Got Nerve,” the crowd actually sang along with me. They knew every single word! Soon I could hear them chanting “Hannah!” and “Miley!” (See? They did know who I was. Or, rather, they knew who my TV character was when she was herself. But again, let’s not be picky.)
My mom was backstage with my manager, Jason. They looked at each other and their mouths just dropped open. What? This was out of control!
So little time had passed since I’d been in sixth grade, holding back tears on a daily basis. (My lowest low.) Those girls had made me feel completely worthless, invisible. But this was it: the equal and opposite reaction I had been hoping for. Here it was, proof that they hadn’t stopped me. If anything, they had pushed me forward. For all that darkness, it wasn’t over. Now a light was shining on me. I was lifted up, not so much by success or fame or anything to do with Hollywood status as by the moment. My heart was flying. My soul was soaring. I felt radiant.
Sure, if I could do it over again, I’d rather not suffer through those sixth-grade moments. But now, now that it was over, somewhere in the cruelty of those girls there was a gift for me. I’d put all the memories at the bottom of the ocean, but now that past floated back to me like a message in a bottle. I looked at it, felt happy, respected it, then threw it back again.
As I hit the final chords of “I’ve Got Nerve,” I thought, “This is for them.”
Even the hard times are part of your life story. If you acknowledge them and move past them, they eventually add up to the experience that makes you wise.
I didn’t stop to question what the audience’s response meant about the show’s popularity or my career. I recognized what was happening from my dad’s concerts. Kids were singing along with every word. Parents were dancing with their kids. I looked at their faces and I saw joy. My dad always says that at that moment—when you, the band, the audience, when you all make music together—you become one. That’s harmony. And that is what it is all for.
Life can be unpredictable and hard. There are plenty of bleak things in the world that we all could be thinking about. Maybe we should be. But on that night, in that moment, all singing along with each other? That was something we all shared, and while we were singing, whatever problems there were in the world, whatever troubles people were having at home, whatever bullies were waiting after school for some other kids in the crowd, to me it felt like maybe we’d put that all out of our minds for a tiny bit of time and just enjoyed one another’s company. I brought the audience a little light. I had found a way to make people happy. That’s as good as it gets.
I played twenty shows for The Cheetah Girls in one month, finishing on October 14 in Charlotte, North Carolina. Ten days later the Hannah Montana sound track—all music from the TV show—was released. My life was starting to feel like the best Christmas ever— each present was a new opportunity or news of a success I’d only imagined in my wildest dreams. The sound track debuted at the top of the Billboard charts.
Heck, yeah! Hannah Montana was no longer an opening act. She was a headliner. My dreams had come true. I was a singer. And an actor. So what if the dream come true had a straight blond wig glued on top? This girl wasn’t complaining. You know that old expression: A wig on the head is better than a head in the sixth-grade toilet. Okay, maybe it’s not the most common expression. Let’s just say I know not to look a gift horse in the mouth!
Bad Luck in St. Louis
B efore we went on The Cheetah Girls tour, my mom made one demand. Usually when you’re on tour for a concert, the whole crew stays on buses together. I was sharing a crew with The Cheetah Girls, so the total group was big—about a hundred people divided among maybe four buses. The dancers, two boys and two girls, were all in their twenties.
My mom was backstage with my manager, Jason. They looked at each other and their mouths just dropped open. What? This was out of control!
So little time had passed since I’d been in sixth grade, holding back tears on a daily basis. (My lowest low.) Those girls had made me feel completely worthless, invisible. But this was it: the equal and opposite reaction I had been hoping for. Here it was, proof that they hadn’t stopped me. If anything, they had pushed me forward. For all that darkness, it wasn’t over. Now a light was shining on me. I was lifted up, not so much by success or fame or anything to do with Hollywood status as by the moment. My heart was flying. My soul was soaring. I felt radiant.
Sure, if I could do it over again, I’d rather not suffer through those sixth-grade moments. But now, now that it was over, somewhere in the cruelty of those girls there was a gift for me. I’d put all the memories at the bottom of the ocean, but now that past floated back to me like a message in a bottle. I looked at it, felt happy, respected it, then threw it back again.
As I hit the final chords of “I’ve Got Nerve,” I thought, “This is for them.”
Even the hard times are part of your life story. If you acknowledge them and move past them, they eventually add up to the experience that makes you wise.
I didn’t stop to question what the audience’s response meant about the show’s popularity or my career. I recognized what was happening from my dad’s concerts. Kids were singing along with every word. Parents were dancing with their kids. I looked at their faces and I saw joy. My dad always says that at that moment—when you, the band, the audience, when you all make music together—you become one. That’s harmony. And that is what it is all for.
Life can be unpredictable and hard. There are plenty of bleak things in the world that we all could be thinking about. Maybe we should be. But on that night, in that moment, all singing along with each other? That was something we all shared, and while we were singing, whatever problems there were in the world, whatever troubles people were having at home, whatever bullies were waiting after school for some other kids in the crowd, to me it felt like maybe we’d put that all out of our minds for a tiny bit of time and just enjoyed one another’s company. I brought the audience a little light. I had found a way to make people happy. That’s as good as it gets.
I played twenty shows for The Cheetah Girls in one month, finishing on October 14 in Charlotte, North Carolina. Ten days later the Hannah Montana sound track—all music from the TV show—was released. My life was starting to feel like the best Christmas ever— each present was a new opportunity or news of a success I’d only imagined in my wildest dreams. The sound track debuted at the top of the Billboard charts.
Heck, yeah! Hannah Montana was no longer an opening act. She was a headliner. My dreams had come true. I was a singer. And an actor. So what if the dream come true had a straight blond wig glued on top? This girl wasn’t complaining. You know that old expression: A wig on the head is better than a head in the sixth-grade toilet. Okay, maybe it’s not the most common expression. Let’s just say I know not to look a gift horse in the mouth!
Bad Luck in St. Louis
B efore we went on The Cheetah Girls tour, my mom made one demand. Usually when you’re on tour for a concert, the whole crew stays on buses together. I was sharing a crew with The Cheetah Girls, so the total group was big—about a hundred people divided among maybe four buses. The dancers, two boys and two girls, were all in their twenties.
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