Pageant (2008)
Tradition required the grade four class of Kensal Park Public School to deliver the Christmas pageant unto the public. The roles were to be delegated undemocratically by the teacher.
Mr. Jacklyn read out the names of my classmates and their corresponding roles. I listened with anxiety, my breath shallow and short. The pageant, evidently, was a big deal. The whole school would assemble, seated on the cold linoleum floor and row upon row of plastic folding chairs would line the back of the gym for parents.
It was my first Christmas at the new school. I had arrived at Kensal Park only seven months earlier; late May with less than a month to go before summer vacation. Unable to ascertain by my performance in her class as to whether I was fit for grade four, the grade three teacher graciously passed me on the merit of my previous report cards and smart looking polyester pantsuits.
One by one, my classmates were assigned: innkeeper, shepherds, angel, and wise men. Disappointment and elation hung like cumulus nimbus in the classroom. With dramatic buildup, the teacher announced the headliners last. Christopher was to play Joseph and his wife Mary was to be played by
Oh no.
Oh no no.
No no no no no no no.
There must be some mistake. I am terrified. A little pleased. Mostly terrified. Why me? I am not typical actress material. I am not gregarious, or loud, or exceptional. I look nothing like Mary. In all of the images I have ever seen not one of them has ever depicted Mary with red hair, glasses, and buckteeth. My family doesn’t even go to church. That fact alone should render me ineligible for the role. I am not pretty or pious or worthy of portraying Mary. There must be some mistake. I look at the expressions on the faces around me and I can tell that several of my female classmates are thinking the same thing; girls who have attended Kensal Park Public School their whole educational life. Girls who have been waiting – breath bated – since Kindergarten for a shot at this esteemed role. Girls who probably are worthy of portraying the virgin mother. I would gladly, and with relief, relinquish the role to someone who really wants it. But Mr. Jacklyn is determined. The cast has been cast…apparently in stone.
The casting of the pageant is big news in our little school. By the end of morning recess it has been broadcast throughout the grades that the “new girl” has garnered the coveted Mary role.
Heading home for lunch I overhear a conversation; one of my classmates and several of her grade five friends. They are ambling up ahead, arm in arm along the concrete path. I am ten feet behind them walking alone.
“Michelle, you would make a much better Mary.” They all tell her, the volume of their voices louder than conversational. The intention of their words burns my ears.
Anticipation mounts over the next few weeks as we prepare props and costumes. A baby Jesus is needed to put in the manger. I bring in one of my old baby dolls – preemie-sized – wrapped in a length of light coloured flannelette secured with an old diaper pin. The doll is fuel for ridicule. The grade five girls latch onto the knowledge of the plastic girl-Jesus like maggots on a dead bird. In the schoolyard they go out of their way to saunter by and fling unkind comments casually over their shoulders. Their aim is impeccable. Every day I hurry home with “…still plays with dolls – what a baby!”, “…not grown up enough to be Mary”, and “…using a girl doll to represent Jesus – she is going to hell for sure” etched into my thin skin.
The day of the pageant is chaos. Academic schedules have been re-arranged to accommodate the assembly. The fevered excitement of a wrinkle in humdrum routine is evident.
Our class is taken to the gym well before the rest of the students and parents arrive. Those of us with active roles are corralled “offstage” into the cramped, ill-lit equipment room adjacent to the gymnasium. The rest of my classmates join the grade five choir at the head of the gym. The girls stare at me smugly. I would trade places with any one of them. In my opinion they have the primo role. They get to participate in a sea of anonymity – actively on stage but essentially invisible. The spotlight will literally be on me.
I haven’t slept much in the past week. I could barely gag down the bowl of cereal my mother set in front of me at breakfast. The smell of rotting rubber and sweat-soaked gym mats make me feel like throwing up. I swallow and breathe through my mouth. I wish it were over already. Then we could all forget the whole thing had ever happened and I could go back to being the unmemorable girl that everyone ignored.
Students and parents begin to file in and take their seats. Layers of conversation build into a roar of unrecognizable words as the room fills to capacity. The wise men peek out at the audience, “Aww, cool! Look how many people there are!”, “Hey, I can see my granddad!”, “Is my mom out there?” I pace nervously between the vault horse and the ball bin. Very un-Mary-like I begin to pray for a minor disaster. A small fire that would evacuate the building will suffice nicely. Not so that anyone got hurt, just something big enough to make everyone forget about me.
All at once the pageant has begun. The narrator is speaking then the choir is singing and all I can think is “why do they all sound so far away?” Suddenly silence. Why is the choir looking over here? Why is everyone looking over here? A hand pushes me from behind. A voice hisses, “GO!”
Oh.
I’m on.
Using somebody else’s legs I walk onstage. My Joseph leads me through cardboard Bethlehem. The wise men pay their respects. The choir sings. In less than a minute it is over. All that remains is for us to walk across the front of the gym and exit into the hallway. I reach for my child. Not just any child – the Holy Child. Joseph has already grabbed my right hand and started walking away from the manger. I reach back and grasp a corner of the flannelette with my left hand. As I swing baby Jesus forward I note with horror that the diaper pin is missing. Instead of pulling Jesus into my arms and exiting gracefully offstage I am left watching with everyone as the carefully swaddled baby doll unravels and bounces nakedly across the linoleum.
What should be a solemn and silent moment is defiled as complete bedlam erupts. Everyone is laughing: children and parents and teachers. The sound echoes, rebounding off the concrete block walls of the gym, amplified again and again.
Mortified, I scramble after the doll. The long blue sheet I am wearing tangles around my legs and I stumble, accidentally kicking the doll and sending it skittering across the floor. My performance brings down the house; it lands on top of me. I am on my hands and knees scuttling toward the doll, thankful that the stage isn’t raised. Thankful that only the first graders can see me. “Baby Jesus is a girl!” one of them screams. Squeals punctuate a fresh bout of hilarity.
I grab the damn doll and cursed flannelette. Crawling to my escape I pass in front of the choir. A small metallic flash catches the spotlight and lands in my path. Cackling long and loud, the cruel laughter of the grade five girls cuts through everything.