I learned to sing before I can even remember. It was natural for me. Simple enough. I don’t remember the first song I sang. It was probably just a collection of screeching notes I suppose. I don’t remember what keys I plunked out on the miniature keyboard we kept in the toy chest, nor the beat my brother banged his fist to, but I do remember the little shows I would put on for my family from a young age. At first it began as an impromptu sing-along at the dinner table with a three year old me, before morphing into a ‘family talent show’ of my 7 year old self’s design. We would even sing in the car, my brother on air guitar, my father on steering wheel drums, my mother just laughing and shaking her head, and me, singing my heart out whatever my favorite song was at the moment, my most memorable one being Taylor Swift’s ‘You Belong With Me.’ It was in that same year while singing with my friends at recess, I realized that I could actually be something. I joined the school’s honor choir, sang whenever and wherever I could, and by the time of my 6th grade year, I had snagged the lead in the school’s musical ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’ It wasn’t much, but for me, it was the start I had so desperately longed for.

Jack and the Beanstalk the Musical was my lead debut. Of course I had made appearances in other musicals before this, a short stint in Snow White, a damsel in King Arthur’s Quest, and a member of the troupe in The Tortoise and the Hare, but nothing as big as my role in Jack and the Beanstalk. I was to play the role of Jack’s grieving mother. I even had a singing solo! I was ecstatic, delighted beyond belief at my impressive role.  I bathed in the beaming smiles of my family and the proud bragging of my mother to all of her friends. I ate it up. I was one of the five lead roles in the show, Jack, Jack’s Mother, Milky White (Jack’s Cow), Jill, and the Giant. We called ourselves the ‘Fat Five,’ nobody knew the reason,  as none of us were fat, we just liked being called a special name, I suspect. A special name for special people right?

After long weeks of late night rehearsals perfecting every line, every scene, every song, and every dance, it was finally our time to shine. And shine we did. Well, everyone except for me. During the final week of rehearsals, I came down with a terrible cold, and my voice was waning away to a scratchy, hollow of what it once was. I was going through the motions during every dress rehearsal, drowsy from the cold medicine I had taken and reaching for a cough drop after every song. While everyone else was flushed with excitement for the show, I was pale and sickly. “You’ll be fine,” I remember someone saying, “It makes your part more believable.” And I guess it did, the sick actress playing the grieving mother. But it didn’t make me feel any less crushed. I felt cheated. After all the hard work I had put into the show, this is what I got? I was supposed to be feeling the nervous butterflies in my stomach, but instead all I could feel was the raw numbness of my throat and the resounding echo in my head saying that I couldn’t perform like this.

I got through it and performed both shows without any mistakes. It was great. But more importantly, it was over. I couldn’t tell if I was relieved, or sad. Relieved at the time probably, but at the end of the day I was sad. Sad that my debut was over. Sad that it didn’t go as I had planned it to. Sad that instead of celebrating the show’s success with my castmates I was stuck at home with a pounding headache and an empty feeling in my heart.

That was my first experience with the heartbreak that comes with talent,but certainly not my last. After that I would experience many more, rejection, not getting the part I wanted, and even wishing I would have auditioned for a part, but didn’t. 

Talent doesn’t guarantee you anything in life. You get that through hard work. In fact, many people regard talent as a scapegoat. Talent might be your start, but it it won’t be your end. It will not get you anywhere if you do not also work hard.

To me, talent is not only the smell of cough syrup, and the feeling of nervous butterflies practicing their choreographed routine in my stomach, but also the ache of disappointment, and the tears of rejection. Call me crazy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.