Exposed: Being Seen and Heard

I feel all alone in the middle of my aunt and uncle’s living room. There are a lot of big people in the room, all related to me, but I don’t really know most of them. It is my fourth birthday. I have been given a gift – a large rag doll almost my size with elastic on her feet designed to be pulled over my shoes. Someone commands me to put the doll’s feet on mine. Another command follows, “Come on, dance with her.” What do I do? There is no music and all these people are watching me. I don’t know what to do or how to be. But they are expecting me to perform. Please God who I still believe in, let this moment end. I do not want to be watched.

My fourth grade teacher brings a new machine to our classroom. It is a tape recorder. She commands each of us to speak into the machine as we read a passage in our readers. She plays the tape back for everyone to hear. I nearly die of embarrassment. I hate the sound of my voice and don’t quite believe that it is me. It does not make the same sound as it does to my ears.

I do not want to be heard.  

I sit in 7^th grade social studies and pray for invisibility so I will not become a target. There are already two targets in my class, a boy named Bruce, a girl named Cindy. They have done nothing to deserve all the fun made at their expense by some of the boys in my class. Looking around at everyone else, I calculate that on the misfit scale, I would probably be the next one at whom they’d take aim. I shrink in my seat and bend over my text book looking down.

I do not want to be noticed.

I sit in my 11^th grade English class and listen as my classmates talk and laugh about the party Saturday night at George’s house – to which I was not invited. I tell myself I don’t care, I wouldn’t have gone anyway. I wouldn’t have known how to be with them. They talk over me, ignoring me, not unkindly, just not anything.  I wonder if I have achieved the invisibility for which I have prayed from the God I now doubt.

I sit in a women’s group in my early twenties and find it hard to take my turn. When the timer rings (so no one hogs all the time, as some might) and our charismatic leader with piercing eyes turns her attention to me and commands that I pound a pillow and emote, the real me vacates the premises, leaving the play actor behind to perform on demand.   

There are many similar stories. I recall them with sadness and sometimes detachment, sometimes curiosity. But as my daughter and others of her generation might say, “It is what it is.” Or was what it was.  I know that these tiny events (and they are tiny in the grand scheme) have defined me in ways that are difficult to escape. I am who I am despite multi-year efforts to change that.

Writing from the heart is the epitome of exposure and an act of courage (or foolishness) for someone who aimed emotionally for invisibility and silence for years. I never press “post” without wondering if I’ve said too much or been too honest. I feel pleased when my words resonate with others and am grateful to those who respond from their own hearts and share their experiences. In those moments, I feel connected, heard, and visible in ways that are tolerable and pleasant.  

I emailed a few blog entries to a relative around Christmas. I handpicked some that I thought she might particularly enjoy – reflections about the holidays, an entry about my brother. Nothing that I thought would kindle any fires. So I didn’t see the meteor coming when she wrote me that she doesn’t understand why I don’t write about another relative who “loved you [me] so much, maybe too much.” I started to tremble with something approaching rage. The message I sent back was clear and direct. Do not tell me what or who I should write about. I don’t write to meet your needs. 

                             

Put another way, I will no longer dance because someone has commanded me to dance.

                            

I snail mailed some entries to an elderly friend I’ve known for over forty years. When I was 16, she used to read my adolescent attempts at poetry. She is always interested in knowing what I’m doing so I thought she might enjoy reading some of my current efforts. We used to be quite close but in recent years I’ve kept my distance. I grew up with her pointing out every discrepancy she found in what I had to say.  Even as an adult, she’ll remind me of something I said or thought when I was 19 and demands that I justify any changes in my viewpoint. Frankly, I often just don’t have the emotional strength to endure her questioning. The other day I received a telephone message from her. She’d read my work, some entries two and three times. She loved my writing. So far, so good. But then she said she’d like me to call her back. She wanted me to talk to her about some of the things I’d written.  “When you’re ready,” she said. That sounded ominous. Rewind.  “When you’re ready.”  Every danger antennae in me went on high alert.  My emotional brakes engaged. If she wants to share her story with me, relative to something I’ve written, great, I thought, wonderful. That’s what this is all about.

But I will no longer speak because someone has commanded me to speak.

Mourning Dad

I listened to a father and his son on the subway recently one morning.  They were having a real conversation. Dad listened intently to his son’s opinion about something that had happened in school and asked thoughtful questions. It was a sweet moment and it made me feel sad.  I think about fathers a lot. Two friends, one from almost 30 years ago and the other in my current workplace, mourn the loss of their dads within the past year. Their sadness is palpable. They each had remarkable and very close relationships with their dads. I envy them. This past week was the 7^th anniversary of my father's death. I remembered him on that day (February 15), but I do not miss him. This also makes me sad.

My dad, about whom I’ve written nostalgically (In Honor of My Dad, 10/15/10), and I did not have a genuine relationship. I spent my childhood yearning after him but he was wrapped up in his own world which consisted, besides work as an electrical engineer and owner of a large mobile home park, of membership in several fraternal organizations, being a ham radio operator, running for political office, starting a paint manufacturing business, overseeing the metamorphosis of an old school bus into a state-of-the-art motor home, starting a newspaper and functioning as editor/writer/photographer, and being the president of many things. Almost every night of my early youth, he would dress up in what my sister and I called his “monkey suit” to go to a meeting at the Masonic lodge. And almost every night, I would climb up into his arms and ask him when he would be staying home with us.  He always came home after we were sound asleep, and although my mother swore he never missed a night of coming in to kiss us goodnight, it doesn’t count when you’re unconscious.

When he was home, he was a lot of fun if he wasn’t lost in thought about his own endeavors. My dad loved having kids because it gave him a chance at a second (and third) childhood. From him, I learned to love roller coasters. He taught us to swim and water ski, and maneuver a go-kart.  He swung us so high in our lawn swing that he ran right under it as he pushed. He built us a magnificent tree house and then slept out under the stars with my sister and me and our friends.  

It sounds wonderful, I know. And some of it was. But what was missing was real engagement. There were no conversations. No heart to hearts. No dispensing of paternal wisdom, guidance of any sort (except “Go ask your mother”), or reassurance. His idea of engaging with his children consisted of an occasional, “What did you learn in school today” – which always felt like an unanswerable question. Opinions ventured often resulted in tears (mine). My father had a very short fuse. One memorable moment was when I proudly announced in the first grade that if I could vote for president I would vote for John F. Kennedy. Kennedy. My father’s name was Ken. In my mind, a vote for Kennedy was an endorsement of my father and I wanted him to know I admired him. Maybe that would please him. A staunch Republican, my father did not wait for my explanation about why I felt that way  – he just blew up at my stupidity at expressing a “political” opinion he saw as opposite to his correct viewpoint. I learned to be quiet but I didn’t give up. I tried to learn the Morse code in 3^rd grade so he would think I was smart and want to teach me about his radio equipment. He drilled me on the dahs and dits which I struggled to memorize and got irritated when I made mistakes. He read books on hypnosis and past life regression. I read them when he finished, hoping we could talk about them. He played the piano. I played the piano and made it my mission to learn his first piano recital piece from his childhood. I was determined that he would notice me, value me, pay attention to me. I am nothing if not tenacious.

The nearest we came to a real conversation was my 21^st birthday, which was two days before I was to be married. I hadn’t known the man very long – not even a year. He was much older than I and from a different world. The engagement was short and very stormy.  My father came to my apartment that day bearing a dozen yellow roses and said he wanted to talk to me. This was unprecedented and I was caught, unsure of how to be, embarrassed, and wanting to escape. We had had a huge fight about a boy when I was fifteen and I’d been enraged at his audacity for thinking he could suddenly assert his authority after being absent my entire childhood. Ever since that time, being alone with him felt torturous. He cleared his throat and told me that he knew the wedding was but two days away. He acknowledged that I’d had a bridal shower; the cake and flowers were set for delivery, and my dress had been picked up. However, he wanted me to know that if I wanted, if I felt it wasn’t the right thing to do, it would be ok to change my mind and not go through with it. He was acknowledging what I knew in my heart – this was not the right man for me. But years of silence and lack of real connection and trust conspired to keep me vigilant and defensive and I was simply unable to take in his words, let alone allow them to affect me. I assured him that getting married was exactly what I wanted to do. He looked at me dubiously, but said, "okay", and took his leave. The end. Almost.

* * * * *

In early January 2004, his doctor gave him 3 weeks to 3 months to live. He had cancer of the esophagus. He wasn’t ready to die. There was still so much he wanted to do, including winning a fortune on the horses. He wanted to teach me his carefully devised system of handicapping so it wouldn’t die with him. He ran out of time. I was with him most of the last 48 hours of his life. He was weak and in pain. My sister and I dripped morphine down his throat throughout his last night and whispered in his ear what a wonderful dad he’d been while his wife slept upstairs, exhausted from long nights of his restless activity. Morning came. He’d been quiet for a few hours so when his wife awakened, I went home to my mom’s to shower and get some breakfast. As I left, my dad aroused, opened his eyes, and waved goodbye to me. An hour later, his wife called to tell us he’d taken his last breath. I watched the funeral director and his son put my father in a body bag and take him away, feeling nothing. My sister and I planned the funeral service.  We made photo collages, wrote the ceremony and presided over the event, with dad’s favorite ragtime music playing in the background. He would have approved of his send-off.

* * * * *

I remember his death seven years later and feel nothing. But the 50+ year old loss? Ever present.

Valentines and Taming Tigers

I’m not really a fan of Valentine’s Day – never have been. Possibly it’s a case of sour grapes because I’ve never really been anybody’s valentine, except maybe once. It’s a holiday that has evolved to focus on “stuff” and equates love with roses or diamonds or candy. I can’t count the number of times in my practice that I sat with clients who were angry over what they considered to be their partner’s inadequate attempts at buying their love on Valentine’s Day, and tried to be non-judgmental and accepting of their feelings. The expectations tied up with this day, frankly, I find obscene.  

The other reason I eschew Valentine’s Day is all the darned sugar. Chocolate and more chocolate. Little hard sugar hearts with Be Mine and other endearments stamped on them. Red and pink M&M’s. Red and pink marshmallow hearts from the people who bring us Peeps at Easter.  Beautifully decorated valentine themed cupcakes at three bakeries I pass twice daily in Grand Central Terminal. This holiday represents another sugar gauntlet.  

  

My first memory of Valentine’s Day is from the first grade when my mom baked her highly addictive sour cream sugar cookies for my class. She frosted them in pink and neatly wrote each child’s name in white frosting on their own cookie. They were beautiful and I was very proud to deliver each one to the proper child when we had our party in the classroom. Back in those days, we exchanged valentines with each other, but the rule was that everybody had to receive a valentine. The teacher would send home a list of every child’s name in the class and whether or not you were friends with everyone, there was no exclusion allowed. I remember very carefully picking out valentines for my classmates from the box my mother bought for me, being sure to save the pretty ballerina card for Christine, who I thought was the prettiest girl in my class. And I secretly hoped that of all the valentines I would receive that day, one of them would be a ballerina. There was always one in every box of store bought valentines.     

Every year it was the same. I crossed my fingers and prayed that I would be the recipient of the ballerina card – or the princess card – or whatever card featured some character who was ultra-feminine and pretty. Somehow in my mind if that card was bestowed on me, it meant that the giver thought that I was ultra-feminine and pretty. I didn’t feel that way inside but looked for any external “evidence” I could get.

My second solid memory of Valentine’s Day was in 8^th grade when I sat at a card table set up in our dining room, listening to the Four Seasons sing Working My Way Back to You on the radio while I made valentines from red and pink construction paper, paper doilies, glitter, and stickers for my four best girl friends. There were no boys in the equation – well, except for Judy and her boy-next-door, but that didn’t quite count. He went to a different school so during our 8 - 3 school day, we could pretend he didn’t exist and Judy just belonged to us.  

In the 9^th grade, we had Mr. Greiner for social studies – global studies I think it was called. Mr. Greiner was a very tall and solid man and he was an avid sports fan. The first week of school, he gave us a current events pop quiz, as he was apt to do, and one of the questions was to name a professional basketball team. My answer? The Harlem Globetrotters. I mean, really, what did I know about basketball (or any sport, for that matter)!!! I’m sure he either laughed himself silly or just pegged me for a loser.

Mr. Greiner’s other chief characteristic was that he was mean. Physically mean.  He had a reputation for banging boys up and down the hallway against lockers. Bad boys, boys who mouthed off, or made him mad in some way.  It would happen and word about who was the latest victim passed through the halls like wild fire. Back then, teachers got away with that kind of behavior.  Even though I wasn’t a boy, and didn’t mouth off, I still feared Mr. Greiner. The sound of his booming voice made my heart do triple-flips and my knees need to sit.

What does this have to do with Valentine’s Day? Well, somehow, I think from our gym teacher who we believed was having a romance with him, my girlfriends and I found out that Mr. Greiner’s birthday was Valentine’s Day. By February, we had learned that one way to get on his good side was to produce obsessively neat and detailed maps of the countries we were studying. He would give the class a list of all the elements of a country that were to be included – rivers, lakes, mountains, anything of geological/geographical import – and order us to produce maps to scale. There seemed to be a direct correlation between the amount of time spent working on the maps in our local library and the magnitude of his grudging approval of our efforts as he handed them back in class.  We decided, my girlfriends and I, that we could further cement his approval (and perhaps a guarantee to never be the victims of the locker-bounce) by acknowledging his birthday. So on February 13 after school, we gathered in my mom’s kitchen and baked a heart-shaped birthday cake, which we frosted and decorated for Mr. Greiner, and took to school the next morning.

It was a successful undertaking. We studied his reaction carefully as we surprised him with the cake. We’d rarely seen Mr. Greiner smile, unless it was sadistically, and certainly had never heard him speak in anything but a booming and intimidating voice. But that day, he glowed a bit red from embarrassment, smiled broadly, and actually bowed to us as he said simply, “Thank you.” 

The tiger was tamed. An aggressor on your side is better than an aggressor on the opposite side.

Sugar: When a Little Isn't Enough

Within a few days, my last post, Cranky & Irritable, soared to being the #1 most read blog entry since I started writing in August. Besides the public comments, I received lots of private emails from people who are feeling the same way for a variety of reasons and a few phone calls from concerned and loving friends. Occasionally, many stressors come together in life to create an untenable situation and that just happens to be the situation for me right now.  I am resilient, and there are supporters in my corner, in all my corners, actually. The things that are causing me angst are solvable, and looked at another way, provide me with writing fodder for the future.

My funny best friend, who is feeling about as crummy as I said, “I would suggest shopping as an antidote, but that's off the list. Okay, how about a night at the casino? No? Well, then - a cookie? No you say? Well, I'm all out of ‘things to do to make me feel better.’”  She then decided I am vice-less.

Some writers suggested that craving sugar means my body needs something and that it should be listened to. In one sense, they are correct. When humans are stressed, our bodies crave carbohydrates. That’s because stress breaks down serotonin, the neurotransmitter in our brains that regulates sleep and calms nerves, among other things. Carbohydrates, of which sugar is one, trigger the body to release insulin, which in turn provokes the brain to produce more serotonin. Many anti-depressants target serotonin production.

In addition, human beings are born liking sweet. It’s one of the only foods (I use that term loosely) for which we do not have to acquire a taste, as we do with salt and bitter. One theory behind that has to do with keeping early humans alive – sweet yearnings drove us to eat fruit, which our bodies needed for optimal nutrition.¹ There are other theories as well – you can google them if you are interested.

However, it is also the case that most of us in western societies are truly addicted to refined white sugar.  Most of us just aren't aware of it. It is in almost everything we eat, in varying amounts (mostly large), in one form or another (I learned there are over 50 forms of sugar.)  Most of us eat enough of it to keep the addiction fueled, or if we start to feel irritable, we solve the problem with a little more. It starts with breakfast.  I know how much sugar I put in MY coffee to make it palatable. There is sugar in my Kashi Heart to Heart cereal. There is sugar in the soup I eat at lunch, and in the yogurt I believe is good for me. It is, after all, low fat. It’s in the ‘reduced fat’ dressing I use, albeit sparingly, on my salad at night and in the dried cranberries I sprinkle, also sparingly on that salad.

Refined sugar is an addictive substance. In separate studies conducted with rats, Lenoir, Serre, Cantin, and Ahmed, S.H. (2007) ² and Avena, Rada, and Hoebel (2008) ³ found that once conditioned to ingesting sugar, the rats in Lenoir et al.’s study preferred sugar to cocaine, and in both studies, rats exhibited signs of withdrawal, similar to opiate withdrawal, when sugar was withheld.  Sugar is refined from sugar cane, and in the refining process, anything of nutritional value is removed. We do not need sugar except to feed an addiction to it.

Like many ‘good’ girls who think we are in control, I blame myself for this addiction. If I hadn’t been so skinny all my life that it didn’t seem to matter what I put in my mouth. If I hadn’t walked to the corner market with my girlfriend every day after school in 10^th grade to stock up on Hostess cherry pies, fudgesicles, and fireballs to eat while watching Dark Shadows. If I hadn’t fallen in love with the taste of Hawaiian punch at 11 and drank it like water.  If only mom’s cookies hadn’t been so irresistibly yummy. If I didn’t think of ice cream as a major food group, supporting the rest of the food pyramid. If if if…. It’s all my fault on some days.   

One of the reasons I can't take the "give your body what it craves" advice is the issue of moderation. If I could feed my soul with one of something, it might be workable. However, I’ve learned that one (or a little) is simply insufficient. Last week at an event at work, for which there were boxed lunches, I studied the black and white cookie, wrapped in cellophane in my box. For the non-NY-ers, black and white cookies (featured in the photo at the top), are gigantic, about five inches in diameter. They are also thick and are a staple of every NYC deli and bakery. Truthfully, I don’t really like them all that much – they would not make it to my Top 10 craved desserts by a long-shot. But, if in a moment of satisfying a sweet craving, I take one bite, I will consume the whole thing. There is no saving the other half for later. It’s more like w-t-f, I might as well eat it and get it out of the way.  In the moment of studying that cookie, looking soft and delicious in its cellophane, I seriously considered tearing open the wrapping with the defense, “It was in my lunch” as if that would remove any personal responsibility.  However, I also seriously considered that this was one of those moments that I could do the normal and customary OR I could try something different. I decided to try something different, hard as it might be. I gave the cookie away.

At the end of the week, there was another event for which lunch was served. I had already consumed my soup and yogurt by the time I realized that a lunch table had been set up outside the classroom where the event took place. As I walked by, I noted that there was a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies and brownies. I know those cookies well. There have been times that I have eaten four of them consecutively. My fingers itched and my mouth watered at the thought. I walked faster. I made it down the hall, where I sought refuge in the office of an in-the-same-boat colleague and friend. “I walked by those cookies in the hall and didn’t take one,” I reported. He looked at me guiltily, his eyes telling me the truth before his mouth did.

Ultimately, I (and others) may ‘need’ sugar because we’re so stressed and sleep deprived, and thus need the rush of serotonin that will be produced by consuming as much as possible/available. But solving those problems by ingesting sugar, I’ve decided, is not the way I want to go. I want to be kinder to my teeth and my pancreas. And for the rest of the things causing temporary angst, I will get farther opening my mouth for talking about them only.

¹ Contento, I.O. (2011). Nutrition education: Linking theory, research and practice. Studbury, MA: Jones and Bartlet Publishing.

² Lenoir, M., Serre, F., Cantin, L. & Ahmed, S.H. (2007). Intense Sweetness Surpasses Cocaine Reward. PLoS ONE 2(8): e698. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0000698

³ Avena. N.M., Rada, P., & Hoebel B.G. (2008). Evidence for sugar addiction: Behavioral and neurochemical effects of intermittent, excessive sugar intake. Neuroscience Biobehavioral Review, 32, 20-39.

Cranky & Irritable

I’m cranky and I’m irritable. There are no better words to describe me at this moment…. Those who are around me on a daily basis will concur that it is, in fact, not just this moment, but lately almost every moment. To them I apologize for my poor behavior, or more to the point, my sharp tongue and my impatience. I am truly trying to control myself but I am slip-sliding.

I’m not 100% sure why this is my state. But…..

I’ve been deeply, unshakably sad for months because someone I wanted to be in my life does not want me in theirs. The post-mortems of every last one of our communications have been endless as I’ve struggled to figure out exactly where I went wrong in misreading signals and misunderstanding intentions. Some of the attraction is the residue of a childhood yearning to be loved and valued by a narcissistic parent. There is also an element of identifying with the aggressor. More than once, I have become emotionally involved with someone who really frightens me with their potential for ferocity. If I can get the one who bites on my side, then perhaps I will not be bitten. But toxic once is toxic always.  

Sugar has been a challenge. I wrote a few weeks ago about an intention to cut down, to detox myself from that sweet drug. I admit that it’s been very, very difficult. I have managed to limit my consumption of ice cream to two teaspoons at a time, no more than once a day. I pay attention to it when I eat it. And I put the carton away without too much longing. When the freezer stock of ice cream is gone, I won’t buy any more.

Except for one birthday celebration, I have avoided sugary treats at work. But every day is a battle. I get to Grand Central Terminal in the evening and have a few minutes before my train. My attention strays to the Snickers, Milky Way, Almond Joy, and Peanut M&Ms displayed in Hudson News. I pass at least three bakeries in the terminal. Cannolis, my favorite fruit tarts, cupcakes decorated like art, cheesecake, black and white cookies – they entice me to come closer. I tell myself I don’t really want them, and then I admit I’m lying. I desperately want them. I imagine they will make me feel better, soothe whatever is hurting. I can also imagine some people saying, “Oh go ahead, stop depriving yourself, life is short.” And I understand their point. But they don’t understand mine. If I give into the craving, I take steps backwards. I will just have to start over and I need to keep going, to push through this. I need to get past the point, if it exists, of thinking, believing that I will feel better if I just consume some sugar-laden delicacy. Sugar is a short-term “fix.”

Winter is the anniversary of the deaths of both of my parents. My mom died five years ago in early January; my father seven years ago in mid-February. My mom was thirty years old when I was born. When she was alive, I always considered that thirty-year difference as a kind of insurance policy. Whatever age I was, I still had thirty years before I would be her age. But now she’s gone, the policy is no longer in effect.  I wonder whether I even have another 30 years. I’m not afraid to die, unless it’s violently. It’s just that there’s so much I still want to do, I find myself feeling panicked that I’ll run out of time.

I awaken in the morning and although I used to look forward to eating breakfast and having that first cup of coffee, all I want to do is turn over and bury myself in the blankets. I used to love my work. But the cumulative effects of too many and unrelenting demands over too long a period of time in an increasingly no-win situation, too few staff (the ones I do have are FABULOUS), no positive reinforcement and little awareness of what actually happens in “a day in the life” from most have taken their toll on my body and my spirit. Someone had the audacity to say maybe I could “use” people more creatively to do the work of my department. My tongue bled though my real desire was to draw blood. I could do that creatively.  

My best friend and I talk about the earliest possible time we can retire, question whether we could retire now and survive financially (probably not), and wonder if we have sufficient emotional stamina to make it until such time as we can. She is feeling about the same as I am these days.

My “heart mother” tells me about a place in Vermont that attracts artists and craftspeople. My daughter sends me a position announcement for a job in upstate New York that she thinks would be perfect for me. [Can’t we find some place where it’s not so darned cold for half the year?] I go on realtor.com and check out the cost of real estate in warmer places. I wonder whether there is a place where the cost of living is less than where I live but where there’s enough happening to keep my interest and my neighbors don’t all hold political and social views that are polar opposites of mine. I consider and reject various parts of the country for that reason, the terrain or the weather. I’m not afraid of uprooting myself, of going where I know no one. I’ve done that before. But I also know better than to believe in the geographical cure. And as if to caution me, there is an article on line this morning about moving where taxes are lower. The comments to the article are vehement in pointing out what citizens give up in services to get lower taxes. Sadly, there is no easy solution. 

Still something needs to change, whether it's circumstances or something inside me. A friend from my co-op, now happily retired, and I used to walk together in nice weather and talk about our upcoming “dreads” for each week. Once the “dreads” were isolated events…. Now they are full days.

I’ll figure it out. I’m pretty resourceful. I’ll stop the wheels from spinning before the tires blow out. I must.

Perfection is Highly Overrated

When I was five, my mother sent me to ballet class. She had always wanted to take dance lessons as a child, but for whatever reason – money – availability – I don’t know – she never did. Consequently, she was determined that I would dance. My teacher, Miss Haeusler was a former prima ballerina who had fled Hungary during World War II and for reasons I’ve forgotten landed in my small town and set up a dance school. It was located on the second floor over Newberry’s Five and Dime on Main Street. The entrance was through a nondescript, heavy door sandwiched between Newberry’s and Grant’s Department Store. You walked up the narrow staircase, down a long and narrow hallway, into a small waiting room. There were a few chairs and a low divan along with a desk where my teacher checked off attendance and accepted payments. A small dressing room with a curtained doorway opened off the waiting room to the right, and the studio was straight ahead, separated from the waiting area by a sturdy room divider. The studio had floor to ceiling mirrors on both sides of the room. Two barres were attached to each of the mirrored walls, one slightly lower than the other for shorter students. A window, too high to see out, was on the back wall, and just inside the studio, in front of the room divider, was the record player and a stool upon which Miss Haeusler perched when she wasn’t patrolling the dance floor.  The floors were gray and hard – not wood like the studios of my later dance years. Sealed cement perhaps….. 

I hated Miss Haeusler mostly because I was deathly afraid of her. I was little and shy; she was a formidable presence with a heavy accent that made her English hard for me to understand. She rarely spoke kindly to us – she barked instead, orders to do this, do that, do it better! She had a stick that she banged relentlessly on the floor in time with the music when she determined that we weren’t following it closely enough. She also banged her stick on the barre in anger when our form was not perfect or our little bodies did not yet contort in the ways that ballerina’s bodies tend to do. There were even times that her stick danced threateningly around our legs as she used it as an extension of her arms to shove our tiny feet into proper position. My goal in ballet class was to keep Miss Haeusler’s stick far, far away from my legs and to make my body move just as perfectly as possible to ensure mission accomplished.

When Tuesday late afternoon rolled around and it was time for ballet class, the tug of war with my mother began. I desperately did not want to go, and she just didn’t understand why I hated it so much. Mothers, for it was always the mothers who brought their daughters to class, were not allowed to stay and watch the class. Nor were they allowed to sit in the waiting room, listening. And for some reason, I wasn’t talking. Unable to verbalize I was afraid of Miss Haeusler and her big stick, I simply put my energies into resisting going to class. I was always relieved when sickness rendered me too ill to climb those stairs for an hour with that stick-thumping dictator.

I made it through the year of dance class, and performed in the recital. I still have the pink cotton costume my mother embellished with pink net ribbons at Ms. Haeusler’s request. I remember being on stage unafraid of the audience, as some of my classmates were.  I remembered all the steps to our “Music Box” dance and didn’t have to rely on my teacher’s cues at the foot of the stage. And afterwards my grandfather gave me a shiny fifty-cent piece as a reward. 

Like a recurring nightmare, ballet class started again in September. This time there was a new obstacle. Now our barre exercises required us to (gracefully) hoist our tiny legs up on that barre in a stretch that hurt-hurt-hurt. Once we got them up there, then the nasty business began of standing just so, pointing our toes just so, and – oh my goodness – sliding our hoisted leg even farther along the barre while bending (gracefully) forward, back straight and head moving (gracefully) downward toward the knee of our outstretched leg. Get the picture? Ouch, ouch ouch ouch ouch! And there was always the threat of that stick. Now I had a more compelling reason to hate dance class. I cried every week when it was time to don my black leotard and tights and carry my black ballet slippers out the door to the car and head toward what I considered the torture chamber.  I may have finally told her about the stick and how much my leg hurt stretched out on that barre because by Christmas time, my mother finally gave up the battle and withdrew me from the classes.

The following September, a new dance teacher, Miss Joy, came to town and opened a dance school in the basement of the Episcopal Church. My mother enrolled my sister and me in tap and ballet classes, and dance was transformed from something to be endured to an activity about which I was passionate. Miss Joy was aptly named. Together she and her congenial pianist, Miss Winnie, made dancing fun. No more barre. No more stick. No more fear.  

My love affair with dance has continued throughout my life, with multiple returns to the ballet studio and classes over the years. Two weeks ago, I started taking a zumba class. Zumba is kind of like aerobics was back in the eighties but with a distinctly Latin flavor. I have toyed with the idea of taking this class for over a year. Initially, I chickened out after watching a video of a zumba class on line and promptly determined that I would not be able to do that. Still, the need for exercise and the challenge attached to trying something new kept my mind revisiting zumba as an option. And in a moment of madness last fall, I enrolled in a class that was scheduled to commence in early January.  

The first night was exhausting. About ten of us – all middle aged white women of varied shapes and sizes – gathered in a mirrored fitness studio in the town adjacent to mine – all looking very nervous and eyeing each other uneasily. Our teacher, a tall, thin Latina woman in sweats, hair in a ponytail and a baseball cap on her head, announced that we were going to have lots of fun. For the next hour, we hardly stopped moving and the teacher never stopped calling directions and cheerleading our efforts. Grateful for my years of dance classes, my feet were somehow able to follow her steps without too much trouble and keep up, more or less. Arms? Forget it. If my arms did what they were supposed to do, my feet lost track of what they were supposed to do. Never mind about the hips. I decided that for the evening anyway, I would not sweat the arm or the hip movement.   

The second night, we had a different teacher. This one was shorter and a little fuller figured than our first teacher. She was also Latina, with very long hair tied back in a ponytail – no hat. And she declared as well how much fun we were going to have. Her method was a little less structured than the first teacher’s and she didn’t keep up a running commentary.  Whenever I thought I had the routine down enough to consider adding my arms to the mix, she would suddenly point both fingers toward her eyes, signaling to our reflections in the mirror to watch carefully because she was about to change things up. Her face looked practically blissful as she moved her body – all of it –in perfect rhythm to the music – easily and beautifully. Her midriff, from neck to hips was like – I don’t know – jello – I was mesmerized by the fluidity and grace with which she moved. I tried to deconstruct what she did. When this part of her is moving in that direction, what is the rest of her doing? I could not figure it out. During each short break, as I ran for my water, I couldn’t help laughing at myself and how ridiculous I thought I looked in the mirror as I attempted to emulate, unsuccessfully, her movements. Compared to her, my midriff looked like it was welded into one solid and rigid piece.

As the class ended, I said to one of my classmates, “I've gotta work on that hip movement. I can’t figure out how she does that.” My classmate laughed, “I was thinking the same thing. I was trying to decide what parts actually were moving, and I couldn’t.” “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’m inherently deficient.” She laughed again, and agreed we all might be genetically flawed.

As I left the studio, I ran into the teacher. “Thanks for the class,” I said to her. "It was fun." I paused, then said, “You must go home and laugh like crazy at our efforts.”  She just smiled at me and chuckled.  I headed toward my car and suddenly, Miss Haeusler jete’d  into my brain. She would be rolling over in her grave at my loose hips efforts. I shook her memory away.

No stick. No pressure. No perfect. Just fun.  

I Hope You Have One Just Like You!

My daughter lent me her copy of the book, Food Rules (Michael Pollan, 2009, Penguin Books) to peruse. It’s easy reading, in fact, I started and finished it during my 45 minute commute one evening. I felt exonerated when I read this book because it provided some evidence that I had the right idea about food as a kid. Here’s a sample from the book:

• If it came from a plant, eat it. If it was made in a plant, don’t.
• Buy your snacks at the farmer’s market.
• Eat mostly plants.

Given my choice as a child, my daily menu would have been:

• Raw carrots & celery, cucumbers, radishes
• Cooked carrots, corn, green or yellow beans
• Fruit – all fruit – any fruit, though berries preferred
• Nuts, self-extracted from the shell

Add to that my grandmother’s homemade plump noodle soup (my name for her wide-noodle chicken soup), my mother’s cookies, and popsicles, and I was in safe food territory. 

And here’s a partial list of what I would not put in my mouth:

• Anything made wet by the addition of another substance, i.e. milk on cereal, syrup on pancakes, gravy on meat
• Anything slippery, i.e. butter or mayo on bread 
• Anything mushy, i.e. oatmeal, beans other than green or yellow
• Anything with fat stuck to it, i.e. most meats, especially ham (which could also qualify as slippery)
• Anything gross-smelling, i.e. tuna fish

 I hope you are laughing by now because I am, although I still refuse to eat tuna fish. I acknowledge that my food preferences and phobias (for lack of a better term) drove my fairly tolerant mother nutty. I grew up hearing, “I hope you have one just like you,” slip regularly from her exasperated mouth, mostly in reference to what I would and wouldn’t put in mine. She didn’t mean it kindly. She meant that I should get back from my future progeny what I gave out to her.

Here’s a glimpse….

I am 6 years old and in the first grade. I take bus # 17 to school. Smoky is the driver – he’s nice and friendly. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Bateman and I don’t like her at all – she is mean. Every day I wish I had the other first grade teacher, Mrs. Penna, who is pretty and nice, from what I can tell.

Today is Tuesday and I am standing in the front entry way of my house, right in front of the steps leading to our scary upstairs. The front door is open because I am waiting for the bus which should be here any minute. I look at the little brown table next to the door for my red plaid lunch box but it is not there. My heart starts to beat louder and faster and my tummy does a somersault. I need my lunch box.

“Mommy,” I call to my mother. “Where’s my lunch?” My mother appears in the doorway to the kitchen and tells me that I will be eating school lunch today. Even though I have on my boots because it is winter, I race through the dining room to the kitchen where the lunch calendar is taped to the wall next to the stove. I know how to read so I can tell what is for school lunch.  I have a good memory too and I don’t remember that there was anything at all this week on the menu that I wanted to eat. I look at the menu. It says

Hamburger chili

American cheese sandwich

Dish of mixed fruit

White milk

“NO!” I wail to my mother. “I can’t eat chili. I hate chili!” My mother tries to reason with me. “But you like cheese sandwiches and fruit,” she says. That does not matter. “She’ll make me eat the chili,” I wail again, “she” being Mrs. Bateman, my mean teacher.

My mother truly can not imagine anyone making me eat anything. She doesn’t know Mrs. Bateman. Last week, Scott, who always buys his lunch, had to eat tomato soup even though he doesn’t like it. I heard him tell Mrs. Ketcham, the cook, that he didn’t want any when she put the bowl on his tray. I wondered if he was going to get away with it. When Mrs. Bateman saw that he didn’t have any soup, she went and got Mrs. Ketcham and told her to bring it back. Mrs. Bateman walks around the room making sure everyone eats everything on their tray and drinks all their milk.  That’s why I keep a close watch on the school lunch menu and mark off the days I want to take my lunch, which is most of them. Sure enough, there is a check mark on today because I will not eat chili. I don’t quite believe my mother has done this to me.

We both turn as we hear Smoky honking the horn outside my house. “I can’t go to school without my lunch!” I cry. My mother hurries me through the dining room into the front hallway. “I’ll bring you your lunch,” she promises. “Don’t miss the bus.” “Do you promise?” I am very close to crying, which is how scared I am at the thought of having to swallow chili. “I promise,” she says. I run out the door and across the front yard where Smoky is waiting patiently for me. But I spend all morning in school worrying that my mother will not keep her promise.

We have our reading group first. I am in the Bluebirds because I’m a good reader. Sometimes I skip ahead and then Mrs. Bateman gets mad because I don’t know where we are when it’s my turn to read. My mother is not here yet. Then we work on telling time which is really easy. I don’t see why we have to keep doing it.  My mother is still not here. Now we do some writing. We are working on the letter N. We have to use thick pencils that are way bigger than what I use at home, and we have to make our letters really big too. Mrs. Bateman always tells me to write slower so my letters touch the top and the bottom of the lines on the green paper. Where is my mother? 

F i n a l l y at 11:30, my mother appears at the door to my classroom. I am so glad to see her but I know better than to jump up from my chair. Mrs. Bateman goes to the door where my mother is holding my beautiful red plaid lunch box. She waves at me before she turns to go. Mrs. Bateman puts my lunch box in the cloak room. I let out my breath and tell my tummy it is okay to stop jumping.

We are now both safe from Mrs. Bateman.*   

* I try not to say anything bad about people who are still alive (notwithstanding, possibly, political figures who deserve it). I assume Mrs. Bateman, who later became Mrs. Maxim, and then Mrs. Jones is now deceased. If she is not, I’m sorry but she was mean. Honest.