The only allowable contact with contestants usually follows the award ceremony, when you pose for pictures. For the most part, I stay in my room, or hang out with fellow judges in their rooms. emerging only to file silently down the hallway to whatever TV studio or stage was in use. I have mastered the fine art of striding down a hallway without tripping or making eye contact, looking pleasant, but not smug, and not at all approachable.
Oh, the talent contests! Some talent contests involved using English, some were straight up talent, often involving singing, playing the guitar or tap dancing. On one memorable occasion, nine different contestants in a single afternoon brought out guitars and accompanied themselves singing Adele’s anthem “Rolling in the Deep.” One player who had just taught herself guitar the day before had to stop frequently to check her fingering on the chords. Song finished, she demanded to know on the spot if she had won. Since the scores had yet to be tabulated and 20 other contestants were still waiting to perform, it was a struggle to remain pleasant and neutral. That’s the job, really: to remain pleasant and neutral, no matter what. I have sat on stage, camera trained to my face, smiling encouragingly at magic tricks gone wrong, girl groups singing what sounded like “X boys!” which gave rise to conjecture, and well-coiffed boy bands nervously performing Westlife tunes. I recall a tenor throwing his head back at the chorus and bursting into a high-pitched howl in the name of harmony. My fellow judges slid under the table, helpless with laughter, but by dint of clenching my jaws together I remained upright, a frozen smile on my face, through the remaining one minute and 30 seconds of pure torture. I clutched my jaws together so firmly that I cracked a tooth, but by God, this group of teenage boys were not humiliated by the entire panel of judges disappearing under the table, shaking from laughter.
Oh, the English speech contests! Word of advice: It helps to read the prompt, and for goodness’ sake, don’t turn every response into a tired chestnut about Madame Curie, Thomas Edison, Isaac Newton or Helen Keller, no matter how well rehearsed. One adorable little Chinese boy, squeaky clean, shirt pressed, seersucker bowtie perfectly tied, hair parted down the center and plastered down to his skull, regaled the audience with stories of his life growing up as a woman of color in a hood, replete with gang signals. Most recently, a contestant caught me after the event and asked, “Michael Jackson. Black man. Ok?” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but the limited grammatical range and accuracy in that utterance completely justified the score I had given him. A bit confused, I asked in Chinese, “I didn’t hear you, it’s so noisy here, can you say it again?” He leaned into my ear and shouted, “Michael Jackson! Black man! OK?” I suddenly understood: Was I a racist white old lady, or was I hip enough to appreciate the genius that was Michael Jackson? I gave him a thumbs-up and he sauntered off secure in the knowledge that while a harsh judge, at least I wasn’t racist.
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