The summer before second grade, my parents took my older
brother and me to see Les Misérables.
Now, whether or not my parents didn’t really know the story or they just hoped
that the more mature parts would just
go over our heads, I don’t know, but they took us, and we liked it so much that
they bought tickets to go again a few days later.
It’s hard for a seven year old to sit through a three hour-long
show, especially when she has trouble understanding the lyrics that deliver
most of the dialogue. A lot of the plot went over my head. So did practically
all of the symbolism, musical themes, and weight of the story. I didn’t totally
understand why the events playing out before me were important.
Nevertheless, the show left quite the impression on me. Even
if I don’t remember much from when I first saw Les Mis, I remember certain moments, frozen in time.
The rotating stage. Valjean ripping a yellow slip of paper. A
stack of papers tossed in the air. The Master
of the House song. The Thénadiers showing up at the wedding, and Madame
Thénadier trying to steal the plates.
The barricade, clothed in smoke. Gunshots. The barricade
rotating, its other side covered in dead bodies. One man suspended upside down,
a red cape hanging from his shoulders, a flag.
The thing I remember most strongly is that we bought the
soundtrack, and I listened to it at night a few days later when trying to
sleep. Listening to the music, I started to cry. And to this day I cannot
explain why.
On the last Tuesday of August, my family went to see Les Mis again for my dad’s birthday. Seeing
it again reminded me why I love theatre so much. Nothing else does quite as
good a job of holding, “as ‘twere, a mirror up to nature.” Theatre knows the
little pathways to my heart and mind, and, often, I leave shows with my
thoughts thrumming with new ideas and little realizations. I go to a show and
see myself in it, reflected back, reminded that I am not the only participant
in the bizarre world of the human condition.
Les Mis is one of
these shows that know just how to pull on my heart—and yep, there were silent
tears. Again. Its one of those shows, where you might have seen it all before,
but each time there are little pieces that burst into my mind like miniature revelations.
For instance, this time around, I reached a new level of
empathy with Éponine’s character. I’ve never really understood her, and her big
song “On My Own” has never made much sense to me. But, for whatever reason,
this rendition of that song hit home a little. The line, “And I know that I’m
talking to myself and not to him,” especially came into crystalline clarity. I,
too, have entertained imaginings so tangible and vivid that I could almost,
almost mistake them for reality. Now, I haven’t exactly been in Éponine’s
position of unrequited love, but I have tried to imagine the future. I’ve spent
several months trying to guess what the next few months will be like, without
really having any template, any real sense of what I will experience. I’ve just
let my daydreams swirl along and bumping up against each other, all the
scenarios I can imagine laid out in a river. But I’ve also dreamed of Harry Potter and Middle Earth, dreamed
in Disney and dreamed in play scripts. And sometimes these dreams of mine, just
on the other side of reality, are just as vivid as those that are real.
And listening to “Bring Him Home” stuck a chord in me that
couldn’t be reached before. Previously I had thought of this piece as a
challenging song that is a testament to Valjean’s character, love for his
daughter, and large heart. But this time around, I was in a totally new place
in life while I listened to this song, and I found myself wondering if this
song, in a way, reflects my parents’ feelings about this gap year business, and
if it reflects the feelings of my friends parents about their children leaving
for college.
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