It was the night of dress rehearsal, and students were flitting around the room, preparing for their last run-through of the Wizard of Oz. Everyone was on edge, and the choir room was buzzing with excitement. “I can’t find my stockings!” a student screeched as she rummaged through her bag, while onlookers only minimally engaged their attention. “Who has the props for scene one?” I overheard someone yell from behind me. The room was dizzying, yet exhilarating. 

The orchestra was setting up in the pit, and I could faintly hear violinists tuning their instruments, slowly drawing their bows over each string as they rotated the pegs, sharpening their notes into precision. In this rural town, high-school musicals were not only much anticipated school events, but were also occasions that brought together a community, a county, for socializing and entertainment.  

Students with an inclination for fine arts typically auditioned for lead roles, but the school was so small that sometimes athletes with untapped potential ended up stealing the show. Occasionally, even an unassuming bookish student would hold a pivotal role that propelled them into a popularity for which they weren’t truly prepared to embrace. But tonight, I was just riding the high of being a part of something much anticipated. I was ready to be extraordinary, although my role was nothing but ordinary. I would be expected to proclaim my one line with confidence, stepping into the spotlight and presenting myself to the audience; presenting myself to my world. I fit the role of a munchkin quite well. Standing at a mere five feet, and with an already high-pitched and at times helium-induced sounding voice, it didn’t take much to get into character. However, the process of applying stage makeup before a show was unfamiliar to me. Actually, makeup was a foreign concept, as I had been raised in a home where wearing makeup as a child was immodest.

As I scanned the room, I started to see my friends cluster together; applying thick, cream colored foundation to each other’s faces. I’m not even sure where they got the foundation; it must’ve come from one of the directors, each of them white. My friends applied the cakey foundation with ease, as if they’d done it before. I watched it paint their skin and slowly dry, enabling the fuzzy hairs along their hairline to peek through the foundation layer. I then watched them layer pink blush, adding rosiness to their cheeks, followed by crimson red lipstick, at which point they puckered their lips at the final touch. 

I felt a flutter in my chest, and then a fog that seemed to envelop me muffled their giggles. I could not use cream-colored foundation. I knew I couldn’t. But yet, when it was my turn, one of the upper classmen hesitantly sat me down in a chair, dipped the dense brush into the liquid solution, and began to apply. I felt coolness, followed by light strokes. She covered my face, and attempted to blend the foundation into my neck as well as one would imagine white paint sitting on top of chocolate skin. Even if the room hadn’t been busy at that time, I wouldn’t have known, because in that moment, I disconnected just a bit with reality. 

“There,” she said while stepping back, one eyebrow raised and inspecting her work. “I think that should be good. You have to go line up with the other cast members to stand under the spotlight so that they can see if you need any adjustments.” I felt a pit in my stomach. A part of me wanted to believe that I’d be cleared on the first go; that somehow, the makeup would miraculously be sufficient. I stood in line as each person walked from backstage onto the center. They’d wait, and eventually, someone in a darkened area of the auditorium would loudly state, “More blush!” or “Looks good!” and each student would hurriedly walk away, victorious or determined. I shuffled onto the stage when it was my turn. I imagined walking a plank. The auditorium had no lighting except for one spotlight positioned at center stage. Never having been under a spotlight by myself, I was unprepared for the feeling of exposure, as well as the heat of the stage light. I felt myself starting to perspire and imagined the foundation slowly melting, running down my neck into sludge onto my costume. 

The director was seated in between two assistant directors. Their voices lowered to a whisper as I stood in front of them, expectantly waiting for their response. “Something isn’t right,” she said. “I need you to have someone fix your makeup. It does not look right under the lights.” I exhaled a small puff of breath, and walked back into the choir room. Sitting back in the chair, one of the cast members began to adjust my makeup again. When I returned to the line a second time, the line was shorter. More students had been cleared because their makeup was acceptable. I gingerly entered the spotlight again and was met with hushed voices for a second time.  On this occasion, I noticed a lump in my throat. “Don’t cry,” I told myself. “You have makeup on.” I felt the tightness and pain now in my jaw trying to ward off the visible expression of my frustration and humiliation. I bowed my head slightly. My spirit dimmed. I was sent back again. At this point, I felt the frustration of the makeup artist. Sent back again. And again. And again.