Victory and Validation

I don’t even know how to begin. So I’ll just tell the story, I suppose.

I came home tonight a bit earlier than typical, mayhap by an hour. I finally started reading Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, and it’s been my train companion for the last day or so. I find myself struggling to keep up, remembering my chemistry and physics classes of high school and college daze, not merely to remember the science, but also to remember how I learned in those days. I could be great at those subjects when I really applied myself. I developed a stronger love of theatre when I discovered I could be good at it without trying nearly as hard. So sue me.

I checked the mail when I got home, eagerly looking for word from the IRS about reducing the amount of my garnishment. What I got instead was a letter from DePaul, one of the schools for which I’d auditioned. My heart sank.

When I got a letter from The New School on Monday, all I could think about was my friend who goes there now. Logical thought warred with emotional response. “She got a phone call,” I mumbled to myself, “but I got a letter. I got a letter. But she got a phone call. But I got a letter.” Absently, I noticed the envelope was awfully thin.

I went inside my apartment and curbed the emotions that toiled back and forth. Who would I call first? My father, who would help book the ticket to NY? My friend, telling her I’d soon need a place to stay for a weekend? No, stop it. What if it’s bad news. What if it’s a rejection. Are you prepared for that? A deep-seeded cynicism took over as I forced myself to slow down. Take off your bag. Take off your coat, hat, and boots. Now sit down. Now open the envelope.

“Hello, Mark –,” it read. Awfully polite & personal, thought I. “I want to thank you for taking part in our admission process this year.” I was able to make the connection that a letter of acceptance wouldn’t have started that way. “However,” it continued, “it is with deep regret that I inform you. . .” No wonder it was polite. Crap.

The New School holds three rounds of auditions, but I hadn’t even passed the first one. Rejection would have been easier to take if I had made it further down the road, if I had known that I had beaten at least one candidate. Instead, what I had earned had taken no talent, no skill – only the ability to pay the application fee held me in distinction from any other face on the street. I was no closer to one of the coveted Three Things I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to get.

A few days and many anguished moments later I held the DePaul envelope. Once more hope and fear shook me like competing ocean currents, threatening to capsize my ego. I talked myself into relaxing, and went into my apartment. I took off my bag, coat, hat, and boots. I sat down. Absently, I noticed the envelope was reasonably thick as I tore off the short edge.

“Dear Mark,” it read. Kinda formal, thought I. “Congratulations!” Jigga-wha? “Based on the recommendation of the performance faculty of The Theatre School at DePaul University, I am honored to notify you of your acceptance . . .”

There was no need to continue. If it weren’t for bold type, I wouldn’t have seen the next compliment. “In further recognition of the value The Theatre School sees in you as a candidate, I am delighted to offer you a Graduate Talent Scholarship of . . .” about ½ annual tuition, renewable each year.

I don’t have the words to express what I feel. So many times have I felt defeat, I can describe it in every detail. The rise of hope and the plummet of disappointment have been rather well cataloged in recent years. Of the three things I most desire in this world, I had thought that a single victory would leave me cynical, but not so terribly that I wouldn’t be able to continue to try. But if my one victory were this victory, I could eventually overcome and ultimately heal and one day be able to rejoice in all that I’d gained, and still go for the other two.

But this feels so much better than I ever imagined it would.

This news is a cool salve on a fresh burn. It numbs the pain and reminds me that I’m not only going to heal, but I’ll do so without a scar. And one day I won’t even remember the pain. Tonight, I shall sleep the sleep of the victorious.