“I saw your name in the program and thought, 'that's a funny coincidence, because I know a Jill Forney, ’ and then the curtain pulled back, and it was actually you! I was really proud to see you up there."
I was standing by a side door of the high school auditorium, waiting for my co-drummer to bring her car around so we could load up and get out. A family pushed through from the lobby—mom, dad, two daughters. The mom said something about going to see Dad's friend, and it took me a beat to realize Dad's friend was me. Dad was someone I'd gotten into spectacular amounts of trouble with in eighth and ninth grade, someone I hadn't really seen since we were kids ourselves.
His daughter went to the school. They'd come to see the winter dance show, the one I'd just played backup drums for—terrified, thrilling, exposed.
"I didn't know I was in the program," I stammered. "We were a last-minute addition. Really, backup backup backup players."
But he'd said he was proud. Not proud of my drumming, exactly. Proud like: look at you, putting yourself out there. The surprise and delight of encountering someone he'd known as a kid, now doing this random thing in this random context decades later.
We don't say "I'm proud of you" to other adults, not really. It's a thing you say to kids, tied to performance, grades, doing a good job. Adults are too old to need encouragement or witnessing.
I was self-conscious up there. My timing fell off at times. I was hyperaware of every mistake, every moment I wasn't quite locked in. And someone looked at that and felt proud. Maybe because I was still willing. Still trying. Maybe that helped me realize I was maybe a little proud of me, too.
We've made it strange to acknowledge that about each other. To say: I see you doing your thing in the world, whatever that thing is, and I'm moved by the fact that you're doing it. But I’m on the lookout now. For chances to be and feel proud of exactly that.
xo Jill