Apr. 30, 2003 - 23:25:33
Dear Vincent,
Yesterday evening I had a temper. (Note I didn't say that I 'lost' my temper. If I had indeed 'lost' it, then there would have been no way for me to be angry.) As the recital date nears for the girls I teach ballet the tension increases abominably, as does the teacher to parent interaction. There are all sorts of stipulations to be made. About costumes, "You'll need to cross the straps in the back so her leotard doesn't fall down on stage." "No, I prefer buttons or snaps, Velcro comes undone too easily." "If you sew her into it Mrs. Smith she won't be able to get out of it." "Pink tights are not close enough to skin colored... because Mrs. Starkey these are pink and the girls need skin colored for that costume. I realize they look more natural than some pinks, but really skin colored would be most preferable." About hair, "In a bun." "If you can't get it into a bun then up and away from the face." "Yes, a French braid is fine so long as you tuck it under." "I don't think what I'm doing with my hair is really relevant Mrs. Lins." About tickets, about stage fright, about everything Vincent, absolutely everything. We have one more rehearsal after yesterday evening and pictures next week. Last night, I was frazzled. The girls seem to have lost focus in response to the chaos ensuing about them. On top of all this, it falls to the other teachers and I to make class recommendations for next year. Certain girls don't move on as they have yet to master the fundamentals of that level. There is a particular little blond, Angela in the 12 year old group who we had decided to not advance. She has a wonderful work ethic, and good focus but it takes her much longer to get things. Putting her ahead would frustrate her and discourage her so we've decided to give her another year in Tap 5. Yesterday evening her mother cornered me and it went something like this...
I was walking down the hall to go begin the next class when from behind me someone called, "Excuse me, Meghan! Hold on!" I turned to face a rather austere but pretty blond woman hurrying towards me clutching a black handbag and wearing a black business suit. When she reached me she stuck out her hand to shake mine, though we've met plenty of times. Thus I was forced to awkwardly balance the stack of rehearsal schedules, my attendance binder and tap shoes all in one arm to shake her hand. Fixing me with a sharp gaze she demanded, "It is necessary that I speak with you about my daughter Angela's placement in dance classes for next year." I glanced down at my watch and affirmed, "I can give you three minutes now before my next class but I'm sorry I've absolutely not more time than that." She seemed affronted, but continued, "You seem to have neglected to advance Angela in dance classes next year. She already took Tap 5." I considered carefully before speaking. "Yes she did" I hazarded, "but it seems she hasn't entirely mastered the fundamental technique of Tap 5. We'd rather give her another year to get it than frustrate her by moving her ahead too soon." With a smile the woman jovially said, "I'm afraid that won't work for Angela. If she's not getting it you must be the problem." I must confess Vincent, that though I am more than aware such parents exist I'd managed to let them slip from conscienceless for a bit. I watched her aghast. "Well," I tried to reason, "it's true that my teaching style may not be best for how she learns, but I am not the only one who made this decision, her other teachers agree with me." The woman arched her eyebrows at me and the falsified smile still plastered her face, "Well, I'm her mother and I demand you move her on." I smiled tightly back, genuinely irritated now and stated, "No one can be good at everything Mrs. Starkey. Your daughter is very dedicated and good natured and that's why I love having her in class. Dance is not her forte but that's okay. I don't want to ruin it for her by pushing her." Mrs. Starkey's smile had gone both sour and prim at once and in a highly admonishing tone she informed me, "Well that's ridiculous. People can certainly be good at everything." I fear that it was then that the little wit, patience, tolerance, and eloquence I possess failed me. I coldly returned, "Mrs. Starkey I have a class to teach. You may take this up with my supervisor but I will not be the one to change the recommendation I've made for your daughter."
I fear for the child whose parent believes that a single person can be good at everything. I've known plenty of people whose parents expected them to be perfect and most of them are in therapy or football or both. Junior year United States history was quite enjoyable. My teacher was an older man with a pot belly, and a mustache that made him look curiously like a walrus. Beneath the harmless exterior was a wry wit that was truly a pleasure to 'wit'ness. I enjoyed class tremendously that year. He was always insulting the idiots who didn't belong in the class and were disruptive about it. But, in accordance with their ignorance they never knew they were being insulted and he was that much funnier as a result. For example, to call attention to the class he'd project, "Gentlemen, and I use the term loosely..." Or, something as obvious as, "If I wanted you to turn around I'd have given you a swivel chair." He didn't just teach history. He had an opinion about all of it. He didn't say, "And so he died in office." He said, "His best domestic policy decision was indisputably to die in office." As you might imagine Vincent, he was wonderful, but tough. The girl who sat to the left of me was astonishingly beautiful. I mean it Vincent. You couldn't not notice. She had characteristic 'princess' hair- to her waist in waves and golden, streaked blue eyes, slender and graceful. And she was really intelligent. However her parents were completely insane. Lora (that's what we'll call her) didn't always do 'A' work in every one of her classes. History and mathematics were a breeze. Science was even less challenging. English was Lora's sticking point. Lora was good at English, but not exceptional. As the year wore on she became more and more maniacal about her grades. As Lora and I became better friends she began to talk about how she had to have As, had to be the valedictorian and was going to M.I.T. (Her parents, she said, would accept no less.) I remember asking, "Is that what you want to do?" She looked at me blankly and responded, "That's what I'm going to do." Lora is in therapy (but not football).
'Twit' is the perfect word for Abigail. "The Twits" by Roald Dahl is a piece of fiction very close to my heart. Actually anything by Roald Dahl is quite close to my heart. "The Vicar of Nibbleswick," "The BFG," "The Witches," "Boy," "Going Solo," "The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More," "Fantastic Mr. Fox," "Danny Champion of the World," "Revolting Rhymes," "The Magic Finger." Vincent- it is very necessary that you read these books if you have not. I promise to rent Swimming to Cambodia as long as you promise to pick up one of these books. I recommend starting with "Henry Sugar" or "Boy." I'd loan you my well loved copies but, geographic reasons aside they're both on loan right now to Fred down the hill.
I don't believe you've heard much about Fred down the hill yet. Fred down the hill has known me since kindergarten. He delights in quietly teasing me. He smiles only with his lips but not his teeth. When he got braces many years ago no one knew for a good year because he doesn't smile with his teeth at all. You know you're funny if you catch him off guard and get him to flash a smile with teeth. That's the only time- when you catch him off guard. Fred plunges himself into romance in true Cyrano De Bergerac devotion. It's a slight shame because he eliminates time to get to know people and allow people to get to know him. He sells himself short in the intelligence sector but he reads everything I loan him and comments insightfully. While Fred doesn't make much time for anyone but the love interest he does make time for one type of person- the type who needs his time. He solicits the shy, includes the standoffish and makes anyone who doesn't fit feel wonderful. Fred doesn't know that people are flattered by his attention. He just does it because he's so good hearted. Vincent, it's beautiful and endearing. And that's Fred down the hill. I suppose that it may be boring for me to recount the various virtues of the good people I know. I suppose it must seem that everyone I know is a good person. That would be very near the truth. I know an abundance of good people. But do you know what the nice thing about good people is Vincent? They always seem like a find, and no matter how many you know they seem to be one of a kind and never enough. I would be a miserable writer and observer if I didn't attempt to do them justice from time to time.
Blitzed,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
