I am second from the end, on the second riser. I am in the second grade at St Joseph’s Grade School, Menomonie, Wisconsin, and this is my baptism into the wonder of performance as Sister Dolarette has awarded me a solo in a cowboy song.
It is my first experience of the exhilaration of performance anticipation, my first moment of truth and until just before Sister cues me with a nod and a hand flourish, I am about to explode. But then something wondrous happens. Everything slows in pace and I feel a calm descend on my spirit.
Over the prairie the cowboy will ride
Spurs on his boots and a rope at his side
Saddle for pillow, no roof but the sky
Whoopee tie whoopee tie, whoopee tiyii.
The assembled families and friends burst into immediate and inexplicable applause. My physical self continues with my classmates through the rest of the concert, but my spirit is elsewhere, rejoicing. Even though I am unaware, I am officially addicted.
There are moments in life that are embedded indelibly. My second grade solo is one of those, a life changing event that I don't realize is life changing at the time. but thinking back on it years later, I know that it's true.
I have often wondered what it is about performers that make us need to perform. Oh, I could say that it is the joy I receive back from an appreciative audience, but the audiences are not always that appreciative.
Maybe it is a deep need of approval from others. If I get applause, it proves that I am a good person, a person of value. But if that is the real reason, the only reason, that is pretty shallow and sad.
I have concluded that perhaps it is because I am, for lack of a better phrase, "an adrenaline junkie". I think back to all those nights of standing in the wngs being introduced, whether it be in the hall way of a hotel where the employees are busily scraping plates, or in the musty-curtained grandness of the Mabel Tainter Memorial Theatre. The palms of my hands start to sweat. the heart beat increases, and I have all I can do to let the master of ceremonies finish what he has to say in introduction, literally bursting at the seams.
Truth be told, performing is a very odd way to make a living. Performers are salesmen in a way. Unfortunately, or fortunately, our talent and personality is the product being sold.
Once while relieving myself at the urinal of a comedy club in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, I glanced up to see these words scrawled on the bathroom wall: "Dying is easy, Comedy is hard."
That has become my credo. Of course, the word dying can be taken literally or not, There are some pretty violent words in the comic's lexicon: "I killed them!" meaning of course that the audience laughed really hard, and "I died," meaning your jokes were met with silence.
"It's murder out there."
"I murdered them."
My brother, Father John, believes that I have a "ministry". I had never thought of it that way until one night I had a couple come out to catch the act at Howard Johnson's on a Saturday night. On my break they explained that they belonged to St. Patrick's Church where John was their pastor.
Usually when someone tells me that sort of news, I brace myself for the "milkman" jokes, but this night they told me: "Father John gives such good sermons and his words usually carry us through the week. But tonight, we were feelng a bit low and knowing that we wouldn't be getting our Father John "fix" until tomorrow, and seeing your name on the bill, decided that you would carry us over until we could be refilled by Fr. John."
That was the best compliment I have ever received, bar none.
As I have aged, I have come to realize that I do what I do because it is what I have gotten good at doing through years and years of practice and trial and error.
That (dare I say) we are all born with certain talents and if we are lucky enough to be able to make a living at using those talents is really key to living a happy life.
Every time I go out to perform it is a "Great Adventure". I am happy that I feel that exhilaration about it.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
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