The musical Bye Bye Birdie won four Tony's the year after it debuted on Broadway in 1960. 20 years later, it was my high school’s spring musical.
Overweight with kinky hair and chubby cheeks, I operated under no delusions that I could be cast as Kim McAfee, the town sweetheart who was selected to receive rock star Conrad Birdie’s final kiss before he joined the army.
My body also put me out of the running to play one of Kim's slender friends. Maybe I could be Rose, songwriter Albert's long-suffering secretary. Except that she was also his girlfriend. I wasn't girlfriend material.
I could be one of the mothers. At 16, I looked and felt much older than I was. Even a member of the chorus would be fine. Anything. I just wanted to be involved. To belong. Somewhere.
At home, being an athlete was the only thing that captured my father's attention for any length of time. Both of my brothers played football and baseball, and they wrestled. I had played softball when I was younger, and was a decent catcher, but each pound I’d gained moved star athlete further away from my reality.
If I couldn’t be a star on a field, my teenage mind reasoned, perhaps I could be one on a stage.
I studied the script and roles with a microscope. Surely there was something I could do. Even if it was just a role in the chorus.
My fantasy of being in the spotlight came to a crashing halt when I realized the reality. I would have to audition. And auditioning and I had a history.
I started playing the guitar when I was nine and I loved to sing while I strummed. Sister Carol Ann, my 5th-grade teacher at St. Alexis who I idolized, took me under her wing and together we played and led songs for dozens of folk masses. I loved being up in the choir balcony of the church, heard but hidden.
Several years of this gave me confidence so when the opportunity to audition for the talent show in 9th grade, I dove right in. Daydreaming about being on stage drowned out the terror and I was thrilled when my mom took me to the music store to get the sheet music for Debby Boone’s hit single, “You Light Up My Life.”
The calluses on my fingertips grew with every hour I practiced, tucked in my bedroom after school imagining the applause. The morning of the audition, I carried my guitar to the bus stop and squeezed it and myself into a seat for the bumpy 20-minute ride.
Every class dragged that day. Lunch was eternal. By the time the final period was over, I felt like Tigger. My nerves jangled and adrenaline pumped while I waited for my slot outside the auditorium. When my name was called, I took the stage and sang my heart out, channeling my very best Debby Boone.
“Thank you,” said a voice in the dark.
My name was not on the list posted the next morning.
This didn’t stop me completely. I’d been in the choir since beginning public school in 7th grade and despite what felt like humiliation after that audition, I continued. The high school choir was more competitive and much more work, but I enjoyed the camaraderie. The choir director? Not so much.
Mr. Dolhopf was approachable for some and a dictator to others. I fell in the latter category. No matter how hard I tried to please him, my voice never seemed to be enough. I was a means to his end. When he needed an additional body in the tenor section, that's where he put me. When there were plenty of boys, I became an alto again.
I was good enough to be a part of the choir but never good enough for the solos. Or the girls’ small choir, the 3X5’s.
Three parts, five girls in each - soprano, mezzo soprano and alto. They performed all over town – for community events, local business meetings, the airport, and the mall at Christmas. They even made it into the local paper with a photo! My grades were pretty good, but not straight A’s. I was an editor for the yearbook but there was no audience for that. Plus, one of my brothers was a star on the school football team, and I wanted some of that glory.
The 3X5 choir seemed the most likely choice. Although there were extra rehearsals, and it would mean missing class sometimes and having to catch up, I was willing to do almost anything to be considered cool, even if it was among music nerds.
I auditioned multiple times and always felt dismissed when it was over. My name was never on the list taped to the Mr. Dolhopf’s office door. On my final attempt, I stood in the corner of the choir room near the piano, only a room screen separating me from the other girls waiting to try out.
“Don’t scoop your voice!” Mr. Dolhopf shouted in the middle of “Ave Maria.” He mimicked me, exaggerating the slight wave I'd used to connect the notes, and yelled, “Again!” He started the piece over and I followed, tears at the ready and a lump in my throat. It wasn’t my best work and he waved me off without a word when I was done.
I scurried past the girls sitting on the other side of the screen and headed to the bathroom where I locked myself in a stall and cried. I was not on the list this time either.
We were not permitted to audition for Bye Bye Birdie with one of the songs from the show, so every afternoon after school, I sat on my bed and combed through the song books and sheet music I’d acquired from piano and guitar lessons.
I tried song after song, picking out the melody on my Gibson, but the one I knew the best was “You Light Up My Life.”
For the week leading up to the audition my enthusiasm waxed and waned. I’d get excited about the possibility of being part of the production, then the memory of the last audition kicked in and I’d find something else to do besides practice.
The afternoon of the audition, I walked past the auditorium filled with hopeful singers on my way to the bus. I had convinced myself there was no point. Between my larger body and scoopy voice, I’d never get chosen so why bother?
If I could go back to 1980, I’d insist my younger self give it a go. Not following your dreams because of how you fear someone else will perceive you is not an adequate reason to bypass trying. Even now, I still get scared when I put myself out there and I’m not a big fan of rejection, which I receive on a weekly basis with the profession I’ve chosen.
I still vacillate sometimes after finishing a pitch for an article idea. “Is it worth it?” I ask myself.
And then I hit “send.”
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