“Be yourself, unless you’re a theater kid.”
On the first day of my freshman year of college, that sentence was written on my Public Speaking class whiteboard. As the whole class giggled at this jab at the typically most insufferable niche of teenagers, I hid my look of total panic behind a forced laugh. These people could never find out I did theater.
That goal eventually made it impossible for me to meet people because the question, “What sports did you play in high school,” was part of that painfully redundant script we all memorized for college introductions. When asked this, I had no choice but to respond, “I actually did theater.” Inevitably, the person I was talking to would smile and ask, “Oh, so you’re a theater kid?” Each time, I rushed to clarify, “No no no, I’m not a theater kid, I’m just a kid who does theater.”
The truth was, I was living in utter denial. I was the textbook definition of a theater kid: I was the president of my high school’s Glee Club, my first kiss was a stage kiss, and I ran a Hamilton fan account in middle school. I checked off all the boxes of being a theater kid, but I refused to admit it to myself and others.
In high school, I had soft launched my brand as not-a-theater-kid-but-a-kid-who-does- theater. I waited until sophomore year to audition for the musical, which everyone, even the varsity cheerleaders, did. I eventually became heavily involved in my school’s performing arts department, but I was still convinced that theater was just my activity, not my identity.
Cut to those first days of college, where I was no longer actively involved in theater, but I had no other way of describing myself. Each time I had to clarify that I was not a theater kid, a part of me cringed. I knew I was living in denial, and I hated how much it made me feel like a stereotypical insecure teenager.
The issue lies in my obsession with first impressions. If I said the words, “I am a theater kid,” I would have no idea what someone’s preconceived notions of a theater kid would be, and it could potentially cost me a new college friend. The lack of control that came with these surface-level introductions freaked me out because I was so afraid that stereotypes would get in the way of making friends.
The first weeks of college are weird – we are literally marketing ourselves as interesting enough characters to fit into the narratives of random strangers we happened to sit at the same table as in Steast. It can be difficult to try and sum up who you are with just a couple of surface-level questions, especially if you don’t even know who you are. I eventually found comfort in realizing that I was not the only one who struggled with putting labels onto important parts of my identity.
I wish I could say that I have completely overcome my freshman year shame and now proudly flaunt my true theater kid self, but that would be unrealistic for any teenager living amidst Gen Z hater culture. I do have hope that one day, I will be able to passionately respond to the question, “What sports did you do in high school,” with, “I was a theater kid!” That day may not be today or even tomorrow, but just by coming to terms with it myself, I know I am one step closer than I was those first weeks of college.