The Black and White

By: Bridget Pouliot

At the risk of sounding like a preacher, I believe continual growth is one of the most important things for humans. Of course, this is coming from someone whose entire world relies on growth and consistent work to improve. My years revolve around a constant loop: work/practice, perform, feedback, repeat. Yet, when growing pains come knocking, it is hard to take pride in progress over the screaming desire to be perfect.

2025 blew in with my usual chaos, albeit in more snowy breezes than January usually contains for me. From Pilgrim Idol to my first script being turned into a short film, I felt dissatisfied with what I was offering to the world. New Year’s typically means a chance to better yourself and follow through with your new goals. Yet, I started the year off with a 101 fever. I was newly 17-year-old, preparing to be a leader once some of my closest friends left at the end of the semester, but I felt the same.

February hit me like a wave crashing onto the shore. I was burnt out at the end of exams, thankful for a class change. I was struggling in chorale with high notes, despite being a soprano. I just kept questioning myself. And then came This Must Be the Place, the spring play. 

I could write books on my junior year straight play – all of the good, the bad, and the very ugly. I have sentences that I’m still shocked actually came out of people’s mouths ringing in my ears. I have the pain I saw in people’s eyes permanently ingrained in my memory, and the suffocating feeling from those three months haunts my lungs. The things I wished I’d said, not heard, and done differently – the stuff I wish I could’ve changed and the impact of my actions I hoped would be enough, though I knew inwardly wasn’t – left me scared to ever go back to another theatre. 

But I also live with stronger skin and a sense of right and wrong that greatly benefited me in following theatre situations. Yes, I left that show with so much anger. However, I left with the knowledge that I survived that and the strength to ensure nothing like that ever happens to someone again. No student, no cast or crew member, no director.

After recovering from the spring show and an upset at Rhode Island Music Educator Association’s (RIMEA) annual Choral Festival, I learned to trust myself – to breathe, bend my knees, and float above all of the emotions I was feeling. I will never forget the countless times Mrs. Soares worked with one of my close friends, Kaylee Lowe, and I on our duet in I Carry Your Heart With Me, and I will never forget the feeling of finally succeeding with the duo on concert night. The feeling of triumph resides in my heart with the melody of the piece, as well as the love for last year’s chorale.

The spring concert brought on a number of heavy emotions: devastation at the class of 2025 leaving (even though we all knew they were ready to move on), the terrifying feeling of now being the oldest grade in the building, and then, more news. I think I won’t ever forget crying so hard I gave myself a fever after finding out the drama club I had known wouldn’t be the same as it was ever again. There are days when I still can’t look into the eyes of some people I used to be friends with, and the vast majority of people will never know, find out, or understand all I know and feel. But, in my heart, I’d seen it coming, even if that fact did little to cushion the fall.

Summer washed into my life with a change, albeit not in the way people expected. Most people think of summer as relaxing. Me? I had four summer camps lined up, starting the week after school ended. But I loved it. The first one was a camp my film company, Kids With A Camera (also called KWAC – like the sound a duck makes), was running at Warwick Center for the Arts. We put a script together in four days with the seven children (ages 9-13) who signed up, filmed it, edited it, and put on a premiere on the Thursday of the week. Not only did the kids love it (especially the blooper reel, which was longer than the actual film), but my friends and I loved it. The camp was a true testament to what we, from ages 9 to 19, can do as a team, and it was so incredible to help kids learn to love filmmaking.

After a road trip with friends to Niagara Falls and family week, it was time for my three consecutive weeks of camps. It started off with the MIRIC Choral Intensive. MIRIC was nothing short of amazing. From the exponential growth I saw in my brother, who gained so much confidence, to the impact it had on me, I am forever grateful that I went. The part that stood out to me the most was the opportunity to surprise Mrs. Soares with a quintet where five Pilgrim people sang. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life, but my rhythmic accuracy is so much stronger because I struggled through the process to learn the competing rhythms on my part. And nothing was better than laughing with my friends (Allie Cameron, Sam Norcini, Kaylee Lowe, and Andrew Pouliot – the other four parts of the quintet) as we plotted our surprise for our choral director.

Unlike the beginning of July up to MIRIC, late summer was hard for me. Next Stop Broadway was different this year; weirdly disparate. Budget cuts made the program almost unrecognizable, and the loss of some of our favorite staff members made some kids I’d known for years act in ways I cannot forget. The new intensive, Encore, was not what I’d hoped it would be either, and I was stuck, unable to even ride in the car without feeling immensely sick because I didn’t have time to get to my doctor to check my ears.

In those months, the theatre became stressful. Unsafe. I watched some friends turn an exciting opportunity for one of the new Next Stop staff members into a nightmare for him. I’d known him prior – I (as a freshman) did community theatre with him (as a senior) briefly before I quit the production due to external circumstances – and although I didn’t love his teaching style, it hurt to see his reactions to senseless jokes; reactions the others were somehow blind to. The growth came in at the final night of the camp, the dress rehearsal, when another joke was made – purposely loud enough for him to hear after he performed his heart out for us – and I finally snapped at them to stop. Later, I came back into the dressing room to one of my closest friends saying, “I love Bridget, but I’m going to keep making those jokes”. It was almost like I was right back in This Must Be the Place.

I think a lot about how I will never forget the glare I received when I lectured the people I’d thought to be my friends on the fact that their jokes had crossed a line. They were really hedging into bullying territory. I told them I wouldn’t let them make another person feel unsafe in the theatre after my last show. But I will also never forget the guilt from the upset look in the staff member’s eyes. I would take the glares for speaking my peace in place of the apology I wished my friends would’ve given him.

The transition to senior year came with the changing of the leaves’ colors. It was a weird shift. I wasn’t any different, but I felt taller, more confident. 

Not jumping straight into a musical was bizarre, but also freeing. I think a lot about how my senior year is so vastly different from what I’d imagined it would be, and it is sad sometimes. However, many doors with incredible opportunities have opened for me because I have the time. I’m on the executive board of Pilgrim’s chapter of the National Honor Society, I’m the Communications Officer of Pilgrim’s Future Business Leaders of America, I work (I greatly enjoy having money and getting to talk to customers), and the things I’m most proud of; being a leader and officer in chorus and being the Editor in Chief of The Pilgrim Black and White.

Despite not being in a musical, the autumn months have brought much music. From an All-Eastern audition to Chorale’s usual carols and Patriots Honoring Patriots to All-State and college auditions, I live with music constantly playing in my mind. Of course, this proves challenging due to my ears. It’s a tale that never ends; like one of those awful pop songs (Watermelon Sugar, anyone?) that keeps getting stuck in your head, even when you’re so tired of it.

“Surgery is inevitable” is what I’ve been told in regards to my ears. October brought a new specialist, an appointment filled with hope that stuck with me as I left, for the first time in years. December brought a visit I’m more familiar with: one where I leave in pain due to how much I’ve cried. And the New Year will bring a new specialist (“the top dog”), who hopefully won’t tell me that my eardrum didn’t rupture two weeks after my pediatrician looked into my ears and saw a gaping tear. 

I am scared in many ways to leave high school. As a soon-to-be music major (and a second major in communications), the fact that I have so much trouble distinguishing bass notes is a problem. It’s immensely frustrating. But I give a lot of credit to my AP Music Theory teacher, Mr. Reed, and, as always, my chorus teacher, Mrs. Soares. I don’t know how he hasn’t given up yet when my listening scores are so low, or how she wasn’t exasperated by the same tune of me coming to her crying because two days after I finished my medication to protect my ears, my eardrum ruptured again, but I’m grateful. Endlessly, eternally grateful.

My senior year has looked nothing like I’d imagined, but I know my freshman self is so proud. I am not the perfect person; not the drama club officer who has all the patience in the world for shenanigans, but I am taking care of myself, others, and getting everything done that I need to. From the support of my teachers to my family members, I’ve grown into a person who thinks auditioning is fun (to an extent). I received my first music scholarship offer the other day, I was accepted into the American Choral Director Association’s All-Eastern SSAA choir, and I placed 1st out of the sopranos in RIMEA’s All-State. I even got to perform a solo to “Do You Hear What I Hear” (yes, it’s ironic – please laugh) and not only sang it, but signed it in ASL as well. And I’m so proud of that. 

I’m not as terrified to leave Pilgrim anymore; I’m excited. Not to leave my people and my mom, but to continue to grow.

I think my mom looks at me sometimes and sees the small kid singing Queen songs at the school talent show. And I think it’s often hard for her to imagine that six days into the new year, that baby will be a legal adult. But I think she’s also proud. Not just because she no longer has to listen to that child imitate guitar riffs orally, but because she’s so proud of that kid and how she grew like a weed.