Extras in Your Movie

If my life were a movie, my co-stars would be my family. My closest friends and my colleagues would be a fantastic supporting cast. I haven’t decided if I’ll be played by Reese Witherspoon or Emma Watson, but in my mind the movie poster is pretty spectacular — I look great.

The coolest part of my movie, though, is the extras. People that have made a short but important contribution to my plot or character development but who disappear back into their own lives so fast you could blink and they would already be gone. You wouldn’t even remember their names. I don’t.

But, I do remember the moments. I remember how the plots shaped around them, how they made me feel and what they taught me. I remember:

  • The middle-aged manager of the self-storage facility who helped me divide up my great grandfather’s household after he passed away. She rode a motorcycle, was in AA and she treated me like an adult, even thought I barely felt like one. She told me how scary it was to be tailgated on her bike and shared her regrets around her addiction and years lost. She taught me that people take interesting paths in life and that it’s important to slow down and listen, even if you don’t understand.
  • The college football player who was a counselor with me one summer at Interlochen. He shattered all of my preconceptions about athletes; he was a tender, considerate giant who took me polka dancing and — when I couldn’t keep up — simply lifted me up like a rag doll and spun me around the floor. He shared stories of multiple knee surgeries and warnings that “one more injury and you won’t walk when you’re 50.” He wanted to play anyway; he couldn’t imagine not playing. He taught me that everyone should be judged on the quality of their character and that wide brushes should be reserved for painting fences, not people.
  • The young African American woman from the South who sat with me one weekend before Thanksgiving, just two homesick freshmen desperate to get back to normal. She reminisced about what the day meant to her and her family, and told me about the feast her grandmother, mother, and aunts would prepare — mac and cheese, collared greens, sweet potatoe pie. She taught me that the love of tradition is universal, but that no one tradition is right.
  • The lighting design professors, polar opposites, who demonstrated the fickle nature of theatre. One, a thoughtful, encouraging man who forced us to take our notes in drafting script for a semester and pushed us to design far beyond our capabilities. The second, a mean-spirited woman who treated students with ridicule and anger. He taught me the importance of detail, taking one’s time and practice. She taught me that sometimes you fight the system and you lose. They both taught me the importance of creativity and perseverance, whether you have an ally or not.
  • The entrepeneur couple in the British Virgin Islands who shared how they left successful corporate careers to build a business for themselves and their children. The father shared how watching his young daughter grow had opened his eyes to the societal double standards around women in his culture and how he had developed a strong appreciation for the challenges faced by his single mother when he was a boy. He taught me that feminists can be found anywhere.

The faces are blurry and the names are long since lost, but the memories are soft and full like a brand new pillow just out of the plastic. The settings spin in a View Master carousel: a dingy office past a rickety gate, a dark polka hall in northwest Michigan, the concrete steps of a college hall, the drafting lab and back stage flies, and the hills and beaches of the Caribbean. Of course, my movie would have to be filmed on location — spare no expense.

Playing back those memories, I am certain of the impact they made on me, just as I am fairly certain I made a far smaller impact on them. In the years and months that have passed, do they recall the moments they shared with me? Do they have any idea how they touched my life, changed my perspective or filled out my life framework? Who knows? Frankly, I’m not sure I would even be an extra in their movie.

But, it’s fun to think I might be.

2 thoughts on “Extras in Your Movie”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s