Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals.
His published works include five books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.
I Hate You, Lysander
By Kyle A. Massa
When they cast me as Lysander in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I cried.
I cried to my mom and sister, because of all the people to cry to, they seemed least likely to tell me to man up. Also, I felt I had a convincing argument.
“I don’t want to be Lysander!” I cried. “He’s a loser!”
Technically, Lysander’s a winner. He wins by marrying Hermia by play’s end, though he does look foolish while pining after Helena or falling asleep after five minutes of light jogging. It’s an expressly silly play, which is why you can’t blame the guy for being such a loser.
“But it’s a lead role,” my mom reasoned.
“You’ll have lots of lines,” my sister agreed.
“Lots of lines like this!” I said, jabbing the abridged script. “‘Minimus of hind’ring knot-grass’? What does that even mean!?”
I wanted to be Puck. I suspect everyone wants to be Puck, because Puck’s mischievous and clever and fun and puckish. He’s also not human, which appealed to my 12-year-old sense of alienation. Short of that merry wanderer of the night, I would’ve settled for Theseus, because he’s a king, Oberon, because he’s also a king, or even Bottom, because then I could use the word “ass” without getting in trouble.
I was being awfully whiny about the whole situation, so, in hindsight, maybe this was brilliant casting. Lysander is, after all, pretty whiny. Yet that didn’t stop me from threatening to quit.
Problem was, this wasn’t just any play. This was the 2004 summer camp production at the late great College of Saint Rose in Albany N.Y., meaning my parents were paying for my experience, making them the Elizabeth to my Shakespeare. In other words, quitting would be costly. Literally.
You often hear stories of actors coming to admire their characters, even when those characters are detestable. I kept waiting for that to happen for Lysander and me, though it never did. He delivers way too many lines like, “And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake!”, and once he overcomes his drug-induced goofiness, he celebrates his nuptials by heckling a bunch of lousy actors.
I myself was a lousy actor. Most 12-year-olds are, unless they happen to be the cast of Stranger Things. Again, I felt like quitting.
Yet as the two-week production progressed, I got progressively less lousy. I learned the concept of blocking. I mastered stage right and stage left. I made friends with my fellow campers—excuse me, my fellow thespians. And when our families arrived on that final July Friday to watch our performance, I don’t even recall feeling nervous.
That’s far different from current-me, who frequently fears looking like a loser, especially in front of an audience. But not at that summer camp. If loser I was, at least ‘twas Lysander’s fault.
Our show went on. Puck delivered his epilogue — technically her epilogue, because our Puck was played by a girl, and I was still a little jealous of her. Our families gave a standing ovation, my mom and sister among them, although I’m unsure it was deserved, since there’s no audience more biased than families of theater kids.
It hardly mattered. At that moment, we felt like the greatest actors alive.
Despite threatening to quit numerous times, I returned to theater camp the next summer, and the next. I earned a role in my high school play, and though I couldn’t land a similar role in college, at least I tried out. They did offer me a bit-part as a pet in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but I’ve never worn stilettos and I suspect I lack the requisite sexiness.
My dalliance with acting may be over, but it began—and endured—because of someone I hate. And for that, I suppose, I owe Lysander thanks. Even if he’s still a loser.