Different

I never could have imagined it was going to be different, because it started the same. My palms were sweating, I stepped out onto stage with my heart banging against my rib cage, and I tried to pretend that acting from six to sixteen had actually helped my stage fright. What really changed was my own reaction. I usually start and then my pulse is still pounding in my ears, but it’s nothing compared to my deafening voice and just complete absolution in getting lost in the part. Acting was fine. I’d never sang on stage by myself before. I should have known this was different.

I held the microphone in my hand, gripped just lax enough so that I wouldn’t drop it. Too many things went through my mind. Was I going to trip? Which of my parents had shown up? How many were in the audience? I should look at the on point above the audience since I’m facing them so I can’t see faces. Faces always ruin it.

The music turned on. I waited for my cue (beat one, beat two, beat three – one more) and started my speaking part. It was easy, I slipped into the Puerto Rican New York accent like a charm and went through it flawlessly – then the singing happened. I sang through the first verse easily, with no catch or thought.

Then the first repeating chorus came up – instead of singing the right part, I sang the next. As soon as “And I trieeeeeed to meeeeeelt!” came out of my mouth, I knew I had completely screwed it up. I’d flubbed lines on stage before; you have to know how to react and improvise to get to the next one. I was great at improv.

But this was different. I had completely skipped half the song and the music was still playing. My bowels froze and options ran through my head at a breakneck speed. I could either keep going from that junction or rack my brain to skip ahead to where I should have been and hope no one noticed.

Would they notice? They didn’t know the song, but they had to know, because I’d screwed up so badly. I just knew they would, but then I tried to convince myself that they couldn’t, because they didn’t know the song.

And in that horrible thought process there was nothing on stage, but silence. The fear that crept up in me every time I got on stage was now back stronger than ever. I had never done this before. I had never stood on stage and completely still—my legs were locked together and I was just staring straight ahead. I could just hear the thought processes of everyone there –What’s happening? Did she screw up? Did we actually pay to see this? How dumb. I can’t believe I got off work for this. Stupid, Mia.—and my heart pounded louder and I felt like I was going to fall through the stage.

So I ran.

I ran offstage to the safety of the thick curtains blocking out all the scrutiny from the audience I could hear pounding my ears. I stuffed the microphone into someone’s hand and left everything up to them to do on stage, while I threw myself in the corner by the curtain wires and just cried my eyes out. I was crying like I hadn’t since I was a kid. It was all over me and down every part of my body. I was humiliated and horrified with myself and just wanted to curl up and never talk to anyone again.

A few girls came over and tried to comfort me. It wouldn’t help though; I was too disgusted with myself. The crying had added to it. The fact that people were surrounding me had just compounded how completely revolting I was.

So I got up. Stopped sobbing and knew that if I didn’t go out there and do the song that I had practiced for two months I would hate myself this much forever. I walked right up to my high school theatre director who’d never once given me any of the respect that I deserved and said just that.

“I want to go out again. I’m going to.”

He went out and introduced me again.

Those fifteen steps back on stage echoed in my ears. They were some of the toughest of my life. I went anyway to the middle of the stage, right by the lip and faced the audience.

I stood again with no thudding heart beat and just grim determination.

And the music came on. I started again, the same repetitions. And then I got to my screw-up. I slid flawlessly into the right verse just as easily as I’d messed up the first time.

I finished the song. Every word punctuated and my ecstasy just eluding from all the songs. I could hear my voice on the microphone, I actually liked it. All my fears from this had gone away and I felt unequivocally proud of myself for facing the humiliation I was so afraid of and just doing it anyway. For me. I’d never enjoyed singing as much, if I wasn’t in character I wouldn’t have been able to stop grinning.

I was on my knees singing the prayer part. I was almost at the end.

“And a voice from down at the bottom of my soul,” and I lifted myself up, slowly and steadily like I was reaching towards the heavens, “Came up to the top of my head. And a voice from down at the bottom of my soul, Here is whaaaaaat it saaaaaaid:” I let the rest fly, because it wasn’t just Diana Morales singing it. It was me.

“This man is nothing!” And even stronger. “This course is nothing! If you want something go find another class. And when you find one,” And I smiled. “You'll be an actress.”

Then I stared out at the audience and I sang the last part with every thumping beating of my heart. “And I assure you that’s what finally came to paaass.”

I couldn’t feel my legs, but I smiled as the music ended and walked calmly offstage.

Every thought that could have come to mind about how I’d screwed up before, what i could have done better in that performance was roving through my mind, but that part of me that had managed to walk out there just told it to shut up and it did.

When I walked off stage my theatre director was waiting there, right by the curtain and he said: “I’m proud of you.”

And that didn’t even matter, because I was proud of me and I knew I’d never be too afraid to go out there again.

It was different.