That night, I filled out the form, stating that I would sing in the 16-to-19-year-old vocal music competition. The yearly convention for Kansas Job’s Daughters was just a few short months away. I began practicing day and night to better myself and perfect my voice; I was determined to leave the competition with an award. I tried to forget about the pressures of the talent show in order to allow myself the full rights of what I deserved for my talents and effort.
The
week of the competition finally arrived, and I settled into my hotel room. This particular competition became my sole
purpose for attending the convention that year.
I kept practicing all the way up to the very hour of my solo. I gave myself a few more practices and some
deep breaths, and made my way to the room in which I would sing.
I
got there to find a line of girls waiting their turns to sing. I began to get nervous and started
pacing. The wait was unbearable, and the
longer I waited, the more taut the knots in my stomach were pulled. Finally, it was my turn.
I
entered slowly. I handed my music to the
judge, set up my tape player, and waited for her cue to sing. She told me to proceed.
“My
name is Danielle Burns, and I will be singing Homeward Bound by Marta Keen.”
I took one deep breath and pressed play on the recorder, and I began to
sing.
When
it was over, I was somewhat relieved. I
had made a couple of minor errors, simply from my nervousness, but I could
relax. The competition was over, and I
would be able to enjoy the rest of the week’s activities without distraction.
The
next night, we all ate dinner at the All Membership Banquet. After dinner was complete, my sister
approached the microphone and began reading the names of winners from the
previous night’s competitions. Lastly,
she arrived at mine. I listened
intently, eagerly, until finally I heard her say, “First place, vocal music,
ages 16 through 19…Danielle Burns.” All
my friends began to clap and cheer, and I went up to
receive my medal.
At
the end of the announcements, there came one final one. “…and remember, all first place winners are
required to sing tomorrow night at the talent show, so I will see you all
there.” My heart sank once again.
The
next day, I practiced nervously. An hour
before the talent show, I showered, did my hair, and put on my suit. I wanted to look great; I wanted to look
sophisticated. At least getting ready
was something else I could focus my nervous energy on.
I
made my way downstairs and took a place on the floor in the crowd. I watched several dancers and ensembles
perform. The group was waiting on
another dancer to get ready, when my sister shouted, “Danielle can go; she got
first place in vocal music.” Then I had
to go.
I
stood up and approached the front of the room, placed my tape in the player,
and centered myself. I stood and
breathed, forcing my heart to slow its beat.
I introduced myself and my song and pressed play on the machine. Shakily, I started, worrying about the faces
in the room.
Halfway
through the first verse I remembered something: I love to sing. This song is
beautiful and emotional, and I sing it well. I closed my eyes and let the music take me
away. When I was finished, the clapping
began, then cheering. I opened my eyes
to see the congregation on its feet, praising me for my talent. A bit embarrassed, I smiled appreciatively,
took my tape, and hurried off the stage.
That
wasn’t the end, though. For the rest of
the week, I had people congratulating me and telling me how wonderful I
was. They were asking me to sing at
weddings, to sing at this, and to sing at that.
I was overwhelmed with the appreciation of my voice.
It
was at that point in my life that I realized I have talent. It was at that point that I decided not to
listen to what others think and not to worry about how others will react. It was at that point in my life that I
realized that I should be me and not worry about it, because in the end, I will
be able to look at myself and know that I have been successful.