homecoming contest or talent show. For all the importance accorded it, you would think this event was a summit on nuclear disarmament or the treaty at Yalta.
“Oh, I wish I could enter, but I’d never win,” the dork sighs ruefully to her sidekick. (It is important to note here that the sidekick is certifiably eccentric and hideous-looking, whereas the dork is unattractive simply because she wears glasses.)
“But you
can
win!” the sidekick says. “I’ve seen you—and I
know
you’re the best!”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” says the dork.
But then, we see montage shots of the dork in training—jogging, sweating, getting a makeover, holding up outfits in front of a department store mirror while a bevy of salesclerks frown and shake their heads, then nod approvingly—until the Big Night. Inevitably, some school bully or bitch tries to sabotage her plans. And inevitably, lastminute obstacles pop up, threatening to jettison the whole evening. Maybe her limousine breaks down. Maybe her father has a pulmonary embolism.
But inevitably, our heroine finally arrives in the school gymnasium transformed into a jaw-dropping beauty. The other kids gasp, part around her like the Red Sea, and she then wows them with her hidden talent—which, more often than not, consists of dance moves. She wins the talent show, the homecoming crown, and, not coincidently, the heart of the school’s supreme love interest. Her nemesis, meanwhile, ends up tearing her hair out with jealousy in the parking lot while a car veers past and splatters mud all over her taffeta bubble dress. In the final scene, the dork is hoisted up on her classmates’ shoulders and paraded around the school gym—or is shown in profile, kissing her new boyfriend—while her sidekick gives her the thumbs-up from the punchbowl.
The moral of these stories was never lost on me: namely that, with the right makeover, it was possible to reverse years of social ostracism in a single evening.
And so I became convinced that if I could only land the role of the Virgin Mary in the school Christmas pageant, I could win over my fiercest critics. I pictured myself sitting beatifically in the center of the altar, draped in pale blue silk, singing Mary’s lullaby with such extraordinary, chilling grace that my classmates would sink to their knees. “Oh, Susan,” the girls would sigh reverently. “That was so gorgeous. We’re so sorry for teasing you the way we have. Please, come to our birthday parties. Join us for after-school gymnastics. Allow us to decorate your dollhouse.”
From then on, whenever I was forced to take my bath, I practiced singing. I had to say that, ricocheting off the putty-colored tiles in our bathroom, my voice sounded surprisingly good to me. I sang every carol I could remember from the pageant, from “The Angel Gabriel” to “O Come All Ye Faithful.”
“What the hell is she doing in there?” I’d hear my father say. “It’s the middle of August.”
I practiced this way for the next three years, crooning in the bathtub and in the back of our VW bus on the drive to see our grandparents in the Bronx. I sang in my bedroom and lying on the couch. Soon, in addition to Christmas carols, I found myself singing television jingles for Country Kitchen Noodles, Coca-Cola, and Levi’s blue jeans. I began covering songs from my parents’ record collection, too. I sang along to Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move” and Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.” Listening to WABC radio in the mornings before school, I belted along to such great 1970s hits as “The Night Chicago Died,” “Love Will Keep Us Together,” “Rock the Boat,” and “Tell Me Something Good” by Chaka Khan and Rufus. Granted, this wasn’t exactly church music, but I figured a song was a song.
In sixth grade, it was finally my class’s turn to audition for the pageant’s main roles, and I was ready. When the big lunchtime topic of discussion turned to “Who
“Oh, I wish I could enter, but I’d never win,” the dork sighs ruefully to her sidekick. (It is important to note here that the sidekick is certifiably eccentric and hideous-looking, whereas the dork is unattractive simply because she wears glasses.)
“But you
can
win!” the sidekick says. “I’ve seen you—and I
know
you’re the best!”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” says the dork.
But then, we see montage shots of the dork in training—jogging, sweating, getting a makeover, holding up outfits in front of a department store mirror while a bevy of salesclerks frown and shake their heads, then nod approvingly—until the Big Night. Inevitably, some school bully or bitch tries to sabotage her plans. And inevitably, lastminute obstacles pop up, threatening to jettison the whole evening. Maybe her limousine breaks down. Maybe her father has a pulmonary embolism.
But inevitably, our heroine finally arrives in the school gymnasium transformed into a jaw-dropping beauty. The other kids gasp, part around her like the Red Sea, and she then wows them with her hidden talent—which, more often than not, consists of dance moves. She wins the talent show, the homecoming crown, and, not coincidently, the heart of the school’s supreme love interest. Her nemesis, meanwhile, ends up tearing her hair out with jealousy in the parking lot while a car veers past and splatters mud all over her taffeta bubble dress. In the final scene, the dork is hoisted up on her classmates’ shoulders and paraded around the school gym—or is shown in profile, kissing her new boyfriend—while her sidekick gives her the thumbs-up from the punchbowl.
The moral of these stories was never lost on me: namely that, with the right makeover, it was possible to reverse years of social ostracism in a single evening.
And so I became convinced that if I could only land the role of the Virgin Mary in the school Christmas pageant, I could win over my fiercest critics. I pictured myself sitting beatifically in the center of the altar, draped in pale blue silk, singing Mary’s lullaby with such extraordinary, chilling grace that my classmates would sink to their knees. “Oh, Susan,” the girls would sigh reverently. “That was so gorgeous. We’re so sorry for teasing you the way we have. Please, come to our birthday parties. Join us for after-school gymnastics. Allow us to decorate your dollhouse.”
From then on, whenever I was forced to take my bath, I practiced singing. I had to say that, ricocheting off the putty-colored tiles in our bathroom, my voice sounded surprisingly good to me. I sang every carol I could remember from the pageant, from “The Angel Gabriel” to “O Come All Ye Faithful.”
“What the hell is she doing in there?” I’d hear my father say. “It’s the middle of August.”
I practiced this way for the next three years, crooning in the bathtub and in the back of our VW bus on the drive to see our grandparents in the Bronx. I sang in my bedroom and lying on the couch. Soon, in addition to Christmas carols, I found myself singing television jingles for Country Kitchen Noodles, Coca-Cola, and Levi’s blue jeans. I began covering songs from my parents’ record collection, too. I sang along to Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move” and Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.” Listening to WABC radio in the mornings before school, I belted along to such great 1970s hits as “The Night Chicago Died,” “Love Will Keep Us Together,” “Rock the Boat,” and “Tell Me Something Good” by Chaka Khan and Rufus. Granted, this wasn’t exactly church music, but I figured a song was a song.
In sixth grade, it was finally my class’s turn to audition for the pageant’s main roles, and I was ready. When the big lunchtime topic of discussion turned to “Who
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