When you ask someone what their biggest fear is, you usually hear an answer like heights or sharks – something physical. But for me, my greatest fear is all in my head: public speaking. This isn't really ideal, especially for someone who goes to a school where participation is 25% of your grade. However, with the help of SparkNotes and a fear of failure, I have successfully made it through.
I wasn't always afraid of public speaking. It came with age, as many of our best qualities do. There was a time when I was so open to the idea of putting myself in the center of attention that I did musical theater. In fact, I was in every production that my elementary school put on, a strong contrast from my current acting gigs, which consist of me responding "Yes" when my parents ask if I've done my chores. An Oscar-worthy performance, might I say.
My only starring role, however, was in fifth grade when I got the female lead in the final act of Aladdin – by the grace of the Gods and a lapse in judgment from the casting director. Though in this rendition of Aladdin a different kid played Jasmine in each scene, I was lucky enough to get the final musical number. Not only did I get to sing “A Whole New World” with the entire ensemble dancing behind me, but I got to do it as a newlywed, holding hands with my 4th grade Aladdin on a magic carpet.
Coincidentally, my best friend had the same part as me in the other cast. It was normal for kids from the other cast to watch your show, but when I saw her sitting in the first row, I couldn't look away. It was a comfort to only focus on her, despite there being 300 other audience members. I was about halfway through singing “A Whole New World” when she mouthed something to me.
"Wasn't that your line?"
I didn't know what she meant. I sang what I was taught, and so did the ensemble. I shrugged my shoulders and furrowed my eyebrows to her, my "silent" way of signaling that I didn't know. If only I had realized that everyone's eyes were on me, and my communication with her beyond the stage was not so silent.
The final time I stepped on stage as an actor was later on in fifth grade. I was in the production of The Lorax, playing the mother of the Once-ler. Yes, I was the mother of the man that has his own page on Sexypedia. The director of the show was Jason, a very tall, scrawny man with gray hair. As any theater person, young or old, he was very enthusiastic.
Late one night, I woke up from a nightmare about Jason. Jason was a serial killer. But not just any serial killer. His mode of transportation was a hamster wheel. A human-sized one. I knew it was only a dream, but that didn't stop me from being terrified of him for the rest of the production. I had been told that dreams could predict the future, which meant I could be a potential victim of the infamous Hamster Ball Butcher. My reluctance to be near Jason for the rest of the show really reflected in my performance. I was told relatively close to the show going up that I would need to say all my lines in a southern accent. I was too afraid of Jason to ask him for help with my accent, so I took it upon myself to perfect my "southern" accent. Let's just say I have not stepped back in the building since that performance.
After my acting career had finished, I moved on to talent shows, despite not having any talents. In 6th grade, I joined my two best friends for a dance performance in the talent show. We trained every lunch period and even a few times outside of school so we could perfect our dance. But as we got closer to the performance, apparently, I was "falling behind." They sat me down, and I was given the hard truth.
"If you can't learn it in time for the show, then you can't do it with us."
I was shocked. But I put on a brave face and told them, "I can do it!" despite not actually thinking I could. See, the truth is I wasn't doing this dance for fun. I needed to do it. I was in a trio friendship … and I think we all know how those turn out. In this case, I was the friend who had to walk on the dirt because there was not enough space on the sidewalk. This dance was me taking matters into my own hands.
On the day of the performance, we were ready. We had performed it countless times for ourselves and our parents. We even perfected the hard parts. The majority of the dance was movement with our arms, but there were a few tricky parts. The first was a backward roll, the second was a roundoff into a jump, and the third was a handstand into a backbend and standing up.
I failed all three.
Usually, I had no trouble with the backward roll, but when we performed, there were no mats under us, which meant it hurt. A lot. When I did my roll, instead of fully completing it and landing on my knees, I stayed on my back. So there I was on the stage, in a ball, looking like a rolly polly. Except I couldn't even roll.
After that was the roundoff into a jump. I was ready. I had enough space for a running start, and I needed to redeem myself after my backward roll incident. I did the first part perfectly. But then came the jump. For those of you unacquainted to the language of gymnastics, a roundoff is a cartwheel except for one very crucial difference. Instead of landing with your feet apart, with a roundoff, you keep them together. I did not do this. I failed the most simple task of all. One that we women are told from day one. I couldn't keep my legs together.
My third and final failure was the handstand into a backbend and standing up. I knew this move would be a challenge, but I thought I practiced it enough to get it right on performance day. Apparently not. As my fellow dancers were standing up with grace, I was stuck in a backbend. I was forced to buckle my knees in order to get up in time for the next part of the routine.
After all these colossal failures, I told myself that I would never dance again. My fellow dancers and I made a pact to never mention this dance again. And seven years later, we've still stuck to our promise. Until now.
The last time I willingly signed myself up to perform on stage was with a group of friends in the 8th grade talent show to sing "Home." We were eighth-graders, which meant we were kings of the school. We could do anything and get away with it, which is why we practiced the song three times before the performance and called it a day. Four days before the show, I got sick. It was nothing bad, but enough to keep me home from school. When the Friday of the performance arrived, I was feeling much better and ready to perform, which is why I texted in the group chat that morning:
"Hey guys, I'm so, so sorry, but I'm still sick. I don't think I'll make it in for the show."
I knew this was the cowardly thing to do, but when I got sick, I knew immediately that it was my scapegoat. We may have been 8th graders, but nothing could save us from the embarrassment of singing in front of the entire school.
You couldn't pay me $500 to go back on stage as I did in elementary school. I'd probably pass out before I said any of my lines. My 10-year-old self was more confident than I am today. With every performance, I got less and less comfortable on stage to the point where I actually lied to my friends to get out of performing. Even attending high school at a theater school made for extroverts, I still managed to slip through the cracks of their extroverted claws and come out the other side as an introvert with a fear of public speaking. And that’s the last I’ll say about it.