It was the opening night of the middle school production of Moriarty’s Daughters, and all the actors gathered in the Blackbox Theater, our laughter bouncing off the walls. Middle and Upper School Theater Teacher and Dean of Student Voices Ms. Julia Davis led us through the movements of the warm-up with fluid and graceful arm movements. We all joined in, loosening up with every move. “And we peel, peel, peel banana” we said, the words a gentle whisper that slowly grew in confidence and volume.

“And we go, go, go bananas!” we cried enthusiastically to the booth, to the fourth wall, to the corners of the Blackbox. The movements became bigger, wilder. I looked around the circle, and I saw every person fully committed, a moment of beautiful, untamed chaos. As we warmed up, we started to feel more comfortable; we weren’t afraid to act silly around each other anymore, our own anxieties dissolving into a wave of ridiculous, ready-for-anything energy. When it stopped, someone bent over, out of breath. “OK. Now we’re ready,” they gasped. “Wow, that felt good,” another person sighed. 

Before starting at Westridge, I had never changed schools before. From kindergarten through 5th grade, I had grown up around the same kids, forming unique, lasting bonds. Jumping into a completely new community with different values and people I had never met was really challenging for me. I felt disconnected from our community, and the first time I did feel connected was when I saw my first show at Westridge: Spongebob the Musical. The PAC, Westridge’s Performing Arts Center, quickly became one of my favorite spaces on campus. I loved seeing the students that I had something in common with. Their passion was infectious, and watching them dedicate themselves to their craft grew my love for theater even more. They became my inspiration, as the people I looked up to the most.  

As we walked to the backstage of the Blackbox to get into position for the start of Moriarty’s Daughters, my eyes flickered past the huddle of 8th graders close to the reporter notebooks and magnifying glasses. I spotted one of the 8th graders alone, flipping through the pages of her script. This is my chance, I thought, taking a deep breath. Somehow, I managed to position myself close to her, and I struck up a conversation discussing the show’s opening lines, my anxiety fading away as we exchanged our individual thoughts. As we got into our positions on stage, I thought nothing of the conversation we just had, unaware that the small act of bravery sparked a friendship that would be maintained long after the final bow. Then, the house began to plunge into the darkness. The audience became focused and quiet. In that absolute silence, waiting for the first cue, the reality hit me: I was no longer an observer watching others create a magical experience, but I was a part of this intricate family, woven together by our collective passion for theater.

Next year, I hope to step from Blackbox onto the limitless PAC stage, performing alongside the people I’ve admired for years. I’m ready for the rush—to jump into new characters, form new friendships, and maybe, just maybe, catch the eye of a 6th grader in the audience, sparking her own future dream.