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A Personal Manifesto
“I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.”
“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them”
-- The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery
I got a new tattoo today. 
It is on my left bicep. Two inches across, just about. I got it in Wicker Park. It cost me eighty dollars. Needles and ink went into my skin and painted a very pretty picture. 
 
I have changed my body forever. 
And I have no regrets.
 
When I was growing up, my dad told me that tattoos were bad and that I should never get a tattoo because you never know when you might regret it. And then it’s too late, because… oops! It’s there forever! It’s permanent!
And he also thought… thinks that they’re tacky. 
 
So for a good chunk of my early years, I was very anti-tattoo. But now?
Let’s just say I’m not too sad to leave that little girl’s opinion behind me. 
 
That little girl had some messed up opinions. And they were never really even her opinions. 
Her young, simple mind made her simply a parrot. She took in a phrase said by a grown-up and cawed it out proudly like she had thought of it herself. But she did not know what she said. 
It wasn’t until she developed a brain of her own that she pulled off her beak and became a real person. 
 
I know now what I say. I know now what I do. I know now what I believe. 
I am an Artist. 
An Actor. Playwright. Author. Musician. 
I believe in the power of storytelling, and the beauty of language, music, and movement in their many forms as instruments in telling stories. 
I want to tell stories of my own as well as be an aid in telling the stories of others. 
I plan to make storytelling my livelihood.
 
I have grown up. 
I am a grown-up. 
But that is the one thing I do not want to be.

That little girl was a little parrot, yes. With a little bird brain and a little bird beak. 
But she also had a beautiful pair of wings. A thick set of feathers, blue and grey, with flecks of purple and white throughout. They were massive, soft yet powerful, and when she took off into the sky… she would soar.
 
She was happy. She was bold. 
She smiled at everything. She sang at every moment she could. 
She asked questions. She read books. She created worlds.
She gazed with wonder at every tree, every flower, every squirrel and dog and cloud in the sky. 
She jumped into piles of leaves. She made snow angels. She made sand castles. 
She fell and scraped her knees and put disney princess bandaids on them. 

When she was in second grade, she ran onto a stage in a white sheet, and with her arms pinwheeling, performed her very first line: 
“Woah! It’s really windy!”
 
She is not me. 
But I will never let her go. 
 
When I walk precariously on the edge of every single raised curb I’ve ever come across – 
When I sing along to the lyrics of a Beatles song my dad sang as a lullaby – 
When I see a shape in the clouds or itch to pet a dog I see on the street – 
When I come up with a new idea for the book series that I’ve been writing since seventh grade – 
 
That’s her.
I have existed as this specific being on this specific planet for twenty-three years now. 
 
I have created my specific forms of art for twenty-two years now.
 
I have been a decent singer, a bad musician, a worse dancer, a good actor, an excellent writer, an impassioned story-teller, for twenty-two years now. 
 
I have loved music since before I knew what language was. 
I have loved stories since I could begin to understand them. 
I have wanted to be on a stage since I first stood in front of an audience.
I decided to make it my life when I was sixteen. 
 
And since I can remember, I have been questioned, laughed at, condescended to, reasoned with, and questioned again, and again, and again.
 
I am sick of trying to explain myself. I am sick of having the same conversations.
Why don't you try playing more sports? 
I'd rather spend my time in rehearsal... what are you trying to say, here? 
You know you can't make a living like that. 
Why not? 
Why don't you try doing something more constructive? 
I do find this constructive. I'm sorry you don't. 
You'll change your mind when you grow up.
I really don't think I will. 
An artist? Good luck.
Thank you. 
So you just want to be famous?
That is nowhere on the list of things that I've ever wanted. 
Don't forget, you're good at other things too.
Thanks. I know. I won't. But I don't like those things as much. 
Is there anything else you're interested in?
I'm interested in a lot, actually. But this is what I want to do. 
Art is hard. Make sure you have a backup plan. 
There's more to my art than just one thing, you know. 
Be realistic.
I am. 
What makes you think you can do this? 
I don't know!
I just want to!

I do it because I love it. I have always loved it!
 
My art is how I play. 
My art is how I explore, ask questions, gaze with wonder at every tree, every flower, every squirrel and dog and cloud in every sky in every world I find myself in. 
My art is how I laugh and cry and tell stories and live countless lives and hold on to all of those things that I understood in my youth and have since lost sight of.
 
Everything I write is for that little girl who loved stories. 
When I perform, I do it with the same excitement as my second grade self discovering theatre for the first time. 
 
I’m not sure what happens next. 
I know that I want to continue to play. Continue to write, perform, tell stories, create my specific forms of art. I’ll stay in Chicago for a while. Apply to some agencies. Audition as much as I can. 
I would like to make a living off my art, someday. It might take a little while, but I’m ready to put in the effort. 
I want to continue learning. Continue trying new things and exploring new places. Seeing things from new perspectives. Making discoveries about myself and about my art. 
I want to continue to grow, every single day. 
But I will say it again. I do not want to be a Grown Up. 
 
“Grown Up” suggests that the growing is finished. 
 
To finalize the Growing Up is to cease discovery. To cease excitement. To cease curiosity. To shed my beautiful, colorful feathers and replace them with a dull, clipped and lifeless brown. 
The only thing I need to do as a “grown up” is be brave enough to fight the creatures that you need to fight beneath the bed each night. 
But I can still do that as I continue to grow. Being “brave enough” doesn’t mean I can’t get braver. Maybe I’ll meet a new monster I need to fight. 
I will continue to grow. 
But I won’t grow up. 
"All grown-ups were once children. But very few of them remember it." 

I'll make sure I don't forget. 
I hope none of us do. 
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