Don Tate

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

WIZ KID

I was a shy kid who struggled with expressing himself. It was like wearing an invisible straitjacket, a coat of insecurities wrapped so tightly around me that sometimes I couldn’t breathe. Breaking loose would prove to be one of the toughest challenges of my life. A challenge that would be met on a yellow brick road with a scarecrow and a tin man.

One day, our seventh-grade music teacher asked our class to divide into groups of three or four and brainstorm ideas for a musical skit. We would perform in front of the entire class. I ended up with Earlee Allen and Zyvonne Robinson, two of the most popular and outgoing girls at school. We chose to perform “Ease on Down the Road,” a song from The Wiz—although when I say we, in reality, it was they. As a shy kid, I didn’t want to perform anything in front of anyone. The thought made me want to pee my pants.

The Wiz was my favorite movie. It was a black retelling of The Wizard of Oz, starring entertainers of color who looked like me: Michael Jackson, Diana Ross, Lena Horne, and Richard Pryor. While watching the movie, I felt a great sense of pride. But pride was no challenge to the constraints of my invisible straitjacket.

At home with my family, I was confident. When my three brothers and I watched The Wiz on TV, we bounced along to the music, and I became the lead performer. The bright colors from the movie illuminated our living room, transforming it into a giant dance studio. I sang and danced and acted along; I became Michael Jackson’s long-lost twin brother, “easing on down” our raggedy yellow carpet. I was a good dancer, too, no doubt about that. But I wasn’t going to shake my booty anywhere other than in the comfort of my home—no way!

I couldn’t get out of it, though. I’d have to participate or bring home a bad grade, which would have gotten me into trouble with my parents. After school, Earlee, Zyvonne, and I gathered in the music room to choose parts and begin practicing the scene. Earlee would play the part of Dorothy, while Zyvonne would be the Tin Man. Earlee was a star athlete on the track team, and Zyvonne was active in the Glee Club and chorus. Both were the center of attention at any school gathering. I would play the Scarecrow, though the Cowardly Lion may have been more fitting.

Earlee popped in a cassette tape, and the boom box blasted the song. Earlee and Zyvonne bounced and stepped in sync to the rhythm.

“Come on, Donny,” Earlee said, “show us your moves!” But it was no use; that invisible straitjacket tightened its grip around my arms and even my legs. My body went stiff, while my feet were nailed to the floor. My heart beat so loudly, I feared the girls would hear it thump-thump-thumping over the music. One by one, other students showed up and joined our impromptu Wiz party, and everyone jammed to the funky dance music. Everyone except me. I didn’t dance at all that day. I just stood there watching everyone else having fun, wishing I could disappear.

Later that evening, I created a costume from an old pair of overall jeans. Over the knees I sewed on colorful patches of cloth. Under the hem of the pants, I attached dried leaves and brush collected from the gully across the street from our house. The leaves jutted out over my shoes, making a scritch-scratchy noise as I walked. A rumpled grocery bag became a hat that I cocked sideways over my mushrooming afro. If nothing else, I’d created an award-winning costume.

On the day of the performances, the school buzzed with excitement as most everyone came dressed in their costumes. Between classes, the hallways resembled the backstage of some great Broadway production. I really wanted to wear my costume like everyone else, but, of course, I didn’t want to draw extra attention to myself. I left it at home.

Earlee and Zyvonne were disappointed, but not too much. They knew I was uptight about the whole thing and were happy I didn’t stay home, struck with a sudden onset of the Macadamia Nut Flu . . . or something worse. Earlee went all out with her costume. She wore a frilly white dress and red patent leather shoes. She clutched a stuffed white dog that served as Toto. Zyvonne came wrapped from head to toe with aluminum foil—the perfect Tin Man.

• • •

When the performances began, a rock band dressed like Kiss took to the floor, the players’ faces painted crusty white with black eyeliner. Another group performed the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine.” On our turn, the three of us lined up in front of the class. Before the music began, Earlee recited her bit about the three of us seeking out the Wiz in hopes of going home, wanting a brain, and getting a heart, and about how we were easing our way on down the road, headed to the beautiful Emerald City. Then she clicked the button on the boom box, and the music began. Earlee and Zyvonne began to dance.

The air around me became as thick as jelly—impossible to breathe—while my legs, frozen stiff all morning, suddenly melted into butter. I tried to jiggle my butt a little, but nothing happened back there. I was so dizzy, I thought I would lose my balance and fall on my face.

That’s when I heard the words: “He’s so shy.” It came from somewhere in the audience. I had no idea who had said it, and it was amazing that I even heard the words over the blaring music.

I hated the word shy. I disliked the words bashful, quiet, timid, and self-conscious, too. They’d all been used to describe me at various points in my life. I felt vulnerable and hurt when others recognized that thing inside of me that I disliked, that thing I had no control over. I felt dumb standing there not doing anything. Then I got angry—at everyone, but mostly at myself. It was time to cut loose from that jacket of shyness. I would no longer be bound.

I looked up from the floor, directly into the audience. Then I imagined myself back home in the living room with my brothers. The music played on, and Dorothy and the Tin Man eased on down the road. But in this version, the Scarecrow led the way—grooving like never before. I danced the Robot, the Watergate, the Poplock. It was nothing like what we had practiced, but it didn’t even matter to me.

The song was all of three minutes long, but it could have gone on forever. That was how confident I felt at that moment. Earlee was all smiles.

“I had no idea you could dance like that,” she said over the thunderous applause.

“It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for!” Zyvonne said. The three of us laughed and slapped high fives.

On that day and during that one skit, I experienced a whole new kind of freedom—the freedom to just be myself. It was a coat of confidence that felt darn good, and I wore it for years to come.