Memoirs of a Fat Girl

How old were you when you figured out what you would be when you grew up?

I was nine. I wanted to be a movie star.

Unoriginal. Conformist. Partial lie. I didn't really want to be a movie star, since I had no idea what the job entailed - other than memorizing lines, of course - but since every other little girl I knew wanted to be a movie star, I thought, that sounds good. Well then, I want to be a movie star too.

I had a good start. By the time I was nine years old, I was in the school choir, was the star of my ethnic language school poetry recitals & head dancing girl, and could play two instruments. Yes, I was quite the wind up toy.

The fact that I was something of a reluctant toy, though, didn't quite dawn upon me. I was in the choir because my teacher said I had to be. I was the star of poetry and dance because my parents expected nothing less, and could play two instruments because the school offered violin, and piano was played by my big sister before me.

(Not that I didn't like doing any of these things. I could definitely have skipped the poetry and wasn't too keen on dance, but I really did love piano and violin.)

If every famous actress can recite, dance, sing and play for her adoring fans, then I was well on my way. Enter the school play of 1985, The Wizard of Oz, a beacon of hope to starlets everywhere, and the perfect opportunity to showcase my skills. I would perform! I would dazzle! I would be scouted for a multi-million dollar picture, and live in a Hollywood mansion!

Not that any hotshot producers would be coming to an obscure Catholic school in northern suburbia, but we can all dream, right?

Unfortunately, my shiny dreams would be badly quashed. When I say that The Wizard of Oz was a school play, I mean that absolutely every kid attending our school was in the play. Every last one. And, with the exception of the key parts that were delegated to the older kids who tried out for them, every other role in that play was assigned according to class.

Grade one became the citizens of Munchkinland. Second grade were the flying monkeys. Third grade were the citizens of Oz, and fourth grade was the happy forest.

If you've been paying attention to this point, you know by now that I was in the fourth grade. And if you've figured anything out for yourself, a forest is full of trees. I had to be a tree. And not just any tree, but a freakin' singing and dancing tree.

And, it didn't end there. The fifth grade was a few trees short of a haunted forest, and came scouting for extra saplings. The three tallest kids in the fourth grade got to be in the happy, happy singing and dancing forest, and then do a double shift as the mean, scary, booing haunted forest.

I was the tallest kid in the class. It was a given.

If you've never been a tree, it's hard work. Being a happy forest tree is even harder. You're stuck in a cardboard tube and dancing to ridiculous choreography without being able to bend your knees, all while getting a chin rash from your face hole. And, worst of all, because your arms are branches, they have to be up the entire time. Way, way up.

Us happy/haunted transvestite trees were doubly screwed. Twirl your way offstage, give your arms a ten minute break while Dorothy converses with Oz, then back onstage, branches and defenses up while a pack of second grade flying monkeys infests the forest, bumping trunks everywhere in their wake.

Ever fallen while in a cardboard tube? It's like putting a turtle on its back. It stays that way.

The Wizard of Oz was a four show production, and three hours hours long. Trees occupied more than half the performance. From Tuesday to Friday of that week, I had at least six hours of arms up, chin rash, flying monkey kicks, and plenty of reality checks. If The Wizard of Oz gave me anything at all, it was the certainty that if actresses had to do stupid things like this, I never wanted to be one.

Funny thing was, all my fellow girl classmates seemed to love it. Sure their arms hurt too, but they just loved that spotlight, and smiled and danced their little tree hearts away.

Their enthusiasm just confused me all the more. What was wrong with me? Why didn't I love this? And if I wasn't supposed to act, just what was I supposed to do? What was my calling?

Heavy thinking for the fourth grade mind.

Every night when the show was finished, we filed back to our class to get out of our costumes. By the last night, I was in a semi-panic from overly digressing on my future, since I was positive now that Wizard was done I never wanted to act again. Someone helped me out of my trunk; I wrote my name on it and put it against a wall, where one of my assignments had been tacked up. It was a short story for Creative Writing, and there was a gold star beside the A+. That made me smile.

I helped someone else out of their trunk, and then put that costume away next to a different wall, where one of my book reports was tacked up. A+, gold star, and "Fantastic!" written across the top by our teacher.

Everyone got changed, said their goodnights, and one by one left to locate waiting parents. When I exited the classroom I noticed one more thing: above the light switch was the "Speller’s Corner," reserved for students who’d received the highest marks on their spelling tests. One test was up there. Mine. 100%, and special commendation for being able to spell "Conversational," and use it constructively in a sentence.

This was a sign. Creative writing, book reports, spelling. Words.

Was my future in words?

It had to be. It just made too much sense. A gigantic grin spread across my face, and I ran outside to find my family.

Oli and Dad had been in the audience that night, and I found Oli waiting by the parking lot. Dad had gone to get the car. Oli had just finished her first year of high school which made her, in my eyes, a very important person indeed. I ran up to her, bursting with news. "OLI!"

She turned around and smiled. I was practically swimming in one of our father’s old brown shirts, and my face was still black with stage makeup. "Yes, leafy?"

I stuck my tongue out at her. "I know what I want to be when I grow up!"

"And what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I was jumping up and down, ecstatic. "A WORD PERSON!"

I don’t know what officially makes a word person, but twenty-two years later, I’m just that much closer.

It hasn't been easy. I have strayed from this path many, many times in favour of better paying careers, but I've always come back. I don't know exactly where life will take me, but I know that with words, I'm getting warmer every day.

One thing is definitely for certain, though: I haven't missed show business.