I was eight when I first did it.  I remember how good it felt when it was over–how afraid I was just before it started.  I was beyond terrified.  I was hold-me-because-my-knees-are-about-to-give-out scared.  I remember standing there, mouth slightly open because at that point I was gasping in a room’s worth of air at a time.  I held the key to my liberation in my hand.  Even then I knew I was something special and this would be the way I could finally leave my town forever. I looked at the old man standing a few feet away from me.  He was waiting for me to tell him I was ready.  I nodded my head to him, and that’s when everything changed.

The music started playing and I looked at the television screen to my left.  The words were scrolling across the bottom of the screen, but I didn’t read them.  I mean, I was only eight!  I pretended to take them into consideration as I belted out the lyrics to my song.  When I finished, the people began clapping and whistling.  Anyone still sitting got up, and anyone standing jumped in the air.  Even though I had stood completely still, I was out of breath.  They continued to applaud my voice until my father came to the stage and helped me down.  I knew at that moment that I didn’t want to do anything but sing for the rest of my life.  This perfect bubble of a memory follows me from city to city and stage to stage.  It is mine and now it is yours.