I came across this personal essay that I wrote almost 23 years ago. I sent it to my mother during my first semester of college (the first time around) and my father came across it while cleaning out their house and brought it to me last year. I’ve edited and condensed, but I have left the majority of it intact for a very specific reason: it contains more of a hopeful spirit than I ever remember having during that time in my life. I have a single paper copy, so I will have to type it out.
Here goes, the first paper I ever wrote.
(No, really, it was. I was homeschooled and while parts of my education were amazing, there were…gaps. So I started freshman written comp class having never written a paper in my life. It was stressful.)
Mary’s Song
Embarrassing moments are a worldwide phenomenon. Everyone has at least one or two stories of humiliation to tell. My most embarrassing moment came early in my life, and it had a profound affect on me. I learned things from it that some adults have yet to learn. In the hope that my experience can show something positive about life, here is my story.
Bear with me a moment while I set the stage. I was eleven and painfully shy, and it was nearly Christmas; time for that annual childhood horror: The Church Christmas Pageant. I think most people can understand what a trauma this can be to a young child, especially a shy one. I was a good little church girl, so of course I was expected to take part. I went to the first rehearsal, where I was cast as an angel. It was my dream part. Being an angel meant that I would be on stage a maximum of three times, and I would have no lines.
The first few weeks of rehearsal went without a hitch. But then it happened: Michelle, the girl cast to play Mary (mother of Jesus), got scared and quit the pageant. I could not blame her; none of us could. The part of Mary included an a cappella solo. That would have scared any of us, especially me, but I didn’t really think about it until after the director casually asked if I could sing. And I said “yes.” Again, without thinking. It’s amazing how my entire life could be doomed with that one word. I had never done anything quite so stupid. Before I knew it, my angel wings were swapped for a blue robe and a terrifying solo.
As I began practicing the solo, I realized that I could bring something new to the role of Mary: total abject terror. I am not kidding; it gave me nightmares. Whenever I closed my eyes, I pictured something horrible and embarrassing happening. Little did I know that the reality was to be much worse.
Two days before the performance and I thought I knew my lines, both for the song and for the dialogue. I practiced continuously throughout the day and went to bed with a slight sore throat, I thought because of all my singing. When I woke the next morning, I had a fever of 102.8. My father examined me, and I got tested. I had laryngitis and the flu. My mom called the director and told him I could not be in the pageant. He panicked. He said there was no one else, no understudy, no one who could learn the lines and music in time. He begged me to do it anyway. For some reason, my mom let me decide. I felt so guilty, so I said yes. I spent the next day and a half in bed, trying to convince my mom I was ok to go. During that time I did not practice. So when the big night came, I was horribly ill and totally unprepared.
My parents packed me up and hauled me to the church. I curled up in a corner, oblivious to the hubbub around me. It did not hit me until half an hour before show time that I would have to get up in front of a large crowd and sing when I could not even talk. I realized with horror that there was no backing out now. I sat miserably in my little corner as everyone else got ready. I found myself praying the world would end and save me the trouble of humiliating myself to death.
It was almost time for the performance. Several overly helpful ladies discovered that I was not yet dressed, so in a very short time, I was fully costumed; they steered me toward the door, up the stairs, and into position. The curtain rose. I croaked my way through the opening scene with the help of an awkwardly held microphone. I had a short break during the second scene, but before I knew it, I was back on stage.
The angel told me the blessed news (the one time in all Christianity that pregnancy out of wedlock wasn’t condemned) and departed. I was alone, trapped under the burning spotlight. I sat on the edge of the low stage, clutching the microphone, waiting for the music to start. Then I remembered: there was no music. It was all up to me.
I opened my mouth to start the first verse. Literally nothing happened. Not a squeak, not a sigh, not a whisper. Nothing. I tried again. The first word was barely audible and on the second, my voice cracked. I got through the very first line, and then with my throat on fire, I began the second. No improvement. I croaked and gasped my way through that line. By the time I finished the first verse, I had no voice left, only choked whispers. One down. Two to go.
I began the second verse. I was sweating profusely, very aware that hundreds of eyes were focused on me. The only light I would see was the spotlight in my face, but suddenly I could make out small red lights scattered throughout the crowd. I nearly stopped in horror as I realized that they belonged to video cameras, all focused on me, recording every humiliating moment. I warbled and screeched my way through the rest of the second verse.
By the time I started the third and (thank God) final verse, I was in tears. My throat had never hurt so badly. I sobbed my way through that last hideous verse, praying that God would be merciful and just end my life right then and there. That would serve the director right, I thought, having my tortured soul expire right there in the spotlight. My voice stopped entirely on the last note and my gasping died away. I looked out on the crowd and it seemed that everywhere I looked, all I could see were camera lights and faces full of pity, which just made everything worse. The last thing I remembered on that stage was the sensation of tears, rolling down my face.
Even though my solo was early in the show, I have pretty much no memory of the rest of the performance or the gathering after. I was told afterwards that my father came and literally picked me up and carried me to the car.
It was not until I awoke the next morning that I remembered what had happened. That’s when it really hit me: I had just totally humiliated myself in front of our entire church. Not just our entire church, but our church filled to capacity with the Christmas Crowd. Not to mention countless video cameras for repeated viewing. I seriously wished that I would die.
I didn’t, obviously. I survived that horrible night. And I slowly came to realize that it was not my fault. As I look back at it now, sometimes it is funny, and sometimes I still want to cry. And I learned some things from it. I learned that no matter how bad it gets, it can always get worse. Seriously, I did learn something: we may think we have humiliated ourselves when really all we have done is been victims of our circumstances. So we should not take life quite so seriously. Enjoy our triumphs and our mistakes. Laugh in the face of danger, that type of thing. Most of the time, we will live through it, even when we wish we wouldn’t.
Holy shit. Looking back on this, feeling forced into an awful situation because it was what I felt I had to do, that’s all I’ve ever done. I was put into a situation that I should never have been in because an adult required it of me, and I didn’t feel I could say no. And no one stepped in to protect me. When I was a child. This is my entire life.
Ok, this was unexpected. I set out to share an old story that seemed humourous, and instead I ripped open a wound I didn’t know I had. And it hurts. This happened to me so many times in my life; I should have been protected, held, comforted, safe, but I was alone, a child trying to navigate a big complicated adult world. So many things never should have happened to me.
And. That. Hurts.
No, this was not a life or death situation, I get that. But it was physically and emotionally painful and deeply upsetting. And it’s also a lot easier to talk about than some of the other examples, which, by the way, are flooding back to me right now.
Yeah, this is going to require more exploration.
After I go hug a teddy bear for a few hours.