My dad has a always been a give-me-the-spotlight kind of guy. So, he always pushed me toward acting stuff; I took acting classes as a kid; I acted in elementary school and junior high school plays; I played in the lead in Church roadshows; I participated in a huge multi-church play.

When I got to high school, however, I figured that I would stop with that stuff. I wanted to fade into the woodwork. Of course, I still planned to perform well academically, but the extracurriculars would be set aside.

When I saw the audition poster for Bye Bye Birdie I knew I wouldn’t try out. I also knew that I wouldn’t tell anyone about it, especially my dad. I started to think in high school, that if I was going to do anything, I wanted it to be my decision and not at anyone else’s prodding.

Despite all of my stage experience, I was shy. (Still am.) I get anxious speaking in front of people: large or small audiences. Somehow, I’ve learned to suppress the flight compulsion. My face always turned bright red even when I tel a joke to a small group of friends. In spite of this, I always muster the courage to speak or act in front of others.

So I decided no more acting. But every stinkin’ time I passed one of the audition posters, my heart started thumping like I needed to do this.

Finally, the auditions came. I still wrestled with myself. Should I? Maybe… Nah… Yeah…

On a whim (without telling anyone), I walked in. I can’t remember if I had an audition piece or not but it was exhilarating. I loved standing on stage. My legs shook. My voice cracked.

In the end, Mrs. M. the drama teacher cast me as Harvey Johnson, the voice-cracking, nerdy, date-seeking, interrupter in the Telephone hour.

Every night on stage, my anxiety nearly overwhelmed me. I worried that I would forget the words, the choreography, or my cues.

I never did. And so my confidence grew.

Throughout high school and to this day, I have more confidence that I can accomplish things in spite of my fear.

Memory lists?

Memory lists.

Basically, you think of a category of something that happened in your life: events, high school, friends, family, etc. and make lists.

For example,

Schools I Attended:
Juan de Anza Elementary School
Dana Junior High
Longs Peak Middle School
Hawthorne High School
El Camino College
Brigham Young University

It’s that easy.

But I can even expand those lists so that I would make a list of events, friends, or places associated with any of those schools.

For example:
People from Anza
T.C.
S.A.
P.R.
J.T.
M. and C. T.
K. and S.N.
Ms. H.
Ms. T
Mrs. L.

Just creating the list starts to produce a constant flow of memories.

Ms. T was my second grade teacher. I was the best speller in her class. In fact I was the best speller K-2. I never missed a spelling word. I always won the spelling bees. This was all true until one fateful spelling test.

The whole list consisted of contractions: can’t, don’t, I’m, etc. Number 8 was o’clock. For the first time in my young spelling career, my mind went blank. Finally, I came up with a’clock.

I don’t know if my teacher even looked at my paper. Maybe she just assumed that everything would be spelled correctly. When she returned my test to me, the customary 100% and smiley face appeared at the top. I thought nothing of it, except that I was proud that I had guessed correctly.

My mom always check my work. Proudly I showed her the test. She smiled but it only took a second longer for her to find my mistake.

“You must tell your teacher,” she said.

The tears and chest heaving commenced immediately.

“Do I have to?

“Of course you do.”

At the beginning of the next school day, with my eyes still red and puffy, I walked up to Ms. T to show her her mistake, er, my mistake. I couldn’t even get the first word out before the tears choked off any means of communication.

I managed to squeek out, “I” sniffle, sniffle “made” sniffle, sniffle “a mistake.” Nose wipe, sniffle. I gained a little composure. “I shouldn’t get 100%.” Sniffle. I handed her my test. “I misspelled o’clock.”

This in the time when a teacher could still place a comforting hand on a shoulder. And so Ms. T placed her hand on my shoulder and got down on my level.

“Oh sweetie, you should get a hundred percent for telling me.”

One last sniffle and a smile.

She didn’t give me a hundred percent of course. I learned an important lesson about honesty.

I hadn’t thought about that incident for quite some time. But you can see the power of lists.

Now…
Lists, an autobiography do not make. But they are the best way of starting that I know. The number of lists that you make are limited only by your imagination.

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