Here’s a groovy pic of my childhood jazz class dancing to “Pinball Wizard” back in the 1970s. (I’m the one in the back row, center stage, boogieing my heart out.) What are you a wizard at? What gets you jazzed in life? Makes you feel super alive? Floats your boat? Tickles your fancy? Tickles you pink? Delights, amuses, intrigues, enchants, charms, thrills, or captivates you? Your unique talents and personal pleasures aren’t unimportant, inconsequential, or random. They are divine direction and crucial clues guiding you toward your passion and purpose in life. Read below to find out how this whiz kid got a clue.
Enjoy this excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
My life revolved around the almost daily classes, but the recital fed my soul and sent my spirit skyrocketing. I could hardly wait for spring to roll around, for the end of winter signaled the beginning of performance preparations, the most thrilling of which was the distribution of costumes. I had high hopes for my jazz outfit, as my class was dancing to a hit song, “Pinball Wizard,” performed by one of the greatest rock bands of all time: The Who. I held my breath as Skye tore open the precious parcel holding the much-anticipated wardrobe. My balloon deflated as she handed me a plastic bag containing a sleeveless turquoise-blue leotard, a shiny silver waistband, and matching arm and leg bands embellished in metallic fringe. That was it? A glorified leotard with tinfoil? I had created better costumes using Mom’s sewing scraps and a stapler.
Kristi Lynn Davis in Pinball Wizard costume
But it got worse. There at the bottom of the bag was the headpiece. It was a turquoise-blue, ski-mask-style hat with a silver foil fountain spewing out of the top like a whale spouting water. When I slipped it on, my entire head was covered, like a nun with a bad habit. I think we were supposed to resemble pinballs bouncing about, but I felt more like a pinhead.
Once the costumes were doled out, a professional photographer set up shop at the studio, and you could pay to have your picture taken. For an additional fee, you could have your photo included in the program book. The cool girls always had their pictures in the book.
The Dallas ladies also sold advertising space above, below, and beside the snapshots of their dolled-up performers. Your image might end up next to an ad for Angelo’s Pump and Pizza, or the Cutting Edge Hair Salon, or the Legal Offices of Steele, Conn, and Lye. I felt sorry for the girls who found themselves smiling radiantly under the Paul Berrer Funeral Home. The juxtaposition of dancing cuties and a funeral parlor promo seemed inappropriate, but it certainly made death look like something to celebrate.
Even though I wasn’t jumping up and down about my costume, I did get my picture taken, sans head cover, but only to stick in my own personal photo album. I didn’t feel worthy of joining the beauties in the book, or think the half-page spread was worth the investment, so I passed on Mom’s offer to pay for the spot. Still, I was a bit envious of the girls, enveloped in lace and sequins and ruffles, whose images graced the pages of the prestigious publication along with some sentimentality submitted by their adoring parents. “You’re our little star! Always stay as Sweet as you are! Love always, Grammy, Gramps and Little Brother Johnnie.” Hattie wrote testimonials for some of her favorites, and they were full of equally gushy prose. You knew you had made it to the top if you had a statement written by the hand of Hattie.
When the glossy booklets returned from the printer, I devoured mine like I was reading People magazine hot off the press. I scrutinized every word, name, face, and figure. Where did I fit in among all these beautiful, talented girls?
One student, Myrtle Hightop, was a tough act to follow. The text next to her picture claimed, “Myrtle has studied dance for 13 years. She does Ballet, Jazz, Hawaiian, Tap and Tahitian. She also twirls baton, two batons, flags, hoop, 20 knives, and fire baton. She has 1,500 trophies, 3,000 medals, and 150 beauty titles, and recently passed her Grade III Cecchetti Ballet Exam.” Wow! I was impressed by her bravery. (How many kids are fearless enough to twiddle burning sticks and razor sharp cutlery?) But her bulging collection of prizes seemed a bit far-fetched. I did the math: Fifteen-year-old Myrtle would have to have to won an average of 100 trophies, 200 medals, and 10 beauty titles per year since birth. Her story didn’t seem to add up, but to me the program book was the gospel; therefore, it must be true.
The recital was a three-hour marathon of semi-organized chaos, once again held in June at a high school auditorium. Dress rehearsal was scheduled for the night before the show, and my favorite part of the evening was watching the other numbers. I marveled at the precocious six-year-old soloist, a Shirley Temple look-alike, who appeared to have been swallowed by a doily, as she tapped and warbled to “Sweet Georgia Brown.” I snickered at the eldest Waldorf sister, who made funny faces when she danced, mouthing “Ooooh!” and “Ahhh!” like she was judging her own performance.
One of the most memorable acts was the acrobatic jazz dance by two of the unnaturally pliable cool girls in which one slowly and painstakingly bent over backwards to pick up a handkerchief off the floor with her teeth while the other did a back bend, grabbed her own ankles, and rolled around the stage like a human wheel. Their duet wasn’t complete without the crowd-pleasing back handsprings and back tucks. I, too, never tired of watching them defy gravity.
The tumbling classes were the most boring, even duller than the three-year-olds who were at least funny if someone cried or wet her costume. The tumblers dressed in plain-Jane unitards and then, to music, lined up to do somersaults, straddle rolls, cartwheels, and round-offs across a row of mats. The littlest ones had to have their bottoms pushed to complete their forward rolls. The most talented kids went last and attempted to do handsprings but often ended up landing smack on their behinds, or flying out-of-control into the wings where the next class was waiting to go on. Sometimes at the end of this dismal display, the whole class would form a human pyramid for its bland finale.
The highlight of the show was Skye’s jazz solo. As the lights dimmed, she appeared, a vision in white. Her plush halter-topped, bell-bottomed pantsuit was studded with rhinestones and perfectly complimented her sparkling, pearly-white smile. She kicked to her ear and leapt like a deer. With a magnificent face and physique and the dance skills to match, Skye didn’t need a gimmick to keep the attention of the audience for the entire three-and-a-half-minute song. She was stunning and captivating all on her own.
For the most part, the Dallas crew was busy dealing with the technical aspects of the show, like sound and lighting, so the army of overly made-up, restless children was corralled and shouted orders to by a bevy of stage mothers. During the actual performance, the menagerie was contained in the band room until it was time to perform. The kids who were in only one dance and waited, made up and in costume, staring at trombones and tubas for several hours, were nearly out of their minds with boredom or stage fright by the time they saw the audience.
Many of us were in multiple dances, and a select group of kids had costume changes so fast the stress could have given a five-year-old gray hair. Several minutes into the show, the door to the “dressing room” flung open and a flurry of crazed volunteer Moms flew in dragging girls by the hand and yanking off their costumes en route. The children stood gasping for air as they were manipulated like puppets: their next outfit was thrown on, shoes were changed, hats were pinned, and hair was fixed. “Go! Go! Go!” screeched the dressers in panicked voices as they pushed the performers back on stage without a second to spare.
The music wasn’t audible in our crowded holding spot; consequently, we had no way to ascertain which number was currently on. We were completely reliant upon the helpers to retrieve us when it was our turn to perform. After sitting for what seemed like an eternity, a frantic adult came bursting in and yelled, “Military March, you’re on!” and my classmates and I cautiously ran out the door, our tap shoes sliding across the slippery linoleum floor. We were herded through hallways and hushed as we entered the dark, backstage area.
Waiting in the wings, I caught a glimpse of the girls smiling on stage. In a few minutes, I would leave the safety of the sidelines and step into the sacred zone of entertainment. My heart pounded; my body buzzed with nervous energy. Excited to finally take my place in front of the crowd, I was also terrified of making a mistake.
But once I hit the stage, adrenaline rushed through my veins. Wearing makeup and costumes and dancing for applause was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I belonged in that theatre. It felt right. Nothing short of being in love would ever make my heart race like it did when I performed.
All year long, we rehearsed and prepared for that night, that one chance to get it right and win the approval of the audience. Our entrance was spectacular: three perfect military time steps, turn, and lunge. I couldn’t have been happier. At least I was delighted until we formed two straight lines, one of which queued up directly behind me. Where my head was when I started to change formations eight counts before the rest of the class, I don’t know, but it certainly wasn’t focused on the show at the Southeast High School Auditorium. I flapped around toward the back curtain, but no one was following me. Then the blunder registered. Oh, God! What have I done? My face flushed and my tear ducts swelled. With a forced smile, I finished the number, devastated. After the show, I could see the look of empathy on my mother’s face. I cried and cried. But my gaffe didn’t stop me from wanting to keep on dancing. 
What do you get a real kick out of? What charges your batteries? What do you have a knack, natural ability, instinct or flair for? Let us know in the comments below! These are signs as to what you may want to do with this dazzling life you’ve been gifted. Thanks for reading. Scurry back next week for some “trina” tales.
Groove on,
Kristi
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