Let me tell you another story.
College. My freshman year, and I was cast in my first play on campus. It was a forgettable dramedy about a high school teacher who takes a classroom hostage until the authorities give into his demands. My role was Dean, the nerdy freshman who served as a perpetual source of scorn and derision amongst the other students.
(Seventeen years later, and I still remember his name. That's creepy.)
Had maybe five lines. But here was the one which bought me a small amount of fame at school.
Act One: The students stop harassing Dean long enough to take a look at his clothes and ask him why he's wearing such ugly apparel.
He says:
"These are my happy pants. They make me happy."
That's all it was. A terrible series of words which made no sense. It comes out of nowhere and is never mentioned again.
But I'm crazy. I'm a crazy person. I see those rambling letters all staggered in a row, and I want to make something out of them. I get the director to dye me a pair of sweatpants one size too small a color between purple and puce. Then I tie about seventeen keys on a loop onto the drawstring. Lastly, I pitch Dean's voice somewhere around the tone used by Roger Rabbit.
So, by the time the show opens, the exchange looks something like this:
STUDENT
Why are you wearing such ugly pants?
DEAN
(to dazzle)
These? Are my happy pants!
(to proclaim)
(shakes drawstring)
JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE
(beams)
(to confide)
They make me happeeee.
And people, they howled with laughter. Seriously. My stoic giant of an acting teacher, Paul Backer, cackled like a madman. It was the first time I ever saw him like something I did. Not in a reserved, arms folded, stare-like-a-grim-ferryman way he always had. Free and open laughter. And I don't know why. It was really, really dumb. Super dumb.
The show ended. After that, I wanted to be taken seriously as an actor. This was a serious business, and I wanted to develop a reputation as someone with skill and gravity. Not a fat, sloppy fool. I did monologues from ANTIGONE, my chin quavering with righteous, unceasing rage while other classmates were doing pieces from TV or film. I scowled to hide my dirty, misshapen teeth. Saved up cash and bought contacts so I'd look a wee more presentable.
God, I had so many turtlenecks, too.
I'M
After several years in college being a super-serious actor and taking roles in dark, crazy, experimental shows (along with a few high-profile musicals and mainstage shows on campus and taking part in the Edinburgh Fringe Festival with some mad, wonderful people), I signed up to take Paul Backer's acting class as a senior. I was determined this time to earn his respect and somber appreciation. I was no longer the freshman who bawled in front of him and twenty other students, being unable to kiss my scene partner because (at eighteen and a half) it was the first time I had ever kissed a girl. My eyes no longer glossed over his reams and reams of worksheets outlining acting theory and preparation. I understood now how to use these dry, esoteric tools, make them precise and engaging.
The first few weeks were like a tug of war. Still wasn't making any real progress. Still felt awkward and flustered in front of him. Choice after choice was refuted, met with silence. Finally, one day, he stood up, and said: "Jara, why do you have to be so serious all the time? Whatever happened to Happy Pants? Be him."
So I did. I took lighter, more humorous choices in class. Last show in college, I signed up to play an anthropomorphic Indian dog in a friend's play. No lines, just barks and crazy physical comedy. A far cry from my serious, craft-minded ego.
And I've been here in the real world for thirteen years now. While my default emotional core could best be described as "wounded, autistic bear" , I get paid to be Happy Pants. Weird, fat, comic types, looming large with grotesque physicality. Spitting, semi-clothed, occasionally drunk beasts. Animals and little boys which make you laugh and laugh and laugh.
But I'm not a funny person at all.
Not even close.
I'm a high-functioning depressive.
My dreams nowadays fixate around counting down the months until my student loans are paid off and I'm finally able to parse together a savings account.
And this year, I finally got a chance to show who I am. The version of me from the past, and its echoes in my character today. I wrote, produced and performed GHOST ON A STICK. And it terrified me to my core. Every single time. That monster. That intense, savage, broken little man. All of that, displayed so openly. Without my usual parlor tricks.
I'm glad it got to exist. I'm glad theatre can still challenge me and force me to be present and clear.
I'm also glad that I'm making some peace with my happy pants side, too. If you're in New York City, you can see me in doing Off-Broadway children's theatre on the weekends: Piggy Nation The Musical . It's fervent, silly, engaging work.
As John Gardner once wrote in GRENDEL, balance is everything.
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