OK. Poetry Out Loud: The State Competition.
I need a different font for that; more options, please? Gothic?
Because this was big.
Out of more than 1700 New York State students who signed on for Poetry Out Loud in the first place, our own Imelda was one of just 15 competing for the state title and the chance to go on to Nationals.
There were two students from the Professional Performing Arts School in New York City.
One of whom was introduced thus: "Marquis has appeared as Young Simba in 'The Lion King', on Broadway, and will shortly be appearing as Young Siward and young MacDuff in Macbeth..."
Fortunately there was not a mic close enough to catch Mom's automatic "Oh, my God."
Dad's comment: "Ringers. They've brought in ringers."
Did I mention that there were just fifteen of them?
Each and every recitation was stellar.
This in spite of the fact that the studio door (the competition was staged at a radio station studio) wasn't locked, and we could all too clearly hear people coming and going, not to mention the loud camera shutter much in evidence during the first round.
We were fortunate to be there at all, I having turned left when I should have turned right en route to picking up my husband from a meeting, after dropping Imelda, Jane-Clare, Joan, and two of their friends off at the wrong building half an hour after I had intended to drop them off at the right building. The right building, you understand, was across the street from the wrong one.... Listen, the wrong building had the radio station's name prominently displayed on it. Only later did it become obvious that the studio was across the street.
The whole thing started half an hour late, luckily for us. We slipped into seats toward the back bare minutes after having fed the parking meter, and moved to join the rest of our party only during the break between the first two rounds.
Having to narrow those initial fifteen down to five (as a result of the first two rounds) and then to a runner-up and a winner (third round) was a job I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Some displayed an impressive range, shifting from the humorous to the serious. Young Simba was even bilingual (Benjamin Alire Saenz's "To the Desert"). One young man who forgot to remove his jacket for his first trip to the stage and had a comb prominently poking out of his back pocket on his second smiled absently at the audience and then launched into such a display of romanticism (Etheridge Knight's "No Moon Floods the Memory of That Night," Byron's "She Walks in Beauty"), that if he is not surrounded on a regular basis by wistful females I am very surprised. There was a young lady, another freshman, who shifted admirably from Marvell ("The Fair Singer") to Donne ("The Sun Rising"), to Frost ("Mending Wall"), and who, Imelda commented, had been "so nice" while Melly fretted over whether her parents would show up at all.
"They'll make it. There are still ten minutes," the other girl said, comfortingly.
The winner was a young man who provided a bio worthy in itself of recitation, and went on to distinguish himself, round by round, with interpretations of Eliot ("La Figlia che Piano"), Donne ("A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning"), and Longfellow ("A Psalm of Life").
Melly still has not had her chance to recite "Death, Be Not Proud", which we tell her means she has to participate again next year. Of course, next year her orthopedist may give her the all-clear for playing basketball, and then who knows? Anyway, she went to States, her first time out, and she'll be on the DVD distributed to all of the high schools which sent students to Albany for this. Even, come to think of it, the Professional Performing Arts School.
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