If your high school theater director told you that you were going to perform in the world’s largest theatre festival, would you believe him?
I didn’t. It seemed too good to be true. For starters, it was the type of opportunity that fosters sweet, addictive hope for possibilities – the kind fueled by childhood desires of one day visiting a distant city full of adventure.
The “what ifs” were vast; fundraisers too few and far between, and the uncertainty whether every member of our group would be able to afford attending.
The summer of 2025 arrived and the show became a reality. This small group of VMT students were going to Scotland, and we began rehearsing for Lord of the Flies. Suddenly, the pressure hit –money had been donated and high expectations were set for us.
The preparation was stressful, and though it was a certainty we would be boarding a plane to Edinburgh in a few months, doubt crept into the cracks where I could see that our show was not ready. The rehearsals were inconsistent, and the entire group procrastinated throughout the preparation process.
Now, here’s the thing about my director and my peers that can be viewed as both a vulnerability and an asset: every show transforms into a piece of art at the very, very, very last moment. I have heard artists described as discoverers, how sculptors chip away at a giant slab of rock to uncover their masterpiece, as if it were always there waiting to be revealed.
Every film and theater project I have ever done with our director Marco Gonzalez begins as a mangled mess of concepts and semi-coherent ideas, but then is unearthed as an art piece that inspires audiences to look within or question the integrity of mankind. It was no different with Lord of the Flies.
Once in Britain, our schedule allowed two rehearsals, one tech rehearsal, and four performances in Edinburgh, Scotland, which meant that our rehearsals in Scotland were our last chances to fix and finish the show. After the first rehearsal in Scotland, I felt reassured that our show was finally coming together. I could see cast members truly committing to their parts.
Our first performance was rough. We were like a newborn deer stumbling around before we got our bearings.
Doubt follows me like a shadow through most aspects of my life – are my rank and GPA competitive enough, am I doing enough to prepare for college? I brought doubt with me to Scotland, wondering if this group of teenagers from Laredo had the qualifications and preparation, or had we procrastinated too much? Were we going to disappoint the people who had sacrificed so much to get us here?
Theatre – never stable and never finished – evolves. This gave me hope. By our second performance, I could finally see this work of art unfolding, improving. Anything I worried about was far, far away, and I decided not to let doubt spoil the time I had left in this city of possibilities.
This may sound dramatic and naive, but I felt uninhibited in Scotland. Edinburgh was thrumming with art; every ordinary building was turned into a theatre or performance space. On every corner was a person handing out a flyer for their evening show. Not only was I surrounded by art, but I was also enveloped in this experience with my friends – the people with whom I create theatre and who understood the pressures we faced.
Strangely, I no longer felt fear and expectations.
Freedom is inherent, and as human beings, it is understood that we are born with it; however, it is intangible in the sense that you never truly know it’s there until it is. Looking back, I remember that feeling of freedom and the unending possibilities for art – a reminder that I am free to unveil my future as it looms before me.
For the first time that I can remember, I feel able to move forward confidently in my life, reassured that my future depends on the power I have to shape it.
Life, like art, begins as a messy jumble of passions that is sometimes hard to navigate. Once you choose to shape it and trust the process, you can carve something beautiful from it.
