I Needed to Sing in Nashville.
During summer of 1991, before I started my student teaching, I decided to follow my dreams. I’d always wanted to be a rock star. The fact that I had virtually no talent and could barely play the guitar didn’t matter to me. I dreamed about becoming famous. I wrote a million songs – two or three that didn’t suck. I wanted to sing.
In the days before the internet, only one thing was required for me and my brilliant songs to be discovered. I needed to sing in Nashville, Tennessee.
So I packed my purple duffel and my guitar and bought a bus ticket to follow my dream. Paul was too busy to follow my dream with me. So I hopped on that bus alone.
The trip was excruciatingly long; I slept most of the way with my guitar between my legs so it wouldn’t be stolen. I awoke long enough to think, Wow, Fort Knox! Then I went back to sleep. Eventually the bus dropped me in Nashville.
At the bus station.
With my guitar.
Imagine how many stupid youngsters arrive at the bus station in Nashville carrying a guitar.
I expected a neon welcome sign pointing me toward the nearest talent agent, but everything was dark and dingy. I had no idea what to do next. I hopped in a cab and rode to Music Row, where I wandered through gift shops and bought myself a Randy Travis magnet.
I found a hotel with a shuttle to the Grand Ole Opry. I hopped onto a bus full of blue-haired ladies; everyone gawked. This was not the hotel shuttle, so I took another cab.
I was the youngest person in the audience by five decades.
The next evening I scoured a flyer: “Open Mic Nights!” I grabbed my guitar and caught another cab to a little strip mall nowhere near Music Row.
I may as well have been buying pizza instead of planning to sing.
I sat at one of the plastic checked-clothed tables and plopped my guitar by my feet. I was so scared, I could barely move.
I hadn’t publicly sung sober since middle school chorus.
I waited hours. I heard lots of people singing before a man got up and said, “Okay! That’s the end of Open Mic Night unless there’s anyone else who wants to sing!”
Confused and without thinking, I leapt up, grabbed my guitar still in its case, and jerked toward the stage. The guy watched me walking forward, smiling.
“I want to sing,” I choked.
“Okay!” he boomed. “What’s your name?”
“Kirsten,” I said.
“Give it up for KRIS-tin!” he said as I strapped on my guitar.
Everyone else played two songs, so I played two songs that hopefully didn’t suck. My guitar was out of tune from traveling and I played so fast, my shaking voice could barely keep up with my over-zealous strumming. In four minutes, I was done.
There was a smattering of applause from the few people who were still there after Open Mic Night. I half-smiled as I packed up my guitar and headed back to my seat where – I realized – there was no longer any reason to sit down.
I took a sip of my Diet Coke, left some cash on the table, and walked outside to wait for my cab. Then I rode back to my hotel and slept until morning.
When I got up, I took a cab back to the bus station and went home.
I can tell people: “I sang in Nashville.” Because it’s true.
Somehow I did not become famous.