Confessions from a Performance
In early August, I participated in Literature, LIVE!—an event where local writers read poetry or prose to a small gathering of people seated in maroon stacking chairs at the Valparaiso Public Library. It could have been just your everyday, run-of-the-mill artsy-fartsy event if it weren’t for a weeping writer.
What do you do at such an event when a performer forgets herself—gets lost in the eyes of an audience member and takes more than a few minutes to compose herself? What do you do when the performer begins to cry—tears that are not part of the performance—tears that actually are spontaneous, an emotion born of the situation?
I can tell you that most people don’t know what to do. There was an uncomfortable silence. There was the tension in the air as audience members shifted on the seats of those maroon stacking chairs. I expected the audience to divert their eyes, but no one did. They all stared at me, waiting. I was the weeping writer.
When I was asked to be a reader for Literature, LIVE! I had high hopes of writing something fresh and new—something specifically for the library event. But as I procrastinated my writing time away in favor of blockbuster movies with the kids or dinners out with my husband, I resigned myself to reading something I’d already written. I have tons of work that hasn’t been published and the essays that have been are always good ones to read aloud. I took the pressure of Literature, LIVE off myself in favor of more summer fun.
On the morning of the event I opened several folders on my desktop computer and picked something literary, yet accessible to someone listening. I picked an essay who’s length could be read within the 15 minutes I was given for my slot. I picked something that didn’t have Andrew or Adrienne as the subject since they would be attending. I had this thought that Adrienne might say, “I didn’t say that!” right in the middle of my reading. I picked an essay that is all about me.
If only I had I taken the time to think more critically, I would have known that choking up on page four would be inevitable. It was the part where I read, “I will be the one who will have to tell them, ‘Sometimes people don’t get better.’ ‘Sometimes babies only live for 14 hours.’”
Lifelines is an essay I wrote when my kids were in preschool. It’s an essay that I’m normally reluctant to share because of the angst and anxiety I reveal about parenting. I’m not embarrassed of the feelings. It’s just that the essay has always felt like an intimate conversation with my son rather than a piece of creative writing. I neglected to remember that intimacy when I decided I would read it—neglected to think what might happen if my son were staring at me from the back row with tears in his eyes as I read my account of parenting him amidst losing my best friend to leukemia and watching a woman I barely know grieve the loss of her baby that only lived for 14 hours.
Andrew and I are good at unspoken communication. I’ve always been convinced he was born with an old soul because he understands things beyond his years. Standing at the podium I could see Andrew’s eyes registering the emotions of my essay. His tears were telling me he was sorry for not knowing back then what he had learned just now. I could do nothing but respond with my own tears which created a rather awkward moment. It definitely wasn’t the flow I wanted. It wasn’t the public impression I intended to give. But in the end, Literature, LIVE! ended up being the platform for me to vent some things I might not have revealed otherwise. After it was over, I told Andrew, “It’s true that sometimes people don’t get better and sometimes babies only live for 14 hours. And it’s also true that sometimes people cry in public when it’s the last thing they want to do. But even when bad things happen, life marches on.”