Caitlin HernandezMAGIC IN A BOTTLE"MAY YOU NEVER TAKE ONE SINGLE BREATH FOR GRANTED." It's almost call-time, and I'm alone with my thudding heartbeat, my butterfly-filled stomach, the backstage darkness, the brush of the curtains against my fingertips, and the pre-show piano music wafting into my ears. I take a deep, steadying breath. The empty space around me is almost like a visceral entity, and the cast's absence, combined with my jitters, makes me feel hot and cold by turns. A hand reaches through the curtains and touches mine, cuing me to step onstage. Calling up my mental map of the stage's layout, I walk my well-practiced route to the piano and sit without mishap. Trailing my hands over the keys, I place my fingers for the opening chord and wait. The lights blaze on—I detect their glare with my limited light perception—and for a moment, I let the audience drink in the aesthetics of the stage. It's set up like a living-room, with a couch, rug, and my character's tie-dye backpack and art materials strewn around. I realize that the audience sees me as well, and even though I can't see them in return, I listen to the rumble of voices and the shuffling of feet, inhale the scents of different perfumes and colognes, and feel the sensation of many eyes on me. Intuitively, I know that the house is packed, and I'm overwhelmed by a tingling warmth, as if I've just stepped into a pool of sunshine. Dreaming in Color opens on a happy note, but I don't need to tell myself to smile … I can feel that I'm already doing just that. When I play the opening chords, my fingers are sure and steady. And when I begin to sing, all the joy of this past month and a half fills my words, painting the lyrics in technicolor: "I can see trees and mountaintops / I can see rivers and streams / coming together / forming all my dreams." "LIVING MIGHT MEAN TAKING CHANCES, BUT THEY'RE WORTH TAKING." One October morning during my gap year between college and graduate school, as I absently sifted through Facebook updates, I received a message from one of the youth coordinators at Braille Institute, a center which serves blind individuals. Throughout my school years, I participated in the National Braille Challenge, an event that promotes Braille literacy across the United States and Canada. The final round of the competition was always held at the Braille Institute in Los Angeles, and because I'd placed first at the varsity level twice, their staff knew me well. My contact from Braille Institute told me that, in seeking a blind actress for his movie, a film director had gotten in touch with Greg Shane, who taught a drama class for blind people of all ages. Greg wanted to help a young, aspiring blind actress make an audition video, but because he didn't know of anyone in the desired age bracket, he had gone to the Braille Institute. It was there that someone remembered my experience in singing and acting and passed along my name. Before I knew it, I was on my way to Los Angeles to meet Greg, the artistic director of CRE Outreach. This L.A.-based nonprofit, I had learned, enabled underserved populations, such as veterans, at-risk youth, and the visually impaired to build confidence and self-esteem through theater. Greg, blind in one eye himself, directed Theatre by the Blind, the only acting troupe in the country comprised entirely of visually impaired actors. As a team, Greg and his cast had written, performed, and produced plays for over a decade. After spending my entire life up to this point singing and acting with conductors and directors who had no idea how to work with a blind person, I was wildly excited to meet Greg. My first experience in an all-blind rehearsal was fascinating. Greg introduced me to his actors and to Lindsay, a sweet, bubbly girl my own age who had recently become his assistant director. While the actors and I chatted, Greg and Lindsay arranged a number of mats around the stage. I was told that, by feeling the material with their feet, the blind actors located and maintained their onstage orientation entirely independently. Using props and one another's voices as guides, they moved from point to point around the set without canes or sighted assistance. Having spent my time in plays being unceremoniously and often impatiently shunted back and forth by my fellow actors, I was enamored with this seemingly miraculous process. I couldn't wait until it was my turn to take the stage. As the rehearsal continued, I was both touched and relieved to notice that, no matter how much an actor struggled or how difficult a scene became, neither Greg nor Lindsay ever lost patience. They offered suggestions and solutions without any sign of annoyance or condescension, and the actors, comfortable in this supportive environment, adapted quickly, improving by leaps and bounds. When the rehearsal ended, Greg walked the actors outside to catch their rides while Lindsay cleared the mats and led me to center stage. "Have you done any dancing before, Caitlin?" she asked, sitting down on the floor and gently drawing me with her by the hand. Without meaning to, I reflected on my experiences with movement, both good and bad. I remembered being relegated to the back row of risers in choir, never landing lead roles in plays, and being told by teachers, in front of my peers, that my dancing and facial expressions weren't up to par. I remembered one of my classmates, after a choir competition, snidely and sarcastically saying, "Good job, Caitlin…no wonder we lost," because I'd inadvertently bumped into him. I remembered that no one had come to my defense. But I also remembered how my friends in collegiate a cappella had spent hours sensitively and patiently teaching me choreography. I remembered how each of them had become adept at reaching out and nudging me in the right direction when I became disoriented onstage. Facing Lindsay, I shrugged timidly. "I guess I know some basics." "Great! Can you show me? Take off your shoes, too." Standing and kicking off my shoes, I gingerly executed a grapevine, jazz-square, and pivot-turn. "That's really good, Caitlin," Lindsay said genuinely. Crossing the room, she cranked up the nineties hit I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack. "Dance to this however you want, and then we'll make up a little routine together." I floundered. "I don't know what to do!" "Do anything you want. Here, I'll dance with you." And she did just that. When the song wound down, she took my hand and playfully dipped me. "You're really graceful, Caitlin. This is going to be a piece of cake for you." Patiently, and with both verbal and physical guidance, Lindsay walked me through a simple routine. I was grateful that, unlike so many people who had tried to teach me movement over the years, she didn't once jerk me around by the shoulders, or push me from here to there as a means of illustrating where she wanted me to go. Instead, she described each part of the process, answered my questions, repeated steps until they became muscle memory, gave thoughtful and tactful suggestions, and warned me before gently guiding my arms and legs into a new position. "I'm going to get the camera!" Greg yelled, running out of the room. I'd been so involved in the dancing that I hadn't even heard him return. "We're filming this now?" I squeaked. "We've only been practicing for fifteen minutes!" "You already know it, girl!" Lindsay hugged me, then sighed wistfully. "I wish you could stay in L.A. I'd love to work with you more!" Greg came racing back in. "Let's film this outside." Offering me his arm, he swiftly and expertly guided me out into the feeble October sunshine. "Caitlin, I think we'll have you sing instead of playing the track behind you." "What?" I stumbled in my stockinged feet. "I have to sing and dance at the same time?" "You were singing along without a problem in the other room," Greg pointed out reasonably. "But the role I'm auditioning for doesn't even have singing," I argued. "Singing will make you a triple-threat," Greg declared. "Maybe they'll add a song into the film for you!" It was impossible not to laugh at Greg's exuberance. I was beginning to see that this positive, can-do sense of spontaneity was Greg's state of being. "Let's film right here," Lindsay suggested. "How will I know where the camera is?" I wondered aloud. "You'll know," Greg said simply. Suddenly, I became aware of the asphalt squares beneath my feet, their edges clearly detectable through my socks. "What about this?" I indicated the pavement. "If the lines are perpendicular to my feet, and I'm facing the sun, then I'll know I'm where I should be." "Look at you, Rockstar!" Greg laughed. "Already thinking like a Theatre by the Blind actress."
"NEVER SETTLE FOR THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE." Over the next few months, Greg and I remained in constant contact. The director of the film for which I was auditioning requested that I learn basic sign language and ballet, as well as several more scenes. Throughout every phase of the process—after each ballet lesson, on the day I finally mastered the sign language alphabet, all the times I couldn't memorize a monologue—Greg was just a phonecall away with advice, support, and encouragement. I was touched that someone who hardly knew me was willing to invest so much faith in me and, buoyed by Greg's confidence, I worked harder than I ever had on anything. When Greg felt I was ready to showcase my new skills, he and Lindsay flew to San Francisco to work with me. In only two days, we would need to film a handful of difficult scenes which encapsulated a string of emotions, from confusion to glee to embarrassment to terror. In one scene, Greg would have to pick me up and carry me around the room as I cried, struggled, and screamed bloody murder. Much to my chagrin, we would also be focusing on my facial expressions. I worried that Greg's and Lindsay's sensitivity, sincere and steadfast though it was, might not be enough to keep me from becoming frustrated with and miserable about my inability to change the appearance of my face on demand. I shouldn't have worried. Instead of forcing me to control the movement of my eyes—a physical impossibility—Greg and Lindsay taught me new ways to tilt my head, angle my chin upward, open my eyes wide. Instead of attempting to stamp out my ever-present smile, they urged me to recall personal experiences which would elicit the different emotions I needed to portray. They encouraged me to talk about myself and how I related to the core elements of the script: love, friendship, blindness, vulnerability, joy, uncertainty. We did trust falls, learned gestures hand-over-hand, and incorporated singing whenever possible because, according to Greg, song made my face and my body language come alive in a powerful way. Gently and with care, Greg and Lindsay pushed me right up against my limits. They impressed upon me that, since I couldn't alter my facial expressions at will, I needed to relive situations that would bring back powerful emotions. With the happy scenes, this was easy, but with the darker scenes, it was anything but. When I became tearful—and I did, several times—Greg and Lindsay let me sit with those feelings. They didn't rush in to chase away the negative emotions; instead, they taught me to incorporate them into my acting. "Use it," Greg chanted, over and over, whenever I became upset. "Don't fight it; feel it." Just as Greg had promised, each painful truth—every skeleton in the closet which I always tried to avoid thinking about—made the scenes real, imbuing them with genuineness they never would have had if I simply recited empty words. And each time we completed a scene—each time the three of us vaulted over another hurdle together—Greg and Lindsay were right there to hug me, to initiate a quick walk in the fresh air, or to announce that it was time for milkshakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. In many ways, that was the hardest weekend of my life. I couldn't remember ever experiencing such a frenetic rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows. My soul seemed to have been stripped raw, to the point where, even as my dad joined the three of us for a celebratory dinner, a gnawing sensation pulsed relentlessly beneath my diaphragm. But at the same time, after revealing so much to Greg and Lindsay—and to myself, too, for that matter—I somehow felt more honest than I ever had before. I knew that this process had been just as treacherous and trying for Greg and Lindsay as it had been for me. The three of us were nothing more than acquaintances, and yet they had believed in my strength and my endurance enough to shatter my boundaries and test my courage. They had listened to my stories and lived this experience alongside me, not as observers, but as equals. So few people had cared enough to wend their way past all my facades and tenderly touch what lay beneath. After two days together, I felt that Greg and Lindsay knew me better than even some of my closest friends did. "You should be very proud of yourself," Greg told me as the three of us hugged before their departing flight. "You had to trust us so much," Lindsay marveled, "and you don't even know us. I can't imagine how hard that must have been." Maybe it was because I was still tangled in the throes of all those high, potent emotions. Maybe it was the fact that the weekend had been both draining and electrifying. Whatever the reason, I was near tears. I didn't want to let them go. As Greg and Lindsay rushed to board their plane, I hoped with all my heart that this wasn't the last time I would feel so accepted, so alive, so understood, so painfully but beautifully complete.
"WHENEVER ONE DOOR CLOSES, I HOPE ONE MORE OPENS." The directors of the film eventually opted to have a sighted actress portray the blind lead. Greg, doubtless in an attempt to cheer me up, invited me to come to Los Angeles and sing I Hope You Dancer to open his actors' next showcase. Before I knew it, I was taking the stage alongside the rest of the Theatre By the Blind troupe, learning my way around the mats a few hours before show-time. To close the performance, I spoke about how my work with Greg and Lindsay had impacted me, after which I circulated through the audience with the other actors, who were quickly becoming my friends. The next morning, Greg, Lindsay and I chatted over breakfast. "I've been thinking a lot about all this, Caitlin," Greg told me seriously. "You worked so hard for this role: ballet, sign language, learning lines, that weekend with Lindsay and me. But, in a way, I think it's better that you didn't get the part, because you have your own story to tell. So here's what I'm thinking. If you put together a script-you know how to write songs, so a musical would be awesome—I'll direct it. I'd love to have my blind teens perform it." I just gaped at him. "I wouldn't even know what to write a play about." "People need to know, firsthand, what it's like being a blind teenager. Who better to tell that story than you? You've been there." "Well," I said slowly, thinking out loud, "when I was in high school, I wrote a story about a girl who loses her dad and her sight in a car accident." "Send it to me," Greg commanded. "If I like it, you can turn it into a play and we'll put it up. What's the title?" "'Dreaming in Color.'" "Nice," Greg said, and I could hear his smile. "I love it already." * * * A week or so later, on the day before Christmas Eve, Greg called me. "Caitlin, this story's amazing. It has to be a play." "Really?" I was stunned by his eagerness. "You really like it?" "I love it. It's beautiful. I want you to start writing a script right now." "Wait, but…but I don't know how!" Ignoring my panicking altogether, Greg announced, "I already know exactly who I want to play your mom and dad." "Hold on, what? My mom and dad? You never said I was going to be in this play!" "You'll play Brenna," Greg said. "You have to. There's so much of you in her character." "I live, like, a thousand miles away from you!" "It's hardly a thousand miles, silly. We'll house you for the summer." Greg said this as though it were as simple and commonplace a thing as pouring a glass of water or taking a stroll around the block. "Greg, I don't have any acting experience!" I all but shrieked. "Yes, you do," he argued. "You've been in a bunch of plays. And you worked with Lindsay and me." "But I can't be the lead in a play! A play that I'm supposed to write!" "You don't know how talented you are, Caitlin," Greg told me. "Which is good, because you're humble." I snorted. "You're crazy if you think I can do all this." "You're Caitlin Hernandez," Greg said slyly. "I know you. You enjoy a challenge." He had me there.
"I HOPE YOU NEVER LOSE YOUR SENSE OF WONDER." After countless phonecalls, e-mails, and drafts, Dreaming in Color—scenes, songs, and all—was written and cast. Though translating the story from a novella to a script had been an exercise in patience, creativity, and flexibility, everyone, myself included, was happy with the final product. To be sure, the play I'd written was very different from what I'd initially imagined it would be, but the essence of the story had been preserved, and that was what mattered most to me. By the time June rolled around, myself and my belongings were arranged in a large bedroom in a house whose layout and occupants I didn't yet know. I would be living in L.A. for a month and a half; we'd have a dozen rehearsals, three per week for four weeks; and at the beginning of July, we would perform Dreaming in Color a half-dozen times at the Promenade Playhouse in Santa Monica, complete with pianist, props, and professional lighting. On paper, the feat looked alarmingly impossible to me, but as Greg phrased it, "We were the Dream Team, and we could—and would—do anything." My primary concern had nothing to do with the play itself; I was anxious about being trapped in an unfamiliar city with nothing to do except rehearse three times a week. But, as was true of many things which Greg talked me into doing, I soon realized that I didn't need to worry. Greg picked me up just about every morning, his arrival times becoming progressively earlier as we drew nearer to the show's premiere. As though each day was Bring Your Kid to Work Day, I shadowed him everywhere: to the CRE office, to meetings, to innumerable rounds of tacos and pizza, and, of course, to Dreaming in Color rehearsals. I helped write press releases for the play and learned how to pitch a news story to reporters over the phone. Whenever we had a spare moment, Greg drilled me on monologues, gestures, and the more visual aspects of my performance. On weekends, he introduced me to his family and friends, took me to plays, and even taught me to smack golf balls around the driving range. The rest of the cast spent time with me, too. Despite the fact that Danette, who played my mom, and Laurel, who played my Braille teacher, had never interacted with any blind people before meeting me, they were both at ease with me from day one. Sometimes I went to work with Danette, curling up in a chair with my mp3 player and running lines inside my head. When Danette's work day was done, I'd tag along with her on errands, or go to her house for some quality mother-daughter time. She and I got frozen yogurt, picked out my character shoes, and ate pizza on her couch while she described her favorite TV shows. In between working three jobs, Laurel carved out time for lunch dates, cupcake runs, and car rides complete with perfectly-harmonized sing-alongs. I could always count on her to text or Facebook with me about this and that, or to ferry me across the street to Wetzel Pretzel if I got hungry in the middle of rehearsal. Each time she and I were together, we discovered more things we had in common: we'd both sung in collegiate a cappella groups; we both desperately wanted to narrate audiobooks; we'd both hated taking piano lessons as kids. Bryan, who played my dad, founded CRE Outreach along with Greg and their mutual friend, Colin. Like Greg, he was familiar enough with blind people to effortlessly top each of my blind jokes and recklessly jaywalk across streets with me swinging off his elbow. Playing his dad role with aplomb, he chauffeured me from activity to activity, stopped at McDonald's every time I begged for a Happy Meal, and acted as my sounding board when I prattled on and on about every trial and triumph I was experiencing. We walked his dog, met Danette for family bonding, and went fishing in honor of our characters' favorite father-daughter pastime. The added benefit, of course, was that the natural warmth and developing friendships were radically enhancing our rehearsals. The cast's inherent closeness was lending the play a powerful, deep realism which can only occur when your scripted words have evolved enough to become a part of you.
"IF YOU GET THE CHOICE TO SIT IT OUT OR DANCE, I HOPE YOU DANCE." "This scene will only work if you let yourself live in the moment," Greg tells me. It's our third week of rehearsals, the honeymoon phase is ending, we're working on an emotional scene, and I'm getting frustrated. Bryan's out of town this week, so it's just Greg, the girls, and me. "I don't know what you want me to do," I complain. "Right now, you're just saying lines," Greg tells me. "You're not feeling anything. You're such a happy person, Caitlin, and I know that, most of the time, blindness doesn't bother you. But don't you ever have days when you hate being blind?" I do—of course I do—but I don't want to admit it. I almost never admit it. "You've felt how Brenna's feeling," Greg says gently. "You wrote these words. They came from somewhere real. Now you just need to channel that." Tears are welling in my eyes, but I fight them back. "Are you mad at me?" Greg asks, half-serious and half-not. I laugh and shake my head, waving off his question. "I know this isn't easy, Caitlin," Greg says. "You're doing such a good job already. But I thin k you can go deeper. And if you do, it'll be worth it. I promise." Huddled on the couch, I conceptualize how I would feel in Brenna's shoes. I try to place myself in her new world: empty of her sight, her father, her art, so many of the things she's loved and believed in all her life. Bryan's voice sounds in my head, and I force myself to imagine that he's not just missing rehearsal today, but forever. A lump forms in my throat just as Danette enters. To me—to twenty-three-year-old, blind-since-birth Caitlin Hernandez—blindness is a constant. It's only scary in certain moments; it only elicits bitterness in flashes; and it almost never makes me cry, simply because I try so vehemently not to let it have that much power over me. But for Brenna, blindness is raw and alien and terrifying. As I sit onstage, I try to feel Brenna's experience rather than think about it. After waking up in darkness comprised not just of physical blindness but of emotional loss, how would she feel? Vulnerable. Lost. Frightened. Alone. And angry, too, because she hadn't done a thing to deserve the hand she was dealt. While I process all this, Danette and I are interacting, our voices rising and falling with our fluctuating emotions. I'm listening to her, and I'm responding, but at the same time, I'm both painfully connected and disturbingly detached. I hear what she's saying, but her words only touch me on the surface. We reach the point in the scene when I trip and fall, and now I'm almost in tears. They're scalding the backs of my eyes, clogging my throat so that squeezing out the lines takes a concerted effort. Thoughts and memories are assaulting me in a dizzying rush—all those times blindness made me different, caused others to discount me, or gave friends a chance to betray my trust—and I'm so upset now that I can barely keep myself together. When the scene finally concludes, there's a shift inside me, almost a jolt, as I abruptly snap back to the present. I'm grounded by the whirring of the air-conditioner, the solidity of the stage floor under my shoes, and the warmth of Danette's arm wrapping across my back. When I remember to breathe, I realize that I'm shaking and that tears aren't far from falling. Danette pulls me in close, and I let my head wilt against her shoulder. As though from a great distance, I hear Greg exhale a long breath. "That," he says earnestly, "was magic in a bottle."
"PROMISE ME THAT YOU'LL GIVE FAITH A FIGHTING CHANCE." Danette and I are eating dinner at one of the restaurants where Laurel works, rehashing last night's rehearsal. "Did I actually look sad?" I ask Danette for about the tenth time. "Tell me the truth." "You really did." "Whatever," I snipe. "You're probably just saying that." "Caitlin." Across the table, Danette leans forward, her tone becoming more intense. "If this is ever going to work, you need to trust us. We're never going to lie to you." I consider this and nod. "You did look sad," she insists. "It was heartbreaking. But I liked it. Whenever I'm with you, you're always projecting this happy person. But you're three-dimensional. Everyone is. And it's okay to let that show." "I never knew being in a play would mean making myself miserable," I grumble. "It's acting," Danette reminds me, "but it still needs to come from a true place. You owe it to Brenna to make this play real. You owe it to yourself, Caitlin. People are going to love this show no matter what, but they'll love it even more if you can trust us enough to really open up." After dinner, Danette and I hug Laurel goodbye and make our way to the exit. Worn out from the long day, I take Danette's hand to be guided, not bothering to unfold my cane. "Aw, is she shy?" It's an unfamiliar male voice with a smile in it. I'm not even sure the guy's talking to us until Danette replies, "Oh, no, not usually. Only when she's with me. I embarrass her." The guy—he's probably a host—laughs. "Have a good night, ladies." As Danette and I walk out into the darkness, she explains, "He waved goodbye to you, and of course you didn't wave back." I laugh a little. "Why didn't you tell him I was blind?" "Should I have?" Now Danette sounds worried. "Oh, no, it's not that." I give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Actually, I'm kind of glad you didn't. He probably would have apologized and felt badly. I just wondered why you didn't tell him." "I don't know." Since we're walking side by side, I feel the motion when she shrugs. "After getting to know you, your being blind doesn't seem so important. I keep forgetting that you can't see. Really, you're just like everybody else." I smile over at her. That sensation to which I'm now growing accustomed—that painful but oddly refreshing rawness in my soul—is overwhelming me once again. "Stop for a second." Danette brings us both to a halt. "Now take a big step up." "What?" "Don't you trust me?" "Of course." "Then come on …" I step up and tentatively reach out with both hands. My fingertips brush the most enormous flowers I've ever seen. Each is as big around as a basketball, the petals as thin and airy as soap bubbles. Danette sets a precautionary hand on my back in case I lose my footing on the narrow ledge. "They're all different colors," she tells me. After a moment, I clamber down from the ledge and hug her. "Why'd you do that?" "I just wanted you to see them." She takes my hand again and we keep walking.
"WHEN YOU COME CLOSE TO SELLING OUT, RECONSIDER." "Think we can finish this?" As ever, Laurel's mischievous smile is unmistakable. She guides my hands to the enormous platter our waitress just placed on the table. "Doubtful." I fold my slice of pizza and take a bite. "Highly doubtful." "Well, that's what to-go boxes are for." It's interesting… the unique relationships I've formed with each member of the Dream Team. Danette and Bryan, appropriately, have become parental figures, while Greg's like my big brother. Laurel's not so easily classified. There's much of the caring, observant older sister in the way she always has her eye on me, filling in blanks and coloring empty spaces with her words. She has a remarkable ability to materialize out of nowhere whenever I need a helping hand. In keeping with her part in the play, there are elements of a true teacher in the way she'll give me pointers about fine-tuning a gesture or simplifying a dance step. Laurel and I discuss the show's opening weekend: what our friends have said; how different people reacted to certain facets of the play; who's coming next weekend. "What's cool is that there's something in this show for everybody." Seeing that the waitress has moved my water to make way for the pizza, and that I'm now seeking and not finding the glass, Laurel orients my hand without missing a beat in our conversation. "The story's about blindness, but so much of the message is universal." "That's what I was shooting for," I tell her. "I never want anything I do to be all about blindness. Lots of people expect me to constantly show the world what blind people can do. They act like I should devote my whole life to being this blind superhero, just because I can." "Well, that's not fair." Laurel's plainly offended on my behalf. "It's your life." "Too bad the rest of the world isn't as smart as you." I tilt my head and exaggerate a smirk. "But with the play, it was on my terms." "Right," she agrees, "because you wrote this. You got to decide what messages you sent. You chose to do this." "Exactly." I finish my slice and grab my drink. "I like educating people. I'll always help when I can. But if I do too many blind things at once, it starts to get to me. It makes me want to, like, quit blindness." Laurel laughs at my word choice. "Blindness shouldn't have to be a part of everything you do. You're a person first." "See?" I fling up my hands. "You always get this stuff." She scoffs audibly. "It's common sense!" "You'd be surprised how many people want me to be 'the special little blind girl' for the rest of my natural life," I say darkly. "But I want to do my own thing. I don't want to be on the blind soapbox all the time." "You know what, though?" Laurel sounds thoughtful. "By doing your own thing, I think you're actually sending an even better message." I smile. So often, I long for people to understand that being an advocate for the blind and being my own person don't have to be mutually exclusive. I'm about to ask Laurel to pick out another slice of pizza for me, but when I bring my hands back to my plate, she's already put one there. "You're magic!" I grin and mock-swoon. When she laughs, I join in. Even though we're both already full, we decide to split the famous pizookie: something I've heard about all my life but never tasted. I move around the table so I'm sitting next to Laurel and, together, we tuck into the piping hot chocolate-chip cookie, topped with chocolate ice cream. For a chocoholic like me, this is absolute heaven. But even without the pizookie, I can't think of many other times in my life when I've been so completely happy, when everything and everyone has fallen so seamlessly into place.
"I HOPE YOU NEVER FEAR THOSE MOUNTAINS IN THE DISTANCE." "Have you considered staying here in L.A.? There's so much we could do…so much you could do." Bryan and I are sitting in my favorite restaurant, picking up burgers and shakes before one of the last performances of Dreaming in Color. This will be our last lunch together. I sigh. "I really wish I could stay. But I have to go back for school. And my family are all up north." "I know." Bryan's tone is both sad and understanding. "We're gonna miss you. It's been quite the month and a half, hasn't it?" I nod and bite my lip. "I don't even want to think about going back to school. Not knowing anyone…not knowing how to get around…living in another new place. I'll feel like a freshman all over again." "You'll be fine," Bryan promises. "I have no doubt about that." I joggle his shoulder with mine. "You're biased, Dad." He gives my shoulder a playful bump in return, then stands. "I'm gonna go check on our order." Absently, I listen to Bryan's footsteps melting into the cacophony of beeping cash registers, crumpling wrappers, whirring soda machines, and chattering diners. Alone with my thoughts, I realize that, a month ago, I never could have confided in anyone the way I just did in Bryan. I would have been too proud, or too ashamed, or too wary of eliciting blindness-related pity. How did this happen? I wonder. What changed? It's only when Bryan's beside me again that I suddenly understand exactly what has changed me. It's the play: not just the play itself, but the entire experience. At some point when I wasn't paying attention, everything about my time here has made me more trusting, more willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. These days, I don't seem to care so much about being a good role model or about how others perceive me, because, really, is any of that even important? Why not just be myself and let everyone think what they will? All my life, I've been reluctant to share the burdens of blindness. I've worried that, if I ever opened up fully, I might feel even more different, even more isolated. But being in this play has taught me that, in fact, sharing makes me stronger, more resilient. I feel more honest, too, confident in the knowledge that I'm being my true, uncensored self. And I know now that real friends will never run away. As if he's reading my mind, Bryan loops an arm around my shoulders, giving me an affectionate, comforting half-hug. Gratefully, I lean into his side. "You gotta walk your own path, little one," he says. "But you've always got a home here…and maybe someday you can come back, and we'll do this all over again."
"I HOPE YOU STILL FEEL SMALL WHEN YOU STAND BESIDE THE OCEAN." On my final day in L.A., Greg and I meet Laurel at the Santa Monica Pier. Danette's going to join us for dinner, but we have an hour or two to kill before she's off work. After a few rounds of rollercoasters and arcade games, Greg announces that he has a few phonecalls to make. Kicking off our shoes, Laurel and I link arms and race across the beach. When the sand becomes densely packed beneath my feet, I know we're right beside the water. "I love doing this." Digging my toes into the sand, I wait for the next wave to fill the tiny trenches. When the wave recedes, the water vanishes. I listen to the soundtrack: the tide, a group of kids at play, parents calling to their children, the occasional chirp of a bird. Breathing in the salty air, the sand, and the summer breeze, I inch closer to the ocean, letting the icy water climb my legs. It's not often that I stand somewhere with no boundaries, no barriers, no edges. There's always something tangible obstructing openness: a wall at my side, or a street at my back, or a sloping walkway just ahead. But here, though I can't see it, I sense the immense expanse of roiling water stretching away in every direction: forward and outward, no limits or borders within the scope of my perception. I'm standing perfectly still, but I feel somehow free, as if I'm absorbing the water's ability to go anywhere and everywhere. I can't believe this is over. I move closer to Laurel and reach for her hand. She must be watching me—she always is—because our fingers intertwine instantly. The sunshine, hot on my face and in my eyes, makes my tears even harder to blink back. "This isn't goodbye, you know." Laurel squeezes my hand. I nod and rest my head on her shoulder. As a rule, I rarely ask visual questions, for fear of being thought silly. But with Laurel—with the people I'm close to—it's different now. I trust that they'll bridge the gaps my questions yield, paving the way with steppingstones of words. "Is the ocean actually blue?" "It's not," Laurel answers. "It's only really blue in places with white sand… The sound of the waves underscoring Laurel's voice reminds me of applause. I remember walking onstage for the curtain call on closing night, steered by the cast's voices shouting my name. After taking my solo bow, I'd stepped back so the cast could bow together, our joined hands allowing the gesture to be perfectly synchronized. There was so much I wished I could say to them, but I knew that they would hear the unspoken. Greg was right: the sparkle of magic in a bottle—those freeze-frame, breathtaking moments when emotion and intention transcend words—are rare and hard to find. But their elusiveness is precisely what makes them all the more salient. And, just like Bryan said, I know I'll be back here again. I don't know when, though, so I capture this—each challenge and victory and conversation—and I take a picture. It's not a picture with sights or colors; instead, it's full of words and feelings, songs and sounds, people and places, laughter and friendship and change. It's the clearest, best, and brightest picture I've ever taken.
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