the universities they are sent to: two grandchildren are invited to speak, vanguard of the next generation--one voice purely British, the other short of nothing save her Texas gallon hat. Both women, meaning, not men. I just noticed that. I feel slightly ashmed that I have to notice Woman when she is Not Man. You feminists know what I'm talking about.
So back to the audition, and me, and my forgotten Chineseness, and my heightened not-Chinese-consciousness, and scripts kind of being written for people like me, but then, not quite, and how can I explain it other than for the fact that it has taken me 8 years of being Other in America to even accept the roleplay. I recall spewing a mental snot-rocket when Theatre professor Allen Kuharski emailed me an audition notice for an Asian American actress for a production in Philadelphia--poo! snork! Stop telling me who I am! I don't want to know in my happy belly-baby bliss! Let a thousand pot plants bloom!
But this, well, I could do this. " I can DO this!" thunk I. (I thunk it. Visit my website at tohavethunkthethought). I have reached a place of satiation with this dance thing where I know it is only just beginning, but it has taken so much from me and centrifuged it and put it back together again as a NEW BODY, a new old body, the same, but different, my point--that I can roleplay. (Melee the Humanimal -- I am also trying to get my shit together for MAKINGOFHUMANIMAL, my new piece to apply for the NY Fringe, side note).
So I can do this. I get a massage from Jeremy (taxation for him living in my apartment for a couple weeks). I do my laundry. I cook -- what?!? Obviously, I procrastinate. But I can do this. I convince myself that these mundane, useless, household activities are exactly what I best need to prepare. I wait for Jeremy to leave. At 6pm, before my 9pm audition slot--I prepare.
"Shit!" thunk I. "There is no time!" As usual, only NOW do I read the fine print to the audition preparation notice. Sure, the song I knew I would have to forge. The side--well, I don't understand it and I'm going to overact anyway, so hell why not play it by ear. But a contemporary monologue too?! Shit!
I clear my throat (I also, stupidly, so endearingly stupidly, ate jalapenos for dinner which have made my throat constrict) and start the search: I type a trepidatious "chinese pop song" into YouTube and hope for the best. Number 3 down the list provides me with exactly the simple kind of song I need .... perhaps an octave too high for my velvet-soul voice, but nevermind. The words--I can read these words?!?! Before my shock blows me down I see that it isn't hard to know these words. The lyrics are along the lines of
I miss your me / I am missing who? / You miss my you / You are missing who?
Etc, etc. Move on to the accent--but wait. I am rethinking this song. I rethunk it. The joke will never get too old for me. I can imitate the effortless childlike high pitch that is the ultimate value of any Chinese pop song (this one included), but that is not showcasing my talent! I am velveteen soul! I am Melretha! I am Mella! I am Mina Simone!
So I waste time (a) looking for the one Chinese folk song I do know, but only by the first lyric, and (b) preparing a second song in English that would better showcase my skill but that I think will be inappropriate for the character (NOTO BENE that the role is a 15-16 year old, and that I have looked 32 since I was 14. A bit of a stretch, but really -- my stock is the old hag or new babe, not the Mickey Mouse club, and certainly not named "Cissy") I sing Indie Arie in the kitchen and realize that I can be a LOT more off pitch than I thunk. And that I cannot modulate very well (up and down trills, small steps). I settle on "Do Right Woman, Do Right Man" and pray to the invocation of spirits that jalapenos wear off within 3 hours and that my faith (in....?) will get me through.
Song-trauma over, it is time to practice my accent. Now, I can hold an authentic Asian accent forever, and despite my own doubts I know it is authentic everytime I step into a Chinatown market. And really--who's gonna know? But the pro'rrem is dat this authentic is exactly of the marketplace and the market seller--perhaps not the foreign exchange student from some elite school visiting another elite prep school in America. My accent is like my dancing--usually a touch too strong.
But I get through this, struggling in the inbetweens with Hong Kong and Singapore intonations (is 3 "free" or "tree"? Is "with", "wiff" or "witt"? Is the emphasis on the high first syllable, or the emphatic, drawn-out last?) I record 25 minutes of myself singing and Cissying and run to the train with no minutes to spare.
The audition itself is relatively painless. I am goofy, and it is because I want them to like me -- the clown. They laugh a lot (I am used to this), but I don't realize just how little I understand the scene I am reading from (so focused was I on the accent, and the authenticity) until I jump back on the train afterwards. Of COURSE when she is describing the split nature of Hamlet ("dividied in two"), she is describing her own situation, being bicultural, a split self, "the good one and the bad one". And I wrote "Scene Study" on my resume.
Well, Aya was gracious, and said she enjoyed my work. I am frankly not too disappointed, since to jump in at the end of a 3 year process for a new repatriate to the theatre would probably give me a heart attack ("myo-car-di-al in-farc-shun"). I want to get Jeff's site off the ground, I want to keep dancing and training, I want to get my American legitimacy, I want to write/devise my own play. Shifting from conduit to conductor can only happen so many times in one day.
So that's the close of Battle With The Self Episode 2.2. It is very, very strange to read and speak Chinese again. I dare say it's a little exciting, ooh! ooh!, maybe even exotic?!?! I jest, but how else to handle the warm awkwardness of returning home?
