When I was six-years-old I had the solo in our Elementary Christmas concert (yes, Christmas – North Dakota doesn’t follow the rules of political correctness.)
I had beat out Jenny Clarys fair and square for the part when our music teacher pulled my name out of a hat – not hers. First grade is cruel. (Little did I know that was a pretty good indicator on how they cast things in Hollywood.)
I prepared for the role with seriousness. I was sure people were going to be impressed with my brilliant interpretation.
Our song was a cute, six-year-old-appropriate tune about kids riding a sleigh and falling off until there was only one child left. I was that child.
Clearly, this was going to change lives.
It came at the end, was set to the tune of “Shave and A Haircut,” and went a little something like this:
Nobody left. Boo-hoo.
I KNOW!
Are you weeping from being overwhelmed by brilliance?
Well, pull yourself together.
The big night came and I was ready. I wore my nicest dress, my glasses were polished, and my hair was pulled back with a giant bow.
The Kindergartners were the first to perform.
I scoffed at their childish rendition of “Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer” and resisted the urge to boo.
I glance over at the audience. They were clearly not prepared for the brilliance I was going to bring to this auditorium. A standing ovation was sure to follow.
We approached the stage and I took my place in the dead center.
The song moved along quickly and I was ready. I wasn’t even nervous. I knew I was going to bring the house down.
Finally, it was just me.
I heard my lead-in notes, stepped up to the microphone, and with all the pain, despair, and longing my six-year-old self could muster, sang my little heart out.
Nobody left!!! Boo-hoo!!!!
I waited.
Waited for the applause, the tears, the accolades.
Instead, they laughed.
LAUGHED.
And said things like, “Isn’t she sweet.” And “Oh, that was precious.”
PRECIOUS???
I’m pouring my heart out here people!!!
My face immediately changed from satisfaction to utter dismay and embarrassment.
Suddenly the lights were too bright and I wanted to hide away forever. I felt tears pushing at the back of my eyes and I struggled to get away.
I saw my mom in the audience and I could tell she knew exactly what was happening. I sniffled my way back to my seat to watch the rest of the pageant but couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
I had failed. I was going to quit acting. From that moment on I decided to pursue my backup plan:
Animal Trainer.
I know, solid planning, right?
On the car ride home, I was silent. I could tell my parents wanted to help but didn’t quite know how to talk their crazy, unrealistic, six-year-old daughter off the ledge.
Finally, my mom spoke up.
Jessica, you did such a good job tonight.
I grunted.
You are a very talented actress.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
Well then why did everyone LAUGH AT ME?!?!?
I felt crocodile tears running down my face.
My mother, used to my drama, remained calm.
They laughed because you were funny. And sweet. And cute. I know you wanted a different reaction but they loved you. I promise.
I thought about that for a second.
It did seem that people had enjoyed my performance. And it wasn’t my fault if I was too cute to be taken seriously…
I decided that I was resilient enough to try it again. After all, I did have my eyes set on the role of Martha Washington in the third-grade play.
This year, during pilot season, I auditioned A LOT. And although I desperately wanted to go out for serious roles, I didn’t audition for a single one.
I always play “crazy girl” or “stalker girl” or – wait a second…something just made sense.
Anyway.
I would really love to be taken more seriously. But then I look at my life (and this blog) and the fact that my acting seems suddenly to be moving forward, and I think, I will take funny any day.
Funny got me here. To this place. To a place I really love.
And I feel like that audience back in North Dakota was trying to tell me something…
That I’m funny.
And that’s a good thing.
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