a moment in the day: rice

The music swells, as music tends to do at the opera, and I'm standing on stage with the Admiral and our lady companion watching Cio-Cio San and Lieutenant Pinkerton get married. Matchmaker Goro sings, "Lo sposo" and then "Poi la sposa," and the young new spouses sign the 1904 Japanese equivalent of a marriage certificate. As the photographer steps in with an old fashioned camera to take his shot of bride and groom, I have my reticule ready, filled with the rice I'm going to throw.

There were various notes from the director taped outside people's dressing rooms after Wednesday night's dress rehearsal. Mine said, "Super American Ladies: Can you throw a little less rice? A little goes a long way." So tonight, opening night, I'm trying to remind myself. Don't throw three handfuls, just two.

I've been supering with the Portland Opera on and off for, my god, over ten years. Sharing a dressing room at fifty is very different than sharing a dressing room at thirty-eight. Especially when all your fellow female supers are thirty-eight or far, far younger. There's nowhere to hide with all those dressing room bulb lights on you.

Youth. When I was young and having rice thrown on me at my first wedding—or it was probably birdseed at that point—I was probably prettier than I knew, but I also didn't have a very good relationship with myself. Even on a wedding day in a shower of rice, or birdseed, I assumed that deep down self-hatred I'd carried since being bullied in grade school would always be there. It was, for decades. I think most of what it took to get rid of that—or mostly get rid of that—was age. Simply, finally growing up a bit. And maybe doing things like this. And public readings. Allowing people to see me no matter how awkward I feel in the world. Even in the unforgiving blast of dressing room lights.

Downstage, the photographer flashes his camera. Cio-Cio San and Lieutenant Pinkerton embrace. I reach into my reticule and remind myself: don't throw three handfuls, just two.

Grabbing my first handful, I grab, also, the bottom of the reticule, turning the thing inside out. Rice showers down.

I make a lame toss with what remains in my hand, to half-reach the bride and groom. My lady companion throws her two healthy handfuls, but the rest of my allotment is on the Admiral's shoe.