My grandmother (Bamba's) Easter show, in which she is in the chorus, was tonight at our church. Which meant that I, the dutiful granddaughter, and my sister, accompanied by my father, must stay for an hour and a half watching overacting old people burst into song. Not exactly the choice way to spend a Friday night, but then again I suppose one should be thankful. The show could last two and a half hours, after all.
I nearly burst out laughing when an obviously fake-bearded John waved around his costumed arms and baptised Jesus, nearly knocking his hand into a microphone, as the chorus sung out two feet behind him and a choir boy dropped his booklet of songs. Then Jesus, in a flamboyant purple robe, suffered the little children to come to him and several small kids teetered out unassuredly and glanced into the audience. They lined up like little ducks in a row and began to sing in a shuddering, warbling voice as one. As they glazed over the high notes about four voices cracked, until a rather hefty little boy broke out into a solo, turning red and hideously embarassed as he struggled dutifully along. Then a girl, obviously thinking that she was on American Idol, burst into a psuedo-Christina Aguilera type solo with a sort of jerky dance to go along with it. It was at this point that the music CD began to skip and the chorus fell painfully silent as the conducter motioned swiftly to cut the music. The audience began to chuckle as the CD continued to skip and a handful of confused children started to sing again.
"Turn it OFF." The conducter said into the mike, mortified. The kids awkwardly moved away and the chorus, unsure whether to finish the song, stop, or start again, buzzed among themselves until the CD, now magically repaired, began a new song.
It was when Peter, who sang with a lisp, sank to his knees in a horrendous job of overacting as he betrayed Jesus for the third time before the rooster crowded that I felt a hideous gurgling in my stomach. Glancing around uneasily, I waited for it to pass. It intensified, and, realizing that it was go to the bathroom in the bathroom or go to the bathroom in the church pew, I climbed over the disgruntled people sitting next to me and ran for the back of the church, bursting through the double doors. Flying across the carpet, I joggled the bathroom door. LOCKED! A conseravtive christian mother was juggling her baby in a chair by the bathroom, and, upon seeing my pained expression, said, "There's someone in there." I waited for a few agonizing moments, hearing voices inside the bathroom. What were they doing in there, just talking? Dancing around a bit in my short skirt, I looked longingly towards the empty door of the Men's room. It was just when I decided to go in there, men's bathroom or not, when a legitimate man walked in and locked the door. Foiled! Turning in circles, I broke down and asked conservative christain mother if there were any other bathrooms ANYWHERE. She gave me directions to one down the outside hallway and through two double doors on the right.
I skidded around the corner, my high heels clacking, and raced down the pavement to the double doors. Thrusting them open I found myself backstage amongst a Roman soldier, Peter, and Mary Magdalene.
"Sorry, but do you know if there's a bath-" Mary Magdalene motioned for me to be silent and pointed toward a wooden door. "Thank God. Literally." I muttered once inside.
After about ten painful minutes I washed my hands, still hearing the chorus belting it out from onstage. I opened the door, gave Peter two thumbs up and mouthed 'great show', and left as quickly as I appeared.
I nearly burst out laughing when an obviously fake-bearded John waved around his costumed arms and baptised Jesus, nearly knocking his hand into a microphone, as the chorus sung out two feet behind him and a choir boy dropped his booklet of songs. Then Jesus, in a flamboyant purple robe, suffered the little children to come to him and several small kids teetered out unassuredly and glanced into the audience. They lined up like little ducks in a row and began to sing in a shuddering, warbling voice as one. As they glazed over the high notes about four voices cracked, until a rather hefty little boy broke out into a solo, turning red and hideously embarassed as he struggled dutifully along. Then a girl, obviously thinking that she was on American Idol, burst into a psuedo-Christina Aguilera type solo with a sort of jerky dance to go along with it. It was at this point that the music CD began to skip and the chorus fell painfully silent as the conducter motioned swiftly to cut the music. The audience began to chuckle as the CD continued to skip and a handful of confused children started to sing again.
"Turn it OFF." The conducter said into the mike, mortified. The kids awkwardly moved away and the chorus, unsure whether to finish the song, stop, or start again, buzzed among themselves until the CD, now magically repaired, began a new song.
It was when Peter, who sang with a lisp, sank to his knees in a horrendous job of overacting as he betrayed Jesus for the third time before the rooster crowded that I felt a hideous gurgling in my stomach. Glancing around uneasily, I waited for it to pass. It intensified, and, realizing that it was go to the bathroom in the bathroom or go to the bathroom in the church pew, I climbed over the disgruntled people sitting next to me and ran for the back of the church, bursting through the double doors. Flying across the carpet, I joggled the bathroom door. LOCKED! A conseravtive christian mother was juggling her baby in a chair by the bathroom, and, upon seeing my pained expression, said, "There's someone in there." I waited for a few agonizing moments, hearing voices inside the bathroom. What were they doing in there, just talking? Dancing around a bit in my short skirt, I looked longingly towards the empty door of the Men's room. It was just when I decided to go in there, men's bathroom or not, when a legitimate man walked in and locked the door. Foiled! Turning in circles, I broke down and asked conservative christain mother if there were any other bathrooms ANYWHERE. She gave me directions to one down the outside hallway and through two double doors on the right.
I skidded around the corner, my high heels clacking, and raced down the pavement to the double doors. Thrusting them open I found myself backstage amongst a Roman soldier, Peter, and Mary Magdalene.
"Sorry, but do you know if there's a bath-" Mary Magdalene motioned for me to be silent and pointed toward a wooden door. "Thank God. Literally." I muttered once inside.
After about ten painful minutes I washed my hands, still hearing the chorus belting it out from onstage. I opened the door, gave Peter two thumbs up and mouthed 'great show', and left as quickly as I appeared.
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