I’m in the mood for some self-abasement, and also to nod in the general direction of the Xmas season. I’m going to tell you about the most horrible, embarrassing moment of my life so far. Maybe it’ll inspire you to mention your moment of humiliation in the comments to make me feel a little better.
In my youth, I was a regular church-goin’ kid. Sunday school every week, choir every Wednesday, confirmation every Thursday. I was not a believer, but it was the only club that would accept me, and I also liked the music–I was attending more for the choir than anything else. I had a few friends in the group, although…we weren’t good friends, I guess. We never socialized outside the church.
One year we were organizing for a giant Christmas concert involving dozens of churches in the Puget Sound area. We had to do multiple practices every week, and it wasn’t just walking down the street to my local Lutheran church. We were rotating among various churches, a different one every time, to practice together. It was a huge effort, my parents were ferrying me all over the region for a few months ahead of time. I didn’t mind. I had zero patience for the religious nonsense, but if you’ve ever been in a choir, you know that the feeling of singing in harmony with a large group is an almost primeval, inspiring sensation.
The day of the Christmas concert, we loaded up in vans and busses and journeyed to the site of the event: the Kingdome. I told you it was big. The stadium was filled up. All the Washington state choirs were seated in a vast array in the center. When we started singing, we made the whole place vibrate.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling my best. In the hours we were there, I started feeling a little woozy. Then I was trembling. Then I had a cold sweat. Was I nervous? Not really. It’s not as if I had a solo, I was one among many hundreds.
Then it was time for my church group to sing their special song. We stood up, and we started singing the song we’d practiced so hard: “O Come O Come Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel That mourns in lonely exile here,
Until the Son of God appear.” Maybe you know it; I still remember the lyrics because damn, we repeatedly sang that thing so many times before the concert. I stood with my church group, raising my voice before the entire Kingdome audience with cameras aimed at us to record the event.
“O COME O COME…” I sang, wobbling and sweating, and then, suddenly, I felt Satan rising up in my body, like a greasy bubble of demonic filth, then “EMMANUE…” and it hit me, unexpectedly and irresistible, and I started vomiting. Projectile vomiting. A horrific geyser of godliness was instantly purged from my body in an terrible public display.
I did immediately feel better, with one regret: the girl in the row in front of me had a lovely cashmere sweater folded over the back of her chair, and I destroyed it. Sorry.
Our choir director, Mrs Whalen, was incredibly nice and gracious, given that all anyone was going to remember of our hard work and our performance was the kid in the middle who grossed out the entire Kingdome with his horrifying expulsion of bodily fluids. She was one of my favorite people, and she treated my ghastly spectacle with nothing but kindness. I continued on with the choir for maybe a year afterwards, before my inability to reconcile my complete lack of faith and aggressive skepticism with the whole goofy church scene drove me away.
That memory still comes back occasionally these many years later, usually around the holiday season, and I can never hear that hymn without being triggered. I also don’t sing anymore.
So what psychic scars do you all still carry?
i had to play a shepherd in a religious school play at like age 4 or 5 and broke down into laughter until removed from the stage. maybe we’re actually atheists bc we’re allergic to christian ceremony, even when we’re trying.
When I was a kid, I attended a rather large Lutheran church that was built by the German immigrants who lived in my childhood neighborhood. For many years I was type cast as a non-speaking shepherd in the annual Christmas pageant, which suited me just fine as I preferred being able to melt into the background. Then, around age 11 or so, I was promoted to the role of Joseph, which had a couple of short bits of dialogue. I was so nervous about this that when the big night came at the Dec. 24 midnight service, I got all woozy and fainted right up there on stage, taking out the manger, and the poor little girl playing Mary on the way down. Fortunately, the part of Jesus was played by a plastic doll that year because there weren’t any small babies in the congregation. But it’s safe to say that Mary wept, even though that was a part of a different holiday pageant.
Bright side? Yes, I was the tallest shepherd every year after that until I started high school.
I shat myself immediately upon sitting down to do one of my GCSE English exams, and not wanting to waste valuable literary criticism time cleaning myself up I ended up just sitting in it for the whole two hours. I still can’t read The Crucible without flashbacks.
The Kingdome was tainted from then on, leading ultimately to its demolition in 2000. Thanks, PZ.
My spouse played Joseph with is friend Anna playing Mary for many years at the ELCA Lutheran church. Until one year, the doors opened, and Anna was whaling on him with the Baby Jesus doll. That was the last year for that.
(Everyone, including spouse, believed it was his fault. He liked to antagonize pretty girls until he figured out emotions and words.)
I wish you the deep sorrow of not singing anymore. It really can be transcendent.
When I was five I was chosen to play a sheep in the Sunday School nativity play (I don’t recall there being an audition for the part, but I’m sure I would have aced it). All went well throughout the rehearsals, but then came the Big Night. Along with several other animals I shuffled out onto the stage on my hands and knees, covered with cotton wool for fleece. I am proud to report that I hit my mark, but then it all went horribly wrong. I made the mistake of looking up from the manger I was meant to be eating hay from, and saw the audience: a hundred or more people, all the families of the budding thespians, looking at me. Me and me alone, it felt like. Stage fright? Yeah, I got stage fright. I burst into tears, jumped up and raced back behind the curtains. Eventually someone found me hiding in a cupboard, having spotted the several dozen ancient musty bibles I’d shoved out onto the floor to make room for myself.
It was another nine years before I ever set foot on a stage again, and that time I was the opener so a thousand eyes were upon me alone. Fortunately, when I looked up that time, the air was filled with cigarette smoke and everything beyond the first row was a solid bank of fog. Conveniently, my part was to run out to centre stage, pause, then immediately run off, so my prior acting experience helped me to fully inhabit the role.
Til Kingdome Come
I had projectile vomiting once, at a party in grad residence. I agreed to do a yard of ale, and had no problem getting it down. But this being Canada, the ale was chilled. Felt my tummy fluttering, and then without more warning, it all shot out (I wasn’t in the least drunk at the time). Luckily, avoided hitting anyone. TBH, didn’t really feel that embarrassed. Cold beer is an abomination, unless you’ve just done a long run in hot weather.
Felt some embarrassment in a high school English class once, when I insisted on doing a presentation despite my severe stutter. It was an ordeal, but probably more for the class than for me.
This wasn’t entirely my own tragedy, so I have the luxury of looking back on it with laughter.
The scene: My father’s funeral, during the viewing just before the services. It’s just awful for everyone. One of my father’s old high-school friends approaches me to offer condolences, and while we are chatting his pants fell down all the way to his ankles. Poor man was utterly, well, utterly many things. I could say mortified, but that might be in bad taste. My (also very irreverent) siblings were nearby, but everyone played it cool and helped the poor man retrieve his trousers. I’m guessing he would have gladly traded places with my father.
I don’t like Christmas. If it was just mum, me and my brother it’d be okay. If there was extended family then there’d be a brawl or a nasty loud argument, and my mother was always at the center of it.
I remember when I learned that the sentiment “it’s the thought that counts” is not actually true.
(It’s the present that counts, apparently)
I think it was second grade when I was supposed to be Santa Claus in the school Christmas play. I had gotten really ill so missed many rehearsals and my mom made the costume which turned out kinda janky. Anyway the night of the play they unfurled my poorly rehearsed janky costumed ass out on the stage alone to completely bomb. I attribute some of my social anxiety to that night. I didn’t puke on anyone but it was horrifying regardless.
Years later in sixth grade (form seven per the parochial school) I was in a Robin Hood play. Mom’s costume was again janky but I had rehearsed well and was never on stage alone. That was kinda fun. Good times.
To this day when asked if I wanted to be the one to dress as Santa at work Christmas events I refuse vehemently. They weren’t there for my horror. And screw immersion therapy for that trauma. Nope!
One of the earlier engagements in the ‘War on Christmas’
“…and ransom captive Israel”
Given the current genocide in the region its not Israel that needs ransoming. Definite change of lyrics needed.
Got choked by my mouthguard and threw up in the middle of a martial arts match once. In front of a big crowd. That was bad.
It was just a wrathful God punishing Myers for a lack of true Christian faith. It’s a wonder he didn’t strike Myers down with a bolt of lightning! Later, He would consign Myers to a love of spiders.
@16 weylguy
It is traditional during such Poe-etry to misspell Meyers’ name.
Well, we had a Christmas nativity play (I was 6 or 7) in which:
The Virgin Mary was sick in the crib between scenes.
The Angel Gabriel lost control of her bowels while standing on a chair (presumably to simulate flying).
The three kings forgot their presents and had to go back and get them.
I was a sheep.
An unpleasant memory, sure, but now you have a hysterical story to tell. A fair trade-off, in my opinon.
Mine was a faulty dress, a presentation to a group of Harrah’s top executives and the unfortunate decision to go commando.
So… everyone was singing ‘oh come lord’ and the lord arrived as a steaming pile of vomit.
Clearly you are the prophet of great truths.
The real tragedy is that someone should celebrate Christmas with a song in a minor key. Unless it’s Vince Guaraldi.