Several years ago I tried out for American Idol.
Sure, I can carry a tune. I’ve spent a fair amount of time on stage, sometimes donning a Paula Abdul lapel mic, sometimes standing in front of a stand-up mic. I’ve sung in choirs and performed in musicals and led endless rounds of camp choruses (complete with motions). Singing is something I can do, even if it’s not the hill I choose to die on.
But during one of my rounds of living in Washington state,1 a friend who lived and breathed singing really did want to become America’s next idol. So, her family flew up from California to try out, and I, in turn, became her driver for the day.
I didn’t initially plan to also try out for American Idol, but after standing in line at KeyArena for several hours with 10,000 of my closest friends,2 I figured I might as well give it a shot.
What if I was America’s next idol?
What if they heard something in my voice and saw something glittery in me and made me one of fifty people to receive a golden ticket that day? What if, what if, what if?
After learning the four-part harmony to “Don’t Stop Believin’”3 and performing the song over and over (and over…) again from our spots in stadium seating, we began the long and grueling process of making our way to the arena floor. Each section in the stadium was called down separately, ushered down the long aisles like a herd of cattle. Eventually, we found ourselves in groups of four, or perhaps it was five — each siloed group then brought before a panel of judges who gave each contestant approximately five to ten seconds to sing the song that would either make or break a career.
As much as I can recall, the whole thing took several hours. Some people practiced their songs, while others wiped away tears, crying nervously. Like a choir convention on steroids, endless singing filled the air. It didn’t matter whether or not someone could carry a tune, not when their heart was in it. Not when they were just there, in that place.
By the time my friend and I made it down to the floor of the KeyArena, my inner Etta James was roaring to go. My heart beat wildly, my insides a mixture of nervousness and excitement. I was ready to be what America was looking for, so I belted out a sultry rendition of a song I’d sang a thousand times before:
At last
My love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song4
It didn’t take the judges two seconds to say the ill-fated words: Sorry, but you’re just not what America is looking for.
I didn’t get the golden ticket, nor did anyone else in our group of four. The cameras didn’t follow me out of the stadium that day, nor did I get the chance to sing before Simon Cowell the next day. Instead, we were ushered straight out the door, down the path marked for those who wouldn’t be granted another round.
Of course, it was heartbreaking for my friend: she really did have her heart set on being America’s next idol. I, however, was not heartbroken. I had fun! I walked away with a good story to put in my back pocket! I could now a song about a small-town girl not giving up on her dreams, in four-part harmony, no less, with my eyes closed!
But it was rejection, no doubt.
And rejection is the part I remember nearly two decades later.
When we are dismissed or our ideas are refused, we experience rejection. When the job isn’t what we thought it would be or the Church is no longer the place of our deepest belonging or a best friend stops returning your calls, we can feel rejected — even if we didn’t do anything besides just be ourselves in that particular moment in time.
I told my therapist the American Idol story a couple of weeks ago, mostly in relationship to a work situation. “I guess you could say I just wasn’t what America was looking for,” I said to her, chuckling. In this particular situation, I had begun to feel pushed out; I didn’t feel like an integral part of the team; I felt like they were on a train, bound for one direction, while I was left running beside the platform, trying my hardest to jump on board and failing at every turn.
As any good therapist would do, she pushed back on my laughter. She’s gotten to know me enough over the last couple of years to know that there’s often, likely something behind the something. And the something, in this case, was rejection.
So, we named it. I named it.
And then I sat with it and I held it: I held this things called rejection, even if it’s not something I always want to name or see or admit.
I hoped for a better way forward, and maybe even someday, acceptance of change and of the things that were not meant to be.
I stood poised to tell a new story, a story I find myself telling you a tiny bit of right now.
So tell me: is it the same for you?
Of which there have been three.
Cough, cough.
Journey is from Seattle. It made sense.
https://genius.com/Etta-james-at-last-lyrics