What it’s Like Being a Freshman Musical Theatre Major in the Middle of a Pandemic By, Ruth Anna Powell There’s a whole lot of tears. Your brain is always racing and telling you that you aren’t good enough and that you need to be doing something else, and it doesn’t matter how much you love it, and it doesn’t matter how many times people told you that you were good, and it doesn’t matter that you feel so good when you’re on stage, you aren’t good enough, and you’ll never be good enough, and everyone is better than you. There’s a whole lot of pain. After all, dancing until you’re struggling to breathe, and not being able to move you’re so sore, and wanting to cry but not being able to stop hurts. And it doesn’t matter how much you ice your shoulder, you wrenched it and it’s swelling and bruised and you’re holding back tears as your body gives up on you, and it doesn’t matter how many painkillers you take, your back hurts and you feel something in your leg and you’re afraid that th...
Not My Story Ruth Anna Powell The first thing you need to know is that this is not my story to tell. It’s hers. The little girl in the corner, the one with the fake smile, the one who confuses you. I remember the first time we met. I was alone and I was scared. She reached out her hand and became my first friend. We learned everything together. We grew up together. But I had no idea. Because we’re just Small Town America, what could happen here? But stuff like this isn’t just gossip, stuff like this is real. I’ve heard she has a baby now and black hair. We sat together at Burger King. I told her how sorry I was, and I bought her an apple pie, desperately hoping that a dollar and twenty-nine cents would somehow solve everything. But it didn’t. And it won’t. And that’s ok. Because this is not my story to tell.