When a Director Laughed Me Off the Stage, It Took Everything to Come Back to Theatre

Auditions always made me jumpy.

I first auditioned for a show when I was fourteen, my most recent foray onto the stage at that point having been a dance recital when I was five. My school did not have, and vocally had no interest in obtaining, a theatre program, or even a music class. I didn’t know anything about what was popular on Broadway— I remember vaguely knowing that a musical called Wicked had a song called “Defying Gravity”, but that was about it. But my local youth theatre was looking for kids to join, encouraging those of all levels of experience to come audition. I had always loved singing and storytelling, so I allowed myself to be persuaded to do it. 

I will never forget the sight I was met with when I walked into the theatre lobby. People in dance shoes I could not afford practicing moves that I had never done. People practicing vocal warmups that sounded quite above my paygrade. My hands shook, and I tried not to wrinkle my sheet music— I sang a song by the Beatles because it was the only song I trusted myself to remember in case I panicked on stage. When I was finally called, and I finally did get up on the stage to sing, I almost did forget the song, but I got through it. 

What I distinctly remember about that audition was that I could see vague outlines of the people listening to me, but the house lights were dark so I couldn’t really see them. I didn’t hear much from them, either. “Hello! Whenever you’re ready!” and “Thank you!” That was it. My dancing portion was abysmal. I was sure I wasn’t going to get a call to even be in the show, so I left after auditions were over, thinking that was that.

But I did get a call. Not for a named part, but for the ensemble. I was just thrilled to have been a part of it. It was a wonderful experience. People assured me that theatre was a place where I would make my real friends, be accepted, and supported. Who would say no to that?

I had two great experiences in that youth theatre program until school got in the way for a few years. SATs, college tours, and eventually my own graduation prevented me from auditioning for that program again, but I promised myself I would get back to it before I aged out.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I auditioned for the last time. Nineteen? Twenty? Maybe twenty-one? In any case, it was my last year to be in the age group for this youth theatre program, so I was excited to be part of it one more time. 

I agonized over audition songs. I tried to pick one that, again, showcased my talent but was also drilled into my head enough to remember if nerves took over. I picked “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley. It wasn’t a show tune, but neither had “Let it Be”, and that got me in, hadn’t it? And cast members who I’d performed with before told me they had sung “Happy Birthday” and been fine. So that was okay, right? Right? I second-guessed myself all the way to the audition. I could feel nerves taking over again, as they always did. I hadn’t quite gotten over those audition jitters. In I walked, still at least a decade behind the training some of these teenagers had in terms of vocal ability, still unable to afford dance shoes, still incredibly nervous, but still ready to tell a good story on a stage I had missed. Faces had changed since I had last performed there, so it was like being fourteen again.

Finally, my name was called. They had turned the house lights on, this time. I could see who was listening to me, and something about it unsettled me. Nevertheless, I handed my music to the pianist and stepped onto the stage, trying to leave my nerves behind.

You see, when I am in the throes of anxiety, my voice and my hands shake. I still haven’t figured out how to stop it. The hands shaking are fine enough, but the voice? That was what they needed to hear. My voice trembled, but I still pushed my way through as best as I could. 

I didn’t get to the end of my section, though. A few seconds in, a man at the table who I would later find out was the director, called out for the pianist to stop. He stopped playing, I stopped singing. The director sounded angry. 

“What song is that?!” There was an edge to his voice. 

All of a sudden, I registered just how bright the lights were on me. I swallowed hard and told him. A woman who sat next to him told him that it was from Shrek. 

“Shrek?!” 

The director started to laugh, animatedly shaking his head. The other two at the table obliged him with a few chuckles. I mumbled something about it being on the radio as well, but I’m almost positive he didn’t hear me. I don’t think it would have mattered, anyway.

“I’ve heard enough!” he called out.

I didn’t look at the pianist as he handed my music back to me and I walked as fast as I could down the aisle and out the door. The director was still laughing by the time the door swung shut behind me. I don’t think I need to tell you how I felt later as I sat in my room, trying not to think of the sound of his laughter.

I never figured out exactly what he was laughing at. Was it my singing? Was it my song choice? A little of both? I don’t know, and I really don’t care. What I do know is that I did not deserve that, especially from a director in a youth program. 

I never got a call. I didn’t hear anything from that theatre until months later when the show I had auditioned for was midway through its run that August. They sent me a form letter, “regretting to inform me” that I had not been cast. I had figured that out on my own long before then.

The thing is, I don’t even know what was worse: getting laughed off the stage, or listening to people defend him after I told them about it. 

“Oh, that’s just how he is! He’s so funny.”

Funny. Right. 

It made me wonder if perhaps I was being too sensitive. I was an adult already. Why was this affecting me so much?

After all, there were directors out there who were pretty harsh and demanding of their casts, right? I didn’t fit his idea for the cast, so he hadn’t wanted to hear any more. The thing is, though, it wasn’t that I hadn’t been cast that bothered me. I could have lived with that. I had lived with that in my experiences between fourteen years of age and that instance. It was the fact that it wasn’t enough to not cast me. It wasn’t enough to just listen to the end of my brief audition and let me go. It wasn’t enough to cut my audition so short. He had to humiliate me.

He had to laugh at me, mock my song choice, and then dismiss me. He was on that much of a power trip that these seemed like acceptable and professional things to do. Not only did he think so, but my “friends” did, too. Was this the friendship, acceptance, and support I had been assured of? 

I want to make something crystal clear: I am not defending my performance during that audition or trying to say that I even deserved a part. I’m aware that I very likely did not strike that director as a shining star.

Theatre was never a prospective job for me, I was realistic enough to know that. I was never at the caliber of lots of my fellow cast members, and I understood that. I never expected tremendous praise and understood that my abilities were not always up to the standard that the directors wanted.

But just being in it, being part of it, had been enough for me. I always checked off that I was willing to be in the ensemble or in the crew— whatever let me be part of the experience. But this was his cast, and he had every right not to include me in it. The line that he crossed was one of professionalism and human decency when he decided it would be fun to laugh me off the stage.

It’s been about ten years since that audition. I haven’t been in a musical since. My only returns to the stage have been a few non-singing parts that friends asked me to be in, and even that petered out eventually. It’s been ten years, and I’m well into adulthood, but that audition and the humiliation it caused still keeps me from auditioning again. It happened once, so I know it can happen again, and I’m not willing to subject myself to that.

The theatre in that area tends to utilize the same people over and over again. What if I auditioned and he was on the other side of the table? What if it was someone just like him, while the others in the theatre wouldn’t even bat an eyelash if I were subjected to a similar display? This, combined with my already heightened anxiety during auditions, has kept me from doing it ever since. This world is not fair. We all learn that at some point. That director, and the people who defended them, were some of the people who proved that to me. Eventually, I left the area that this theatre is in, but the sentiment remains the same.

My involvement in theatre did not stop there, though. As leery as I am of returning to the stage itself, I do still believe very strongly in the arts and their presence. I am a volunteer for a youth theatre program in my area and have served as a director before. I am on the other side of that table, now.

I can assure you that no matter what I hear when I listen to someone audition, whether it is exactly what I envision for the part or the farthest thing from it; whether they soar through their song or struggle through every note, I will never subject my prospective cast to what I was subjected to. I use what talents I have to lift them up, to get them into character when rehearsals begin, to make sure the stage is set from the wings when opening night comes. 

All of this does not allow me to forget how long it’s been since I got to lend my own voice to a performance on stage. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. But my singing voice is incredibly rusty now, and I wouldn’t know how to get myself back on track even if I tried, not being able to afford lessons and unsure of where to begin without them. I did not find support in theatre, and most of the friendships I made while I was involved in it have dissolved since. What I did take away was one lesson, though.

This world may not be fair, but shame on me if I am the one to prove it to another human being.