YOU WILL NEVER BE AN ACTRESS; YOU'LL ALWAYS JUST BE THE GIRL IN THE BACK

Of all the schools in New York, none was more prestigious for drama than the John Murray Anderson-Robert Milton School of the Theatre and Dance. One could tell its importance at a glance, from its imposing Georgian facade on East 58th Street, through its elaborate wrought-iron gates, and into its elegant foyer with parquet floors, wing chairs, and mahogany tables.

Its founders and faculty were legends. Producer John Murray Anderson was a theatrical giant on two continents. Directors Robert Milton, David Burton, James Light, and Frederick Stanhope were immensely respected masters of their craft. And so, the school became a mecca for innumerable aspiring actors, directors, playwrights, and designers—including one profoundly shy teenager named Diane Belmont.

To many of the students, Diane was known simply as "the girl in the back." So intimidated by the torrent of talent around her, she would often stand at the rear of the classroom or hide behind stage scenery, watching performances in quiet awe. Among the school's gifted pupils was a young firebrand named Bette Davis, whose original ideas and forceful delivery riveted everyone’s attention. Diane, the girl in the back, wished with all her heart to be like Bette. She never could, and so, eventually, did everyone else in the school.

Finally, one day, co-founder Robert Milton called Diane into his office. He was clearly exasperated.

"What on Earth brought you here in the first place?" he asked.

Diane thought for a moment, but she could not bring herself to tell Mr. Milton the rest of the story. For only a short while ago, she had been a soda jerk at a Walgreens. After being fired for leaving the banana out of a banana split, she resolved to try another line of work—something exciting, like modeling or acting. She did, in fact, land a part-time job modeling for the fashion designer Hattie Carnegie. It was then she had changed her name to Diane Belmont. But her true love was musical theater, and she thought that if only she were properly trained, she might be good enough to appear on Broadway someday.

That last part—the part about Broadway—was all she confessed to Mr. Milton.

The renowned director scowled. He thundered, "You will never be an actress, young lady! Not on Broadway, nor anyplace else!" He proceeded to enumerate the reasons: her frozen, awkward manner; her impenetrable shyness; her inescapable Midwestern accent; her obvious lack of talent.

"You will always be the girl in the back," Mr. Milton declared. "I'm writing a letter to your mother. I will confide in her that your tuition is a waste of money and that your presence in this school is a waste of time. Now," he added, "please go home."

Utterly humiliated, and believing every word he had said, Diane went home to her mother. She spent the following weeks moping, sulking around the house, and writing lugubrious poetry.

And oh, yes—she changed her name again. She gave up "Diane Belmont" and went back to her real name: Lucille Ball.

Only now, you know the rest of the story.