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“We need a Dorothy” Mrs. Hensler called out across the sea of Kindergardeners I sat amidst.
“She has to be a girl, preferably tall, she’s needs long hair for the braids and possibly should be comfortable carrying a dog. She needs…..TREEEEEEEESHA! Yes. That’s who. Tresha? You’re Dorothy.”
I sunk lower and lower in my seat. I’m 5 but already really tall and kinda — who am I kidding — still very very very shy. And no way. Like no way.
She wants me to play Dorothy.
On stage.
In front of the ppppppppp aaaaaaahhhhhhhh rents.
For Kindergarten Graduation.
Um. No.
No Way.
“We’ll have so much fun. C’mon let’s play” squeeled my close friend Tammy who, lucky girl, got dubbed the Scarecrow. And Mark, the Tinman, chimed in too. They pulled on my hands to come skip in a circle.
In my heart I wanted to be Glenda, the good witch. She got to wear a gown. And not just a gown but a pink gown (I liked pink very much then). With a crown. And a wand. And she made everything good.
And? her part was small.
Dorothy?
We already practiced. She had to skip across the stage with some stuffed dog and sing. Not just sing but lead the song ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road.’ And she had to pretend she knew what she was doing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Cut. cut. cut. Tre? Hello?
You can’t retell the story of a 5 yr old from the perspective of a grown up defining her then fears.
You’re way off. This is bunk. Foolish. You won’t reach anyone this way.
You’re using language that an audience might laugh at but it’s not plausible.
No one’s gonna believe a 5 yr old can think like this.
Call it like it is.
She’s scared.
She doesn’t want the part.
She wants to run away.
She might even pee in her pants but you can’t retell the story from an adult’s mindset.
Be the 5 yr old. Dig?”
(My internal editor. She interrupts me a lot. She’s sometimes cause for pause. On this occasion, she’s probably a bit right).
Hang on are you kidding me? You’re actually encouraging her to keep going with this junk? This is nonsense. The whole thing’s stupid and she doesn’t need to be writing. Waste of time. There’s no point. This story stinks. Her writing is atrocious and the whole thing is just dumb. Get off the internet. Stop the blogging. All of social media is hogwash. And woman give this up. You’re such a joke.”
(Eh hem. Welcome to the internal demon disguised as the voice of self condemnation. Never real she likes to hang around still, inspite of the squelching of her I’ve been successful with. Thing is, I know her game. She’ll accuse any way I move, breathe, think, act, speak. She acts like I shouldn’t even try anything at times. But she isn’t real. She’s the counter individuality that comes to each one of us to squelch. We just have to be mindful she’s not our voice. Ever. Even though she shows up all the time as “I” or “Me.”)
I am not duped.
I zero into what the editor within is telling me.
And I continue…
Me thinking: “How bout I just cut to the chase and tell the whole point?”
Editor: Um. No. That would be talking at. And aren’t there plenty already doing that? the 5 steps to happiness or the 10 tips to fearlessness or whatever?
And didn’t you try that?
Me: “Yep.”
Editor: How did it go?
Me: “Okay.”
What do you mean okay? It either went or it didn’t.
You don’t just say ‘It went okay.’ If it went okay it went nowhere.
Me: “No. It went somewhere. I used that structure and format for a bit.”
Editor: And?
Me: “Well, it’s not really me. It feels a onesided conversation.”
Editor: I know this. I already told you this. This is why I’ve implored you to tell stories.
But they have to be believeable.
Be the 5 yr old.
Even though that’s more than 30 yrs ago.
Be the 5 yr old otherwise the story aint goin anywhere.
Me: “Okay.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I raise my hand.
Mrs Hensler doesn’t see me.
She’s busy doing lunch count.
She calls the cafeteria. On the phone. On the wall. With the long chord. “We need 5 hot plates.”
I stretch my arm up higher.
“Mrs. Hensler?”
Yes Tresha. I mean Dorothy. I want to call you by that from now on. You have to get into character.”
“Mom said I am not allowed.”
The lump in my throat stung.
I wonder if my nose was growing.
My face felt beat red.
Daddy always said “Never tell a lie.”
I just did.
“Oh really? Did she say that? Let’s call her.”
Mrs. Hensler picks up the phone. “What’s your phone number? I know you memorized it. You got gold star on that assignment last week. Let’s call mom.”
I did get a gold star.
I look up. I look around the room. My mouth opens.
“She’s not home.”
“Tresha? We will speak to your mother when she comes to pick you up from school. For now, your Dorothy. Class line up for lunch.”
I remember walking to lunch and talking to myself like I’d learned to do in Sunday School.
“Dear God. Please don’t make me play Dorothy. That’s a big part. I don’t want to trip across the stage. I’m scared. Please make Mrs. Hensler pick someone else. Please make me Glenda the Good Witch.”
I knew God was smart. I was used to talk to God whenever I was afraid.
I remember hearing a little calm voice. It didn’t say anything at first.
I just felt hugged. And safe.
Soon, school ended. Mom picked me up.
Mrs. Hensler greets her at the door.
“We’ve picked Tresha to play the role of Dorothy. And here’s the best part. She can bring her dog to school and walk her across the stage! What do you think about that Tresha? You walk your dog at home don’t you? So the only difference is that it will be a new place. But we will practice and practice and you will do well. I promise. And if you want to? I will get up there with you and hold your hand and walk with you. It will be fun And you’re a big girl and this is your graduation!”
Mom is beaming. “Oh honey this is just going to be so much fun. Now what does she need to wear?”
“I get to BRING MY DOG TO SCHOOL AND WALK HER ACROSS THE STAGE?”
Mrs. Hensler: “You sure do. I couldn’t say that in the classroom because it needs to be a surprise.”
(Mrs. Hensler is a very smart woman).
I gulp.
“Okay. I’m Dorothy. And Tasha will be called Toto for one night.”
I learned something that day:
That sometimes? When we brave doing the stuff we’re scared of, an unexpected treat may well show up.
And more? If we calm ourselves by praying? It really makes us feel safe.
The End.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Editor: And that’s a rap.
Okay kid. That’s a start.
Get some sleep.
There’s plenty more to tell.
You did fine. You need to work a bit to sound more like a five year old. But this will do for now.
Did you really pray? You were only 5. Do kids really do that?
Me: ‘Yes. and Yes. Listening to Love…a 5 yr old might call it ‘hearing the wizard’ 🙂 and can happen no matter what your age is.’
Editor: Did you just call praying “Listening to love or hearing the wizard?”
Me: Yep. Sure did.
“How did you learn that? Is that another story?”
Me: Yep. Sure is. 🙂
