Agony, ecstasy, and idolatry (part three)

The past, the present, and Paula Abdul

When I was in fifth grade, Heritage Hall introduced "The Revue," an annual talent show highlighting the middle and upper schools. After a good audition on my part and several days of decision-making, our chorus teacher posted a board with the names of those who were chosen to perform. I was one of three people from my grade who would get to shine. By sixth grade, I had decided that I was an indispensible talent and an asset to the chorus department. Although I still put my heart into my audition, I'd become content and convinced that I would appear in the second annual Revue. The feeling I had that morning in 1991 when my name was not on the cast board was the same feeling I had a few days ago when Simon Fuller told me "Thank you, but we're not taking anyone from this group." Simple, polite, and final. I would never appear on American Idol. My friends back home wouldn't need to vote for me. I would continue to wait tables. I would not meet Paula Abdul. I would go home a loser.

I was in such a state of shock when Simon said this, but I immediately walked to the assistant who cut off my wristband. Having auditioned at the closest table to the left, I had a particularly long walk off of the field. I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I smiled. A big smile. I looked up in the stadium to where Tricia, Deb, and the other parents were watching. Deb blew me a kiss. Patrick's dad raised his hands in applause and whistled. I smiled and waived. And as soon as I was in the covered part of the exit with all the others whose hopes had been shattered, I stopped. I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry so fervently and so vulnerably right there in front of these people with whom I had established such bonds over a matter of days. Two days and all that money for this? But no. I would remain the victor. I would not and could not cry once I realized why I was upset. In the grand scheme of things, I had been rejected from a reality television show, nothing more. I made my way outside to the absolutely scorching sun. Tricia was waiting, eagerly ancitipating my range of possible emotions. I was smiling, so she smiled.

Apparently I'd been the first from my family to audition. We waited, knowing that anyone who came out of our exit had also been cut. First came my friends in the row behind me. Then came Mandy and Patrick. We saw no one crying until Angie came out. Eyes bloodshot and puffy, she was devastated. I felt much worse for Angie, Mandy and Patrick than I did for myself. Mandy and Patrick had now been rejected twice, and Angie simply was not prepared for how much grief and sacrifice were involved in such a small, one-sided audition. All the parents joined us shortly, each offering comfort to the other's child, and especially to me. Patrick's dad told me how proud he was of me. Deb and Mandy's mom told me they thought I was a shoe-in the moment the first saw me. We joked about next year, in which Mandy, Patrick and Angie would try again and I, too old to compete after this season, would hold their places in line. Then came Ben from the opposite side of the stadium. He held in his hand the coveted pink sheet of paper inviting him back to round two. We congratulated him, said our permanent goodbyes, and parted ways without any promise to ever keep in touch.

As we were leaving, more failed contestants began exiting, and more tears were shed. "I just went through all that..." "I've been practicing for a year..." "Now what am I going to do?" I heard it all on my way back to the car. I sympathized with the others, but I tried not too feel the same way. Sure, I was frustrated and sad. I still am. But I, along with every other contender, knew exactly what this process entailed. And so we headed home, satisfied with the fact that we'd met some interesting people and experienced Houston.

I enjoy singing, but I am not a singer. I've had no vocal training, and until last season, my dream was never to be a professional singer or a pop star. So it's hard for me to be too upset. However, when I think of the Julia DeMatos and Josh Gracins who slipped through the cracks, I'm almost tempted to head to New York, Atlanta or Honolulu and give it one final shot just in case it was meant to be after all. But when I think of the possibility of seeing another face as heartbroken as Angie's or meeting another tool like American Gothic, I know it's not worth it. I won't say whether or not the process is unfair. I don't even care why Simon didn't pick me, really. At the very least, I can say I've gotten it out of my system and that I gave it my all. My sole regret is that I won't get to meet Paula Abdul.

And now...

The morning after I returned, I ventured to Winchell's, bought 12 donuts and sat in front of the T.V. all day. I hadn't been so content since before I left Oklahoma City almost a week ago. With Houston behind me, life will continue as usual. I'll watch American Idol in January and get pissed at how much more talented I am than the ones who made it. I'll cook up dreams and schemes to become a star. I'll face other auditions and make great plans for the future. At least now I know I'll try regardless of the odds.