As I swelled up with pride watching my 14- to 18-year-old students perform their version of The Tempest this past Saturday, and as I registered the names and mannerisms of thirty 10- to 14-year-olds today, and as I watched the DVD of my fifth grade graduation boat trip with my friends a couple of weeks ago, I couldn't help but do some thinking about what it meant to be those various ages, and what it means now to be older than that. I have two decades of life under my belt. And I do somewhat feel the weight of those years. But I can still swim inside the different heads I had at various ages. I can crawl into the crevices of my ever shifting brain and remember. And I can't help but want to shake my past selves. Why was I so tentative to embrace everything that made me different? Why was I convinced that every difference was a flaw? Watching myself dance around that boat at 11 years old, I had an overwhelming desire to hold my own hand. To tell myself that I didn't have to scramble to remain on the upper tier of the totem pole. To tell myself I didn't have to slick my hair back in a ponytail to feign that it was straight. Why didn't I let my curls go wild? Why did I whisper nonsense in my friends' ears when I didn't care at all? Why did I value the other girls' whispering back? Why didn't I hang out with the motivational dancer the whole time like I wanted to? Why didn't I shake my ass and grab the hand of the boy I liked and kiss him on the cheek and go back to dancing by myself? Why didn't I go home and practice monologues and the piano? Why was I embarrassed to have my head buried in books? Why did I bury it in my cell phone? In AIM? Why did I let the glow of my computer sustain me at night instead of the glow of my reading lamp? Why, when I got on stage--my true home, the root of everything true--was I not completely fearless? Why did I let them tell me if I wasn't a soprano I wouldn't win? Why did I let them tell me belting wasn't real singing? Why did I let them tell me my hair was too messy? Why did I let myself believe my friends in their leotards were performing for the boys in the audience, and I was performing for the relatives, old people, and teachers? Why did I let them tell me I wasn't smart enough? Why did I let them laugh when I fucked up?
I was smart enough. I never would have been perfect. But had I been empowered, I could have failed beautifully instead of bashfully. Now, I strive for excellence. Now, I value myself enough to demand the best of myself. Now, I understand I will never succeed if I believe it every time someone tells me I can't. I just wish there had been more people who didn't just applaud when I did, but who actually told me I could and believed that I would.
My job tests me to the point where I have no choice but to believe I am capable. But I am not testing these kids. I am putting Shakespeare in front of them, and I am telling them, "Here. This can be yours. I will help you. And it will be yours. And I can't wait to watch you own it."
