That time I lost a screaming competition
it has haunted me for 21 years
Welcome to Congrats, You Played Yourself, a newsletter about growing up and celebrating all the mistakes made along the way.
I share really stupid and potentially embarrassing stories so you don’t have to… but I’d love if you did. If not, then you’re dead to me.
Just kidding (mostly). I’d love to hear from you anyways!
When I was in 3rd grade, I entered a screaming contest. Yes, they exist.
And don’t let this tiny body fool you: I had a big voice, and an even bigger scream, probably from years of practice being the only girl sandwiched between two brothers.
I don’t brag about much (besides my magical ability to sleep literally anywhere, anytime and my incredibly good braiding skills) but I’d confidently add screaming to that short list. I knew immediately upon entering this competition that it would be I, young Juju, standing on that stage in Capital Theatre, in the finals, screaming my heart out for anyone willing to listen.
My scream carried me through the ranks quickly, and just as I manifested, I found myself center stage with two fellow banshee opponents, preparing to scream one last hurrah before inevitably accepting the honor of first place.
Alas, that moment never materialized. As they called my name and I stepped forward to pierce the world with my voice, a strange, sudden self-awareness and fear of shame overtook me, choking me during my big moment. I looked out over all the seats in the theatre (empty, besides the blessed parents who had been dragged there by their children), and all that came out could hardly be classified as even a yell, let alone an award-winning screech. Ashamed, I hung my head and forced myself to clap when the high school boy next to me — who I realize today looked strikingly similar to Snape — took what should have rightfully been mine: the Scream King title, and all the honor and glory that came with it.
This memory still haunts me. I was 8. I am now 29.
In a bit of *minor* research for this mini essay, I read this piece about why small failures are key to kids being successful. It addressed the question so many parents ask when afraid of the quality of something their kid may produce when working on something without their help,
“So let them make an ugly project?” Actually, I propose we take it a step further and use our parental powers to make that ugly mess the gold standard.
Besides the fact that I’m about to needlepoint this into a GD pillow, it’s really quite simple logic — and not just for kids. Especially as we grow older, we place an inordinate amount of stress on “getting things right”: from taking the perfect Instagram photo to crafting the wittiest, most casual caption for said Instagram, to panic attacks in the anxious attempt to get “Highly Successful” on our job reports, because it’s not enough to just be “Successful” anymore. It’s become impossible to fail, let alone celebrate it.
When we don’t leave room for failure, we don’t leave room for growth. Make that ugly mess the gold standard.
As for lil’ Juju? She ended up doing alright.
After leaving that stage with nothing but dishonor to offer my family after my ghastly performance, by the time we arrived home, I had resolved to make that theatre my bitch the next time I got the chance.
Less than two months later, I was back on stage: this time, performing a medley of Michael Jackson hits as the lead singer in Brazil for a kids show.
AKA, I was Michael Jackson.
(A story for another time.)
Shout out to Papa Tom Kennedy for these incredible shots.
I had croaked once, but that small failure on stage became the spark to my flame in discovering how much I loved being on stage and performing for people. I even got the chance to croak again — but this time, on purpose, as a singing frog.
(Another story, for another time.)
I hit Twitter with this question a couple weeks ago and y’all really delivered on those stories of small failures. Here are a few of them!
My friend Allie has a private account so I can’t embed her answer here, but luckily I know how to use the screenshot button so that y’all can still enjoy her failure too:
Share Congrats, You Played Yourself with the friend who knows the story that you thought of while you were reading this. And then tell us about it! Reply to this email or hit us with it in the comments, and let us all mutually remember these glory days as equal parts horrible and awesome.