I’m Nearly Famous
Growing up, I felt miscast — like I was destined for a bigger platform. I was convinced that I was meant to be famous.
When I was 8 or 9, my mom bought me a yellow t-shirt with the words “I’m Nearly Famous” emblazoned in silver on the front as well as a blue t-shirt with a giant silver star. I wore those shirts as often as I could get them washed. To me, they told the world that I was someone special. While I was yet to discover my “gift,” even then I knew it was just a matter of time. Clearly I was a great talent; at what was less clear.
To say that no obvious talent emerged for me in my adolescence is a woeful understatement. But this was not for lack of trying. My karate instructor suggested I focus on ballet, while my ballet teacher suggested that my talent might lie in karate. After two piano lessons, the teacher quit, stating, simply, that I was unteachable.
Always theatrical, I tried drama camp. Instead of the lead in Fiddler on the Roof, I was cast as “Second Shop Girl on the Left.” While technically an “extra,” I finagled a short solo, singing one line — something about having bread for sale. I realize now that I had simply extracted capitulation from a college-aged camp counselor who had tired of arguing with a precocious pre-teen. At the time, I was undeterred. Surely the addition of my great talent would elevate the otherwise unremarkable staging of a story that everyone at my Jewish day camp already knew. I didn’t know I was tone-deaf because:
A) Tone-deaf
B) Not a good listener
I am thankful that social media didn’t exist back then, that video cameras were too expensive for casual personal use, and that most of the rolls of film that my parents (like most parents) took never ended up getting developed. You’ll have to take my word that the babushka and braces look was not a good one.
While my parents were likely aware that I was chasing an unattainable dream, to my mother’s credit, she never discouraged me. She, in fact, spent a small fortune and no small amount of time indulging my quest. Tap lessons, acting classes, ice skating.
There was the Dorothy Hamill phase, where I dreamed of Olympic gold. The haircut alone, no doubt, amused my parents, but I’m sure the hours sitting at the ice rink and the ridiculous ice shows had to be painful. While I dreamed of swan-like grace, I executed more like a newborn deer. I had plenty of charisma, smiling brilliantly as we did a marching formation dressed like cards and timed to a song from Alice in Wonderland. Unfortunately, I was utterly lacking in physical grace. Later diagnosed as dyslexic, I didn’t know my right from my left until I was almost 15; nothing looked effortless as I strained to stay with the music and on the same foot as the rest of the ice dancers.
When I entered a college prep school in 7th grade, the extracurricular pursuits fell away, replaced with homework, tutors, chasing boys, trying to fit in. But even as I so desperately wanted to fit in, I still felt a compelling need to be “special” — to stand out, even just a little. Maybe everyone felt that way. I don’t know. I was too embarrassed to ask.
After unsuccessfully auditioning for a school production of The Hobbit, I decided I was not a “theater kid.” I mean, I couldn’t even land a part as a troll. This was not going to be my ticket to greatness. I would have to figure out something else.
But here’s the thing — I still wasn’t good at other things. Don’t get me wrong, I was smart, I got good grades, I had some friends. I just didn’t have a talent. When we had tennis for PE, the coach suggested I sit out and learn how to keep score — I think she was worried I would hurt myself, or others, if allowed to continue using a racket. And while we had a world-class swim team, I hated getting in the water; it meant frizzy hair for the rest of the day. And forget about volleyball — I would duck if the ball came anywhere near me. Most of the time, I would tell the coaches that I had my period so I didn’t have to participate. I assume they were relieved because I can’t imagine they believed that anyone got her period that often without requiring medical attention.
In 9th grade, I noticed I could make people laugh. Not with practical jokes or even traditional jokes, but with my unique…perspective. I had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. My peers thought I was hilarious; my teachers found me disruptive. To this day I think they secretly thought I was funny, though you wouldn’t know it based on how much time I spent in the guidance counselor’s office. But I didn’t care about that. I loved when people told me I was funny. It wasn’t so much a talent as a marked characteristic. And it did make me feel a little special — and not in the “special needs” kind of way like some of my previous trials.
As I progressed through school, on to college, childhood dreams of fame and/or notoriety faded. The need to be self-supporting didn’t release in me some brave rebellion where I chucked my middle class values and started perfecting my craft at The Comedy Store. Instead, I got an MBA, which isn’t funny at all. I would not serve on a world stage as my 8 year-old self once dreamed. I would, however, increase the sales of canned pumpkin by 15%.
While in part I was never brave enough to really chase my nascent dreams, the truth is that I also wasn’t really willing to do the necessary hard work. For a minute, I thought I wanted to be a famous actress — but when I read about all the physical training that someone like Halle Berry would do just to walk out of the ocean in a Bond film, it made me think of high school PE. I wanted to be famous — I didn’t want to “suffer for my craft.” And back then, when I was choosing my path, you couldn’t be famous for nothing, the way you can today.
Today, I write. Not to be famous; perhaps to be known. I write to share my experiences, to connect, and, I hope, amuse. If I’m lucky, some of you are laughing with me.
But I can’t help but wonder — who would that 8 year-old be today if she’d had her own YouTube channel?
