thedrifter
08-11-06, 04:45 PM
I'll Be Seeing Them...
August 11, 2006
By Kat Voboril
"I'm a hot mess," our second soprano joked as we changed in a pup tent behind the stage before her solo number. Camp LeJuene, North Carolina in July was 98 degrees with near 100% humidity.
My three-woman USO show troupe had a captive audience of 500 marines. They had just finished their infantry training, and were about to head to MOS, or specialty, training. Within six months, most of them will be in Iraq.
Through many costume changes, the fabric stuck to our thighs and stomachs, and lipstick melted all over our white gloves. By the end of the show, we were seeing stars and shaking.
Not that the marines seemed to mind.
They still wanted to kiss us, dance with us, meet us, and laugh and sing with us. It didn't matter to them that our show was mostly comprised of decades-old jazz standards like "I'll Be Seeing You," and schmaltzy show tunes. It didn't matter that I was no Jessica Simpson — that I didn't have those legs in my short, rhinestone-covered skirt.
"When a cute blonde wants to sing for you, come take a picture with you, and ask how your training is going, you don't ask for anything more," our marine host told me. "These guys will talk about the day you girls came to sing to them for the rest of their lives."
*********************
The following week, I sat at my regular job — working at a computer in an air-conditioned office in Manhattan, reading the news online while drinking an iced cappuccino from our espresso machine.
Before joining the USO, I had a naïve (at best) view of the military: I thought they were mostly ignorant meatheads who liked to shoot stuff, and that only officers who used the military to pay for college had anything in common with me.
I know that sounds terrible, but I am being honest.
When we went to war, I sure as hell didn't want to go. And I didn't know anyone who did.
When I was hired for the USO gig, the show's director said, "We go all over the world, but we don't go to Iraq to perform. They're only sending celebrities right now."
"Well...thank God for Kathy Griffin!" I joked. "Whew!"
"After you've done this awhile," the director responded softly, "you'll feel differently."
*********************
After the show, our troupe signed "slicks," or autograph sheets, and then if anyone wanted a picture, we posed with them. Our policy is to take as many pictures, with as many people, as ask.
Jack must have been our 300th photo.
He was from Kentucky. He had true blue eyes. Not greenish, or grayish, or even blueish. Just blue. He was my favorite because he was deliciously polite and exactly the opposite of what he looked like he'd be.
"When did you sign up?" I asked.
"Six months ago."
And in another six, he'll be in Iraq, I thought.
"Why did you sign up?"
He grabbed his bicep, absently rubbing a tattoo of a skull with a smiley face while he thought about it.
"I knew I'd be good at it," he said finally. "I was good at football... but not good enough, you know? I wanted to play for college, but it didn't work out. I miss it. Man oh man, do I miss football."
"Do you miss home?"
"Yeah. But I like these guys, I like this."
"How old are all of you?" I asked the group of marines who had lingered to talk to us after the photos ended.
18. 19. 20. 21.
Jack was 25. They called him "old man."
"Do you want to go to Iraq?" our first soprano asked them.
"Hell YEAH!" they crowed.
"I want to shoot up all those terrorists," said Jack. "Kill them all. Bang, bang — game over!"
Other guys chimed in, talking about how they wanted to kill the bad guys. It's something I've never understood: I'd rather just avoid the bad guys. I shrugged awkwardly when the violent talk started, and suddenly became very interested in signing my name perfectly with the Sharpie marker.
Jack saw me shrink away. "You don't understand," he said calmly.
"We've been training to do this. We know how to do it. We want to go over there and kill these guys so they don't come here." He leaned harder against our table, making his case to me. "If they would just let us fight this war the way we want to, we could win it. Democrats just want to make it into a political war."
I wanted so badly to quote The New York Times and Newsweek jargon from political analysts and explain just how much my bleeding heart liberal friends and I felt our current administration had let them down.
But I didn't. One thing he said rang in my ear: 'We know how to do it.'
Being good at something matters. Knowing how to do a job well matters. The marines we performed for may very well come home and find that there is nothing else in our American society they are quite as good at as fighting a war.
I know how they feel: There is nothing in this world I am quite as good at as singing to someone.
But, in a silver-lined way, the war is good for both of us — both the soldiers who want to fight in it, and the entertainers who want to help them get their minds off the fighting — because we are both needed so desperately.
*********************
Iced cappuccino in hand, I thought of what the USO director had said. Of course, she was right.
Within a few months of performing for the USO, I went from thinking I had nothing to do with military, to realizing we have a very important thing in common: like the soldiers, I want someone to let me do what I know how to do better than almost anyone else.
These soldiers are fighting over there for me, whether or not I agree with it and whether or not I asked them to. They have earned my utmost respect, my sweetest song and my kindest smile. And I know now that I would follow them wherever they had to go, probably even to the front lines of our war on Iraq.
*********************
At the end of the day, the group of marines we'd befriended loaded our costumes into the car, refusing to allow us to lift anything. "Be careful in the big city," Jack told me.
"You too," I said. "Take care of yourself."
As we drove away, lyrics played on a loop in my head: I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places/that this heart of mine embraces, all day through.
I don't think I'll ever sing that song again without seeing those marines waving goodbye, pieces of myself in each and every gangly, sweaty, boyish gesture. I'll be seeing them my entire life.
http://www.backstage.com/backstage/photos/2006/04/KatVoborilColor.jpg
Kat Voboril is a NYC-based musical theatre actress. Originally from Oregon, she is a graduate of Northwestern University and a member of Actor's Equity. She can be reached at backstagekat@gmail.com.
Ellie
August 11, 2006
By Kat Voboril
"I'm a hot mess," our second soprano joked as we changed in a pup tent behind the stage before her solo number. Camp LeJuene, North Carolina in July was 98 degrees with near 100% humidity.
My three-woman USO show troupe had a captive audience of 500 marines. They had just finished their infantry training, and were about to head to MOS, or specialty, training. Within six months, most of them will be in Iraq.
Through many costume changes, the fabric stuck to our thighs and stomachs, and lipstick melted all over our white gloves. By the end of the show, we were seeing stars and shaking.
Not that the marines seemed to mind.
They still wanted to kiss us, dance with us, meet us, and laugh and sing with us. It didn't matter to them that our show was mostly comprised of decades-old jazz standards like "I'll Be Seeing You," and schmaltzy show tunes. It didn't matter that I was no Jessica Simpson — that I didn't have those legs in my short, rhinestone-covered skirt.
"When a cute blonde wants to sing for you, come take a picture with you, and ask how your training is going, you don't ask for anything more," our marine host told me. "These guys will talk about the day you girls came to sing to them for the rest of their lives."
*********************
The following week, I sat at my regular job — working at a computer in an air-conditioned office in Manhattan, reading the news online while drinking an iced cappuccino from our espresso machine.
Before joining the USO, I had a naïve (at best) view of the military: I thought they were mostly ignorant meatheads who liked to shoot stuff, and that only officers who used the military to pay for college had anything in common with me.
I know that sounds terrible, but I am being honest.
When we went to war, I sure as hell didn't want to go. And I didn't know anyone who did.
When I was hired for the USO gig, the show's director said, "We go all over the world, but we don't go to Iraq to perform. They're only sending celebrities right now."
"Well...thank God for Kathy Griffin!" I joked. "Whew!"
"After you've done this awhile," the director responded softly, "you'll feel differently."
*********************
After the show, our troupe signed "slicks," or autograph sheets, and then if anyone wanted a picture, we posed with them. Our policy is to take as many pictures, with as many people, as ask.
Jack must have been our 300th photo.
He was from Kentucky. He had true blue eyes. Not greenish, or grayish, or even blueish. Just blue. He was my favorite because he was deliciously polite and exactly the opposite of what he looked like he'd be.
"When did you sign up?" I asked.
"Six months ago."
And in another six, he'll be in Iraq, I thought.
"Why did you sign up?"
He grabbed his bicep, absently rubbing a tattoo of a skull with a smiley face while he thought about it.
"I knew I'd be good at it," he said finally. "I was good at football... but not good enough, you know? I wanted to play for college, but it didn't work out. I miss it. Man oh man, do I miss football."
"Do you miss home?"
"Yeah. But I like these guys, I like this."
"How old are all of you?" I asked the group of marines who had lingered to talk to us after the photos ended.
18. 19. 20. 21.
Jack was 25. They called him "old man."
"Do you want to go to Iraq?" our first soprano asked them.
"Hell YEAH!" they crowed.
"I want to shoot up all those terrorists," said Jack. "Kill them all. Bang, bang — game over!"
Other guys chimed in, talking about how they wanted to kill the bad guys. It's something I've never understood: I'd rather just avoid the bad guys. I shrugged awkwardly when the violent talk started, and suddenly became very interested in signing my name perfectly with the Sharpie marker.
Jack saw me shrink away. "You don't understand," he said calmly.
"We've been training to do this. We know how to do it. We want to go over there and kill these guys so they don't come here." He leaned harder against our table, making his case to me. "If they would just let us fight this war the way we want to, we could win it. Democrats just want to make it into a political war."
I wanted so badly to quote The New York Times and Newsweek jargon from political analysts and explain just how much my bleeding heart liberal friends and I felt our current administration had let them down.
But I didn't. One thing he said rang in my ear: 'We know how to do it.'
Being good at something matters. Knowing how to do a job well matters. The marines we performed for may very well come home and find that there is nothing else in our American society they are quite as good at as fighting a war.
I know how they feel: There is nothing in this world I am quite as good at as singing to someone.
But, in a silver-lined way, the war is good for both of us — both the soldiers who want to fight in it, and the entertainers who want to help them get their minds off the fighting — because we are both needed so desperately.
*********************
Iced cappuccino in hand, I thought of what the USO director had said. Of course, she was right.
Within a few months of performing for the USO, I went from thinking I had nothing to do with military, to realizing we have a very important thing in common: like the soldiers, I want someone to let me do what I know how to do better than almost anyone else.
These soldiers are fighting over there for me, whether or not I agree with it and whether or not I asked them to. They have earned my utmost respect, my sweetest song and my kindest smile. And I know now that I would follow them wherever they had to go, probably even to the front lines of our war on Iraq.
*********************
At the end of the day, the group of marines we'd befriended loaded our costumes into the car, refusing to allow us to lift anything. "Be careful in the big city," Jack told me.
"You too," I said. "Take care of yourself."
As we drove away, lyrics played on a loop in my head: I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places/that this heart of mine embraces, all day through.
I don't think I'll ever sing that song again without seeing those marines waving goodbye, pieces of myself in each and every gangly, sweaty, boyish gesture. I'll be seeing them my entire life.
http://www.backstage.com/backstage/photos/2006/04/KatVoborilColor.jpg
Kat Voboril is a NYC-based musical theatre actress. Originally from Oregon, she is a graduate of Northwestern University and a member of Actor's Equity. She can be reached at backstagekat@gmail.com.
Ellie