I’m not one for being in the spotlight. Well, not at this point in my life at least. But there I was in the middle of the stage with a spotlight shinning on my face and hundreds of onlookers watching my every move. My mother’s voice echoed in my head “You have a voice. Use it.” This was my chance. The chance to let everyone see me, to finally let myself be vulnerable. This was that moment, and that’s when everything changed.
As I remember certain periods of my life, they always flash back in my head as moments. Nothing long or drawn out, just little snippets. Sometimes they are like pictures frozen in time, or like a flashback in a movie because for me, it all comes down to moments.
The summer before freshman year I sat in the Starbucks inside Barnes & Noble at the center table. Mallory, who had just graduated from high school at the time, was sitting across from me. She was wearing a red and white baseball shirt and had just gotten her hair cut. She bobbed with excitement as she told me all about the college she would be attending in the fall. She would make statements like “this wallet will be so handy in college because I can fit my dorm key and ID all in the same place.” I didn’t really grasp everything she was saying, but nonetheless she was 18 at the time and I, a mere 15, so she could have said that the sky was actually a light shade of purple and I would have soaked up every word as concrete truth. Her college trance soon faded and she snapped back into the real world by asking me a simple question: “Are you ready for high school?” Um yes, thank you captain obvious. Middle school was a breeze and I was as confident as ever. I was an all around athlete. I made every “A” team possible. I knew what I was going to be in high school: an athlete. Easy. No big deal. Done. I never understood why she asked me that question, until about four years later.
Nobody liked to do that drill. Well, with a name like “Minute of Hell” it didn’t really bode well. But Coach Cronin had called for us to do it and our team headed to our side of the gym across from varsity to start the drill. I remember making some sort of off comment as we lined up. Nothing too bold, but just loud enough for one person to hear. Back then, I would have said anything for my team to like me. I was one of only two freshmen on the junior varsity team and the other one had a leg up by having a popular older sophomore brother that the others girls thought was cute. But our team captain was in no mood for my banter, and I soon found my back up against the wall, an unfamiliar clenched fist in my stomach, and a very frightening face staring at me. I tried to say something, but words weren’t forming. My voice was gone. I now understood, I wasn’t in middle school anymore.
I wasn’t going to give up. Not now. I had spent the last two years of my life trying to prove them wrong. But now that I was a month away from the beginning of my junior year, I knew it was time to move on. I was positive there was some reason for deciding not to continue on with basketball. I tried to tell myself that it was taking up too much of my time, that I needed to try new things as reasons for what I was about to do. But in the end, I knew people would consider me a quitter. I left my coach a message on her cell phone to call me back. Five minutes later, my battered black old razor began to ring and I picked up the phone. The next few minutes always come back to me as a blur. I mumbled something about why I had decided not to play basketball next year and all she said was “ok” and hung up the phone. I sat down on my bed in exasperation. What in the world had I just done?
Two weeks later I came home from camp to find a note taped to my door. “Call Renee Pruett about tutoring her 6th grade daughter, Kelly” The note sat on my desk for weeks as I would remember to call but then refuse to put forth the effort. It was summer, ok? I eventually called the mom back and scheduled a time to meet with this girl. All I can recollect about that first meeting was that this kid was shy. She had big brown eyes that gazed up at me with wonder. She held onto her blue flowery dress as her leg bobbed back and forth resisting the awkwardness. She looked to be about four years younger than me, about the same age difference between Mallory and me. That summer, I began tutoring her in math, nothing big, just a few lessons on adding and subtracting fractions, what a prime number was, and if a number was divisible by 6 or not. Sometimes I would be in the middle of explaining a problem or concept and she would break in as if she finally got up the nerve, and say something like “Will my teachers tell me when a test is?” or “Will there be a lot of homework in middle school?” Granted, these were small, cupcake questions, but I wasn’t ready for them. I was there to teach math and math only. Plus, I’m not very good at giving advice.
“I’m about to head to dress rehearsal and Randy will kill me if I’m late again,” I thought to myself as Rebecca called out my name to come over to where she was. But I turned around to see Kelly next to her, red faced and sobbing. Kelly caught my glance as we both proceeded to run towards the other. Her voice was shaking, and all she could manage to say was “Mary Helen”. We went around the back of the camp’s cafeteria and I sat her down, and just held her for a good two minutes. I couldn’t get much out of the kid, and through her mumbles deciphered something that sounded like normal middle school drama. I remember thinking in the moment that I wanted to just shake Kelly, to tell her that this was stupid, and in the end it didn’t matter. That’s when I saw myself in Kelly, where I remembered what it was like to be an insecure middle school girl. Maybe this was why I had quit basketball now just one year ago? I thought about being on varsity and my picture hanging in the gym. I thought about the sound of the announcer calling out my name as I run through the high fives from my teammates, and about my name being called on the announcements during school as being made first team All Region. I thought about wearing my letterman jacket around school with patch after patch of my accomplishments. Then I snapped back into reality and looked at the scared 12 year old in my lap and thought that maybe this was more important than anything basketball could have ever given me.
My mom continued to talk as she made me a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I tried to think about others things. I had been nervous all day and I couldn’t get tonight off my mind. My train of thought broke off as my mom said something about our director casting the parts really well. I had never thought about relating my character to myself, other than the fact that her name was Mary. My mom told me not to be afraid, and that she knows that I can play my role with confidence. She then said “You have a great voice, Mary Helen. Use it.” I looked up at her and saw that she meant it. I knew she didn’t say it because I’m her daughter and she wanted to help me not be so nervous. It was heartfelt, and it rocked me to the core.
The crowd was now silent, and the spotlight in my face was as bright as ever. I knew if I could just get the first word out, I could do it. I was the first one to speak and I felt like the microphone always blared my first line until the room got used to the loud sound. In the moments that proceeded, I thought about my mom out there in the audience. Even though I couldn’t see her, I knew what expression was on her face. I could feel her telling me I could do it. And I did. The word came out “Martha,” and it was solid. No shake, no fret, no fear. For the first time in four years, I spoke with complete confidence. People saw the real me, and I was ok with it. It was in that moment, where my real voice came out, that I realized why Mallory asked me that question four years ago. You’ve got to be rooted in who you are before high school, or you’ll spend four years unsuccessfully trying to find it in other people.
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