I know I can’t be the only person who, if a funky song or slow dance jam came over the airwaves while doing chores, turned that tall and lean straw kitchen broom into a dance partner. Oh, come on. I can’t be the only person who stood in front of their bathroom mirror with a hairbrush/ microphone singing hit records by the Supremes. I can’t sing a lick, but in front of that mirror, baby I could sing my heart out without being judged.
Well, talent shows were all the rage back in the late 60’s. Prize money — $25 or less — was awarded to the winner and runner-up. I hung out with a group of girlfriends who couldn’t sing, but that never stopped us from forming a group for any upcoming talent show in our community. The sound of Motown was addictive and we practiced our hearts out in one another’s backyards.
All over the country girls like us emulated Diana Ross and the Supremes. Me, I was always voted to be Florence Ballard or Mary Wilson (I was grateful), but why couldn’t I be Diana Ross? We used our weekly allowances and/or babysitting money to dress to impress. We wore matching outfits purchased from the five-and-dime store. We had our hair “did” —laid and fried to the side, with our baby hair slicked down with Dixie Peach hair grease — and accessorized with cute velvet bows. We used three empty toilet paper rolls covered with construction paper and glitter to serve as our microphones. We were recycling and didn’t know it at the time.
For those moments on stage, we were transmogrified into the Supremes. We performed all of their songs; we even mastered the dance steps, including the hand gesture to “Stop in the Name of Love.” We competed against other boys and girls who were billed as the Temptations, the Beatles, Janis Joplin, James Brown, and Martha and the Vandellas, etc.
Of course, we thought we were good enough to win. That never happened. I was convinced I could sing. Without a manager like Berry Gordy to tell me differently, I did a Diana Ross move, and decided to go solo!
The high school gym in my small town of Havre de Grace, Maryland, served as our recreation center when school was out for the summer. There was an end-of-summer talent show and I planned to sing Wilson Pickett’s song, “634-5789.”
All you have to do is to pick up the phone… and dial 634-5789, that’s my number…. I had no idea my father was in earshot when I walked out of the bathroom with my hairbrush/ microphone in hand. But he was, along with my one of my four brothers, Peabody. When I announced that I was going solo, they got very strange looks on their faces.
I love my dad but that day he was a “daddy-downer.” He sat me down. I studied the perplexed look on his face — a look I often got from the school principal. I still can’t imagine how hard it must have been for my dad to tell his baby girl she couldn’t sing, but he did. (Peabody seconded that emotion.) I was told to walk home after arts and crafts; not to stay for the afternoon talent show. But I was a bit hard-headed and a free spirit. Peabody assured dad he would keep an eye on me.
I was heartbroken but also determined to prove my dad wrong. So, the next day, I signed up and waited my turn in the talent show.
Meanwhile, my brother came looking for me. When he found me, I was on stage, singing my heart out ….pick up that phone and dial 634-5789. I closed my eyes like Diana Ross did when she was in the groove of a song. As I started to sing the next verse, I heard a familiar voice. It was Peabody.
He had the nerve to shout out in from of everyone in the middle of my song, “Annie (my childhood name) get off that stage! You know daddy said you can’t sing! You are going to get in trouble!” He dragged me off the stage, turning my diva moment into a comedy skit.
Everyone was laughing — but I was scared. I knew I was in big trouble. I could not keep up with my big brother as he walked home with purpose, staying a few giant steps ahead of me.
I pleaded with him not to tell. I even offered him candy — ugh! He couldn’t wait for my parents to park the car. He ran out of the house and I could see his lips moving, hands and arms flailing, all in fast motion. Let’s just say that I found out the meaning of “a hard head makes a soft behind” for disobeying my dad.
I rejoined the Supremes. We flipped a coin to be Diana Ross this time, but I was still relegated to backup. I could only be Diana Ross in my bathroom mirror; come see about me, see about me, baby…