Little People, Big Hearts, Bright Hope

A Story of "Us."

Hello ♡,

I am not expecting us to turn away from the devastation we are reading about, or deny our own pain and worries. This never accomplishes anything. I am also not disagreeing with the writers that suggest we are losing, or already have lost, our shared humanity. I am celebrating the “also.” If you want a walk into the “also” and the big hearts of little people, join me in this slice of humanity from the other week. Joy and celebration of each other can produce empathy too, and a sense of our shared humanity. And all in a little local talent show.

Ok, if I am totally honest, I do usually dread the length of my daughter’s talent show each year. It lasts for hours. Hours! But that is part of it’s magic. Everyone matters, let me explain. Each year our local elementary school, the one all three of my children have attended, puts on a talent show. It is run by a young and energetic teacher, who just makes you want to be a better person. This was all before Covid. Naturally there was no talent show during Covid, and the teacher also left. But a couple years ago the talent show came roaring back, the teacher returning just to volunteer her time for it. And an even more extreme version of a beautiful night was born, almost it seems to spite the difficult years before.

In a world that is chaotic and hurting, divisive and othering, the talent show feels like celebrating the magic of childhood, the beauty of inclusivity, and our shared humanity. The talent show was always very inclusive. But now? Let’s just say there were not one, but two, acts standing and solving rubik’s cubes to music. Everybody gets to perform. And it is awesome.

The night starts pretty tame. Everyone is kind of in it for themselves at first. Parents looking for seats, side-eyeing the parents that got there early enough to save all the seats. I am usually that early parent, but this year I couldn’t be. I wandered between rows, all reserved with sweatshirts and bags, though still empty, I suppressed my eye roll, remembering I had done that too. I finally settled on a seat where you couldn’t see the stage, and donated that seat to my purse, and soon to an elderly woman, to sit on the stairs next to it for each act.

One of the teachers is also a Jazz singer in Atlanta, and she starts the show with an improv version of What a Wonderful World, walking down the aisles, singing kids names she sees. It’s glorious. And then the real show begins. Child after child, with 90 seconds to make their little dream come true, run on and off the stage. Over and over again. It is so ridiculously beautiful each time. It is not that the talent is particularly mind blowing. It is that they are brave and celebrated, and we are cheering them on.

And with each performer, someone stands up in the audience, or runs to the aisle to film, their body language announcing, “That is my child! She is mine!” Every other parent welcomes the disruption as they nod in understanding.

The room starts to get more chaotic as each act that finishes joins the audience, cheering on their peers.

And then it is Emma’s turn. My ten year old daughter has filled our lives and our house with her passionate singing since she could barely get the words right. While she brushes her teeth, while she is cleaning her room. You hear her. I hop up from my “stairs chair,” and run to where I can see her better. My husband and son have arrived, and they are stationed in their own designated spots to record our girl. She is ours!

She begins, with a low slow tone, to sing Unstoppable by Sia. In her black converse and pleather skirt from Amazon, she stares down the full room with the confidence of a pro. She reaches the chorus of the song and throws her head back, and I cheer fist in the air. I can’t help but cry. She is so brave, and it is such a beautiful slice of life. Sweet, poignant, and fleeting. 90 seconds.

And then I hear everyone else cheering too. Tonight, she isn’t just mine.

And just like that she runs off. She is in the audience too now. My husband and son race to give her flowers before they take off to another May event. I settle into my stairs chair, leaning back on the worn out carpet, taking in the scene. I like sitting alone. I am tired and tender hearted, a little hungry, but mostly in awe. Kids move through coordinated dances, a couple have ribbons, some have jokes. Some are brought back on because their music messed up. It is a collective gorgeous mess. They all have big hearts that haven’t been crushed by life yet, at least not enough to bury their hope.

The room begins to adopt them all.

It is no longer, “mine,” but “ours.” You can feel it.

Parents that barely know each other congratulate one another. I awkwardly hug a mom I have never hugged before gushing over our daughters, she hugs me back tightly.

It isn’t as much a talent show as a hope show. Stubbornly bright lights, each taking a turn, all giving a turn, all for one another. I know kids can be mean to each other, but not tonight. Tonight all is hope and light, and “us.”

The room is no longer tame. There are children everywhere. Down the aisles, lining the stage. Each act that has finished joins the cheering audience, making a huge swell of happy children. Performers now run up and down the edge of the stage after they finish, like rockstars high-fiving their cheering peers.

It is the last act now. Two girls take the stage. Another tiny girl runs down the aisle holding a slice of pizza on a flimsy paper plate exclaiming, “That’s my sister!” She claims her sister with the greatest pride until she reaches the stage and joins the packed cheering section already claiming the girls as their own too.

The microphone and sound, already a bit spotty, seem to have blown out. It is on brand for this level of sophistication. The two nervous girls wait. Our beloved teacher takes the stage and asks everyone to try something together. We are to be silent so the girls can sing it with no sound, quite a feat for this crowd hopped up now on concession stand soda and joy. A volunteer quietly crouches between them with her phone up so they can hear the tune they had planned to sing.

This room, moments earlier joyfully chaotic and loud, is quiet now. We are all quiet together to honor this last act that didn’t get their chance yet. This is how we will support them, with our silence. I watch, moved at the joining of each parent and giddy child in a reverent silence now. They begin to sing,

“Long live the walls we crashed through
How the kingdom lights shined just for me and you
I was screaming, "Long live all the magic we made."

By the end, the whole crowd is joining them. The throng of kids lining the stage are belting out the words and swaying back and forth. They scream sing with the two girls, who no longer look nervous, but very proud. The night ends with everyone rushing the stage and confetti thrown.

And listen, I know kids can be mean to each other, and I know the world is quaking. But I felt in my bones a a tiny moment in this joy of,

“There is no us and them. There’s just us.”- Father Gregory Boyd

I am taking this joy and “us-ness” with me, a little moment of shared humanity, and hope to pass it on to you today too.

With you,
Monica

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PS - I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for every note, every prayer, and every safe and kind “catch” of my irregular and very vulnerable share last week of my unfortunately irregular biopsy. It is always a risk to share something vulnerable, and this did not feel wasted. I really love this place, and I hope to send you back the love you shared with me.

And here is sweet Emma before the magical night ♡: