What I Like About You

I was an acting major in college and my sophmore year we had to take a course called extended techniques. Essentially it was a singing class taught by a man named David Bucknam.


David was one of those wonderful yet utterly terrifying teachers who can look into your soul and no exactly who you are, your weakness, your strengths, your fears. And we knew it and so we both feared and respected his judgement. If he said you had no talent, you knew it was true.

Halfway through my first semester, we had conferences with all our teachers individually. Normally the comments we got were the type of bullshit comments you might expect from a kindergarten teacher-"Good effort, but you need to commit more", "you're really committed to the process", "you're very good at listening and accepting direction." But we all knew David wasn't going to go in for that.

I was one of the first to go into the conference.

The room was a large space usually reserved for dance auditions. The side of the room was lined with mirrors. I had to walk all the way to the end and sit in a chair placed fifteen feet away from the desk.

David was looking down at his papers scowling.

Silence.

I waited for him to tell me I was a talent no good hack and get the fuck out by the end of the end of the day.

He lifted his head and looked me.

He didn't smile.

"Well," he finally said slowly, "You're a busty girl, Bunni. And you're good at it."

"I was unaware that talent was involved," I said.

"I mean, you don't apologize for it. You don't hide or slump."

"I didn't think they were anything I should hide."

"And that's exactly what I like about you."