Angela was eight years old when she won the lead role in her school’s Christmas play.
Sister Agatha had told Angela that as the narrator she would have many lines, and so the role would require many hours of preparation. It was the most important role in the play. More important, even, than the part of Mary or the baby Jesus. Sister Agatha asked Angela if she felt up to the task. Angela, of course, said yes. She was never one to turn down a challenge, and she was more than accustomed to hard work. Her father made sure of that.
Angela practised her lines in the mirror every day for the five weeks she had to prepare. She had always been a bright student, so the memorizing of her lines came fairly easily. But “good enough” was never good enough for her father, so it was never good enough for Angela. The only acceptable result—as always—was perfection. Angela knew her lines backwards and forwards by heart far in advance of the day of the performance.
She desperately wanted her father to come to the play. During the weeks beforehand, Angela would carefully monitor his moods. On the rare occasion that she deemed him to be in a better-than-normal state, she would cautiously approach him and ask if he would please come to see her in the play. Never did she ask more than once in a day, and never with more than one “please”. Because Martins are not beggars. A few nights before the play, Angela’s father finally conceded. He would come.
When Angela heard him speak those words she had to fight the smile that threatened to take over her face. “Thank you, father,” was all that would be acceptable. She turned on her heel, walked slowly up the stairs, and shut the door to her bedroom with a careful click. Only then did she allow herself to smile. Angela laid down on her bed and imagined looking out at the audience after the play was finished. The applause of the other parents didn’t matter to her; it was only her father’s reaction she cared about. She pictured his face—not smiling, as even then Angela knew that was too much to expect—but with a warm look of pride in his eyes. Seeing it in her mind’s eye, her smile grew even bigger.
Angela’s greatest wish, for as long as she could remember, was to win her father’s approval. She spent her childhood fervently devoted to becoming a good Christian girl. Quiet and obedient, pure and pious. All that her father wanted her to be. Far more than Angela wanted any doll, or toy, or pair of shoes, she wanted her father to be proud of her. So after permitting herself a few seconds of bliss, she stood up from her bed. It was time to practise her lines again.
The night of the play, Angela was nearly sick with nerves. Her father was coming. He had never come to see her in anything before—not even the Little Miss Christianity pageants he always entered her in. But tonight, he was really coming. Even though Angela knew she was more than prepared, nauseating waves of anxiety kept crashing over her. Of course, she would never in her wildest dreams admit this to her father. Martins do not show weakness. Angela was well-versed in keeping her face an emotionless mask.
Backstage before the play, Angela somewhat managed to calm herself down by repeatedly smoothing every imperceptible wrinkle from her red and white plaid dress. Sister Margaret came over to adjust the green ribbon tied at the end of her braid. “Remember, Angela,” she told her, “This is a very solemn occasion.”
Before Angela knew it the lights had been dimmed and Sister Agatha was pushing her out onto the stage. It was quite dark, but Angela could still see the faint outlines of the people in the first few rows of the audience. The first scene of the play was a long introductory speech that she had spent extra time rehearsing. Standing alone before everyone, Angela could hear the murmurs of the audience echoing throughout the large auditorium. The lights came on.
The audience was bigger than she had thought—what seemed like hundreds of expectant eyes focused their attention solely on her. Angela felt her stomach do a sickening drop as she scanned the crowd for her father. Far from encouraging, he looked at her with that steely, demanding gaze she knew so well. It shouldn’t have fazed her but for some reason it resulted in yet another overwhelming wave of anxiety. Her ears filled with the sound of rushing water, the room started spinning and her whole body was shaking. Her knees felt like they might give out. Several seconds passed in near silence as Angela tried to compose herself. She forced herself to take a few deep breaths. In, out. In, out. You know this. Just calm down.
Angela opened her mouth to say her first line but no words came out. Her mind had gone completely blank, and the paralyzing shock of this realization seemed to cause her brain to short circuit. She stood there frozen, trying and failing to will her mind back into action. The words just wouldn’t come.
Several more seconds passed as the murmurs of the audience grew louder. Angela could feel her face burning as her breathing grew rapid and shallow. Desperate now, she glanced over at her father in the faint and irrational hope that he might do something, anything, to help her. But his face was already glazing over in that familiar expression of deep disappointment. No matter how many times she saw it, that expression never failed to plunge Angela into a bottomless well of shame and self-hatred.
And still, the words wouldn’t come. Panic mixed with fear mixed with humiliation as the voices in the audience grew louder still. Suddenly Angela felt her lower lip start to tremble as her vision blurred with tears. No, no, Martins do not cry. Martins do not cry. But Angela wasn’t strong enough to stop it. All she could do was stop her father from seeing it. She turned and ran off the stage, hardly able to see where she was going. Once out of the auditorium she found herself in a long hallway. Angela kept running, her sobs echoing off the tile floors. She couldn’t go back to her father now. She could already hear his angry screams, feel the harsh sting of his belt hitting her skin. She couldn’t bear the thought of what other punishments she might receive.
But Angela soon heard the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps behind her. They caught up to her quickly, then her father’s strong hand grabbed her arm and pulled back hard enough that she fell backwards onto the floor. Automatically, Angela jumped up almost upon impact. Martins never stay down. Angela turned to face her father and slowly lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. It would only intensify his anger if she wasn't brave enough to look him in the eyes after what she’d done. Angela knew what she would be in for when she saw his face, but as usual it shocked her anyway. Her father was practically dripping with profound disappointment, obvious disgust and seething rage.
As hard as she tried, Angela couldn’t stop herself from breaking into sobs yet again. She knew what was going to happen when she got home, and she knew that crying about it would only make things worse. But her usually remarkable amount of self-control seemed to have vanished. Even a slap on the face from her father, which normally snapped her back to her senses, failed to do so. Not even the second, harder one worked. But the third one—much harder this time—got the desired reaction. Temporarily stunned, Angela choked back her tears. She looked up at her father, whose expression had hardened to the one that scared her the most—total detachment. This was the expression he wore when he handed her the very worst of punishments. He said nothing, only proceeded to forcefully grab her arm and drag her outside to the car.
Angela couldn’t even bring herself to try to enjoy the car ride home. She normally would, knowing it would probably be her last moment of peace for the night. But after how horribly she had let her father down she knew she didn’t deserve to enjoy it. She deserved every punishment he was going to give her.
Her father was trying to make her into the person God wanted her to be. It was her own fault that she was never good enough for either of them. Always a disappointment to her father, to God, and to herself. Angela stared out the window into the darkness, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
