week later “Hillary the Woman Juggler” began performing regularly at the Ash Grove. I’d juggle before such headliners as Linda Ronstadt, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Ramblin’ Jack Elliot, and Maria “Midnight at the Oasis” Muldaur.
One night I was about to do my act before jazz legend Pharaoh Sanders’s set. The audience was classy, older, and predominantly black. I felt anxious—I was the only fifteen-year-old white girl in the room, except for Greg, who was so effeminate he might as well have been a white girl.
Well, I thought, why not use the uncomfortable situation—play on it. I slipped into the dressing room and borrowed a guitar case from the opening act’s guitarist. I placed my juggling balls in the case. When it was time for me to go on, I walked toward the stage, past men drinking bourbon and women smoking Virginia Slims; no one paid any attention to me. Greg followed and sat down at the piano. The lights dimmed, and the emcee introduced me, leaving off “juggler” as I had asked him to.
The audience grew quiet. But when the lights came back up and the crowd saw me onstage, dressed in my Indian print bell-bottoms with a rust-colored wraparound leotard and carrying the guitar case, they instantly grew restless. These were hard-core elite jazz enthusiasts waiting to see a musician who had performed his own genre of “Nubian Space Jazz” with Sun Ra and John Coltrane.
Greg began the song, and the crowd started to boo. The “boos” grew louder as I put the guitar case down and opened it. I started shaking. Part of me wanted to vanish into my safe, familiar world of juggling oranges over my ballerina bedspread, but I thought of Lucy Ricardo; whenever Lucy wanted to make something happen there was no stopping her. I summoned Lucy’s determination as I pulled three hot pink balls out of the guitar case. I began to juggle. Within a few seconds the crowd quieted and began to watch me. My plan had worked. At least a teenage white girl in a leotard juggling was better than a teenage white girl in a leotard playing guitar .
Then I launched into my comic patter—a story I’d written about working at a bakery, using juggling tricks as puns. “I have a lot on my mind” I said as I rolled the balls off my head; “I’ve had ups and downs” (I tossed the balls up and down in columns). I squinted into the spotlight, focusing on the fluorescent pink orbs sailing through the air. I looked into the crowd and caught one older gentleman’s eye. When he slowly nodded approvingly, I felt encouraged, and I forged on, the tricks becoming more complex, the puns more groan-evoking.
“To make bread, you knead …” I said, bouncing the balls off my knees.
“You can’t be blind to what the customer wants…” (I rolled the balls across eyes).
“My co-workers and I really hit it off …” (I hit one ball consecutively off my elbow, forearm, back of hand).
The audience began to laugh and applaud. I left the hardest trick for last. “Working at the bakery is a pain in the neck ,” I said as I threw a ball out of the pattern above my head, squatted, flattening my back just in time to catch the ball in the crook of my neck. The crowd let loose with cheers. Then I whipped back up, and the ball flew out and over my head, returning to the juggling pattern. Greg played our climactic finish, running his hand from top key to bottom. Black, white, old, young—none of that mattered any longer. The crowd went wild. They gave me a standing ovation.
My dreams were no longer on hold. Finally I was making people laugh— intentionally.
After that I performed at the club every week, sometimes with Greg, most times alone. I was applauded and lauded, and I almost keeled over with joy when I read my first review, a rave in the Los Ange les Times . A week later, I bought up all copies of the Herald-Examiner at every newsstand within five miles from my house because a reviewer wrote: “Amazing…. Hillary has to be seen to be
One night I was about to do my act before jazz legend Pharaoh Sanders’s set. The audience was classy, older, and predominantly black. I felt anxious—I was the only fifteen-year-old white girl in the room, except for Greg, who was so effeminate he might as well have been a white girl.
Well, I thought, why not use the uncomfortable situation—play on it. I slipped into the dressing room and borrowed a guitar case from the opening act’s guitarist. I placed my juggling balls in the case. When it was time for me to go on, I walked toward the stage, past men drinking bourbon and women smoking Virginia Slims; no one paid any attention to me. Greg followed and sat down at the piano. The lights dimmed, and the emcee introduced me, leaving off “juggler” as I had asked him to.
The audience grew quiet. But when the lights came back up and the crowd saw me onstage, dressed in my Indian print bell-bottoms with a rust-colored wraparound leotard and carrying the guitar case, they instantly grew restless. These were hard-core elite jazz enthusiasts waiting to see a musician who had performed his own genre of “Nubian Space Jazz” with Sun Ra and John Coltrane.
Greg began the song, and the crowd started to boo. The “boos” grew louder as I put the guitar case down and opened it. I started shaking. Part of me wanted to vanish into my safe, familiar world of juggling oranges over my ballerina bedspread, but I thought of Lucy Ricardo; whenever Lucy wanted to make something happen there was no stopping her. I summoned Lucy’s determination as I pulled three hot pink balls out of the guitar case. I began to juggle. Within a few seconds the crowd quieted and began to watch me. My plan had worked. At least a teenage white girl in a leotard juggling was better than a teenage white girl in a leotard playing guitar .
Then I launched into my comic patter—a story I’d written about working at a bakery, using juggling tricks as puns. “I have a lot on my mind” I said as I rolled the balls off my head; “I’ve had ups and downs” (I tossed the balls up and down in columns). I squinted into the spotlight, focusing on the fluorescent pink orbs sailing through the air. I looked into the crowd and caught one older gentleman’s eye. When he slowly nodded approvingly, I felt encouraged, and I forged on, the tricks becoming more complex, the puns more groan-evoking.
“To make bread, you knead …” I said, bouncing the balls off my knees.
“You can’t be blind to what the customer wants…” (I rolled the balls across eyes).
“My co-workers and I really hit it off …” (I hit one ball consecutively off my elbow, forearm, back of hand).
The audience began to laugh and applaud. I left the hardest trick for last. “Working at the bakery is a pain in the neck ,” I said as I threw a ball out of the pattern above my head, squatted, flattening my back just in time to catch the ball in the crook of my neck. The crowd let loose with cheers. Then I whipped back up, and the ball flew out and over my head, returning to the juggling pattern. Greg played our climactic finish, running his hand from top key to bottom. Black, white, old, young—none of that mattered any longer. The crowd went wild. They gave me a standing ovation.
My dreams were no longer on hold. Finally I was making people laugh— intentionally.
After that I performed at the club every week, sometimes with Greg, most times alone. I was applauded and lauded, and I almost keeled over with joy when I read my first review, a rave in the Los Ange les Times . A week later, I bought up all copies of the Herald-Examiner at every newsstand within five miles from my house because a reviewer wrote: “Amazing…. Hillary has to be seen to be
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