Failing Up

by Leslie Odom, Jr.

  The discipline appealed to me. I was up for the challenge. I loved the fun and the silliness of performing most of all. The art of being silly is vastly underrated in my opinion. I was hooked on the joy.

  By the time I was in high school, I sought further training. The Philadelphia Dance Company (Philadanco) in West Philadelphia has a long track record and an esteemed reputation for its rigorous and thorough training of black dancers. Philadanco was founded by Joan Myers Brown, a talented and driven black ballerina and native Philadelphian. Growing up, she saw firsthand the limited professional and educational resources for black dancers in the city, especially when it came to the classical arts. Joan responded by starting her own professional modern dance company and world-class training program. Today, Philadanco is one of the most venerable professional dance companies in the country, and its training program is second to none. It is a rigorous, varied, and serious program for serious dancers.

  I was the worst in the class. By far.

  I say it with a smile but I mean it completely. Being the worst is a gift in your training. I’ve pulled up the rear more times than I can count. If you can help it, you want to study in close proximity to people whom you feel you can learn from. There’s no place better to be, in a dance class anyway, than on your toes.

  I loved the rigors of my early ballet classes and the incremental improvements I was able to see in myself from week to week. It kept me inspired and hungry.

  Lessons learned in that West Philadelphia dance studio are with me always. My early dance teachers taught us a head-to-toe body awareness and gave us a world-class technical foundation. If you could cut it at Danco, you could cut it anywhere.

  The hours and hours of preparation at Philadanco and Freedom gave me the confidence that I could be a contender as I stood in the line in front of Shampoo, waiting for my audition number.

  We all have our own versions of auditions, right? Tests and tryouts at school, interviews for colleges and jobs. There’s a scrutiny we face whenever we choose to pursue an opportunity we desire. Nerves creep in and threaten your ability to do your best. Pressure and nerves are real, but they don’t have to be crippling. The difference in how you fare can sometimes come down to where you place your focus. You can focus on how much you hate the feeling of being judged or you can focus on appreciation and gratitude for the fact that every audition brings you closer to the place you desire to be.

  Every no you’ll hear is a no on the way to your ultimate yes. You don’t have a thing to be afraid of.

  * * *

  EVERY NO YOU’LL HEAR IS a NO on the WAY to YOUR ULTIMATE YES.

  * * *

  The Rent audition was just about the most fun I could imagine. It’s exhilarating to be that close to something you’ve dreamt about. I sang my favorite song in the world for the casting directors, the Donny Hathaway arrangement of “For All We Know.”

  There might not be a more inappropriate song I could’ve chosen as audition material, but I had no idea.

  It wasn’t “pop” and it certainly wasn’t “rock,” both of which were what they asked for, but my love and exuberance spoke well for me, and I got a callback for later that afternoon.

  They gave me a cassette tape and sheet music for a handful of songs they wanted me to be prepared to perform when I returned. I sailed through the new tunes at the callback as if I’d been practicing them for years.

  Because I had been practicing them for years.

  The initial audition in Philadelphia was in the spring, just weeks before the start of summer vacation. Over the next few months the casting office requested my presence in New York three times for different phases of the audition process. I sort of thought, They must have a database of hundreds of hopefuls from around the country. If I do really well, they’ll put me in that database. Maybe a few years from now, a slot will open up and I’ll get my chance!

  It was big local news when R & B singer Jill Scott was cast in the Canadian tour of Rent. Jill had waited in line with me at Shampoo for her chance to be seen as well. She was already a major superstar in our home-town. The city celebrated with her when her number was called and she was given the chance to shine on a bigger stage.

  My number was called just a short time later.

  It was eleven a.m. on a Monday morning, and I was on my way out the door for my summer job at the local NAACP, where I got paid to answer phones, take messages, open and sort through mail and whatnot.

  The phone rang and I had a funny feeling. It sounded different to me.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, may I please speak to Leslie Odom, Jr.?” a cheery voice on the other end inquired.

  “This is Leslie.”

  “Hi, Leslie! This is Brig Berney, calling from the company management office of the Broadway and touring companies of Rent. How are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good! Well, all of us over here were just crazy about your last audition, and we would love to offer you a spot in our Broadway company. What do you think? The position would start immediately.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Are you serious?”

  “I am very serious,” Brig said with a smile in his voice.

  Brig has since become a friend of mine. He’s still one of the kindest people you’ll meet in the big city. He’s told me that, at the time, making these calls, giving people their first opportunities to walk onto a Broadway stage, being the first to deliver the news to someone that their dream was coming true, was his favorite part of the job.

  “We’re sending you a train ticket.” Brig said.

  “Okay, but you don’t have to do that,” I told him. “My parents will say yes, but I have to ask them first. They’ll drive me.”

  I had just been invited to join the Broadway company of Rent for exactly one month. It was two weeks after my seventeenth birthday and the end of summer 1998.

  Arrangements were made for me to take a leave of absence from school. My parents drove me to New York the very next day. I picked up my script, got a dressing room assignment, and had my first blocking rehearsal onstage at the Nederlander Theatre on Broadway.

  In twenty-four hours, my summer job had gotten a major upgrade.

  * * *

  My personal feeling about the luck of the beginner is that it has a lot to do with the absence of cynicism.

  Beginners are too filled with optimism for cynicism to dim their light. They are too filled with joy for jadedness to dampen their enthusiasm. This magnetizes the beginner. And it isn’t about youth. It is about freshness, and openness, and love. Who wouldn’t want to be around that? Every now and then it is the job of the veteran to reconnect with the beginner inside.

  As an adult, once you enter the real world, your lack of cynicism can go by the wayside quicker than you think. Once your dream is tied to how you pay your rent and put food on the table, it’s easy to forget the joy you felt at the outset.

  When your dream shows up, I hope you’ll make a commitment to yourself to meet it with as much childhood joy and wonder as possible.

  * * *

  My contract was extended twice. The guy I was temporarily replacing was out on injury and each time his doctor suggested he take a little more time, my dream was extended for four more weeks. Ultimately, I got to hang out in the building for three months.

  Onstage, as you can imagine, I was in heaven. The heavy lifting had been done long before I suited up and stepped onto the stage at the Nederlander. By the time I’d arrived, the show had been open for three years. It was a Tony- and Pulitzer-award winner and runaway success at the box office. It was one of the most coveted jobs on Broadway. The audience was filled with people who loved the show as much as we did. Everyone in the cast knew how lucky we were to be a small part of giving away this phenomenon each night.

  The themes of the piece, woven with great care by creator and composer Jonathan Larson, were made painfully resonant by his sudden and untimely death on the eve of Rent’s first off-Broad
way preview. There was a reverence and a responsibility we carried with us when we stepped onto that stage. You would’ve had to be thickheaded and insensitive to miss the vibe. It was in the wood. The feeling was in the scaffolding. The show always connected with people. It always worked. All you had to do was play your position, hold up your little end and the evening would soar.

  * * *

  The night of my first performance, Tina Oh, the show’s dance captain, offered to take me for a quick bite before the eight o’clock curtain. Tina had spent the week getting me up to speed. As a replacement in a Broadway show, you get a week to learn your part and then you’re on.

  Tina took me to a bistro on the corner of 41st and 8th. We talked about our hometowns and our training. She told me all about when she moved to New York. She filled me in on her career as a professional ballet dancer. I’d spent the week learning from Tina during the days and then watching her laser-sharp, exquisite execution of the show at night. I was a big fan. Tina was in her midtwenties, as was most of the cast. I’d had a hard time connecting with people during that first week. It’s no wonder. I may have felt like a grown-up on the inside, but I was still very much a kid. I couldn’t drink. I couldn’t get into bars or clubs. No one had much interest in hanging out at the soda shop with the high school senior.

  An hour or so into our meal, Tina told me she had a gift for me. She pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper, and there was a card attached. Even before opening anything, her kindness had rendered me speechless.

  The card read: Dear Leslie, Congratulations! Take a deep breath tonight and a snapshot of this moment in your mind. A Broadway debut only happens once. Break a leg. You’re going to be wonderful.

  Inside the tissue paper was a leather-bound journal.

  A deep gratitude lodged in the center of my chest. I was full in a way that I hadn’t yet experienced in my young life. That night, I made my Broadway debut.

  Rent begins with the entire company making their entrance together. For about thirty seconds after that, the audience would routinely go nuts. I’d watched the same reaction for a week at this point. Tonight was no different, except for the fact that on this night, I was among the lucky ones who got to be on the receiving end of all that energy.

  I took my place onstage alongside the rest of the company and looked out at an audience already going wild.

  I thanked God. I took my mental snapshot and a very deep breath. I smiled. And I winked at Tina.

  * * *

  From then on, this would be the bar against which I would measure all other creative experiences. Does it feel as good as that felt? Do I feel the same sense of fulfillment as I felt during that time?

  Rent was artistically fulfilling, culturally relevant, and commercially successful. It doesn’t get any better than that in the world of entertainment, and it doesn’t come around that often. It would be fifteen years or so until I found my way into a piece of work that would hit all those notes again.

  The interim years were filled with effort, some success, plenty of failure, and faith. Faith will deliver the reminder that disappointment and failure don’t have to be fatal. In those times when you have done your very best and still come up short, faith fills in the gaps between your reality and your dreams. Faith is what sustains you in the wilderness.

  * * *

  FAITH is WHAT SUSTAINS YOU in the WILDERNESS.

  * * *

  For three months, I was treated like a professional actor. I joined the union. I paid taxes and put money away for retirement. At the stage door, I signed Rent tickets and programs and took Polaroids with fans. It was a huge leap forward for me and a dream realized. It would be hard to argue with someone who might call that my Big Break.

  You hear a lot about the Big Break from successful people. But I would challenge you to think of your Big Break as an inside job instead of something that you’ll find externally. The external world will eventually mirror what you begin on the inside of yourself today.

  When I got back home to Philadelphia, I was committed to whatever hard work it was going to take to make sure I saw a Broadway stage once more.

  The biggest break is the one you will give yourself by choosing to believe in your vision, in what you love, and in the gifts you have to offer the waiting world.

  CHAPTER 3

  WHAT YOU OWN

  Now what?

  —THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD

  I left Rent right before the holidays in ’98. Back to Philly. I hated to admit it, but I was run-down and in serious need of a break. By my final curtain call, I was just a few days ahead of a nasty flu that would knock me completely out of commission for a couple weeks. None of this should have surprised anyone. It takes time to build up the stamina to do eight shows a week on Broadway. I’d gone from crawling to walking so quickly.

  When I was hired initially, I was given a four-week contract. Prior to that, the longest run of a show that I had done was maybe four performances. Total. I was used to school plays and community theater. Some shows opened and closed within the same weekend. So, from the start, the prospect of getting to do Rent thirty-two times on a Broadway stage was almost too good to be true. When one month turned into three months, the physical toll of almost a hundred shows was significant.

  Rent is a notoriously challenging score. The show was many singers’ first professional job in the theater. Sadly, for some, it would be their last. Without solid vocal training, singing a rock score eight times a week can trash your voice. I remember losing my voice for the first time a few weeks into my contract. Singing training for me consisted of the choir in church, the hours I’d spent messing around on a karaoke machine that I was given one Christmas, and the hundreds of hours I’d logged with Mom and Dad’s record collection.

  Having my voice gone in a moment was pretty terrifying. The powerlessness you feel is not easy to put into words. It makes you realize in the most profound way that any talent you may have is a gift. Whether it’s creative, athletic, or intellectual—however it manifests, talent really is given to you.

  We are all given a portion at the starting gate and we’ve done virtually nothing to earn it. “He’s a natural.”

  * * *

  HAVING MY VOICE GONE in a MOMENT WAS PRETTY TERRIFYING.

  * * *

  It is a gift. The truth is, some gifts come to us easily. Losing my voice is a lesson in how easily they can vanish. It is by design. There will be plenty to fight for down the line. Some things should come easy.

  And you know something else?

  Talent isn’t everything. Talent is nice. In some instances, it is a leg up, but it’s only a part of what you’ll need for success ultimately. Hard work and perseverance are almost more important.

  It’s possible to marry a meager talent to enduring success with a strong work ethic. It is just as possible to squander a major talent with laziness and inaction.

  Assess what you’ve got. Be honest with yourself and make the most of whatever you’ve been given.

  I had a lot more developing to do and a lot more to learn about protecting my instrument if I was going to move forward in professional theater. I wasn’t sure what was supposed to come next, but when I took my last bow as a member of the Broadway company of Rent, I was officially a young man without a dream. I did, however, make a wish that this would not be the last bow I took on a Broadway stage.

  The slate was wiped clean with the realization of my wildest dream.

  Now what?

  * * *

  There were a few pressing matters that needed to be addressed. First, I needed to graduate from high school. A look into my transcript revealed I was a tiny bit ahead academically, and if I took advanced English and math classes at the local community college, I could graduate on time with the rest of my senior class.

  I enrolled at the Community College of Philadelphia in January.

  I was in school two days a week. I got a job at a grocery store to make some dough and fill the rest of
the day. I got back into dance classes. I applied for colleges and prepared for the round of auditions that would accompany the application process.

  I’d heard or read the name Carnegie Mellon again and again in my three-month New York adventure. It was listed in the program as the training ground for some of the people I’d come to respect most during my time there. Among them was Michael McElroy, who played Tom Collins in Rent while I was there.

  Mike is formidable in every way that counts. He was barely thirty, with a handful of starring roles on and off Broadway, one of the most gorgeous and effortless voices I’d ever heard, and a clearly visible technical process that sustained and supported him eight shows a week. I wanted to be Michael McElroy.

  Michael was also a friend to me. If he saw me doing something he didn’t feel was professional, he had a way of intervening and getting me to pull back on my own reins. He wanted to get to me before anyone in management had a chance to do so.

  “Pull up,” he would say, and I knew what he meant.

  Whenever Michael would pull me aside to pass on knowledge or give advice, he could do it without ego or debasement. Mike didn’t want to humiliate me. When he could, he wanted to help. I will always be grateful.

  I tried not to bother Michael much, but every now and then I could step into his dressing room to run something by him or to ask him a question about the business that he seemed to know almost everything about.

  On my last weekend of the show, I’d gone to him with my plans for what I might do next.

  “I’m going to apply to colleges,” I began.

  “Oh yeah? Where are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “NYU. Fordham. I think I’d like to be in New York.”

  Michael nodded slightly. He never stopped his flow. He was getting ready for the show we had in half an hour. “Go to Carnegie. It’s where I went. They’ll get you ready.”