"I Hate Grease"
When you trust your instincts, you can go from wallflower to scene-stealer.
“I Hate Grease” is the accompanying essay to Truth #1: You’re Not That Important.
Each summer, Sadie and I signed-up for a weeklong camp put on by the town. In an effort to avoid anything with clip-boarded coaches and balls, I opted for the only camp to promise a resting heart rate: drama.
My chosen day-camp meant leaving the family farm behind and test-driving life at an unfamiliar, rival elementary school. I would have to travel 11 minutes across town and fend for myself in a room of drama-aspiring tweens.
I was tortured by the thought, but proceeded in the name of future stardom.
On the first day of camp, I arrived early to St. Brigid elementary. The school was a labyrinth of air conditioned rooms with a cream and teal palette. It was a colour scheme that spoke to its newness, but simultaneously revealed how poorly it would age. It smelt like vinyl and lemon cleaner.
Inside the school’s walls, I instantly felt faraway. Everything was foreign, like I’d been sent to a fat farm in Idaho, or just woken up in a boxcar next to two friendly drifters. Outside of my bubble, no longer bolstered by the classmates I’d grown up with, I lost all bravado.
Throughout the morning, I remained shy and friendless. I carefully timed out bathroom breaks to be alone.
For lunch, I sat cross-legged in the corner of the gym, choosing a spot next to a rolling rack of volleyballs. For the first time, I was thankful for the passive camaraderie and personality-masking of sporting goods.
The night before, I had pictured the day much differently. Anticipating that I’d be entertaining friends both new and old by lunch hour, I packed something special. Inside my bag was a handsome liquorice pipe with a sparkly red tip. It was an edgy showstopper. An edible prop to delight the masses.
But it was a total waste. I didn’t even have anyone to puff it in front of.
So, with my back against the cinderblock wall, I gave the pipe a few soulless drags and ate it whole—a move I hated myself for.
After lunch, we were called back together. I tried to reset, hoping that a point of social entry would present itself. As I was reinflating, the counsellors announced that the group would be divided in two.
Perhaps a smaller group would offer more comfortability?, I thought.
With a silent up-down from the counsellors, we were individually pointed in one direction or the other. I was actioned off to the group at stage left—a visible catch-all for the have-nots. There were ass-length braids, EpiPens in carrying kits, and like any drama gathering over four people, impromptu Disney singalongs.
While we awaited instruction, ill-performed movie quotes were flying around the squadron. Like seagulls on a french fry, kids aggressively lurched to finish each other’s sentences.
As they bellowed out their cinematic scats, I sat in silence. I quickly determined that even if I was comfortable enough to reveal my true self, this self was unlikely to be rewarded. I decided to take a backseat and settle into my first character: the biggest loser in a sea of losers.
Over the next few days, we played games and began rehearsal for the week’s end play (AKA a hostage situation for parents). The play was—you guessed it—a zany mash-up of nursery rhymes.
One afternoon, after meeting my quota of Zip, Zap, Zop, I decided that I’d earned bathroom refuge. Inside the bathroom, I sat in the stall and daydreamed about cracking jokes with friends over a liquorice pipe—giving this one the airtime it deserved. I also thought about the outside world, and all the summer fun I could be having. It was a montage of sprinkler jumps, melting popsicles, and contagious laughter.
Knowing that it was time to meander back, I filled the sink with soapy suds then headed towards the gym. On the way, I absently wandered into the A-lister’s space. It was where the “it” kids were running their separate performance.
To my horror, I was struck by a painful visual. Written in giant letters across their blackboard were three powerful words: I hate Grease.
I hate Grease?!
My heart sank.
To add insult to injury, they hadn’t even spelled my name correctly. It’s G-R-A-C-E. Isn’t that some entry-level shit? Clearly none of these drama geeks had ever made it to the final round of the spelling bee, only losing out to a petite Eastern European boy who wore belts and had a unibrow.
Regardless of their poor grammar, I felt a lump swell in the back of my throat. I wondered if I was going to have to cry in public.
I couldn’t pin down what I had done to offend them. As the former acting president of the I Hate Faith Club, a club I ran to counter the I Hate Grace Club started by Faith P. in kindergarten, I was no stranger to controversy. However, this felt unprovoked.
Plus, where were my I Hate Faith soldiers now?
Note: The fact that our names were “Grace” and “Faith” like duelling sisters in a Christian acapella group WAS lost on both of us.
Right then and there, I wanted to call my Mom to come get me.
With a few deep breaths, I determined that having to explain the rejection would only make me feel worse. I took another lap to talk myself out of crying.
After some mobile self-pity, I settled back into our group’s rehearsal. Thankfully, there was a worthy distraction. Each of our roles for the final performance were about to be assigned.
For reasons too dizzying to understand, a lip sync of Bette Middler’s Wind Beneath My Wings was woven into the nursery mash-up. This would be the starring role. I was both nervous and excited by the prospect. Getting to channel the dynamic songstress was a clear cut above the Humpty Dumptys and Little Miss Muffets.
Landing the lead could be my redemption. It would be a chance to put a bow around my struggle.
As the counsellor turned towards me, the room went dark. A spotlight flicked on and beams of light cast downwards. Speckles of dust illuminated, glittering gently around my person.
Some might say, “I didn’t choose the role, the role chose me”.
And just like that, I was given the non-speaking part of Winnie the Pooh. I’d get to clutch a red balloon on performance day.
On Friday, it was finally showtime. Parents and siblings filed into the partitioned school gym. All of the performers congregated in the change room to run lines, attach last minute feathers and googly eyes, and bask in the pre-show glow.
I sat alone on a narrow bench and blew up my red balloon in silence.
The show began, and like every audience member, I had no idea what was happening.
With the camp counsellor’s signal, I shuffled onto the stage with my balloon trailing behind. Then, I took my place, hovering around a cardboard tree.
I had executed all that the role had written.
As the show closed out, Wind Beneath My Wings came on over the grainy boombox. Our D-list starlette took the stage for her lip sync. The rest of us were encouraged to gently sway to the emotional ballad.
Our little celebutante was committed, yet unconvincing. When she arrived at the first, “Did you ever know that you're my hero”, the energy in the room was muted. Flat even. She was missing the mark and under her rule, we all were.
Untouched by the performance, I remained motionless at my cardboard tree. I stood behind our leading lady, taking in the sight of her ass-length braid with knobs of scrunchy blocking.
It was definitely not Bette approved.
Then, the song kicked into high gear, calling any respectable lip-syncer to lay it on the goddamn floor. Now, I don’t know it for me, for her, or in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit of RuPaul, but in that moment, I made a split decision.
I loosened my grip on the balloon, and allowed the ribbon to slowly slip through my fingers.
Gracefully, the red balloon floated up toward the ceiling. As the words, “I could fly higher than an eagle” echoed throughout the gym, the balloon danced in the skyline, oscillating proudly.
I got chills. We all did.
During its short time in the physical world, the balloon captured the eyes and hearts of many. Before getting lodged in a hunk of metal caging, it was known as a generous spirit, a friend.
The balloon sacrificed itself to give one lowly wallflower a jolt of star-power.
As for the whole “I hate Grease” thing? Well, like any self-respecting adult, my parents demanded that we leave immediately after the play ended. We skipped out on the A-listers production: a highlight reel of Grease.
It would take a couple of years before I realized that Grease was a film (and a lifestyle). It would take even longer to discover that not everything is about me—but that nursery mash-up sure as hell was.
When we discover that we’re not that important, we give ourselves freedom to get away with more. We shake off some of the embarrassment, worry, and social anxiety that prohibits our authenticity.
Realizing that no one gives any number of fucks about what we’re up to, makes being ourselves less risky.
It’s wallflower fuel.
GRAAAAACE 🎈
I love this one!🎈