A Star Is Born

As soon as my First-Grade teacher told us there was going to be a Talent Show, there was little doubt in my mind that I would have a starring role.  Contained within my earliest memories was the certainty that I had talent. 

“You are a born artist,” my grandmother exclaimed when I presented her with a tempera paint interpretation of a lopsided blue square house with a red triangle roof and orange parallelogram windows. 

“You could be a prima ballerina one day,” said my mother as I twirled around the den until I fell into the ottoman, dizzy and as yet unaware of the practice of spotting.

Clearly my voice was also exceptional. Afterall, I was given a solo at kindergarten graduation and was well on my way to being a renowned singer-songwriter as my piece was an original. Thank You God For Everything was sung to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, otherwise known as The ABC Song. My chart-topping Hit of 1971 concluded with a request for forgiveness when we’re bad, which likely warmed the hearts of the parents in the pews at Westminster Presbyterian church as I held my hands in prayer under my construction paper mortarboard. Certainly, it was plain to see they had witnessed the profound piety of a prodigy. My parents beamed at the church hall reception as they nibbled their oatmeal cookies and sipped sherbet punch.

         So, when Mrs. Aiken told the class about the upcoming Talent Show, my mind began swirling with possibilities. I could break out my baton or my hula hoop! I’d mastered an impressive driveway dance atop my Hasbro Romper Stompers, kind of a prequel to the Broadway hit Stomp, only two decades too early.

Ah, but I had my new red ballet costume from my first recital. Simple satin and tulle with a row of silver sequins across the chest, it was my favorite piece of clothing. Clearly my classmates at Henry Adams Elementary deserved the opportunity to see me sparking in cinnamon spice magnificence in the multi-purpose room with its curtained off stage that was filled with playground equipment when not used for performances. Those curtains held the stale scents of a dozen years of meatloaf and fish sticks from the adjacent cafeteria kitchen.

         I immediately went to work on my choreography, choosing the most balletic album in my parent’s record collection, The Nutcracker Suite. I decided my song would be The Spanish Dance. It was less than 2 minutes long and I was able to incorporate all the relevés, sautes and battement tendus that I’d learned in my seven months of intensive, once-a-week, half-hour ballet lessons.

         My heart was pounding at the audition as I handed the assistant principal my album and told him the song I’d be dancing to. I arabesqued my little heart out and secured a spot in the line-up, further confirming, in my mind, that I was clearly gifted at my craft, though there is a good chance that anyone who wanted to perform made the cast.

         On the evening of the Talent Show, the multi-purpose room echoed with folding chairs squeaking on the linoleum and voices of parents, grandparents, classmates and much, much older kids with feet twice the size of mine in my tiny pink ballet slippers. I hadn’t thought about who would be watching me. I’d never considered that an audience might not love my every move. 

I peeked out from between the dusty green curtains to get an idea of where my parents were sitting when I saw him. The neighborhood bully, Ritchie Brown, who had chosen a front row seat next to a group of other giant fourth graders, clearly ready to heckle the heck out of anyone daring enough to take the stage. I adjusted my routine in my head, plotting how I might spend more time dancing upstage and away from his grimacing, puffed pink face.

         My heart pounded as I stood backstage, waiting for the first castanet clicks of Tchaikovsky’s Spanish “Hot Chocolate” dance and when the music started, I tippytoed across the back of the stage then twirled in an unruly ruckus of ruby tulle for the full two minutes. But the music didn’t stop. Whoever was in charge of the record must have gotten distracted so I persisted in pirouetting. As long as there was music, I figured the show must go on. And on. And on.

         I briefly forgot my intention to avoid spending any time downstage and spun toward the audience where Ritchie and his friends shouted “Boo!” “You can’t dance!” and “Get off the stage!” 

A lump caught in my throat as I petit jetéd my way back to my comfort zone. I turned up my smile to mask the tears tickling my eyelashes.

I hadn’t choreographed the next steps, so I used every dance move I could think of, arabesquing through the nearly four minutes of the Arabian Dance, then chasséing through the minute-long Chinese dance, and then I spent another minute rond de jambe-ing in Russia. I was rotating through the Reed Pipes when the audio person must have realized that the six-year-old on stage had been repeating her repertoire for eight full minutes at this point. The album finally scratched to indicate the end of my performance. Out of breath, I curtsied to polite and likely relieved applause, then tiptoed off the stage, knowing that when I saw my parents, I’d get a good review.

As told at Story Salon on Wednesday, May 14, 2025 when the theme was "I Thought The Night Would Never End."