Ding Dong Donate

"Hold me, like the river Jordan, and I will come say to thee, you are my friiieeeeeeennd," I was bopping along to the Free Willy Theme Song, hoping that the louder I belted it, the closer I was to transforming into a superstar, if not Michael or Janet themselves. It was the summer of '93, and all I could do was sing about this damn whale.

Lucky for me, my best friends, who were my neighbors, were equally obsessed with the tune. We all vied to be adopted by the Jackson's. We didn't care if Joe beat us--we just wanted to be famous.

We decided to form our own club, SKK, which were the initials of our last names. We ripped the idea off of SWV, but their acronym was way cooler than ours: Sisters With Voices. I love you, 1993.

That summer, my parents decided to landscape the yard of our suburban home, transforming it from greenbelt jungle to grassy knoll (note the foreshadowing). While the jungle had been a blast (we had trails going to secret hideouts), the transformation turned into an adventure all its own.

The landscapers were using a CAT bulldozer to move the land, which was usually parked on a trailer at the bottom of our yard when it was not in use. While the CAT was hard at work, we claimed this trailer for SKK's Club House. Club meetings were actually code for concert: we spent the meetings with our boom box blaring MJ or Janet, while we tried to sing over them in hopes of being discovered by a random passerby who happened to be a talent scout.

Needless to say, this was an idiotic hope, being as there were no such things as random passersby in our neighborhood. You got stared down if you weren't recognized. At least, you were supposed to be, according to the Neighborhood Watch signs posted at the entrance of our street. Apparently those weren't enough to deter the burglar that broke into my parents house and stole pennies, a necklace and my mom's underwear. Yikes.

The trailer show went on. "In our darkest hour, in my deepest despair, will you still care? Will you still be there?" We didn't even know what we were singing. This was also followed by "If I was your girl, oh the things I'd do to you!" I wanted to be just like Janet.

We performed like this for several hours a day, in hopes that if we weren't being discovered, someone would at least come watch the concert. They didn't. We thought more people liked the Jackson's. Turned out we were right. They just didn't like us singing the Jackson's.

Because no one was falling for our trailer-stage gimmick, we thought we needed something more to attract an audience. All amazing concerts had an elaborate stage set-up right? We just needed to decorate our stage.

"We need a lot of construction paper and glitter," said my neighbor.

"Of course! Let's go ask our parents if we can go to the store," I replied.

But we got denied. Our parents refused to fork over the cash that was to be the catalyst for our rise to stardom. I was crushed. At that moment, I vowed that once I was famous, I would write a song about how they took no part in my success and were in fact the reason I was addicted to heroin. Okay I probably didn't get what heroin was quite yet. They'd be the reason I was smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

But then it hit me like a bolt of lightening. "Wait a minute- what if we went around the neighborhood and got money from our neighbors for decorations?"

"Yeah! But what are we going to tell them it's for?" asked my friend.

"Let's just say we're asking for donations for the poor. We are poor right? It's not lying."

I was a genius.

We trekked up the street and rang the first doorbell we saw, "Hiiii," we said in unison, smiling innocently.

"Hi...?" said my neighbor, wondering why the annoying, Jackson-wannabes were at his doorstep.

"We're collecting money for the poor. Would you like to donate today?"

"Um...how much are you collecting?" Are you kidding me? No questions asked!

"Whatever you're willing to give. Like a dollar, or even change. They'll take whatever they can get."

He came back with dime, and we were onto the next house. This was easier than we thought. No house turned us down. We went up and down my street and by the time we were done, we had a mixture of change and a one dollar bill that added up to $6.

"Yes! This should be enough to buy construction paper and glitter!"

We bee bopped back to my parents house and threw open the door and proclaimed, "We have money now! Can you take us to the store?"

My parents were appalled. "Where did you get that?"

My little sister chimed in, "They went around begging the neeeeiiighbors!" and flashed her mischievous grin that is to this day, her trademark.

"What?! You better go return that money right now! You tell those neighbors, what you did. Return every. last. penny!" This was the prelude to being grounded for a very long time.

Grrr!! How could a six year-old bring down an entertainment empire just like that? We trudged back up the street with chips on our naive shoulders. Note to self: mention little sister in the heroin song. Wait a minute. The heroin song! That was it!

"Stop everyone! We could just blame our mother's! It's their fault right?"

We were all in agreement.

Ding dong! went the doorbell.

"Hi! It's us again. Sorry, but our mother's wouldn't let us donate today. But thank you for your contribution!"

Our neighbors were really confused why we kept bothering them that afternoon, but we didn't care. We still looked good. Our parents didn't. Crisis averted.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but blaming your parents solves everything. And makes for a good song later.