Six years old, and placed at the end of a chorus line. I floundered, moved along clumsily, barely recalling the routine established through weeks of rehearsal. I loved to dance (and still do). But it wouldn’t have been detectable then, when I didn’t "own" the dance. My essence lay dormant, divorced from my body, hapless in relation to my young troupe.
Generally, an introverted “daydreamer,” I "closeted" my experimentations, dabbling in singing, dancing and even written lyricism behind a locked bathroom door – a prayer for privacy within our small apartment. My deep yearning was deliberate and unrepentant...until I was called out for it. Sadly, opportunities for self-expression were often quelled at home. Yet, my fanciful, unconfined 12-year-old would channel Sally Bowles (“Cabaret”) like nobody’s business.
My secret passions burned truer than other childhood frivolities. It brought me home to myself. Future choices addressed this longing, including college studies directed toward teaching dance to deaf children. Designated “areas of concentration,” acting, theatre and movement in dance were requisite for accreditation. Far from accomplished in any of these particular courses, I strode on through.
Over the years my motivations altered, but my interest remained. At the Performing Arts Center in Milwaukee I’d play Marjorie in “Picnic,” thankful for a last-minute partner replacement, saving me the parting kiss from my (unaware), halitosis-afflicted suitor. Attending university, I’d unintentionally parlay drama into comedy. Back on the East Coast, and now pregnant, acting class had me portraying Mary Haines, the betrayed wife from the classic play and film, “The Women.” I invoked my character in silence, behind a school desk, obscuring my protruding abdomen. It could possibly prove easier without having to memorize lines, but facial expressions had to be exact, true to character. Effectually, I was Mary, and with hearty applause my well of satisfaction amplified, my incarnation convincingly expressed.
Recently, an initial meet-up with a friend in Brooklyn revealed a resonant predisposition. With her penchant for improvisational acting barely contained, I timidly spoke of my own tepid beginnings. By nightfall I found myself in an Upper West Side brownstone, now a jilted lesbian, pleading for my love to return home. My performance concluded with an unintended nod toward comedy once again, an adrenaline-fueled perceptivity leading toward an in-depth reach, an authentic voice. My heart lifted as the facilitator proclaimed, “You were on fire!” I was no doubt, committed.
Registered at a casting agency, my affinity persists. As inflection, purpose, and meaning spill from the vessel, I’m newly expansive, sensing a solid grounding presence with each utterance. Spirit radiates from my fingertips. Amidst compelling archetypes, pathos and unfolding wonder lies an identifiable story of human connection. Within this veritable microcosm of life experiences, between performer and audience, we’re ultimately entertained by who we are.
Cindy Weinstein, degreed in special education, with training primarily for the deaf pre-school and elementary populations, is our ground reporter from Medford, N.J. She spends her spare time musing life’s “magic” as it unfolds, while dabbling in yoga, journalistic writing and poetry. She cites tap dancing as a serious bucket-list item.