the esplanade & all of us

(or, ode to every time you humiliated yourself onstage for the primary school national day celebration auditions)

Stephanie Dogfoot

picture this: a teacher announces the number and letter of our class—a tiny conga line of three or four nine-year-old girls—hands on each other’s waists, squirming S’s around a stage like half a centipede with its head smashed, not understanding why its legs don’t work—we start to sing—hopping, one wrong foot to another, sweating through our pinafores—no recorded music, no air con in 1997—you could take a little trip around Singapore town in a Singapore city bus—everyone a different beat, united in the belief that the faster we sang the faster this would end—whose idea was it to walk around the stage instead of choreographing an actual dance—can’t be accused of singing off-key if no-one can hear you—what were we thinking?—school hall freeze frame booming silence— see girls, this is what happens when you don’t put in effort —not like our class ever won anything—you should all be ashamed of yourselves— but they said that every day—they said they just needed anyone to volunteer—afterwards, only the memory of laughing laughing laughing ourselves breathless—at us, at each other—how did we get away with it?—how did the worst class get away with anything?—for the solo category, my best friend—why would she do that—never sung in public before—her voice drowning in track six of the National Day ’97 cassette—Singapura o Singapura tiny island set in the sea—the occasional syllable gasping, head poking above the surface—all we saw: her tiny pale body swaying out of time—can’t sing badly if you forget to hold the microphone to your mouth—we still can’t hear that song without snorting—where is your self-respect?—where was our self-respect?—we were nine—did they think we did this for fun? Did they think we chose to fuck up on purpose? Did we even know any other way?