Fame, I'm Gonna Live Forever

In high school, I was sad.

I wasn’t prettier, or funnier, or cuter, or smarter than anyone else. I went to New Trier, a big, fancy high-school on the North Shore. I had a nice group of friends, mostly theater geeks, all girls (except for our one gay guy friend, you had to be the one to ask him to the dances early, or else you weren’t getting a date at all). We hung out in the theater hallway, spent our lunches making each other laugh with made-up monologues and Rocky Horror references.

We were dorks, and I wasn’t even alpha of the dorks, definitely a beta dork, and often was relegated to the back of everything.

But we were successful in theater. We danced and sang and acted. Most of these friends are still doing these things today.

And I did it too, or tried. I tried to get into plays or get good parts like my friends were getting. Often I was left behind, a sad alto singing with the rest of the chorus while my friends at least garnered some respect out front.

In my sophomore year I auditioned for one of our school plays, Story Theater. Story Theater acted out old myths and fairy tales, even a Shel Silverstein piece. It was an all class show, meaning freshmen to seniors could audition, and only a few limited people would make it, mostly seniors. It was directed by Mr. Routenberg, one of the four theater teachers there. I auditioned. And he cast me. And it was a coup. My friends were shocked, I was shocked. I eventually even got to be friends with the cool seniors (like Andy Berman from Wonder Years fame), and honestly, it changed my life.

Mr. Routenberg put his trust in me another time, making me the grandmother in a modern version of Tartuffe. My role was small, but he gave me the freedom to be hilarious, and I was, for maybe the first time in my life.

A friend and I went back to see Mr. Routenberg a few years ago for his retirement. He remembered both of us, and we laughed. His quiet, constant manner still outshining the pressures of a roster of high-intensity teachers.

I found out today Mr. Routenberg passed away.

I never went much for teachers, don’t remember their names or their impact, especially from high school, but I remember his. He honestly changed my life forever, he gave me a sense of pride at 16 that I had no idea existed, he led me on a path to funny I’ve been following all my life.

And I thank him for it.