By Angelika Romera, Contributor, Emerson College
By age five, my mother had to resort to lies and tricks to try to save me from the harsh world of caffeine addiction. My earliest childhood memories revolve around seeing my mother, wrapped in her robe, sitting at the kitchen counter drinking a cup of coffee while the steam from the edge of the cup rose, filling the entire house with the delicious smell of cacao beans and milk. My obsession with coffee was not only based on the flavor, light texture, or warmth of this liquid. It also had something to do with the elegance with which my mother drank her coffee, her pinky finger always slightly lifted. I would see her face brighten every single time she took a sip, her back slowly straightening as her eyes began to clearly open. In my five-year old mind, coffee was a magical potion used to awake the senses, and in retrospect, I wasn’t too far off from what it is.
Because she knew of its possessive powers and of my endless determination to have a cup of coffee every morning, she would pour warm chocolate milk into a mug when I was not looking, pretend it was coffee and hand it to me with a subtle smile on her face. I would not always show my excitement to her, but inside, my childish heart would beat faster because of it. Drinking what I thought was coffee made me feel superior in a way. For one, the only people I saw doing this were adults, therefore I thought I was one of them. And because of it, I was consequently more powerful than my sister who is four years older. Sitting at the table across from her, holding a cup of “coffee” while she stuck to a simple glass of milk, gave me an internal peace, even if for a couple of minutes everyday, until the thought of being the youngest one popped up again.
By ninth grade, I knew I was addicted. The summer before entering tenth grade, I was chosen to go to a theater festival in Nebraska for a week to take classes in drama and to perform a monologue I had spent weeks polishing. My drama teacher, Ms.G as she liked to be called, had picked seven out of forty students who had auditioned to be a part of this “Thespian Festival”. For the lucky seven of us, it felt as if being chosen for the lead role in a Broadway production. We knew once we got to Nebraska, we had to leave our heart and soul on the stage, especially because we were one of the few international groups participating. We wanted to prove ourselves to passionate Ms.G and to the American theater community who perceived us as less trained in the dramatic arts for lack of performing arts High Schools in Central America.
The morning I had to perform my monologue, my alarm clock decided to stop working. I was dreaming about being a fish in a river, or some serene situation like that, when I was abruptly awoken by my drama teacher.
“Angie, Angie, Angie!” she yelled as she knocked on the door a thousand times.
With eyes closed, I managed to stumble out of the mini bed I had been assigned in the dorms of the University of Nebraska. I turned on the lights and opened the door to find a sweaty Ms.G hyperventilating. “It’s 10:10 a.m.! You are supposed to be on the main stage right now! The judges are waiting!”
I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. An actor’s worst nightmare had become my reality.
Speechless, I ran to my suitcase to grab the first pair of pants I saw, replaced my pajamas with a white shirt, and headed out the door. It was only while running for my life alongside Ms.G towards the auditorium about fifteen blocks away that it occurred to me that I had not yet drank coffee that morning. I immediately stopped running, caught my breath, and said: “Ms.G, I don’t think I can do this”. She jogged backwards to where I had stopped. With confusion on her face, she said: “What do you mean? Angie, you know very well that everyone gets nervous before a major performance. Even major actresses...”
“No!” I exploded, “you don’t understand. I haven’t had any coffee yet!”. In that second, I began to contemplate all the work I had put into this festival and how worthless it was all going to be. I had chosen Eric Bogosian’s monologue Dog Chameleon, a funky-humorous-experimental-“out there” piece on being poor in the United States. I had read through most of his monologue books as background research, watched the movies he was in, transcribed by hand the entire 11-page monologue to help me memorize it, had even strategically placed copies of it around my house to be able to look at it at all times. I thought of all the money my parents had wasted in plane tickets, hotel reservations, transportation, and food. I thought about all these things all at once until tears came down my face.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”, Ms.G said, not knowing what to do or say. “You own this monologue, you’ll be fine”. She released a short nervous laughter.
It seemed I was having a panic attack. I quickly said:
“Ms.G, I really can’t… I don’t even remember the first lines right now…I need caffeine to function…If I go up there right now, I will only make a fool out of myself!”, I mumbled as I cried harder. This monologue was my ticket to five minutes of fame. I was going to perform in front of 450 audience members for the very first time in the States. I needed to do this. Ms. G and I stood on the sidewalk in silence. She was letting me release all the anxiety I had been hiding inside.
I slowly began to remove the tears from my face with my right hand. I kept telling myself “I need to do this, I need to do this”. I had worked so much to let my coffee addiction get in the way. Finally, I said: “Ok, let’s do this”.
We started to run again towards the stage until we made it. The audience had been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. A member of another performing group, who was supposed to pass after me, was forced to showcase his skills an act earlier.
Seconds before having to walk unto the stage, Ms.G delivered the best lines of comfort a teacher in her position could have possibly said.
“Look, I understand if you don’t want to do this right now or if it does not come out the way you wanted it, but I just want you to know that no matter what, you have won the first place prize in my eyes. Take a deep breath. Focus and have fun. Break a leg”, she said. She gave me a brief pat on the back as I walked unto the stage to meet the eyes of too many.
Although I did not win first place in the monologue competition (nor second or third for that matter), I won a very different kind of competition that day. I won my first battle against caffeine, the first of many to come.
By age five, my mother had to resort to lies and tricks to try to save me from the harsh world of caffeine addiction. My earliest childhood memories revolve around seeing my mother, wrapped in her robe, sitting at the kitchen counter drinking a cup of coffee while the steam from the edge of the cup rose, filling the entire house with the delicious smell of cacao beans and milk. My obsession with coffee was not only based on the flavor, light texture, or warmth of this liquid. It also had something to do with the elegance with which my mother drank her coffee, her pinky finger always slightly lifted. I would see her face brighten every single time she took a sip, her back slowly straightening as her eyes began to clearly open. In my five-year old mind, coffee was a magical potion used to awake the senses, and in retrospect, I wasn’t too far off from what it is.
Because she knew of its possessive powers and of my endless determination to have a cup of coffee every morning, she would pour warm chocolate milk into a mug when I was not looking, pretend it was coffee and hand it to me with a subtle smile on her face. I would not always show my excitement to her, but inside, my childish heart would beat faster because of it. Drinking what I thought was coffee made me feel superior in a way. For one, the only people I saw doing this were adults, therefore I thought I was one of them. And because of it, I was consequently more powerful than my sister who is four years older. Sitting at the table across from her, holding a cup of “coffee” while she stuck to a simple glass of milk, gave me an internal peace, even if for a couple of minutes everyday, until the thought of being the youngest one popped up again.
By ninth grade, I knew I was addicted. The summer before entering tenth grade, I was chosen to go to a theater festival in Nebraska for a week to take classes in drama and to perform a monologue I had spent weeks polishing. My drama teacher, Ms.G as she liked to be called, had picked seven out of forty students who had auditioned to be a part of this “Thespian Festival”. For the lucky seven of us, it felt as if being chosen for the lead role in a Broadway production. We knew once we got to Nebraska, we had to leave our heart and soul on the stage, especially because we were one of the few international groups participating. We wanted to prove ourselves to passionate Ms.G and to the American theater community who perceived us as less trained in the dramatic arts for lack of performing arts High Schools in Central America.
The morning I had to perform my monologue, my alarm clock decided to stop working. I was dreaming about being a fish in a river, or some serene situation like that, when I was abruptly awoken by my drama teacher.
“Angie, Angie, Angie!” she yelled as she knocked on the door a thousand times.
With eyes closed, I managed to stumble out of the mini bed I had been assigned in the dorms of the University of Nebraska. I turned on the lights and opened the door to find a sweaty Ms.G hyperventilating. “It’s 10:10 a.m.! You are supposed to be on the main stage right now! The judges are waiting!”
I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. An actor’s worst nightmare had become my reality.
Speechless, I ran to my suitcase to grab the first pair of pants I saw, replaced my pajamas with a white shirt, and headed out the door. It was only while running for my life alongside Ms.G towards the auditorium about fifteen blocks away that it occurred to me that I had not yet drank coffee that morning. I immediately stopped running, caught my breath, and said: “Ms.G, I don’t think I can do this”. She jogged backwards to where I had stopped. With confusion on her face, she said: “What do you mean? Angie, you know very well that everyone gets nervous before a major performance. Even major actresses...”
“No!” I exploded, “you don’t understand. I haven’t had any coffee yet!”. In that second, I began to contemplate all the work I had put into this festival and how worthless it was all going to be. I had chosen Eric Bogosian’s monologue Dog Chameleon, a funky-humorous-experimental-“out there” piece on being poor in the United States. I had read through most of his monologue books as background research, watched the movies he was in, transcribed by hand the entire 11-page monologue to help me memorize it, had even strategically placed copies of it around my house to be able to look at it at all times. I thought of all the money my parents had wasted in plane tickets, hotel reservations, transportation, and food. I thought about all these things all at once until tears came down my face.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”, Ms.G said, not knowing what to do or say. “You own this monologue, you’ll be fine”. She released a short nervous laughter.
It seemed I was having a panic attack. I quickly said:
“Ms.G, I really can’t… I don’t even remember the first lines right now…I need caffeine to function…If I go up there right now, I will only make a fool out of myself!”, I mumbled as I cried harder. This monologue was my ticket to five minutes of fame. I was going to perform in front of 450 audience members for the very first time in the States. I needed to do this. Ms. G and I stood on the sidewalk in silence. She was letting me release all the anxiety I had been hiding inside.
I slowly began to remove the tears from my face with my right hand. I kept telling myself “I need to do this, I need to do this”. I had worked so much to let my coffee addiction get in the way. Finally, I said: “Ok, let’s do this”.
We started to run again towards the stage until we made it. The audience had been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. A member of another performing group, who was supposed to pass after me, was forced to showcase his skills an act earlier.
Seconds before having to walk unto the stage, Ms.G delivered the best lines of comfort a teacher in her position could have possibly said.
“Look, I understand if you don’t want to do this right now or if it does not come out the way you wanted it, but I just want you to know that no matter what, you have won the first place prize in my eyes. Take a deep breath. Focus and have fun. Break a leg”, she said. She gave me a brief pat on the back as I walked unto the stage to meet the eyes of too many.
Although I did not win first place in the monologue competition (nor second or third for that matter), I won a very different kind of competition that day. I won my first battle against caffeine, the first of many to come.