May 5 7:18 am
Me as a whiny toddler narrator plagued by goblins: the role of a lifetime. #16 on my list of things I will miss about Berkeley: 155 Dwinelle (and sometimes, 145) “We have to do this!” Lily, my first (and only) friend during the first semester of my freshman year, waved a flyer in my face sometime during September 2005. We had already bonded over how we were both involved in drama when we were younger, and had talked about maybe auditioning for some performance groups on campus.   “It’s called Theater for Charity. One act comedy shows, with all the proceeds going to charity. Let’s audition!”  “When are auditions?” I asked.  “I don’t know, let’s check the website.” The website listed on the flyer failed to load. This should have been the first sign that we didn’t need to be intimidated by what we, for some reason, assumed was a highly professional organization. Nevertheless, I memorized the required 60-second monologue and stood in front of a bunch of scary old (as in, 20ish) stone-faced student directors who asked me, somewhat inexplicably, if I could sing in a British accent. I could not, but I was cast anyway, as a not-so-slightly objectified Native American princess named Matoaka.  I had no idea what to expect. At my first rehearsal, the three older boys in my play that I assumed were drama majors stood in the corner of 155 Dwinelle, talking earnestly amongst themselves. Perhaps they were discussing major plot points, I thought, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the stage. But no — I’m pretty sure they were talking about skateboarding. And, as I soon found out, they were not drama majors, just guys who had seen friends and/or roommates in the show and were inspired to write/produce/act in their own offensive one-acts. I introduced myself to the boys who would become my close friends and slowly became at ease with the frenzied, disorganized, time-consuming, hilarious (sometimes on purpose, sometimes not) organization that would soon permeate my entire life.  This is a hard one to write. I don’t know how to start describing Theater for Charity to those of you who have no idea what it’s like to perform extremely politically incorrect one-acts on stages usually reserved for podiums and slide presentations or what it’s like to drink champagne and take part in ridiculous warm-up exercises in the halls of Dwinelle (T4C is a weird mix of former high school drama nerds and people who want to work hard onstage and simultaneously drink hard backstage). I especially don’t know how to describe T4C to those of you who don’t know what it’s like to work behind the scenes, to deal with arguments between writers and actors and board members and print, like, 2 billion fucking flyers and distribute them around campus by staging fake breakups in the middle of Sproul. I don’t know how to describe T4C to those of you who have no idea who Alex Tuininga even is. Ugh, and I’m already dissatisfied with this entry, because for me it’s not as much about the parts I played (perhaps because they are, in chronological order: indian princess, musical theater princess, baby, sorority girl, southern backup singer…sense a common theme?) or or the number of flyers I printed or board meetings I attended.  I just told Lily (who is now the president of T4C, by the way) that I didn’t know how to write this entry and she said, “yeah, well it is the reason for…. most things in college?” It’s true; I had no idea that a theater group, of all things, would define my college career so thoroughly. If it wasn’t for T4C, I probably would never have met — or at least become as close with — half of my current roommates, my ex boyfriend, and a number of amazing friends. And, I never would have spent so much time in Dwinelle, which is why 155 (because it’s bigger, thus making it the mecca of T4C performance spaces…Evans loses) definitely has a spot on this list.  I absolutely love Berkeley now, and have for the past three years, but when I first got here I often considered transferring. I felt like I had absolutely nothing in common with the majority of people around me, since I had no interest in frat parties, nor — conversely — in burying my face in books until the end of time. The people I met through T4C helped me see that there was more to Berkeley than Greek life. That, one day, I too could have my own disgustingly messy and incestuous three-story house like the College Ave. “Teenage Wasteland” a number of T4C members lived in. They taught me that there were Berkeley students exactly like myself: people who didn’t feel comfortable fitting themselves neatly into categories like “sorority sister” or “co-op hippie” or “bookworm” but could easily wander in and out of Berkeley’s various social communities and eventually end up onstage in Dwinelle, dancing to “Thriller” before curtain call. I went to see the latest T4C show last weekend, and was shocked when I looked at the playbill and could only recognize three names. Lily is the only one of my close friends who hasn’t deserted T4C - the rest of us have graduated or become too busy with other things or simply moved on. From almost two years of being a board member, I can’t help feeling entitled when I walk into T4C performances, can’t help feeling like everyone should still know who I am. They don’t — the last performance I acted in was over a year ago. I feel like most of the students involved now just don’t understand the group’s history — they don’t know any of the original board members, or why we always do certain warmups — — and there I go saying “we,” even though T4C is no longer mine. At the risk of sounding ridiculously sappy, I’m so glad the people I met through it still are.

Me as a whiny toddler narrator plagued by goblins: the role of a lifetime.

#16 on my list of things I will miss about Berkeley: 155 Dwinelle (and sometimes, 145)

“We have to do this!”

Lily, my first (and only) friend during the first semester of my freshman year, waved a flyer in my face sometime during September 2005. We had already bonded over how we were both involved in drama when we were younger, and had talked about maybe auditioning for some performance groups on campus.  

“It’s called Theater for Charity. One act comedy shows, with all the proceeds going to charity. Let’s audition!” 

“When are auditions?” I asked. 

“I don’t know, let’s check the website.”

The website listed on the flyer failed to load. This should have been the first sign that we didn’t need to be intimidated by what we, for some reason, assumed was a highly professional organization. Nevertheless, I memorized the required 60-second monologue and stood in front of a bunch of scary old (as in, 20ish) stone-faced student directors who asked me, somewhat inexplicably, if I could sing in a British accent. I could not, but I was cast anyway, as a not-so-slightly objectified Native American princess named Matoaka. 

I had no idea what to expect. At my first rehearsal, the three older boys in my play that I assumed were drama majors stood in the corner of 155 Dwinelle, talking earnestly amongst themselves. Perhaps they were discussing major plot points, I thought, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the stage. But no — I’m pretty sure they were talking about skateboarding. And, as I soon found out, they were not drama majors, just guys who had seen friends and/or roommates in the show and were inspired to write/produce/act in their own offensive one-acts. I introduced myself to the boys who would become my close friends and slowly became at ease with the frenzied, disorganized, time-consuming, hilarious (sometimes on purpose, sometimes not) organization that would soon permeate my entire life. 

This is a hard one to write. I don’t know how to start describing Theater for Charity to those of you who have no idea what it’s like to perform extremely politically incorrect one-acts on stages usually reserved for podiums and slide presentations or what it’s like to drink champagne and take part in ridiculous warm-up exercises in the halls of Dwinelle (T4C is a weird mix of former high school drama nerds and people who want to work hard onstage and simultaneously drink hard backstage). I especially don’t know how to describe T4C to those of you who don’t know what it’s like to work behind the scenes, to deal with arguments between writers and actors and board members and print, like, 2 billion fucking flyers and distribute them around campus by staging fake breakups in the middle of Sproul. I don’t know how to describe T4C to those of you who have no idea who Alex Tuininga even is. Ugh, and I’m already dissatisfied with this entry, because for me it’s not as much about the parts I played (perhaps because they are, in chronological order: indian princess, musical theater princess, baby, sorority girl, southern backup singer…sense a common theme?) or or the number of flyers I printed or board meetings I attended. 

I just told Lily (who is now the president of T4C, by the way) that I didn’t know how to write this entry and she said, “yeah, well it is the reason for…. most things in college?” It’s true; I had no idea that a theater group, of all things, would define my college career so thoroughly. If it wasn’t for T4C, I probably would never have met — or at least become as close with — half of my current roommates, my ex boyfriend, and a number of amazing friends. And, I never would have spent so much time in Dwinelle, which is why 155 (because it’s bigger, thus making it the mecca of T4C performance spaces…Evans loses) definitely has a spot on this list. 

I absolutely love Berkeley now, and have for the past three years, but when I first got here I often considered transferring. I felt like I had absolutely nothing in common with the majority of people around me, since I had no interest in frat parties, nor — conversely — in burying my face in books until the end of time. The people I met through T4C helped me see that there was more to Berkeley than Greek life. That, one day, I too could have my own disgustingly messy and incestuous three-story house like the College Ave. “Teenage Wasteland” a number of T4C members lived in. They taught me that there were Berkeley students exactly like myself: people who didn’t feel comfortable fitting themselves neatly into categories like “sorority sister” or “co-op hippie” or “bookworm” but could easily wander in and out of Berkeley’s various social communities and eventually end up onstage in Dwinelle, dancing to “Thriller” before curtain call.

I went to see the latest T4C show last weekend, and was shocked when I looked at the playbill and could only recognize three names. Lily is the only one of my close friends who hasn’t deserted T4C - the rest of us have graduated or become too busy with other things or simply moved on. From almost two years of being a board member, I can’t help feeling entitled when I walk into T4C performances, can’t help feeling like everyone should still know who I am. They don’t — the last performance I acted in was over a year ago. I feel like most of the students involved now just don’t understand the group’s history — they don’t know any of the original board members, or why we always do certain warmups —

— and there I go saying “we,” even though T4C is no longer mine. At the risk of sounding ridiculously sappy, I’m so glad the people I met through it still are.

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