I was old before I realized the travesty I’d played in my brief career on stage.
It was McPherson 1960 and our junior high 8th grade musical.
About gypsies. No not THE Gypsy. No not Gypsy Rose Lee.
Some simple tale written by wanna-be-songwriters and lyricists for school performances. The rights for one performance and 30 libretto copies likely quite cheap.
And on the strength of I-can’t-possibly-fathom-what, I was cast as the “thieving gypsy grandmother.”
I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t sing loudly enough to be heard in the front row. The odds for me being able to harmonize were nil. I was certifiably awkward.
Maybe I looked the part.
And I loved wearing the flouncy, patchwork, taffeta skirt my mother made from coat lining fabric and men’s ties. With a peasant blouse and every necklace in our house.
When the teachers finally realized what I couldn’t do, they instructed Rochelle, the classmate pianist for whom I had no fond feelings, to sing my part as she played the accompaniment. I lip-synced. And belted out my spoken lines in a voice my teachers and I fancied fit an old crone: querulous, scheming, not-to-be trusted.
The world’s most truncated stage career. And a deadly one.
What seemingly innocuous, but lethal threads of bigotry laced through that musical. And my teachers – and my parents – and me. A stereotype based on nothing more than legends, themselves built on fear and prejudice. On the all too familiar human weakness of wanting to turn someone who is different into someone who is dangerous, destructive, depraved. And into entertainment. ©
