After I read Marilyn’s comment the other day, I looked up the now famous Boyle “make-over.” Yeah—everybody’s got a right to change her hair color. But what distressed me was the new expression on her face in that picture – what was it— “deep”? Tough? Defiant? Can’t-touch-this? Dignified—the dang super-model glare. Some make-over. (Susan – are you still in there??)
Secretly, I wanted to be this cool in 1966.
In the article was a link to twelve year old Shaheen’s just as amazing performance. From there, you can pretty much spend the rest of your life following links. Like a shlub, I just sat there for half an hour, clicking away.
So I find this soprano sax player. He says he wants to win the competition to give his wife and little kid a better life. He gets on the stage, noodles around till they’re irritated with him, then cues his minus track. The song? “There’s a Place for Us,” from West Side Story. His tone? Haunting. He takes his time. He sings through the instrument. You feel it. He’s feeling it. Everybody’s feeling it. And he gets a standing ovation.
<digression> For me, the experience was a little personal. We sang that song at my Hartsdale Junior High ninth grade graduation. I haven’t heard it since, really. So it took me back. (We also sang “When I’m Sixty Five,” over which I would NOT have gotten sentimental.) And there I was, feeling those ninth grade feelings and thinking about Mrs. Sciarra who always wore bobbles, bangles and beads” and little off shoulder shawl things, coming to school looking like she was going to an important business lunch.
Ms. Sciarra with bobbles
Wow, did she do wonders with us. Tough as a drill sergeant. Fair. Great at her job. We sang with one voice, even though we were hundreds of individual packets of adolescent angst.</digression>
I should have been in this band picture. But I think I was back with the choir – I’m guessing the blond girl who should NOT have been talking to her neighbor.
At the end of my little link fest, I realized that every one of these clips had had in it the phrase, “change your life.” Like winning Top Talent Dog was going to do it. On Survivor once, somebody said that same thing: “Somebody here is going to win a million dollars. That’s a life-changing thing.” Back when I taught English 111 at BYU, I always assigned “The Purpose of Education,” as the first paper assignment—because it gave me a chance to clear up misconceptions like the one I almost always got: the higher the degree you get, the more successful you’ll be in life; the more money you’ll make. HA.
Me, building points toward that advanced degree. Wendy, the babe (my antithesis) , also working. See? I could have been cute AND working.
Still working.
Where do we get these ideas? Winning a million dollars doesn’t change your life much—you’re just the same old self with the same old habits of behavior, only with the money, now you can buy more stupid peripherals—at least, as long as the money lasts. Which won’t be long. They’ve done studies on this kind of thing; I’ve read them.
Here’s what I’ve learned: It’s changing your heart that changes your life. And you can’t just “win” that. You actually have to do it, and do it yourself. You have to decide to change your patterns of behavior—and gradually, sometimes dramatically, you see your life changing. You don’t become more famous. You don’t become rich over night. You become happier, more free, more powerful. Life becomes your choice. And the fact is, you can live in exactly the same house with exactly the same stuff and still live a way different life. Not that I’m the ace at this. But I know what I’ve seen.
The sad thing about the sax player is that he actually believes being in the music biz will make things better for him. Show biz in any form is Life Crash Central of the universe. Not always, of course. But often enough—we see it too often even here. Sure, go on the road, wear yourself out, meet new, adoring people—lose your sense of self and connection, separate sex from love, take chems to counteract exhaustion. Or put your “art” before your family—for your family. A recipe for a better life. And this is no cliché I’m throwing out, here.
Yeah, it’s really nice to be applauded. I’ve had that experience. But it can also be terribly ironic. And the feeling doesn’t last long; there are still dishes in the sink when you get home. Even being published – you never arrive. Famous isn’t something you become. It’s actually more like getting the flu – it hits, you have it for a while, then it goes somewhere else. Except with “success” – you want it to come back. Has-been sick is way different that has-been successful. This is an old story. There are tons of movies and books about it.
Anyway, yeah – so I guess I’m saying that watching these hopeful folks always makes me a little sad for them. Just a little sad. Like they’ve been sold a bill of goods. And yet I find myself in tears over their moment of glory. That moment of validation.
Hopeful us. I’m the wet cat.
Honestly. Michael is going to yell at me again for being a downer. But this isn’t really a downer, is it? That we don’t have to be on some big show to know we have talent? That we can be powerful and joyful and useful and loved without a headline? That’s a glorious thing. I read these blog things of ya’lls and feel wonderful, connected with people who interest me and make me think and teach me and make me laugh – people I love better now because I know them better—that’s not famous writing, but it’s wonderful writing.
Me. My mom made me wear my hair this way. I wanted bangs like Carol’s. Wow – she had the best dang voice. And she was nice. And she was a really good girl. I should have just cut the bangs myself.
Just singing to kids before they go to bed at night—it’s powerful stuff and it can change the world for generations to come. We have so much power to be joyful ourselves and to make other people feel loved and safe and validated. Even when it’s still raining outside. Which it is. Still. Raining.
Noah? Can you hear me?
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