By Gianna Hitsos
I still think it was all a dream. Then I look at the photos.
My one dream, to be on the Broadway stage. It’s something I’ve wanted ever since I first discovered that I could sing almost 10 years ago. I realized I had an amazing talent, but how could I use it? People have continually underestimated and limited me all my life because of my autism, and it’s something I continue to struggle with every day. However, music comes very naturally to me, and I realized that when I sing, people don’t underestimate me anymore, and begin to look at me as a singer who just happens to have autism. Once I started using my singing to tell people my story, I knew what I wanted to do with my life: to pursue my dream of singing on Broadway. It was a longshot, but I held on to that dream, as more and more people heard my story.
Even though it was only one night, my dream came true. A composer from New York named Scott Evan Davis had written a song called “If The World Only Knew”, which he wrote as he worked in a New York school for children with autism. We began to talk on Twitter, and then he asked me to record a performance of his song. I readily agreed, as I felt the words of the song were about my life, and a short time later, I performed the song, recorded it and sent the recording to him. About six months later, he contacted me, saying a select few of the Broadway community, including the director if “If/Then”, was assembling a benefit concert in New York City to raise money for Autism Awareness, hosted by the star of “The King And I” Kelli O’Hara, and all the proceeds would go to Autism Speaks. At first, they had asked me to perform the song I recorded, as a solo part of a choral arrangement. Then, they asked to sing a solo piece in addition to the finale, that being “Never Neverland” from the musical “Peter Pan”, which I also immediately agreed to. A solo and a big number all to myself? How could I say no?
June 22nd, 2016, the night of the big performance. Having finished rehearsal at the Gershwin, and dinner at Applebee’s with the entire cast, we make our way back to the theatre to prepare for the big performance. I’m wearing a navy concert gown, a pair of black heels, and my most glittery accessories. We approach a massive steel door, the words “Stage Door” in gold letters just above. The cold touch of the door sends a chill up my spine. My body begins to shake. This is it, this is actually happening. I hadn’t felt this way while we were having dress rehearsal, but I was now. We file up a narrow staircase, the walls painted a light shade of green. Names on green tags chronicle every actor in “Wicked” since the beginning.
Memories flood the corners of my mind as we ascend the stairs: Practicing with the conductor in a little red recording booth, a stuffy room, with large speakers and a shiny black piano, my voice bouncing back loudly off the padded walls; watching other performances during rehearsal at the Alvin Ailey Dance Center, the most famous dance center in the country, light streaming through the tall windows, while family members watched on in little white chairs, watching miniscule dancers and Broadway performers from across different shows singing together in blinding spotlights against a blue screen high above in the balcony seats. We reach the top of the stairs, a pair of dressing rooms just ahead. I turn, looking towards the backstage area. Men and women race back and forth dressed in black with headphones, pushing past me as they prepare the sound and lighting equipment. I turn a corner and head towards the upstairs lobby of the theatre. Dancers and performers preparing one last time before the big night. I race to the bathroom, adjusting my dress and reapplying my makeup. A sudden wave of panic, millions of thoughts racing all at once. I have to look my best for tonight. I have to sound my best. There are no second chances.
In my head, I feel like this is all just a dream. Then I look at the photos.
On my phone, pictures of the rehearsals, images of me with my fellow performers, videos that capture every note and every movement. I scan through each wonderful moment, reliving them at a rapid pace, then hide the phone with the rest of my belonging in the locker, or rather the room behind the girl’s bathroom. I do a couple of lip trills backstage as I climb up the escalator, my lips more relaxed and my head a little clearer. I walk through a side door. An entire section of the balcony seats, each chair lined in bright red velvet, have been cut off for the performers to use. I see the stage, still decorated with elements from “Wicked”. A fearsome dragon perched high above the stage, its eyes closed, lost in a dream, as it faces forward towards the audience. In its claws, a large clock, dim and broken, time standing still in the Land of Oz for one night only. The sides of the stage lined with emerald green, as if the stage itself is just one large reflection.
The theatre gradually grows louder with whispers and the crowds begin to flood the orchestra seats below. I peer over to see the seats fill with people of every age, each one having their own reasons for attending this benefit concert. My heart quickens, my eyes water. It’s my parents, my relatives from Long Island, friends of the family. They’re all here, ready to see me. I have to do this right, for them, for everyone watching. I adjust my dress as I wait for my cue. I
take one last look around, savoring the brightly lit theatre in all its glory. I shake my head; I keep feeling this is all a dream…
At last, the lights of the theatre begin to dim. I bounce in my seat, as a voice over the loudspeaker welcomes all those in attendance. The murmuring beside and underneath me fades away as the entire theatre goes black. I excitedly play the memories back in my head over and over, anxious and waiting for my turn. A spotlight ignites, shining a singular beam of light on a woman on the stage. The overture begins, and the stage gradually blossoms with color and light. The opening number has everyone, including me, officially entranced. I rock in my seat, giddy with excitement. I don’t want to forget one moment of this. Oh, of all the times not to use a camera!
As the minutes past, the time comes for me to prepare for my big number. I scramble out of my seat, running across the lobby and down a flight of stairs as I find the path to the backstage area. I finally arrive, a select group of young girls waiting patiently, and the host Kelli O’Hara watching every facet of the show. She sits with me on a bench, and we chat about my musical pursuits. She seems so polite, so friendly. We both get up as the performance ends. Only one more performance, and then it would be my turn. I look up at the rafters. Pieces of Emerald City, the set, the creatures, hooks and wires dangling from the ceiling, the Land of Oz replaced with a black curtain and a white backdrop, changing colors according to the act.
Finally, it’s my turn. Surprisingly, a cool, relaxing wave sweeps over me. There’s nothing to fear. This is what I love to do, this is what I was called to do. I step onstage, a microphone in hand. Mrs. O’Hara introduces me as I look out into the audience. The theatre has become a sea of stars, the light of the beacon above me making it hard to see the people there watching me. Absolute silence. I look down, the stage protruding out into the shapes of gears, nearly concealing the orchestra pit. The conductor, his head peeking out between the cogs, nods to me as he begins. Beautiful orchestral music cues me in, and I allow my eyes to fall on the lights straight ahead. I began singing, allowing reality to dissolve around me as I lose myself in the song. It’s almost like becoming Peter Pan in that instant, dreaming of a place where you never grow old. For a moment, I see not a darkened theatre, but a nursery, children gathered around me, eagerly listening to my stories of a magical world that can only be found with your heart. As I belt out the last notes, the entire theatre rises in applause. I’m thrown back to reality, the darkened theatre erupting with the sound of clapping and cheering. I relish in the last moments of the song. It’s not a dream. This is all real, and they’re all applauding for me, for my performance. I did it. I showed them all, I showed them I was more than just a girl with autism. I curtsy before the wildly ecstatic crowd, waving to them before running into O’Hara’s arms, hugging her tightly. I wait backstage again, watching the last two numbers before the big finale.
The time comes for the final number. Everyone crams together on the stage for the final number. I quietly congratulate everyone who went before me, as they complement my song, large smiles on their faces. I step forward to perform my solo. Various individuals with disabilities speak to the audience about autism, as the orchestra begins to play. I sing my part, almost jolting with surprise when the others join in behind me. I am now able to see into the audience. My mother smiling widely, my aunt, uncle, and cousin beaming as they look on, my father sobbing into a towel (I had to mention that part). As my part ends, I step back, singing with the ensemble. I look on either side of me, reveling in the faces and voices joining together for a gravely underappreciated cause, some of whom I’d probably never see again. I have to take this all in, this moment is worth looking back on. A heavy feeling stirs inside my heart, as if this really is all a dream. After all, after this song, it’s all over. The music building up, the ensemble’s volume at maximum, I step forward to sing the second part of my solo, my thoughts clear of worry or stress. The full emotional force of the piece fills me with a warm sensation from my toes to my head, and I can feel myself be overcome with passion in the last few bars. A majestic roar fills the theatre as the audience rises, applauding harder and louder than anything I’ve ever experienced. The pearls in my ears and around my neck sparkle in the corner of my eye as the theatre blazes with light. All their happy faces are closely shown. The entire company and I join hands as we bow before the crowd. After the company bows, it finally dawns on me. I did it. I’ve just sung on the Broadway stage. I used my talent in a way that meant something. People took me seriously, and they loved my music. It was amazing! The one thing I’ve wanted to achieve for so long, even for one night, has finally happened. I scurry past children and young adults, rushing to grab my belongings, excited to reunite with my family, to celebrate probably the single greatest day of my life.
To this day, I still feel like it was all just a dream. Then I look at the photos.
Gianna Hitsos is a senior at Gordon majoring in Music-Voice, with a minor in French and Theatre. She was diagnosed with autism, and is a guest speaker and singer for autism awareness. Gianna has sung the National Anthem and God Bless America for the Boston Red Sox, New England Revolution Soccer, and Boston University Men’s Hockey. Gianna also sang in the Broadway’s Arts for Autism concert at the Gershwin Theatre in New York. Gianna is trying to change perceptions of autism, one song at a time.