By Pilar Rodriguez
The auditorium was completely silent. As far as I could see, it was dark. But I felt everyone’s eyes staring at me.
I was seven years old and participating in a storytelling contest in my elementary school. I had to narrate a Chinese folktale about a character named Ping. I had memorized the story until it was engraved in my mind. After all, I wanted to win this competition.
The key to success is never wallowing in self-pity
I felt confident. I knew that my mother was sitting all the way in the back of auditorium, on the left-hand side. Having her there relieved some of the stress of being in front of such a huge audience. My voice echoed in the large theater, filled with family, teachers, friends, and peers. Oddly, though I knew many of the people watching me, I felt all the more nervous.
All at once, a familiar face came to light in the middle of the darkness. Among my peers, there was a boy about my age and his face intrigued me. Who was he? How did I know him? He was so familiar, yet I couldn’t place where in my life I had encountered him.
I stared at him, and he looked straight back at me, as though he wasn’t just watching my performance, but that he knew me, as well. He had a mysterious way about him and had a hint of sadness in his eyes. The boy’s light skin, brown hair, dark brown eyes, and freckles reminded me of my neighbor Michael, who I met while he was out walking his beautiful Cocker Spaniel puppy, Sam, with his dad. Like me, Michael was six years old at the time and we both loved dogs. We used to go to the park, and play with Sam, before his family moved away and I never saw him again.
All these questions started filtering through my mind. “Could this be Michael? Did he still have Sam? Why would Michael have come all the way back here just to see a storytelling contest? I didn’t know Michael liked Chinese folklore…”
All of a sudden my mind went blank, it was as if the story had been erased from my mind. I didn’t know what was happening. I felt the heat of the stage lights on me, piercing right through me. I just stood there.
Silent.
My lips were moving, but not a single word came out of my mouth. I had forgotten my lines.
Many options ran through my mind: I could just blatantly confess to the audience that I had forgotten the story. Or I could attempt to make up the story and at least finish what I had started. Or I could simply run off the stage in embarrassment.
I didn’t end up choosing any of these options. Instead, I settled for turning around, calmly heading back to my seat on the stage, and allowing everyone to assume that I forgot the story. I sat down next to the other participants, my face red with embarrassment. The next person took center stage, and told her story. I don’t even remember what her story was about. All I wanted to do was hide.
After everyone completed their portion of the contest, the principal said that the winner would be announced later in the day over the loudspeaker. I noticed that the boy who disrupted my concentration had left the auditorium. It was the last I saw of him. I never figured out who he was.
I couldn’t face my friends and peers. There was just too much pressure. I ran to the staircase. I didn’t want to go back to class. I just wanted to be alone. As I sat on the gray stairs, I gazed out the window, perplexed by how life could switch from perfect to disastrous in a matter of seconds.
As I was walking back to class, I found a small, shiny gold key charm on the floor. Keys are said to open doors and bring new opportunities. I picked it up. It had to have been a lucky charm; a tool to brighten my day. I had just lost an opportunity by ruining my chances of winning the storytelling contest. I took this golden charm as a kind of reminder that, despite messing up and publicly humiliating myself, I wasn’t ruined for life. There would come other opportunities to shine just as brightly as this key.
Pilar Rodriguez
Queens, New York
Pilar Rodriguez is currently a undergraduate student at Hunter College. She is a Media Studies major and aspires to be a journalist.
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