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Back in the 1980s, the Rainbow Kids were one of the most
energetic youth choirs in the Brownstown area. Singing from Liberty Christian
Church in Sefton Township, we performed multiple shows a year, from Easter
skits to VBS round ups to an occasional old school hymn, just to keep the
Golden Years crowd in their pews.
The big event, however, was always
our annual Christmas pageant.
The Christmas pageant took months of
preparation, requiring costumes, props and, of course, intense rehearsals. I
was one of the few boys in the group and also one of the oldest, and so I was
often cast as a wise man or a chattier shepherd. (Joseph knew to keep his mouth
shut around a sleeping baby, I guess, so that role was often given to younger
boys who could hold a cane for twenty minutes without walking off stage to look
for their parents.)
For most of my childhood a Rainbow
Kids performance was just part of my life, as natural as any other date on the
ecclesiastical calendar. Whereas some of the kids performed with a sense of
dread, I kind of liked it. I didn’t mind memorizing the lines, for example, and
although I did get nervous, the adrenaline that came with the performance
balanced it all out. I especially liked it when a congregant would approach me
after the performance to tell me how well I had articulated my lines; how loud
and clear my voice sounded in the church.
So, when the day came one fall when
the director told me she had a part that would be perfect for me, who was I to
argue? I was a fifth grader now, nearing the end of a long and illustrious
Rainbow Kids career. Now was the time for my grade school swan song.
This role, however, came with an
unexpected twist - a solo! Not only would I be expected to perform standard
Nativity-themed dialogue, I would also be singing part of the story in verse.
My heart dropped. Sure, I could sing as part of an ensemble - which often meant
very clumsy lip synching - but the idea of carrying a tune all by myself was
horrifying.
“You’re a shepherd, and you’re
singing about the Star of Bethlehem. ‘I see a star…a bright and shining star…’
you’ll be great!”
I wasn’t convinced, but after some
coaxing I cautiously accepted the role.
Over the course of the next couple
months we practiced each week. I learned both lines and lyrics. Finally,
opening and closing night arrived. As it came time to sing about this
miraculous stellar phenomenon, I slowly walked to the microphone and waited for
the music to begin. I looked up into the spotlight, took a deep breath, and
sang.
By fifth grade, I knew that a
person’s actual voice doesn’t sound the same as it does to the person speaking,
and so my first clue that something was terribly wrong came from the
uncomfortable faces in front of me. Expressions that had been bright smiles
moments before quickly dissolved into looks of pain. It was clear that my solo
was not going well. I struggled through it, though, knowing full well that the
show must go on.
As I finished, folks clapped, but of
course they clapped…I was in fifth grade. Their applause was not enthusiastic.
Their claps were weak; they were forced. An idea that was once hypothetical
immediately became a Christmas reality - I was not a very good singer.
Mercifully, the pageant ended. As
folks huddled around downstairs afterwards for cookies and punch, the typical
congratulatory remarks seemed muted and sparse. My grandmother, an honest woman
who would always keep a smidgeon of her Oklahoma drawl, offered the most
pleasant spin on the situation that she could:
“Well hon, we all heard ya’... loud and clear.”
Despite the setback, Christmas did
come that year, filled with presents and family and snowy days off from school.
Eventually the sting of my embarrassment faded. It wasn’t until years later
that I realized what a gift that solo would turn out to be.
Nothing, it turns out, is quite as liberating
as making a complete fool of yourself in front of hundreds of people. Thus, as
adolescence began, bringing with it all its mortifying nonsense, I could always
think back to that solo. Decades later as a school teacher, I still spend much
of my week “performing” in front of my students, almost always without
applause.
Botching that solo was embarrassing,
sure, but I survived. More importantly, I’d opened a wonderful Christmas gift
that evening - the knowledge that folks tend to forget the songs they don’t
sing.
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