On Comfort, and Why It Hurts You by Allison

On Comfort, and Why It Hurts You by Allison - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

I entered high school with a chip on my shoulder and something to prove. I was mean, anxious, and desperate to figure out where I belonged. One place took me in almost immediately: the Drama department.

The director, a woman named Sherwood (her first name was never acknowledged, nor any proper title), struck up conversation with me on my first day. She talked me into joining the Drama club and switching into her intro class through the most uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had. She stood too close, she smiled too big, and her voice rattled to the ceiling. Her frizzy, uncombed hair spilled out of her head and her hiking boots stomped my toes several times. I only agreed so I could get out of there.

I was scared of her classroom and her stage and her gaggle of juniors and seniors who were just as wild as she. On the first day, I cowered in the back with my hoodie and didn’t say a word. Her classroom was wallpapered with movie posters and trinkets that past students gifted her; she was known for forming close and long-lasting friendships with students, though I didn’t see how. A massive Macbeth stared me down from one corner, and a Chinese lantern swayed ominously in another. I didn’t understand a thing about any of it -- not the scope of what I was getting into, not the method to the madness, not the love that the department was willing to give, and certainly not Sherwood.

Two years later, I’m vice president of the Drama club and a veteran of our school’s stage. I lead tours of the theater and bother scared freshmen until they come to meetings. I perform for audiences of around 300 people a night during production season. I organize acting workshops and encourage angry young students to lose their shells the same way I did. I’m among the two “comedians” in the class, meaning I’m always the one making a fool of myself for a good laugh. I’m not scared anymore.

Sherwood was key to this. That first day I met her, she made me deeply uncomfortable. Others in the department say the same thing, that Sherwood is awkward and weird when you first meet her. The thing is, she’s never like that afterward. It’s like a test. She needs to see how you hold up to being uncomfortable before she lets you in, and I think I finally understand why.

Going on stage is uncomfortable. Holding hands with a stranger for an acting workshop is uncomfortable. Costumes are uncomfortable. And as my life continues, I find that just about every worthwhile thing is uncomfortable: applying for college, giving speeches, getting a job, making friends, trying new things in new places. Those sort of things used to scare me, and I’m pretty sure it would still scare me if I hadn’t first been thrown blindfolded into dramatic theatre.

This is what Sherwood taught me: Comfort comes from sameness and stillness. There is no change or growth to comfort. The rule of thumb for physical comedians like myself is that if you feel weird or stupid doing it, it’s probably going to bring the house down. Comfort is the absence or risk. Comfort is the opposite of theater.

It’s taken me a while to figure out why I, and all my freshman peers, were so pent up and angry that first year. It’s because we were afraid of the massive changes our lives and ourselves were undergoing. I like to think that I can cope with (and even enjoy) change now -- all thanks to a very clever and very obnoxious Drama teacher.

I remember one moment from the end of this past semester very clearly: a freshman girl came to our last club meeting of the year and sat in the very back. I almost didn’t see her come in. I recognized the blank gray shirt and dark jeans and wide-eyed scowl like I was looking at a picture of my past self. I watched her for a little bit, waiting on Sherwood to sneak up and startle her into joining the group, but Sherwood was nowhere to be seen. So, of course, I snuck up.

“Welcome to Drama Club! First time here?” I asked loudly, sitting down right next to her, leaning in, knowing full well she’d never even been in the classroom.

“Uh,” she responded.

“Come up to the front! I need a volunteer for a name game we’re doing.”

“No thanks.”

“Yes thanks! It’s great to meet you.” I grabbed her arm and steered her forward.

School is now a month away from starting. This girl is currently on the roster for the main drama class, the one that produces the spring play. I can’t wait to see what she does.