I begin every morning waking up before the sun. It is routine for the wires to pull me upright, hooking onto my shoulders and coiling around my waist. I paint my face with certainty, rehearse the smile I will wear all day, and end it by powdering my silence.

As I enter the classroom, I am already suspended and dangling—a marionette of achievements.

This is the life of a showgirl.

When the spotlights flicker on, that is my cue to perform and become airborne. The air up here is thin, laced tightly with both ambition and fear of falling. But still, I continue to swing.

Around and around, and then twist.

They tilt their heads up at me, awe-struck, murmuring, as though I was made of gold. But gold is just a metal shaped by pressure. With this, I have learned that brilliance is not always flight but suspension.

It is the pretense that gravity does not pull you down. So I stay suspended in poise, gracefully spinning on the axis of perfection. Knowledge must always arrive with grace; I have to show that this act is effortless.

Because if I land—if I falter even once—they will not call it rest.

They will call it a failure. They will blame me for falling.

And when the dusk comes and the show is over, I dream of dropping the act—unfastening the sequins, the glitter too bright for my peace, and I stand bare, ungraded, unseen. I will unclip the strings that ache my arms from pretending I have wings. And as I fall, I imagine my feet gently greeting the rough dust on the ground.

But dawn always comes. The wires tighten to pull me up again toward another day of performance. Because this is all I know. And somehow, beneath the ache, I still want to shine.

Chin up, fix the smile, and then fly.

This is the life of a showgirl.

- Sean Clifford M. Malinao

(Illustration by Miles Munich Montreal Jimenez/FEU Advocate)