When I was younger, I was quite the theater kid. I remember my third grade auditions for “Charlie Brown the Musical,” where I was Snoopy. The script was a prized possession of mine, I remember what most people had been cast as, and I even remember what color shirt I wore and with what hair style.
I have a distinct memory of going to the fifth grade play afterparty (no need to DM for a list), and thinking that it was the peak of coolness. Nothing after this backyard function would ever top it. We had lemonade, cookies, brownies, a backyard zipline and a dream. The older theater kid that I had a crush on was there — I was brave enough to say hello — and after that, I truly thought I ruled the world. That same year I auditioned to sing a solo for the 5th grade graduation: we sang “Some Nights” by fun. and “Try Everything” from Zootopia.
My dreams of theater kid fame came crashing down in sixth grade, which was the last time I ever (willingly) did theater. At the closing night of “Suessical,” my friends foolishly invited the guy I liked — AND his entire friend group — to the production. They sat in the front row and laughed – in true middle school boy fashion – every time I came on stage. I will never forget looking at them through the borderline-blinding stage light. It felt like the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen, and I never wanted to feel that way again. Just like every middle schooler, I was easily embarrassed. Everything I, my parents, teachers, or friends did was “cringey;” every little action meant the death of my social life. My performance as the chief jester to my sixth grade crush’s friend group was enough.
I continued voice lessons and performed in one more theater production for the New Orleans Russian Community Center when I was 14, but I didn’t invite anyone other than my family, and I had a strict no filming policy.
There were plenty of things I was passionate about but quit in middle school. I found them too embarrassing, usually because someone would make fun of me for it: gymnastics, video games, my hip hop and ballet classes. Middle school was spent observing what others were doing, and mimicking it in a way that seemed natural. If my friends liked a guy from Jesuit, I liked a guy from Jesuit. If everyone shopped at C-Collection, I shopped at C-Collection. Even though neither one of those was my style, what mattered to me was that it was the norm.
By my junior year of high school I was out of this follower phase. I much preferred doing things I liked alone instead of following along with the rest of the herd. I realized I wanted to come to New York, and embarrassment didn’t seem to exist there. Luckily for me, this idea ultimately seemed to hold true.
Funny enough, the thing that cured years of fearing embarrassment was nightlife in New York. At first, I never talked to anyone new, I never talked to the staff at venues, and my worry of embarrassing myself in front of new friends persisted. I buried that embarrassment in October. Now, the highlight of my night is meeting new people and finding out about what crosses our paths.
My best friend from New Orleans came to visit me two weekends before Halloween, and of course I had to take her to our favorite spot. We patiently waited by the door, got let in after thirty minutes, and stood inside waiting for drinks, people watching. We bounced around the club, but towards the end of the night we stood talking by the bar, which was less packed than the dance floor. One of my favorite songs came on, and I yelled out lyrics along with an impromptu dance which mainly consisted of twirling and pointing at my friends and some bartenders. At my core, I am a theater kid. When I go out now, I need to be with people who can sing and dance for hours – I can’t stand in a corner and just observe anymore. High off the endorphins from my performance, I tell the bartenders that I plan to begin frequenting the place. “It’s a great spot to dance!” I yelled over a deafening speaker. They give me a “sure” chuckle, make a quick introduction, and we part. I talk to the tough doorman for a few minutes about race cars, he gives me his business card, and we go get a pizza.
Even though I danced and sang under the anonymity of a dark room with lowlights, the next day I was beyond embarrassed. I’m human — innately egocentric — so I assumed that everyone cared and noticed that I danced and sang at the top of my lungs as if I was on stage for Chicago’s “Cell Block Tango.” Hoping no one remembers my inconsequential little karaoke number, we come back a few days later. We get all the way in the back of the line and talk about how it has about 70 people in it, and start thinking of where else to go. The doorman pointed to us and motioned for us to come in. I pointed back at us and gave him a questioning look – I was shocked and wanted to make sure he didn’t mean someone else – and he impatiently nodded while holding the rope up. We came in, the bartenders remembered us and gave us a glass of champagne. Since then, we often don’t wait in line and are kindly greeted at the bar there.
Maybe doing something out of the norm and channeling a side of me I thought I buried eight years ago was actually admired by some. After that weekend, all of my potential embarrassments are defeated by the motto “embarrassment is a mindset.” It seems like the things I used to find humiliating are the things people enjoy about me. I pivoted from dwelling on every moment of my behavior to telling others that “no one cares — it’s a mindset.” Not only did one night out cure my fear of embarrassment, but it also rekindled my inner theater kid along with curing chronic self-scrutiny, because – truly – no one cares.
Sunbleacht 
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