What’s Your Monologue?

We’ve all been bombarded with posters for casting calls—Into the Woods, Pippin, No Exit, and King Lear, just to name a few—on every flat surface to which tape will adhere.

It is fair to say that a good number of Columbians have taken advantage of these opportunities, but not all students are “theater geeks.”

Then why does every second of every day feel like an audition?

This is how we have to act whenever we encounter a new Columbian. This is especially true for freshmen, for whom everyone is a “new Columbian.”

First-years have no pre-established group—we don’t know anybody else, nor should we. We all get clean slates. That’s what being a freshman is all about. Well, that and navigating through the maze of Barnard tunnels while mentally calculating how many books of the Iliad are due the next day.

We’ve all been cast together, but the problem is, we don’t have a script. So we have to figure out on our own what to say in the first few moments after meeting someone.
The first thing that usually comes to mind is some sort of explanation of why I look like the crypt keeper, which, oddly enough, is always how I look when I run into somebody new. I’ll say, “I just got back from Dodge,” or “It’s Tuesday.” (This is also how I look whenever anyone has a camera handy. I’ll be showing the photograph months later, and someone will ask how the Dungeons and Dragons convention was. I’ll tell them it was fun.)

Anyway, after five minutes of idle chitchat with this student—Where are you from? How do you think Plato’s Republic represents the dichotomy between good and evil?—both parties have made up their minds.

One shot.

That’s all there is. One audition. One chance to wow them, to get their last name to “friend” them on Facebook.

Even though we aren’t all auditioning for the same role, it is too easy to get typecast. Who says the jock can’t also be a nerd? Stereotypes won’t allow for it, and it’s difficult for gym rats to prove that they, too, are bookworms—although, personally, I’d rather not be associated with either rats or worms.

We may want to overcome these stigmas and stereotypes, and shout “I am all of these things!” But we can’t because no one will believe us without proof. So we have to prove that we fit into two categories previously thought irreconcilable. We need to show proof that not only do we know that the integral of x cos(x) dx is 2, but we’ve ALSO read Jane Austen’s Persuasion so many times that we can recite whole chapters from memory. All of that in under five minutes.

We have to wow everyone the second we meet them. Anyone new will ask us boring questions to try to gain insight into our lives, but what about those questions he doesn’t see fit to ask? Important character-defining questions such as: Do you think we should have the right to punch people in the face if they walk too slowly in front of us? Or: Are you the type of person who would step on someone’s foot, look at it, but not say anything?

How much easier first year would be if we could walk around with a personality resumé! Name. UNI. Special talents. Headshot, from a good day, as proof that one might exist.
But walking around with a sheet—or ream—of paper enumerating the reasons why everyone should immediately kiss the ground we walk on has not yet come into vogue. So in the meantime, all we can do is hope that we won’t be judged too harshly if we screw up our monologues.

We can’t forget that after the audition comes the play itself. We have so little time to make our mark. How will we ever get a callback? We only have eight semesters at Columbia. Eight. How are we supposed to take all of our major requirements, visit the new Museum of Modern Art exhibits, try all of the fried food at JJ’s, and still magically retain our sanity?

We’re trying to squeeze everything into as little time as possible. To shovel Ramen noodles down our throats while reading Hobbes’ Leviathan and simultaneously searching Wikipedia for “Leviathan.” And balancing a spoon on our noses.
Even if we screw up, the show must go on. If we forget our lines, forget to write an essay, knock over the entire set, get locked out of our rooms—the show must go on. Undoubtedly, we will miss our cues or sleep through class at least once during our performances, and there’s nothing we can do but to accept its inevitability.
As everyone who’s been accepted to Columbia is fully aware, Shakespeare wrote the following lines in As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage/ And the men and women merely players/ they have their entrances and exists, and one man in his time plays many parts.”

If Shakespeare had this all figured out 200 years ago, then why aren’t we better players?

The author is a Barnard College first-year.