Fight Song

My daughter Betsy had a talent show at school this week.

The other girls in the third grade had teamed up together in small groups to do different dance routies. She was not included. But she wanted to dance. So she came up with a routine herself.

She decide to choose the pop anthem “Fight Song,” and she choreographed it herself and practiced it at home.

Lauren helped her, and I tried to not say anything, even though I have been in show business for years.

As the show got closer, Lauren and I secretly wanted her to back out.

Some parents want to protect their kids from any disappointment. I am one of those parents. 

The night before the show, we were not sure if she still wanted to do it. We were kind of hoping she wouldn't.

Then right before she went to bed she said, "Daddy I want to do the show. I want to walk through my fear."

I was both happy that she wanted to walk through her fear and scared about what that might look like.

The next day, at the show, I watched the girls in her class doing their routines. Then it was Betsy's turn.

She walked out onto the gigantic stage.  Was she going to be swallowed up or shine?

She waited for the music to start. Her parents sat nervously in the plastic folding chairs.

Then the song came on the school's sub-par P.A. system.

With a look of determination and focus that I had never seen on her face before, Betsy started to dance in front of the whole school.

She was graceful. She found the rhythm that she could not find when practicing in our living room. It was the best she had ever done it. That is the magic that can occur in front of an audience.

But most of all, she found her courage — and she shined.

As I watched her, I had tears in my eyes. When I was her age, I wanted to express myself; I just did not have the confidence or a clue about how to do it. It was ten years later before I found improv.

Dance had given her what improv gave me — and I was so moved that it’s something I can't even express in words.

I felt an immense sense of pride that maybe I was an influence on her, and maybe I was doing something right as her father.

I was crying "happy tears," as Betsy likes to call them.

I was not the only one. This anonymous mom sitting next to me leaned over (she knew I was Betsy's dad because of how I was cheering) and said, "I don't know why I am crying. That was beautiful."

It truly was.