Supporting Actor
In life, there are stars
and there are supporting actors.
Before I realized I was one of those daughters
anxiously pacing stage left, right, and center,
too consumed by her own direction
to even see your cues,
before all that, I was convinced I was the star
of my own 18-season teenage drama.
Once, I left to see my friend who soon moved halfway across the world
after telling you I was taking out the trash.
He was a co-star, Best Friend #2, in Season 14, I think.
Once, I choked on a Ritz cracker,
but was too lazy to fill up a glass of water
and instead stole your morning filter coffee.
Once, my brother was cast as twins
for the episodes filmed in India.
In one scene, he played Generic Short & Annoying Sibling,
the center of attention at my grandfather’s house.
Skip ahead a few scenes,
and he was alone crying in the middle of the night,
still annoying, but annoying
as My Biggest Responsibility #1.
Once, I came to realize my brother was not actually a twin.
Now, I play Burnt Out High School Senior
who writes poems for her AP Literature class.
But Ma, don’t think that I’m dragging away,
I’ve learnt from the best.
The most important skill
a supporting actor must posses is constantly stepping
to advance the plot.
I’ve stepped into maturity.
Stepped into praise.
Stepped into guilt.
Stepped out of praise.
Stepped into rage.
Stepped into longing.
Stepped into drama.
Stepped into wronging.
Stepped into hate.
Stepped in a haze.
Stepped into fear,
Stepped into-- wait, there’s something you need to hear,
there’s this recurring scene at sets with a school fair
that brings upon thoughts I’ve held so dear,
I could never dare
tell you.
Kid From School #99 stared at you uncomfortably,
somewhere around Season 7 or 8,
and when we went home,
I heard you ask yourself
“What I did I do to deserve this?”
If I hadn’t listened to the Big Director in the sky,
to his pleas of understanding and patience,
then that’s game over. That’s madness.
That’s channeling
purebred anger. That’s justice. That’s
greater than seeking vengeance.
That’s spilled blood.
That’s rancor. That’s lower
your damn stare,
the stare that angers me the most,
lurking everywhere except
beyond the doorsteps of Home Sweet Home,
where we sit in the living room
and watch Rush Hour 2 for the hundredth time.
In this life, there are stars
and there are supporting actors.
I would paint my wall hot pink a thousand times for you
if it meant you’d finally know
how much it means to be your supporting actor.
Everytime I step out when it rains,
I remember the good times.
I can see you lead me out to the balcony--
“Smile”
you’d say as the rain brushed my hair
leaving tiny dotted blessings,
and I’d begin to smile as I saw you smile behind the camera.
I want to believe it’s golden hour now, like it was then.
When my role changes
and we get older, farther, and closer together,
I really just want you to know
that perhaps in my low-budget teenage drama,
perhaps all along,
you were my biggest star.
Author’s Note:
The idea of familial relationships and finding meaning in the various little details that strengthen such relationships is a theme shared by Tomás Q. MorÃn’s “Stunt Double” in which a father reflects on his upbringing and how that empowers his relationship with his son. “Supporting Actor” arrives to a similar sentiment as “Stunt Double” in regards to reflecting on the experience of being, but through a different perspective being from a child to a parent, seeing their parents as other humans living life for the first time too, contrasting the the idea of sacrifice or “falling” as portrayed from a parent to their child, seen in MorÃn’s work. Both works contemplate the nature of life by finding value in having relationships with others.