Lexi Klein Portfolio

A home is usually categorized as the location in which we eat, drink, and sleep. A structure of walls, windows, and doors with a roof over our heads. A place where bloodlines gather and the answer to fill-in-the-blank boxes on endless paperwork in doctor’s offices. 

“Home is where the heart is” sings Elvis Presley. How fitting that my home was not a home by definition at all, but rather a place where the heartbeat of lyrics and melodies were strung together by the glow of stage lights.

Before Broadway graced the Big Apple and the London Eye set its sights on the West End, Greco-Roman theaters were built open, East to West, allowing for performances to be held solely during prime daylight hours. Sunlight on hilltops was cast as the first form of stage lighting in plays, as the Greeks themselves sparked the flame, igniting the musical theater genre into existence. A genre that would save a seven-year-old chatter-box, such as myself, from the impatience that parents and 2nd-grade teachers have for a child who didn’t come with a pause button.

Inside a large brown, brick building where vines were tossed and tangled down one side and a towering clock and speckled roof reigned on the other, lay a stage. Press play and it flooded with characters of new and old. Bare feet clattered and cymbals splashed as the painted waters of Once On This Island danced in the cool colors of lights. Tracy said good morning to Baltimore as swing skirts swayed just above the knee, leaving a trail of Hairspray behind them. Charlie’s golden ticket lit up the entire space, for Willy Wonka was on his way. Oh and Elvis, he would’ve been proud as everyone was All Shook Up in the diner where the door had only one side. British accents felt accustomed despite the outside world being the outskirts of Chicago, while Oliver! and his fellow orphans scooped and scoffed at their porridge. Speaking of orphans, redheads like Annie brought clicks and clacks to the table, tapping through New York City. The chaos of a rabbit who couldn’t help but be late and a hatter who was truly mad found Alice in Wonderland amid card games. Cinderella found her slipper before curtain call. Tarzan swung from the ceiling, exactly where Peter Pan and Wendy flew. Aladdin even shined through the Arabian nights. The possibilities remained endless in a room of cool, concrete floors where music bounced and a sense of belonging bloomed.

The word “stop” was cemented in my brain by age six, whether it was talking or moving, it was always too much of it. Yet, I never seemed to have enough. I never fit the mold of sitting still with my mouth shut.

Words remained dripping from my tongue, begging to leave. My feet squirmed and slipped from any stationary position. 

It wasn’t until my toes found the cool, concrete floors that the moving turned to dancing, and talking to singing wasn’t far behind.

Even on the coldest of winter days, the warm house lights drew me in from across the room, hugging me tightly. They gave direction. Spotlight there, balcony above, darkness due to scene change. The booth taught even the slowest of the learners the difference between right and wrong and left.

Taped marks, hit queues, slowly a stage with no instructions showcased hidden fingerprints, mapping the course of scene one to scene two. Whether it was a tap dancer’s scuff or an accidental dark stroke of paint, that stage gave way to taming even the toughest of tweens.

I couldn’t tell you where those lights hit now or fingerprints stuck, but that stage taught me that constant movement and an endless stream of words weren’t a fault, as long as there was a purpose behind them. Fake it till you make it they said, and I think eventually I made it. 

Walk the streets of the western suburbs of Chicago, and quaint brick homes with gray speckled roofs have been replaced by grand clean lines of white and windows from wall to wall. Minimalistic is the new modest in the Midwest. Although one building of charm remains, seemingly out of place where it once fit the mold.

The Community House of Hinsdale, a dated park district at best, housed a children’s theater company by the name of Stage Door Fine Arts. A seemingly simple stage, slick red curtains, a small lighting box, and sufficient backstage space – nothing special. But to a seven-year-old, when the spotlight hit, her eyes shone. Smiling ear to ear, nothing else mattered. 

“I don’t need a mansion on a hill” sang on the King of Rock N’ Roll. I don’t need a fancy floor or walls or even windows for that matter. But I just might need a hilltop where the sunlight hits just right, because the stage lights and costumes transformed a little girl, whose curse was a mouth that never stopped, into someone whose gift is gab.

Works Cited

Introduction to Theatre — A History of Stage Lighting, novaonline.nvcc.edu/eli/spd130et/histlighting.htm.

“AZLyrics – Request for Access.” AZLyrics.com, http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/elvispresley/homeiswheretheheartis.html.

Cornell College – This. Is Our Block – Study One Course At A Time, http://www.cornellcollege.edu/classical_studies/lit/cla364-1-2006/01groupone/scenery.htm.