During those late childhood instances when I found myself alone at home, I would secretly live out my alter ego as a famous artist. Performing for my introvert-friendly audience that resided safely within my own imagination. My family in absentia, I would began to prepare for my prepubescent performance by opening the lid on our stereo console; when electronics were furniture. Carefully placing the selected album on the turntable to avoid scratching the vinyl record that would soon be spinning at 33 and 1/3 RPM.
There were two regularly requested phantom audience choices; one dance, the other symphonic. The latter requiring a fictitious orchestra. Would it be Barry Manilow Live* or Rossini’s William Tell Overture? If my invisible viewer’s choice was Manilow, I would dance to the “Jump Shout Boogie Medley”. Doing my best to make that dump jump. Moving back and forth shaking my yes, yes, yes. Flaying my arms and legs on my make-believe stage.
If Rossini, I would nod to my imaginary audience and turn to acknowledge the fabricated orchestra. Somberly raising my paws with a virgin pencil gripped in my right hand. The instant the music began, after its opening scratches, my arms would fall with the speed of Galilean objects. Dropping from the top of Pisa’s famous tower only to rise rapidly with the dizzying speed of Whac-A-Mole. In frenzied excitement, my upper limbs moved up and down and sideways. My head bobbed like a figurine on a car’s dashboard, conveying the urgency of the Lone Ranger to the rescue.
The volume was at its highest decibel, my eyes remaining vigilant for my family’s return as I looked through our living room sheers. The distance from the car to our front door was a two-minute walk, less if you cut across the front lawn. Leaving little time to lower the volume, discontinue whatever contortionist contortions I was caricaturing while instantaneously dismissing my audience and orchestra as if they never existed. My minutes of make-believe magic morphing into memories.
There was only one time I publicly came out and shared my secret love as a performer. It was in 1976, when I was in fourth grade. The nation celebrating America’s bicentennial birthday, two years after the scandalous resignation of a US President. The country healing from this shocking betrayal of trust. Like many school musical productions that year, we would entertain our parents and guests as we chronicled the history of America through music and melodies.
Our evening of historical harmonies culminated with the audience and students standing shoulder to shoulder in a communal structure not even a decade old. Filling the space around and above us, singing God Bless America. A tangible and sincere celebratory vitality of e pluribus unum.
Our fourth-grade songs coincided with the early 1900s and included forgotten melodies like Clementine and In My Merry Oldsmobile. The most memorable song from our repertoire was the one that would surprise my parents. My skinny self-stepping out from behind my classmates as I did my best impersonation of James Cagney, hoofing to I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.
Like my secret solo performances, I didn’t tell my parents about my upcoming public recital. Astonished and amazed as they watched their shy 10-year-old son dance on the gymnasium floor in front of the entire neighborhood. Donning a Styrofoam hat with a red, white, and blue ribbon while wearing a southern bow tie. The type of tie worn by Colonel Sanders that was prominently displayed on every bucket of fried chicken my father cooked during his time at KFC.
My parents completely unaware of my hidden talent. Me being generous to my 4th-grade self with using the word talent. My parents beamed with pride. I was no longer that shy reclusive little boy hiding behind the sofa when unfamiliar faces visited.
As introverted as I am, I was becoming a self-assured young man who would achieve ample accomplishments as I grew older. This a secret I was proud to share with them and the world. On that ancient Midwestern Friday night, as we celebrated America, I was that Yankee Doodle boy and becoming my own man.
Peace. God loves you.
*I’m a trashy fan (words that only diehard Manilow fans will understand)
If you’ve enjoyed this blast from my past, my memoir, Finding God in Vegas: A Gen X Spiritual Awakening is available in print and digital across all platforms and all book retailers. You can use the link below if Amazon is your preference. https://www.amazon.com/author/donaldharoldyoung