I could hear the silence
The silence of the moment completely surprises me. I’ve come to the climax of my story and I’m choking up, which is not a good thing when you’re in front of seven hundred and fifty people waiting to hear about how your difficult relationship with you father resolves. I knew that there was a risk of getting emotional, but had pushed the thought back into the recesses of my nervous mind. So when the tears begin to well up, and the words stop coming, I step back off the mic for a sec and experience a silence as complete as any I have ever known. I am one with the audience, and that’s new.
My goal for the night? “Just get through it without embarrassing yourself,” I’ve been thinking all along.
“You’ll be great,” many people have said in the lead-up.
“You got this,” gets posted by friends and family here on Facebook.
But my favorite words of encouragement come from my friend Liz, who’s in the balcony and who texted me this moments before the show. “I’m here with Peg. You bettah be good.”
Damn right! I’d better be good, so getting choked up can’t be in the plan. Isn’t how this is supposed to go.
For the last month, since I got the email inviting me to participate in the Moth’s GrandSLAM, I’ve been working on a story that fits the night’s theme of ‘Making Waves’. I’ve landed on a story about being a middle child, and about constantly seeking approval from others, but especially from my father. It’s a story that covers my entire life, in five minutes. Pathetic, right!?! Who does that? Nobody. Most of these stories are scenes out of a single day, and I’m here trying to stuff ten pounds of potatoes in a five pound sack. Still, it’s the story I’ve got.
This event is not my first Moth, but the first in a venue of this size. First where the judging will be silent, and the order determined before the lights go down. Tonight, I will be fourth.
“It’s best to go after the intermission,” some had said when we’re all in the green room readying ourselves for the night.
“And the worst is going first. It’s impossible to win when you go first.”
Yes, we are all thinking about winning, which is what landed us here in the first place. Though somehow I snuck through with a bunch of second place finishes. The perennial runner-up.
“Hey, this guys pretty good, and we’re stuck, so let’s include him,” they must have mused when they invited me. Takes the pressure off me though. When you’re not the favorite there are no expectations.
Because the group of storytellers is so accomplished, I find it easy to relax into the night. I’ve seen some of them perform before, so I know what I’m up against. Miraculously, I’m OK waiting for my turn.
“Remember, just get through it,” I keep thinking to myself. And while I have the story typed-up and in my pocket, I don’t review it. The words are now a part of me, in me. And as long as I remember my first sentence or two, I’ll be fine… unless. Unless I get choked-up.
Telling stories in front of strangers is something I learned to do at The Hyde School, where their family program goes out of the way to push parents and students alike to explore things out of our comfort zones.
“If you’re not uncomfortable, maybe you aren’t challenging yourself,” they would say when we gathered for family weekends. They also asked us to write letters to family members, both present but also not. Letters we would read aloud. “When writing your letters, if you’re not getting emotional, then maybe try another draft.” They encouraged us to go deep, and I bought it.
I’ve never performed on a stage with spotlights before, and during the sound check I’m surprised by what happens when the house lights go down. Everything goes completely dark. It’s you and the mic. That’s it.
“Let’s give a big welcome to our next storyteller,” our host says and I make my way up some stairs and onto the stage.
At first, I feel completely alone, and yet I can sense the audience, and occasionally hear them. A laugh here, a groan there. And then, three of four minutes into my story, a silence, as if everyone stopped breathing just when I do.
“Breathe,” I think, but when I try to continue the words don’t yet want to come. “Wait. It’s OK,” I say to myself.
I’ve never felt a connection to a group of people quite like what I felt for those five seconds, which is likely all we’re talking about. Five fleeting seconds of a lifetime, when I sense a group of people wishing me well, hoping I’ll collect myself long enough to finish, but understanding should I not. It’s in this moment I come to understand why people love the theatre so much. Why they throw themselves at the craft.
Luckily, after those five seconds, things loosen-up and I’m able to continue on. The words and story flow once again, haltingly at first, but after a lip quivering phrase or two, I’m back on track, leaving the silence behind, but not the memory of having worn it like a shield in my moment of pause. I hold it close, a silence to be cherished — we don’t get enough of them.
