I am very fortunate that as the President of the Voice and Speech Trainers Association (VASTA) I am an honored guest at a Mexico's Center for Voice Studies (CEUVOZ) conference in the historic part of Mexico City. Today was the first day of the conference, and the program notes described opening remarks and speeches by guests much more distinguished than I. In deciding my wardrobe for the day, I wanted something cool in which I could walk long distances in the heat, but I also wanted to look presentable enough that should I be introduced, I could stand up and wave and feel appropriate. I chose a sleeveless white linen top and some cream colored cropped slacks, but wore my bright orange made-for-walking Keen sandals for the city walking. (I promise this sartorial side-note will be important later.)
My group arrived at the central theater of Mexico City early before the festivities began, and settled ourselves into the plush seats in the darkened theater while watching the electric crew set up the lighting angles. I was busily taking photos of the ornate ceiling of the theater when I heard a man wearing a dark suit and standing in the aisle next to me say to his cell phone, “¿Beth McGee? Es Señora aquí?”
“Sí, estoy Señora McGee,” I uttered in my un poco español, and I was suddenly whisked out of my seat and ushered backstage. I had NO idea what was happening. I felt the instinctual buzz of adrenalin any actor feels when in the wings of a large theater. My English-speaking friends José and Erandi were backstage very busily attending to details and it was almost impossible to ask them what was happening. The stagehands, like professional stagehands everywhere, lounged in chairs, bored and sleeping, while waiting for their cues. Erandi whispered to me, “you will be sitting on stage,” and moved back to her business. I panicked. Everyone around me was dressed in sensible suits and dress shoes, and I looked like someone headed to the beach. I grabbed José— “when do I enter, will they call my name?” and he nodded, which was not terribly helpful.
The atmosphere backstage suddenly changed. More men in dark suits entered, only they had the little secret-service type of ear bug in their ears. There was a great flurry around one tall man in a blue suit. Everyone was shaking his hand. I was a deer in the headlights, having no idea what was expected of me. Chairs were set up in a line behind the main theater curtain and I was told to sit in one of them. I desperately tried to unwrinkle my linen shirt and comb my hair. I remembered that scene in Broadcast News when William Hurt teaches Albert Brooks how to sit like a news anchor and pulled my shirtails under my bottom. To make things worse, my legs are short and don’t reach the ground when I’m sitting in chairs. I skootched my “sits bones” to the edge of the chair so my feet could touch the ground and tried to exhibit my best posture, my orange sandals set primly together. The curtain rose, the lights came up, and the TV camera and flashbulbs started popping. I smiled out to the audience, nodding to thank them for their applause and silently shrieked “holy shit!?!”
The mayor of Mexico City (who was not expected until the last minutes before the opening of the conference) was introduced, and he stood to welcome the conference goers and reiterate how important the conference was to the Mexican government. Now folks, this would be like Rudy Giuliani addressing a conference in New York City pre-2002. Rock Star Status. I tried to keep a polite-yet-warm look on my face, watched him like a hawk, and nodded when I understood what he was saying.
After the Mayor, the Maestra of the conference stood up to give a speech. I felt like the dog in that cartoon about what people say and what dogs really undertand. I desperately listened through the muy rapido español for “Beth McGee,” and “VASTA” so I could nod, smile, and stand to take a bow. When the seat between the Mayor and I was vacated, I was directed to take it, apparently for the photo opportunity. The introductions were over, and I shook the Mayor’s hand and kissed his proffered cheek, sighing in relief that I could leave the stage. But no! A table with microphones was being set up, and my name was on a placard on the table. Panic again! Was the voice teacher actually expected to speak?
I sat at my ordained spot, grateful that the table had a skirt hiding my day-glow shoes and most of my wrinkled shirt from the audience. It turned out that I was not to speak, but was a distinguished guest at the table. Once again the mutt who can only understand, “out for a walk” and “food,” I listened for my name and organization in order to nod and smile. Irrationally, I thought, “is this how Angelina Jolie feels when she’s in foreign countries?” (And I don’t even like Angelina Jolie. And she would have been wearing designer clothes. Does it count that my wrinkled shirt was a Liz Claiborne?)
Finally the session was complete, and we were ushered off the stage. A flurry of men in suits surrounded the Mayor and wrestled him off the stage via the loading dock. I left the stage and entered the auditorium grateful that I hadn’t made a complete fool of myself. And wondered where all those photos and digital films of my time “with the mayor” were being sent. Hopefully not to Mexico’s version of The National Enquirer.
I am so honored to be at this conference and to be so feted. I just wasn’t quite ready for my 15 minutes of Mexico City fame.
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