Humiliation

Humiliation – An Unfortunately True Story

As a music teacher, I deal with students and stage fright everyday.
         “I can’t get up there!  What if they laugh at me!”
         “I can’t do it!  I’m too scared!”
         “What if I fall down?  What if I forget the words?  What if the roof of the gym falls in and crushes us all?  It will be your fault for making me get up there!”
         Every time I hear an “I can’t,” I respond with a “Yes you can, because the worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone happened to me, and I survived.”
         And then I have to tell them the story about the worst thing that ever happened to me, bar none.
         I was asked to sing the National Anthem at a Pittsburg State basketball game.  When you’re a show-off singer, you get asked to do things like that.  I like my National Anthem.  I go fast.  People don’t come to the game to hear the National Anthem; they come to see the game.  There’s no point in dragging it out, so I book it.  I also belt it out.  It’s supposed to be one of the hardest national anthems to sing in the world.  Me?  I like the challenge.
         I always dress up for the occasion as well.  A little more makeup, a little more work on the hair, and nice clothing not only make me look better, but I sing better when I feel like Wonder Woman.  On that particular fateful night, it was a corduroy skirt and my favorite brown sweater, the one with the seventies-style collar. 
         I have not sung the National Anthem in a skirt since.
         I took my place by the press table, which was, incidentally, next to my husband, who was covering the game for the local newspaper.  He winked at me as I was introduced.  When the announcer finished, I took a deep breath and took off.
         I always try to find the flag to look at before I begin singing.  It’s a bit dodgy when you start the National Anthem while still trying to find the flag to sing to.  My eyes locked on it at the beginning of the song, and I sang to it.  I used the mic, but at the climax of the song, I was holding it at my waist.  I don’t need no stinking microphone – not in a gym with acoustics like that.  Man, I’m good!
         I finished the song to tumultuous applause.  I think people always applaud, whether the song was good or not.  It’s that national pride thing, but hey, it works for me.  I handed the microphone back, dipped my head in acknowledgement of the crowd, and turned around to go to my seat.
         At Pittsburg State games, there is a section that is not officially reserved for the older dignitaries of Pittsburg, but everyone knows that those seats are taken.  One such dignitary, Homer Cole, was sitting in his normal seat.  The refs hated that seat; it made him so much easier to hear and so much harder to drown out.  Homer’s seat was in the second row.  He was getting a bit older, and the second row was a stretch for him to get in to, but luckily, Pitt State had planted a small stepping-box in front of the aisle for just such dignitaries.  It’s good to be Homer.
         Homer must have liked our National Anthem particularly well that night, because he was smiling at me from ear to ear.  He wobbled to his feet and stuck out his hand for me to shake.  I reached up to take his hand.  Unfortunately, I also kept walking.
         The stepping-box was my downfall, and when I say “downfall,” I mean it literally.  I tripped on the damn thing.  Homer’s fingers scrabbled for mine, and I had a brief terrifying vision of pulling him down with me.  Arms flailing, I started a tumble that seemed to take forever.  I felt the box grab my toe with vicious little teeth.  I felt front row of bleachers grasping at my elbow.  I felt my glasses flying from my face.  Worst of all, I felt a . . . a breeze.
         Lying on the floor in the aftermath, I blinked a few times to make sure that I was still alive.  The overhead sodium lights were glaring at me for sullying their gym.  I wiggled a bit.  Nothing broken.  Then, I remembered the breeze.
         My head lifted.  Sure enough, my skirt was bunched around my waist, leaving my underwear completely exposed to the entire north side of the bleachers.  I stood shakily.  I pulled my skirt back down.  I looked at the north side of the bleachers.  The one thousand basketball fans there looked back at me.
         Some of them were appropriately horrified for me.  Their faces wore expressions of shocked disbelief and sympathy.  The rest were trying their best not to laugh.  I consigned them to the deepest circle of hell.
         If I could have died right then, I would have.  Voluntarily and immediately.  In my humiliation, I attempted a small curtsey to show that I was alright, although I was nothing of the sort.  There was a smattering of polite applause.  Then I returned to my seat.
         Stupid me, I actually thought that I was going to watch the game.  Within twenty seconds, I realized that I was going to freak out.  I calmly exited my spot, patted my husband on the shoulder to tell him that I was leaving, and walked from the gymnasium.  I wanted to sprint, but I was afraid that there might be another one of those stepping-boxes lurking somewhere, so I was treading gingerly.
         I went to my car and dialed my sister from my cell phone.  “I just fell down in front of a thousand people!”  My voice cracked, and the dam on the flood of tears finally broke.  My voice shook.  My legs shook.  My stomach shook.  My sister shook with laughter.
         When the game was over, my husband called.  I was in desperate need of consolation at that point.  I had spent the last three hours in my bed, vowing never to step into public again.  His comforting voice was a welcome sound. 
         “I can’t believe that I fell down in front of one thousand people,” I said.
         I heard him rustling the stat sheets at his desk.  “I don’t think there were a thousand people there, honey.  Let me check the report on the game.”
         Okay, so I only showed my undies to eight hundred people.  Somehow, it was really relieving.  Eight hundred, even eight hundred and fifty didn’t seem as bad.  Brian’s voice came back on the line.  “Sweetie?  It wasn’t a thousand.”
         “Oh, thank God!”
         “It was three thousand.”