Alas, I'll never be The Next Tony Barber
I am four years old. The house I live in is an old, small and musty brick dwelling that houses my parents, my younger brother and myself. In winter the house would be freezing cold and all four of us would lie in my parents’ bed and curl up under the blankets and watch TV. Those nights watching TV made me want to be a television star; a famous one like Tony Barber.
It is the next day. Another cold one. Just after lunch I decide to play quietly by myself. My younger brother is annoying me. I grab my plastic wheelbarrow and head out of our bedroom and into the hallway. I kneel down on one knee and I pretend that I am hosting ‘Sesame Street’. I have just said goodbye to Big Bird and I have a few minutes to spare before the next person comes along. Speaking directly into the camera, I begin to inform my invisible audience what wheelbarrows can be used for. I am absolutely in my element; I genuinely believe that people are watching me and enjoying viewing.
It is twenty minutes later. I am sitting on my bed. My head is in my hands and my hands are wet with tears. My plastic wheelbarrow is lying next to me, in pieces. Over on his bed, is my brother. He is also crying. Though he cries because he was smacked for breaking my toy.
I cry because my toy is broken. And at the ripe old age of four, I fear my dreams of television super-stardom are over.