“Every Brilliant” Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience

I traveled to New York for the first time in maybe 13 years—back to the Big City as my girl’s plus-one for the premiere of an exciting new HBO show called Rooster that she has a small role in as an actor.

Two California girls bundled up for a different type of March madness, we were determined to see what we could in our three short days there with a forecast that predicted 29-degree temps, complete with sleet.

“We have to see at least one show while we’re here,” my girl insisted.

“Of course we do! My vote is Great Gatsby—the music and the glitz and the glam…”

“Nooo,” she argued. “We have to see Daniel Radcliffe in Every Brilliant Thing. He plays a boy whose mom battles severe depression and he comes up with a list of a million little things that make life worth living.”

“Absolutely not. I am not doing the ugly cry in a public theater,” I insisted.

“The whole point of theatre is to make you feel something,” she countered.

Ugh.

 I bought the tickets for the Wednesday matinee – two days away – and we darted off to log our 17,000 steps for the day, traversing Central Park and the Met. 

When we returned to our hotel, I declared to my daughter, “I am so glad to be 58 years old and have no shame in wearing clunky running shoes everywhere I go here.”

“You, go, girl,” she validated.

On Tuesday, it rained all day, and we spent our time at MOMA and getting ready for the red carpet, screening, and after party for the premiere. It was a thrill and a joy, but it was not without stress. Would I embarrass her by coming across too proud that she was working with people whom we have long admired on our televisions?           

When we got back to our hotel, I buzzed, “How was that real?” I then followed up by saying, “I am so glad we have tomorrow to just be tourists and see the show. It will be so relaxing after tonight.”

The next morning, as I dressed myself in my dark denim trousers, a chevron-striped white and navy blouse, and my proud, clunky navy running shoes, I had a dilemma. Did I wear my dirty navy socks or my clean black ones? I reasoned that clean was best because no one would even see my socks. (Please hold this thought.)

When we arrived to the Hudson Theater, the place was just starting to fill with eager patrons. We found our seats and soon noticed that The Daniel Radcliffe – who captured our hearts as Harry Potter throughout our daughters’ childhoods – and his producer were flitting around the theater, engaging with people and taking photos. How refreshing to see how accessible he is to his fans, I thought.

After a few minutes, his producer Dave stopped to talk with my daughter and me. Tate had a card in her program that read “1092. The awkward dance of non-verbally negotiating whether it’s going to be a hug or a handshake.” Dave saw her card and asked if we were comfortable being part of the show. 

Tate nodded and I pointed to her, saying, “She’s your girl. I’m way too emotional for this and didn’t even bring a Kleenex.”

Dave seemed content with this response and carried on his way. But a minute or two later, he came back with Daniel. At this point, I was too starstruck to remember what we said, but I know I said something. Because after I stopped talking, Daniel turned to Dave and said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Dave nodded in agreement.

They ran off again, but Dave came back and invited us to the seating surrounding the stage. I was nervous to go up there, but since I didn’t even have a card in my program, I thought, What could they possibly expect from me?

They took my daughter aside and apparently said to her, “We picked your mom because she seems kind. Do you know if she knows any jokes?” Tate verified my kindness and reported that I do not tell jokes. They asked her to have a knock-knock joke in her back pocket just in case.

Lights down, the show started. Daniel set up the scenario true to my daughter’s explanation to me. The show was about a boy attempting to convince his severely depressed mom that life was worth living. 

In the show, the boy’s mother attempted to take her own life when he was seven years old. His teacher was worried about him, so she sent him to meet with the school’s counselor who doubled as the library clerk.

Before I knew it, a spotlight illuminated Daniel and me, his apparent counselor, Mrs. Patterson. He established that said counselor became the highlight of his days, mentioning how quirky she was in having the habit of kicking off one shoe during their sessions. 970 sets of eyes were now looking at my clunky running shoes. In. A. Historic. Theater. In. New York City. 

Daniel continued fondly, “Mrs. Patterson would then take off her sock and place it on her hand as a sock puppet.”  I now wore my own sweaty, non-matching black sock on my hand.

And then, Daniel added, “She would always tell me a joke,” while looking at me expectantly.

I moved my puppet hand as if it were speaking and confessed, “I’m afraid I only know inappropriate jokes.” The crowd laughed at either my quip or the panicked expression on my face.

My daughter had googled a knock-knock joke, so when Daniel asked for her to help me, we recited, “Knock, knock. Who’s there? Europe? Europe who? No, you’re a poo.” The audience cheered us on and Daniel replied, “That Mrs. Patterson just knew the perfect joke for a 7-year-old boy.” 

The spotlight left me and I put my sock and shoe back on, allowing myself to become more fully engrossed with the unfolding story of the show. Just when our hearts were too heavy with this boy’s truth, Daniel would call out a number from his list of reasons for living and someone from the audience, who held the card with that number, would belt out the reason. The list included everything from ice cream, palindromes, and Keanu Reeves to bubble wrap, chocolate, and waking up with someone you love. 

Eventually, though, as the boy’s mother’s condition worsened, she took her own life. He was in his twenties by then and was experiencing depression of his own along with this tremendous grief. Without warning, Daniel declared, “I couldn’t think of what else to do, so I reached out to Mrs. Patterson.”

This time, I was so with this character that my face was soaked with tears, my breathing accelerated and audible, and the lone Kleenex I’d found in my purse was ravaged.

“Mrs. Patterson, do you remember me?” he asked.

“Of course I remember you,” I choked out.

“What was I like as a kid?”

Through more tears, “I remember you were worried about darkness, but you had a light too.”

“So, I was happy?”

“Yes,” I offered, unsure if that was what he would want me to say.

“I really should talk to someone,” he said, looking into my eyes.

Barely able to speak, wiping away tears, I offered, “I think you should probably talk to someone more qualified than me.”

Our eyes were locked. He paused. “I think you are more qualified than you realize.”

I sobbed. Then, the show continued and once the lights went up, I put my shoe back on and looked at Tate like, What in the hell just happened?

The producer found us and a few others who had unsuspecting parts in the show and invited us backstage so Daniel could thank us. The surrealism continued as we embraced Daniel and took photos with him. He even commended my joke from our second exchange onstage. When he asked if I remembered the joke I used tell him when he was a kid, I responded by asking, “How old are you now?” as if to see if it would now be okay to tell him one of my inappropriate jokes. (But I did not. My joke was not okay for a matinee.)

After our exchange, a stagehand led us through a back door where throngs of fans were waiting to take photos with Daniel. Their eyes all searched the door as we exited, expecting to see Daniel. I thoroughly expected to disappoint them, but – to my absolute surprise and delight – people complimented my “wonderful performance” and asked if I was an actor. I laughed loud and replied, “No, I’m just an empath who needs to go home.” They laughed with me and one kind man said to Tate, “Is that your mom?” When she nodded, he continued, “You are so lucky. She has such a beautiful heart.” As we shuffled away, another woman stopped to tell me how much I moved her with my “performance.” 

What on earth?!

Once I returned home to my real life, I realized why that experience was so special. The unexpectedness of it all made it unique, since I ordinarily sign up for any cool experience I seek. They don’t ever just fall in my lap. And, of course, interacting with a celebrity who has long been special to our family was so cool too. But perhaps the best takeaway for me is that I have spent 58 years being shamed and ashamed for my tears, to the point that I try to avoid situations where my tears are likely to spill. The thing about this once-in-a-lifetime experience is that I think I was selected because of my tender heart, not despite it. So, this experience didn’t just fill me up once—it has taught me that being fully myself opens me up to untold adventure from here on out.