I Thought Turkeys Could Fly

It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, November 22, 1978. The auditorium of Chinquapin Middle School in Baltimore, Maryland, buzzed with the excitement of 7th and 8th graders eager for the holiday ahead. I was in 8th grade, standing behind the microphone, ready to MC a skit for my peers—a role I had played before but never quite like this. The skit was "The House That Jack Built," an old English nursery rhyme that built on a series of characters like the maiden all forlorn, that milked the cow with the crumpled horn.? Ten actors were on stage to portray each of the parts of the poem, while I was on a microphone at floor level. ?I had narrated the poem for different elementary school audiences over the past two weeks. But today was different. Today, I would deliver the lines in a way absolutely no one could have expected.

Just before the show, my friend Dorian pulled me aside. With a gleam in his eye, he suggested that instead of the usual straightforward narration, I should channel Dr. Johnny Fever, a character from a new sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati, that we all were very into. Johnny Fever, portrayed by Howard Hesseman, was the archetype of the cool, disenchanted DJ with a checkered past and a gift for reinvention. It was a wild suggestion, but something about it resonated with me. Maybe it was Johnny’s rebellious nature, or perhaps his authenticity in the face of adversity that struck a chord. Whatever the reason, I decided to give it a shot.? One of the “rules” of improv is you always accept what’s offered.

The Dr. Johnny Fever character had an on-air persona that was electric: confident, uninhibited, and utterly himself. In a way, Johnny Fever embodied the kind of cool and self-possession that I, a 13-year-old middle schooler could totally relate to.

When I started speaking into that microphone, I didn’t just deliver the poem—I exuded all of the intensity and sex appeal a kid with John Denver glasses and a spray of pimples across his forehead could provide. The cadence, the rhythm, the irreverent energy—I channeled it all. The transformation was immediate. The room, filled with my peers, erupted into cheers. The reaction felt as if Mick Jagger himself decided to tell everyone about the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. It was electrifying. The audience screamed, laughed, and clapped, their excitement building to a crescendo as I hit my final lines with feverish flair—glasses flying off my face.?

That moment has stayed with me for nearly 46 years, and I think about it from time to time with a smile. Even now, I can recall the rush of adrenaline, the way the audience responded to my performance, the incredible sense of liberation that came with fully embracing the moment and taking a chance doing something special.

In the years that followed, I chose a different path from performing. I pursued a career in engineering—a rewarding and fulfilling journey in its own right. Engineering was the right choice, providing stability, intellectual stimulation, and a clear direction. But the memory of that day, the authenticity of that moment, has remained a touchstone in my life. It was a reminder of what it feels like to be fully present, fully alive, and completely myself in a way that transcended the ordinary.

These concepts resurfaced for me recently while listening to a podcast featuring musician John Legend. In his conversation with Adam Grant, John offered a piece of advice that resonated deeply: “You want to write the song that only you can write, that’s a reflection of something unique about you.” It struck me that, in many ways, life itself is a song we each get to write. Our choices, actions, and experiences are the lyrics and melodies.

That moment in 1978, inspired by Dr. Johnny Fever, was part of my song—my moment of writing a chapter that only I could write. Johnny Fever’s eccentric persona gave me the permission I needed to be bold, to take a risk, and to express myself in a way that was uniquely mine. And the audience’s reaction affirmed something that I would carry with me for decades: being exactly who you are is magnetic.

When we dare to be ourselves, unapologetically and wholeheartedly, we invite others to engage with us on a deeper level. That day, I wasn’t just reading lines from a script—I was putting a piece of myself out there for everyone to see. The response I received was not just about the performance itself, but about the energy and truth behind it.? The fact that it was positive was fantastic and lucky because it could have just as easily blown up in my face.? I guess that the vulnerability that comes with taking a chance like that is where the real lessons are.?

In the years since I caused a stir at a school in a northwest corner of Baltimore, I’ve come to understand that being real doesn’t always mean standing out in a flamboyant way or adopting a larger-than-life persona. It’s about knowing who you are, what you value, and having the courage to express it. For me, that means embracing the full spectrum of who I am—whether it’s an engineer, an aspiring speaker, or the 8th grader who once brought down the house.

So, here’s to that Wednesday in 1978, to the lessons of Johnny Fever, and to writing the song that only I can write.