Recently I performed in the Gavilan College Reunion Show Fundraiser. Initially, I thought a reunion show was the most dreadful idea on record. But the experience gave me a new lease on life. And forced me to live out my worst nightmare.

A group of classmates came up with the idea to gather the old gang together to perform monologues and songs as a fundraiser for the S.T.A.R. program, an educational theater program for children held at Gavilan College in Gilroy.

I was horrified. First of all, I wasn’t good in junior college. Most of us—while loaded with raw talent back then—hadn’t exactly matured as performers. To revisit this “bad acting” time of my life terrified me. I’d gone onto to achieve a BA in Theater from UC Santa Cruz and had become a much better actor.

So I initially refused to be involved with what I assumed would be a crime against nature and the theater.

Then a professional dancer/Gavilan alumni—and one of my favorite people—Curtis Caudill, called me up and asked me reprise my role of Calamity Jane for the show. He caught me at a very bad time. I’d just agreed to finish my novel in two weeks for my agent and had about a month’s worth of work to do. I think I cut him off with a stream of expletives followed by a litany of excuses. But Curtis knows how to work me. He agreed that the book should be my priority. He assured me that there was no pressure. He was so sweet, I found myself asking, “So what’s the rehearsal schedule like?” Curtis replied, “Saturday. That’s it. We get there at nine, rehearse the show and go on at four.” Somehow I still managed to say no.

After I hung up, a guilt bomb went off in my belly. How could I say no to one measly day of my life? To do something good for kids? What kind of a Grinch was I? I called Curtis back and capitulated.

Happy I was onboard, he began enthusiastically describing the dance finale. I assumed he had assembled a group of dancers. Then he started saying things like “…then you guys do a ball change…” The stark realization hit me like a tanker truck full of ice water dumping on my head. The performers were the dancers. Meaning me. Trapped and terrified, I couldn’t believe I’d been duped.

I am not a dancer. I’ve never been a dancer. I have a nightmare at least once a month that takes place on that same Gavilan stage. I am either on stage without knowing my lines or am flailing around in a dance routine that I can’t remember and am completely humiliating myself.

And now my nightmare would become a reality.

For the record, I’ve never learned a dance and performed it in the same day. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever done a dance right in my life. Even with months of rehearsal. My brain doesn’t remember dance combinations. My feet and legs don’t understand counting, they don’t know how to do kick ball changes and they rarely obey me. On top of that, three days before the show, I piled it in front of six lanes of traffic on El Camino, scraped my face all to hell and injured my left knee.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t hurt enough. Still, I arrived that morning at the theater in partial denial. Curtis knows I’m a klutz. He wasn’t actually going to make me dance, was he?

I ran into all my old buddies and the hugging and crying commenced immediately. I forgot about the dance and was overcome with nostalgia. I can’t count the hours I spent in that theater, but I performed over thirty shows on that stage. Suddenly, the years vanished and I was back home with my best friends.

The minute I began to feel good about my decision to perform, Curtis ordered us to our places to rehearse the dance finale. That’s when it became real. Adding to my terror, everyone else had a previous rehearsal, one I couldn’t make. They all knew the dance.

My worst fears quickly became reality. I could not learn the dance. I tried, I worked, but kept forgetting steps and ending up in the front of the stage, dancing like a chicken with vertigo. And then the rehearsal was over. And I was still lost.

Next, we did our technical rehearsal, the final one. I screwed up the dance yet again. The irony of dancing to Michael Jackson’s song “Bad” was not wasted on me. I was convinced the show would be awesome (my friends have all matured amazingly and have become top-notch performers) and I’d ruin the whole thing with the finale.

All of a sudden, we were breaking for lunch. When I returned to the theatre, I went off in the wings to practice the dance. Before I knew it, the stage manager said, “Half-hour to places.” I could only pray.

Aside from a minor technical difficulty, the main part of the show went well. I was happy with my Calamity Jane monologue. But the finale loomed ahead of me, terrifying me.

And then we were on. My heart pounding in my ears, my legs shaky, my face flushed, I went out there, and for some reason, remembered the dance. I couldn’t believe it. I was thrilled. My cousin said, “You blended in.” Best compliment EVER.

Aside from the tremendous relief of surviving the dance finale, I came away from my performance energized. I’ve been writing alone for many years. While writing is my primary passion, too much solitary time isn’t healthy. I’d forgotten how much I love being on stage and doing a project with a group of people. So now I’m writing a play and plan on performing it with my friends. And I can thank Curtis for all this.

But I won’t thank him for making me dance in public. While I managed, hopefully I’ll never have to perform the magical “feet” again.

©2010, Janet Periat

Today, I’ll be traveling back through time to visit my ten-year-old self. I’m interested to know what has surprised her about the future and her future self.

Adult Janet: Hi, kid. How goes it?

Child Janet: This is weird. You’re old now. I mean, I’m old now.

Adult: Yes, I am. And I’ve got a job to do, so let’s get to it.

Child: I thought I’d be working in corporation or teaching. And where are my kids?

Adult: Sorry. Forgot.

Child: I do think it’s pretty cool that I get to play make-believe everyday. I love reading. But I didn’t see myself being an author. I like that. So what happened to the kids?

Adult: I told you, Frank and I forgot. Now onto more serious matters. Give me the number one thing that’s surprised you the most about the last forty years.

Child: Well, I expected to be dead by the time I reached ten. I thought I’d be killed by a nuclear bomb. The school scares us a few times a year with air raid drills. The siren goes off and we have to get under our desks. But kids aren’t stupid. We know hiding under our desks won’t stop us from getting vaporized. But I’m really glad the Russians didn’t kill us.

Adult:  Me, too. What else has surprised you?

Child: I thought I’d be vacationing on the moon by 2010. Why can’t we travel to other planets?

Adult: Turns out it’s harder and costs more money than we have.

Child: And where are the flying cars? And why aren’t fully functioning robots cooking and cleaning for people? I expected life to be like the Jetson’s. At least you have big plasma TVs and cable television. I’ve got five channels of TV, you’ve got hundreds. I would kill for Cartoon Network. And speaking of cartoons, your generation really improved them. They were terrible in the late sixties and early seventies. Characters barely moved. Sometimes just their mouths moved.

Adult: Yeah, you could hardly call it animation when the characters ran by only moving their feet, not their bodies, like in the Flintstones.

Child: I thought adults would kill off cartoons.

Adult: Well, if we had any real adults around, they might have.

Child: Yeah, adults your age are more like kids. Here in 1970, my parents aren’t like me at all. They listen to stupid music like Perry Como and smoke and drink cocktails and talk about important things. They don’t like rock and roll and they don’t watch cartoons or play games. In your time, adults listen to the same music as their kids, wear the same clothes, and guys are staying home with their parents until they’re thirty instead of growing up and having kids themselves. Why don’t the adults in your time want to be adults?

Adult: Good question.

Child: I expected rock and roll to die by the mid-70s. It’s still new in my time. All the other forms of music have come and gone. Mick Jagger looks so old. I thought all the rock stars would grow out of rock and roll and be playing old people music.

Adult: Yeah, old people music now is rock ‘n roll. What else surprises you?

Child: I can’t believe girls get to play sports and race cars and do all that boy stuff I’m not allowed to do. It’s so cool that women are running corporations and flying planes. They tell us we can’t do any of that. All we’re supposed to do is get married and have kids. I’m glad that girls growing up in your time can be anything they want.

Adult: Me, too. What upsets you the most about my time?

Child: That the government is so full of bad people. The people in charge only care about being in charge. All they want to do is get rich. They don’t care about the schools or the future of America or anybody but their friends. And they keep starting wars. I hate that. They tell us in school that the President and the government are great. But when they lie and hurt people, how can we consider them great?

Adult: Agreed.

Child: And why are we still polluting the Earth? In the sixties, everyone knew we were hurting the planet and that it was a bad thing. But nothing’s changed and everything’s gotten worse, except for the air. The moon in my time looks orange from all the pollution. If they can fix the air, why can’t they fix everything else?

Adult: Good question, kid.

Child: And why did they change the formula of Cracker Jacks? I liked them with more molasses. And what happened to the cool prizes? Now all you get is a dumb sticker.

Adult: You can thank lawyers for that. What are you happiest about?

Child: I really like computers. I wish I had one now.

Adult: What about me personally? What are you happiest about?

Child: That you get to write cool stories, you have tons of neat toys and Frank is great. It’s weird you living in Nana Periat’s house, though. I never thought Nana and Papa Periat would die. Or Aunt Jacquie and Nana Sahm. I don’t like that at all. But I’m glad Mom and Dad will still be there when I’m fifty.

Adult: Me, too. So if you had a choice, would you be my age or yours?

Child: Yours. Hardly anyone tells you what to do and you get to drive a car and eat before meals if you want to. And you don’t have to go to school anymore. Or church.

Adult: Anything you think I should improve about myself?

Child: Yeah, you should have more fun and not be so mean to yourself. You try to do too much stuff and forget to stop and enjoy life. You need to play more.

Adult: Sage advice from a ten-year-old.

©2010, Janet Periat