2024 Resilience Award
photo credit Bella Wang
Click on the image above to view the recording of Bella reading her essay.
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Lost In My Own Voice
by Bella Wang
At the end of our dress rehearsal, my director stopped me with the same critique he had written in all his emails "Try to speak up, we need more volume from you." The last time I tried to speak out I said Collosum instead of Colosseum, the entire drama class erupting into laughter. Staring at the word as it appeared in the script, the director urged me to continue, but nothing came out. I asked for the pronunciation again, like a fool, incapable of speaking my native language, the very language I had spoken every day of my whole life. I shoved the phone in my back pocket, knowing that tomorrow I would be forced to return to this nightmare of a reality.
Rehearsal on the weekends allowed actors to bond during lunch, the sole break we received in between runs. i watched as forks were stabbed into pasta, while I carefully picked up 小笼包 from my thermos, with my chopsticks, trying to avoid the soup from spilling out. I scanned to see if anyone was scrunching their nose at the pungent aroma of pork and cabbage. My mother had suggested bringing a sandwich, warning me of what the other kids would think of my 小笼包, but I insisted on my favorite Asian delicacy, what Americans call, soup dumplings.
With all the other students in the cafeteria I chose to abandon my thermos, chowing down pizza that tasted like garlic bread. Stepping foot into my first-year drama class, the only class I made sure to sign up for, I searched for a familiar face, but when I was met by white faces, I stood in the doorway, hesitant, wanting to secretly slip away. Feeling as if my acting had improved, I bravely auditioned for the freshman play, only to find out that I had pitiful five lines; lines that barely made up a full sentence.
From then on everything was theater. Reviewing my lines every night, I made sure to enunciate each word. You have to get them right; the show is tomorrow. Classes the next day were a blur, as I watched students raising their hands high, while I lowered mine. I knew the answers, but I began to fear my own voice, my Chinese accent being pushed forward. The teachers that used to look in my direction now looked elsewhere; as if they had already seen my defeat. Bella, just speak like everyone else. Loudly. Confidently. English was my native tongue, but at home, I spoke Chinese, went to Chinese school on the weekends, and ate Chinese food nearly every day. I was born in America, but why didn't I feel American?
I wish I could ask my mother for acting advice, ignoring the language barrier separating her from the rest of the adults in the audience. In our class post show discussions, my peers discussed how they sat down with their parents, going through the show scene by scene, finding the uniqueness and vulnerability we presented. I see parents outside the auditorium with bouquets of fresh flowers, while mine stand on the side, waiting for me to get out of my costume. Seeing what the other kids received, I bury my disappointment under my feet until they place a plate of 小笼包 in front of me, a smile emerging from the corner of my mouth.
Sometimes I ask myself why I chose theater when I don't have the confidence it takes to stand on stage, the confidence needed to respond to a simple question proposed by my teachers. My mother says I have afear of public speaking, but when I say words in Chinese, they flow together, like they're all connected on a piece of string,
without me needing to think about what to say next. My peers speak their lines with ease, coming up with character choices when my only focus is on my pronunciation. I aspire to be like them someday, standing front and center stage. But for now, I'll hide behind the backdrop, watching my peers shine on the stage that's theirs, which one day, hopefully, will be mine too.
Rehearsal on the weekends allowed actors to bond during lunch, the sole break we received in between runs. i watched as forks were stabbed into pasta, while I carefully picked up 小笼包 from my thermos, with my chopsticks, trying to avoid the soup from spilling out. I scanned to see if anyone was scrunching their nose at the pungent aroma of pork and cabbage. My mother had suggested bringing a sandwich, warning me of what the other kids would think of my 小笼包, but I insisted on my favorite Asian delicacy, what Americans call, soup dumplings.
With all the other students in the cafeteria I chose to abandon my thermos, chowing down pizza that tasted like garlic bread. Stepping foot into my first-year drama class, the only class I made sure to sign up for, I searched for a familiar face, but when I was met by white faces, I stood in the doorway, hesitant, wanting to secretly slip away. Feeling as if my acting had improved, I bravely auditioned for the freshman play, only to find out that I had pitiful five lines; lines that barely made up a full sentence.
From then on everything was theater. Reviewing my lines every night, I made sure to enunciate each word. You have to get them right; the show is tomorrow. Classes the next day were a blur, as I watched students raising their hands high, while I lowered mine. I knew the answers, but I began to fear my own voice, my Chinese accent being pushed forward. The teachers that used to look in my direction now looked elsewhere; as if they had already seen my defeat. Bella, just speak like everyone else. Loudly. Confidently. English was my native tongue, but at home, I spoke Chinese, went to Chinese school on the weekends, and ate Chinese food nearly every day. I was born in America, but why didn't I feel American?
I wish I could ask my mother for acting advice, ignoring the language barrier separating her from the rest of the adults in the audience. In our class post show discussions, my peers discussed how they sat down with their parents, going through the show scene by scene, finding the uniqueness and vulnerability we presented. I see parents outside the auditorium with bouquets of fresh flowers, while mine stand on the side, waiting for me to get out of my costume. Seeing what the other kids received, I bury my disappointment under my feet until they place a plate of 小笼包 in front of me, a smile emerging from the corner of my mouth.
Sometimes I ask myself why I chose theater when I don't have the confidence it takes to stand on stage, the confidence needed to respond to a simple question proposed by my teachers. My mother says I have afear of public speaking, but when I say words in Chinese, they flow together, like they're all connected on a piece of string,
without me needing to think about what to say next. My peers speak their lines with ease, coming up with character choices when my only focus is on my pronunciation. I aspire to be like them someday, standing front and center stage. But for now, I'll hide behind the backdrop, watching my peers shine on the stage that's theirs, which one day, hopefully, will be mine too.
