memories – ʚ sloom ɞ

behind the stage curtain

a memoir about the nervousness before a school talent show performance

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

G, C, F.

Hold F for twice as many beats.

My fingertips press the nylon strings against the wood of the instrument. I repeat the pattern multiple times over—pressing, but not making a sound. G, C, F. Hold F for twice as many beats. My fingers transpose along the fretboard from one position to another, yet the rest of my body is as stiff as a board. I take a deep breath. I’ve practiced this too many times to be concerned about a mess-up, yet my thoughts trickle to the worst of outcomes.

I am surrounded by pitch-black darkness, only knowing where to stand by how stage crew directs me. F, C, G on “believe.” I’m doing it again. It’s something I cannot help. I bring the instrument close to my ear, near-silently pluck all four strings, just enough to hear the familiar keys. Tune is correct. Chords are memorized. Breathe. I wipe my sweaty palms against the fabric of my short dress, the whiteness of it almost bright enough for me to see through the dark.

I’m brought back to reality when the crowd on the other side of the long, black curtain erupts into sudden applause. I have no memory of hearing the act before me, though I’ve gone to enough rehearsals to remember the faces of the two young boys, one beatboxing whilst the other sings opera. A bit of an odd choice to place a singing act after something so silly, though the playfulness of the ukulele seemed a smoother go-to than most.

I turn my head away from the mic, quickly clear my throat and straighten my posture. The crowd grows silent as the curtains open, almost in slow-motion, making a slight squeak only heard from my side of the stage. Bright lights flash, an excessive amount of warmth hitting my skin. Butterflies in my stomach. Slight shaking of my hands.

All eyes are on me. Waiting, watching every movement I make. They can see me, yet I cannot see them. It’s too dark and the lights are excruciatingly bright. My gaze searches for the bright red exit sign, the centre point of the auditorium. Eye contact. Look ahead. Don’t squint.

And, most importantly, remember to smile.

I take a silent breath and begin to pluck the strings to the intro of the song. G, C, F. I look down at my fingers a few seconds at a time, carefully picking the tune in fear of a mess-up. They ring clean. As the last note rings through the auditorium speakers, my serious expression grows into a huge grin as I hit the first chord of the song and belt the lyrics into the mic.

My nervousness instantly vanishes, like clouds passing in front of the sun, my muscle memory kicking in. The words to the song grow in my vocal cords, flowing from my throat and passing through my lips, a steady river stream of musical melody. My body naturally moves to the beat of my own sound, a subtle swaying back-and-forth of my hips. The fingers on my left-hand dance along the fretboard as my right keeps up with the rhythm.

Every inch of my body and every effort of my soul is working in harmony, like one gigantic entity made up of separate parts, with different functions, though all working together for the same purpose. Up until this moment I’ve never felt so completely confident with myself.

I hear a few sounds of approval and calls of my name every now and then, though as soon as I get to the chorus of the song, the singular voices become a loud, bright chorus. “I’d like to make myself believe…” which instantly spikes my energy up to euphoria. I strum harder, I belt out louder. This is where I belong. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

Lost in the moment, I don’t have to remind myself to smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

this is where you’ll find me

a memoir on finding solace within the earth’s sky.

During the past few years, I have become an emotional teenage mess. My mind has begun to feel like a melting pot of emotions, a tight circular bowl with my thoughts being the hundreds of marbles thrown in, circling around and around and around until they fall into a hole of oblivion. On the outside, this may not be obvious, but often times I am overwhelmed with the amount of information bouncing around inside my head. That being said, I’ve had trouble finding a space where I can be at peace of mind—after all, I can’t exactly run from myself.

A few years ago on a late summer evening, I was at home when my mother and I got into an argument—about what, I don’t recall. Though I remember being so fed up with her, bursting with anger, I stormed out of the house without much thought. And because I left so suddenly, I had nothing on me—no keys, no phone, just myself… and my thoughts.

I lived on the second floor of my apartment building, so I was able to quickly run down a flight of stairs and out the door into the humid summer atmosphere. It was cooler than it’d be in the day, and the sun was making its way toward the horizon. Still cooling off my anger, I made large strides away from my home.

Across from where I stood resided this paved path along this huge field—a “hydro field” occupied by large towers and electrical lines, as well as some soccer nets where teams of young children go to play in the warmer months.

Toward the direction of the field was a roaring sky bursting with colours, with reds and oranges and even some purples and blues. The sun stood boldly against a patch of blood-red sky, not a single cloud in sight. It was beautiful, and just like that, I felt my boiling anger sucked away, my attention being alluded by the infinity of the vibrant colours. It was as though the sky had a voice, and it was calling me by my name.

Every step a bounce, the only thought I had was to chase that glimmering ball in the sky. I ran up the swiveling path toward the direction of the setting sun. It met the horizon toward the west, which led me down a hill right by a park reservoir; a dam of sorts acting as a barrier between some quaint lands and a mini “lake,” the dam also playing as a bridge. Large electrical towers stood further ahead in the water.

I settled along the bridge, hoisting myself up the metal railing and sat comfortably, where my eyes took in the colours of the sky. Far ahead of me, A tall office building stood out with a bright red sign, with other small buildings in the distance. The reservoir stood at the intersection of two streets, where cars drove swiftly with their flashing lights. I could see all the traffic, yet amazingly, I heard none of it at all. It was far enough away.

I watched silently as buses and trucks passed along the orange sky, so many lives going by me that I will never meet. People who go through just as much as I do, yet none of it I may ever know. Realizing all of this made me feel so tiny, so insignificant—but not in a bad way. It was as though my existence was merely a grain of sand, a sailing cloud observing from up above, watching the tiny people move by. Life goes on. The Earth’s lullabies cradled me in its warmth.

I stuck to my spot along the railing as the sun tucked away for the evening and light faded from the sky. The night was just as beautiful. Stars twinkled against the navy blue, the sun’s sister offering just as much as her. City lights lit the sky. Whooshes of airplanes up above filled the air. I sat, observing anything and everything.

As I got home late that evening, I greeted my mother with a warm smile. She seemed to have taken her alone time well, too, as neither of us brought up the argument we had a mere few hours earlier. I didn’t want to fight—not at that moment, anyway. I plopped in my bed, daydreaming about the feeling of infinity I have just experienced.

While I don’t go toward that reservoir frequently, when I need a place to calm down and collect my thoughts, I find myself walking towards that direction, night or day. And every so often, I look up at the gorgeous looking sky and hear it calling my name. And I can never resist the chase.

smile

a memoir on confidence and the support strangers can give.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Sitting in French class, I sat at my desk with a small compact mirror in front of me. I wished I brought a comb with me but raking my fingers through the tangled ends of my long dark hair would do. I tucked a few strands behind my left ear. My first school picture to mark my first year of high school; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take it seriously.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ A few nights before the big day, I meticulously picked out what I was going to wear, searching through my closet until I decided on a one of my favourite shirts at the time: a white plaid men’s dress shirt, slightly cream coloured, with black thin lines reminding me of a grid pattern and pearl-like buttons. This was back when I was very infatuated with the Back to the Future films and was sure to make a homage to Marty McFly for my picture.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ I spent a long time in front of a mirror that evening, practicing how I was going to smile. I experimented making faces in the reflection, from small upward lips to cheeky and one-sided, but it did not once cross my mind to consider grinning with my teeth. While I did not particularly mind the idea, I wasn’t exactly comfortable with it either. Having not-so-good teeth growing up, I got used to smiling in photos with a closed mouth. Especially as a very small kid, I visited the dentist a lot (my mother tells me I “drank too much milk” as a child which seems ironic).

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Looking back, this also reflected a lot of my personality at the time: I had always been a very timid, quiet child, a lot of the time keeping to myself. I had friends, and I was fine with who I was, sure, but being outgoing was never my thing.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ My French teacher told us it’s time to go to the auditorium, where our photos were being taken. She referred to us as filles, translating to girls, as we were an all-female class. And by complete chance. I still recall the only boy in our class one day switching classes, and we joked how he was intimidated by a room full of females. It was only first period, and a lot of us were still fresh out of bed, rushing to make last-minute touches to their lipstick or mascara or hair as they peered into their front-facing phone cameras.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ We made our way downstairs to meet the double doors and dim lights of the auditorium. I’ve seen enough of the room to acknowledge it was quite different this time, with desks facing the front audience seats, being where we obtained a ticket with our information to take the photo. The lineup was quite long, and up the side stairs to the stage, more students waited for their turn to be placed under tall studio lights and a navy blue backdrop. Multiple sets were placed like these, with mild-tempered photographers doing their best to get through the tedious day.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ I remember waiting patiently yet nervously in line, graciously taking a hand-held mirror my teacher passed around to do last quick check-ups to our appearances (unfortunately, I left my own in the classroom). I combed through my hair with my fingertips and practiced my smile once more. My teacher meanwhile chatted with a few of us as we waited. “Don’t worry ladies, you all look great,” her chipper voice practically smiled whenever she spoke.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Soon enough, my turn came around, and I handed my ticket to the photographer, who greeted me with a friendly hello. I remember him most with long strands of dirty blond hair, tuffs hugging the sides of his neck, the ends brushing the shoulders of his white button up. He occasionally pulled out some crackers from a box to snack on.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ I sat down in front of the backdrop, as I waited for instructions on how to pose.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ “So, Sarah,” he began, his lean frame standing behind the camera. “Start by turning more towards me. That’s good. Tilt your head just a bit to your left. Yup, just like…”

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Photo Guy continued guiding me on my posture, looking back and forth between the digital screen and me. When I looked just right, he gave a double thumbs-up and beamed in excitement. Though he sported some fuzz from along his jawline to his chin, it was obvious he was quite young by the way his eyes lit up against the bright photo lights.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ “Good. Now let’s see that smile…” when I gave him the closed-mouth smile as I’ve practiced, he suggested, “how about showin’ off some teeth?” Normally I’d be quite stubborn and be set on how I wanted it, but the way he so strongly and confidently put forth the idea made me believe he knew what he was doing, even if he was a complete stranger.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Still, I wasn’t so quick to give in, giving him a neutral shrug.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Photo Guy then asked if I’d like to try two photos, one with a closed smile and one with my teeth. I didn’t realize it then, but he was making a very generous gesture. Hearing the stories of my friends and their photographers later on, their experiences were merely sitting down, a click and a flash, and leave.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ I then recall sitting there, posing for my first photo with a small cutesy smile, a closed mouth. Then I took my second, with Photo Guy saying the classic “cheese!” line in a silly voice. It took me by a bit of a surprise, causing me to giggle at the cheesy line and bringing out a wide, toothy grin.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ When I finished he let me take a look at the photos on his screen, comparing the two and letting me pick what I preferred. And it wasn’t at all hard to make. My closed-mouth smile was fine, sure, but it was the way I beamed with my teeth that felt so honestly sincere. In the picture I saw myself, crinkling my eyes in a way that I knew meant something genuine and it instantly won me over. I never imagined I could feel so good about something that once made me feel insecure.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ I tapped at the screen on the second photo. “That one,” I smiled, “for sure.”

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Already in a good mood, I was even more uplifted when Photo Guy offered me some of his snack as I got up to leave. I gratefully took a few, and thanked him for taking my photo. That was the last I ever saw of him, never having even learnt his name.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ I popped some crackers into my mouth, the taste of dill pickle lingering with me throughout the rest of the morning.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ It wasn’t long before I found myself opening my mouth to smile more often, allowing myself to let out my grin for photos that turn to be pleasant memories. I now enjoy seeing how much I beamed with energy, in the same way high school has allowed me to crack through my shell in so many ways. I no longer let myself hide, making plenty of life-long friends during my first year and becoming more comfortable expressing my voice.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ Every year I take a school photo, it tastes like dill pickles. I smile proudly each time, letting my teeth shine. And all it needed was a few minutes and complete chance for one photographer, one person, a stranger, to have a huge affect on my life.

‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ A few weeks later, the photos arrived to class in large white envelopes, with a clear front to instantly see students’ faces. When I got to see mine, printed big and bright and in my spiffy McFly shirt, a wide smile instantly spread across my face.