Each year, Downer presented a spring show in which the four classes presented a skit in competition for a prize that was determined by vote of the entire faculty. I took it upon myself to write a skit for the freshman class about the twelve months of the year, casting twelve of my classmates as the months, one each for January through December. I decided, like most first-time writers, that I would best direct my work and, unlike most first-time writers, I did. After a few rehearsals, I realized that one of the months had been miscast. So, upon the suggestion of the other eleven months, I stepped in since, after all, I had written the lines. My script was shameless and, I’m certain, truly dreadful. I played upon the heartstrings of the audience at this all-girls’ college in the worst way, insisting that as it was wartime, Miss July would sing a rousing and patriotic rendition of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” while bringing Miss December to tears with a sickening romantic poem about missing our servicemen across the ocean, particularly on snowy evenings. In spite of my script and our initial setbacks in casting, we won first prize—the first time the freshman class had ever done so.
Flush with success, I went home that night and informed my mother that I had changed my mind. I no longer wanted to be an aviatrix; I wanted to be an actress. No matter that I had never before shown any interest at all in performing or in even attending the theater. One show, one award and I was certain that I was destined for the stage.
I’ve never forgotten my mother’s response to this ebullient news.
“I’ll have to see you do something,” she said calmly. “I love excellence in the arts and I don’t mind what is terrible. But what I fear the most is mediocrity. It fools and misleads too many people.”
As I was not a member of the drama club, I didn’t know what I could possibly do or show her. I remember, however, that a friend of mine, Sue Esser, was directing some scenes about the wonders of science for presentation at chapel. I went to Sue and begged her to let me play the part of the mother who comes to plead with Dr. Pasteur to give the rabies shot to her son. Sue was completely confused as she, too, had never known me to display any interest in the theater or the drama club. But I cajoled and pleaded with her until she agreed to give me the part. Once I was cast, however, I found it too embarrassing to rehearse. As I recall, I had to enter the stage and beg the student playing Dr. Pasteur in a crepe beard to save my son’s life, finally flinging myself at his feet. Somehow, I learned my lines and blocking. The night of performance, my mother appeared at chapel. From that point I must have been in an absolute state of terror, as I can remember very little of the show or, for that matter, the entire evening.
The next morning, Mother told me that she had seen an ad in a magazine for the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. As neither of us knew anything about schools for actors or where you began—and the Academy had, as they still do today, listed an illustrious group of graduates in their ad—Mother called and made an appointment. An audition was arranged for the coming September that, if I was accepted, would have me entering the Academy in what would have been my junior year at Milwaukee Downer.
Soon after Colleen revealed to her mother her decision to be an actress, her mom bought them tickets to see two plays in Chicago. One of them was "The Glass Menagerie", though at this time, Tennessee Williams was an unknown playwright and Colleen didn’t realize the credentials of the star of the show. She says:
I remember the two of us sitting in the theater, going outside at intermission, and returning to our seats without saying a word. When we went back to the hotel, we still said very little about what we had seen. But the next morning, on the train going back to Milwaukee, there was no way to shut me up. I wanted to reexamine and relive what I had seen all over again. Never had I been able to enter other people’s lives and a home that I didn’t know and be so moved. I had no idea then that not only was I seeing the work of one of the great American playwrights, but also one of the final performances of one of the great creative artists of the American theater, Laurette Taylor. I only knew that I could not forget what I had seen on that stage. I understand now that I had experienced what every playwright, director, and actor wants an audience to experience. I lived and breathed with those characters. I had shared emotionally a complete lifetime with them all. A lifetime that would now always be a part of mine.
The photo above is Colleen's first actor's resume picture. Her inscription says "To my darling Mother. Love, your Colleen."
Source: Colleen Dewhurst: Her Autobiography
