n first grade, I loved the Letter People.

The Letter People were an educational tool, featuring characters who represented each letter of the alphabet.  The consonants were male, and the vowels were female. 

I shied away from the consonant blandness of Mr. F (“Funny Feet”) and Mr. N (“Noisy Nose”).  I fixated instead on the more interesting, nuanced vowels.  Though I pitied Miss A (“A-Choo”), forever clutching a box of tissues, I felt even worse for Miss I (“Itchy Itches”).  And did Miss E’s constant Exercising indicate troublesome body-image issues?

My hands-down favorite, though, was Miss O, whose representative word was “Obstinate.”  Indicating, perhaps, the early development of a gay man’s appreciation of difficult, diva-like women, I got tingles when Miss O sang on the Letter People 8-track:

"I’m Miss O!  I’m obstinate!

Not opposite!  Just obstinate!"

(NOTE:  I recently discovered that when the Letter People moved from merely being records to an actual TV series, Miss O became an "Optimist."  This sucks on too many levels to count.  Having been a writer working in Hollywood development, though, it makes perfect sense -- everything has to completely suck before it can move to series.)

But when Mrs. Hill announced an all-first-grade “Letter People Dress-Up Day”, I knew better than to dress up as Miss O.  I didn’t even consider becoming the androgynous Mr. Y, who masked his questionable gender identity beneath a bored Yawn. 

I chose my favorite consonant, Mr. H, who had truly Horrible Hair. 

So did another kid, Matthew Shankle, who was in Mrs. Fisch’s class next door. 

Looking back, Matthew was one of those kids you see sometimes, who's so incredibly gay and pure it breaks your heart, because he's an accident waiting to happen -- the unstoppable force of his effeminate joy racing toward the immovable stupidity of his peers.  He was composed of tight pudgy curves, with a bell-like speaking voice.  His laugh sounded like descending scales at the top of a piano keyboard.  Adult women adored him.  Did he secrete a special pheromone?  How else could he inspire such warm, maternal feeling, even from otherwise flinty battle-axes?

The other first-grade teacher was Mrs. Fisch.  She was one hard lady, and Matthew's special magic bewitched her.  Her normally sour demeanor softened whenever Matthew came around, and her beady black eyes twinkled.  He affirmed her decisions in life, so often called into question by needy, ungainly children like me.

For my Mr. H costume, I dug a cheap black fright wig out of the family toybox, shaking out some of the dust bunnies.  It didn't much resemble Mr. H’s stringy green mop of hair, but I knew I embodied his spirit, which was more important.

For Letter People Day, most of the girls chose to dress as winsome Miss A.  They clustered together, clutching Kleenex boxes.  My best friend Scott dressed up as Mr. B, his shirt covered in Beautiful Buttons. 

I put on my fright wig.  The aura of Mr. H swelled within me.

"Look at Matthew!" Scott said.  And I looked.

Matthew wore a costume made especially for him by Mrs. Fisch.

Matthew’s elaborate wig was made of thick green yarn, and cascaded adorably down his shoulders.  He wore Mr. H’s two-toned shoes, and even his green, yellow, and red tie.  The incredible unjustness of this didn’t dawn on me for years, as I lay, night after night, brooding over what happened that day.

We were to perform as our chosen Letter Person, beginning with Miss A, going all the way through to Mr. Z and his Zipping Zippers.  It was an improvisation set to our particular Letter Person's theme song, which played on the 8-track.  The Miss A's sneezed and wiped their noses, as I scoffed at their lack of imagination.  My friend Scott looked, befuddled, at his buttons.

When we got to Mr. H, it was my chance to outshine Matthew Shankle.  Sure, his wig was the proper color and wasn’t filled with dustbunnies.  Sure, I was wearing high-water jeans and a stained terrycloth shirt, but unlike Matthew, I understood Mr. H's inner life. 

Unfortunately, I hadn’t spent years training in gymnastics, like Matthew Shankle. 

I stood in the center of the room, confused, while Matthew did cartwheels and roundoffs and handstands.  Finally, I began doing a desperate Russian kick-dance that I made up, my legs rising higher and higher.  I spun round and round until I was dizzy.

“You look really stupid, Jeff!” taunted Scott, my best friend.  As the song ended, Matthew did eight continuous handsprings followed by a roundoff tuck dismount.  The room burst into cheers and applause, and I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was for me.

I was crushed.  I, a neophyte -- who was I to think I could compete with Matthew Shankle’s years of preparation?

And like those who in their adult lives seek to recreate the damaging traumas of youth, I swear to God, that was the day I decided to become an actor.

Now, whenever I enter an audition waiting room, it’s filled with Matthew Shankles.  Fortunately, we no longer perform side-by-side, but as I survey these various Matts studying their script pages, I’m already disheartened.  Mrs. Fisch is long since dead, but her spirit blesses the casting directors of New York City.

I will never be so confident as I was in those sun-dappled days before my fall at age six.

A footnote.  For Matthew Shankle, wherever you are now:

If you ever find my web page, I have a special secret message, just for you.