It was a relatively quiet winter day in the sixth grade. Stepping off the bus into the old, two-story brick school I walked into the coat closet where I began to remove my coat and boots. Boots! Oh no. We were not allowed to wear our snow boots into the school and I had forgotten to bring my shoes so I would have to be in my stocking feet all day. It's not too bad usually, as long as you can just sit at your desk and hide your feet. But today was different. Today, there was a Lycium.
I don't know if you remember the Lycium, but for us it was a special program that usually took up the better part of the morning, so it was always a welcome change to the daily grind. It was typically a cultural exhibition of some kind meant to enrich our education. On this particular day I was not at all happy that we would have a change in the class schedule. Every change meant another opportunity to expose my stocking feet.
As expected, our teacher announced the Lycium right away in the morning. Everyone was eager to go to the gymnasium for the program so they filed out quickly. This gave me the chance to hang back and wait for the others so I could be the last one to leave my seat and the last to enter the gym. By the time our class arrived in the gym there were several other classes present and the seats were beginning to be filled. I contrived to slip quietly up to the far corner of the balcony where I could sit near some of the teachers and be out of the way of most of the curious glances. Just let me blend into the background, I thought. What I feared most was recognition and ridicule. I lived in a painful shyness that winced at the slightest notice, positive or negative. But, of course, negative notice would be much more unwelcome.
To my great relief I was able to find a sparsely seated corner of the bleachers at the top of the balcony. I settled in to enjoy the show and began to wonder what was going to happen. On the floor of the gym was a young man with an interesting display of costumes, feathers, artifacts and all sorts of bead-work and weapons. I was so enthralled by the presentation that I even forgot about my shoes. Music, dancing, wonderful displays and then, it was announced that we were going to act out an ancient ceremony; one in which a Princess chooses her Prince and they are married, and that he would now choose one of the girls in the audience to be that Princess.
I had no fear of being chosen. I was so far in the back, and in the balcony, I thought, that he could not possibly go so far to choose his Princess. Besides, I thought, I'm not the kind of girl that people normally choose for such a role. I have a plain face, straight brown hair and unfortunately today, no shoes. So I sat looking on with eager anticipation to see which of the 'popular and pretty' girls he would choose. He walked slowly down the isles of the lower level of the bleachers looking at each girl. I had expected him to just pick the first girl who raised her hand. But he slowly and deliberately looked at each girl and went on...and on and on. Then to my utter horror he walked up the stairs and began to scan the rows of the balcony. Oh, where could I hide?, I thought. I didn't even want him to look at me. I curled my feet as tightly up against the bleachers as I could, trying to hide them from view. I looked away in an attempt to make myself invisible between and behind other people around me. But it was all in vain. Inexorably he came, closer and closer until finally he stood directly in front of me.
With my face turned the other way, I tried to pretend that he wasn't there. Maybe he'll just go away, I thought. I looked up to check to see if he had gone, when to my extreme dismay he was reaching out his hand to me. I refused to reach up, but he insisted. He took my hand in his and stood me up. And all I could think of was that he couldn't choose me because I didn't have shoes! Cinderella couldn't have felt more surprised.
We walked down the isle together, hand in hand (my other hand was over my face). As we walked I said to myself, “Me, a Princess?” (It changed my life.) The shy little country girl with the plain face and straight brown hair, a Princess? Yes. She is.
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