Little Dumber Boy

Christmas of 1978 was a good one – despite the fact that my brother received the three Tonka trucks that I had on my wish list. Years later Santa admitted that she must’ve mixed up the gift tags.

 The evening before, we had our annual Christmas concert at church. As a fifth-grader, my group was the highlight of the performance. My family arrived late. The standing-room-only crowd spilled all the way back to the exit signs and piled themselves into folding chairs hastily lined in the aisles. I quickly ditched my family and wedged my way into a pew near the front.

 The show had already begun. We’d rehearsed our song many times. I knew it by heart. I quickly made a mental checklist of what I had to do. Sing loudly. Enunciate. Make eye contact. Smile.

I’d barely prepared myself when it was our turn to go on. Because I sat on the end of the row near the wall I lead my group to the stage. Hundreds of eyes stared brightly at us – eagerly anticipating the harmonious notes ready to burst from our joyous mouths. I steadied myself, and silently cleared my nervous throat. Pastor gave us our cue and we began singing.

Shockingly, my first words were not the lyrics to the song. Surprised at what I heard, I stopped for a moment – trying to get my bearings. Had they changed the song at the last minute? I was late, so I likely missed any last-minute directions. I managed to mumble my way through a verse until I realized what song we were doing. It was a simple one – a number we’d done many times as little kids.  I quickly composed myself and began belting it out.

Throughout our performance I noted the eye contact from the audience was phenomenal. They were beaming – almost giddy with excitement. Seeing this, I stepped up my showmanship and began grand hand gestures like Pavarotti performing opera in front of the Pope. Even my little brother was locked onto me – grinning from ear to ear while nodding his head in gleeful approval.

 When we finished, I galloped down the altar steps to a resounding applause, plunked myself into a pew, and basked in the glow of a show well done. The moment was fleeting as I watched the next group take center stage. The singers were all of my friends and classmates. Slack-jawed, and bewildered, I listened to them sing the song I’d expected to perform. I glanced to my right. Sitting next to me was a row of little kids. Really little kids. In my rush to get into the church after arriving late, I’d seated myself with the kindergarteners. Slowly it dawned on me what had just happened. I sang with the kindergartners! The congregation enjoyed my performance because they watched a five-foot fifth-grader in high-water pants and a clip-on tie make a buffoon of himself with a group of toddlers.

Waves of embarrassment flooded over my face. My mind raced as to why this had happened. Was Pastor teaching me a lesson for uttering the f-word on the Vacation Bible School bus earlier that summer? Was God punishing me for thinking impure thoughts while ogling Tina Carrigan’s nubile figure in her nearly transparent baptismal dress after a full-body water immersion ceremony?

 

I don’t remember much about the moments afterward. It’s likely my ego has clouded my memory to protect my personal posterity. Since that day I’ve had hundreds of red-faced moments, but it’s been nearly 40 years since I’ve sung in public.