Womanhood initiation: dancing in a tutu
After learning how to walk most children learn how to dance. It might begin with a small waggle of the behind, with or without music, and gradually evolve to twirls, arm movement, and perhaps a partner—a friendly stuffed animal of course. Dancing takes time and practice to completely coordinate the movements of the different body parts. When the legs are moving, the arms might have to move as well, and not to mention every now and then a twirl or double twirl in between the crisscrossing of the arms and legs takes place. Dancing is even more complex when music is involved. The feet have to touch the floor at a certain beat of the music in a particular rhythm. Then there are different types of dancing such as jazz, tap, and ballet.
When I was a little girl I begged my mom to get me ballet slippers, a tutu and sign me up for lessons. At my first group lesson, proudly wearing my very feminine pink and sparkly tutu, I learned first, second, and third position. The following week the group learned how to pilé and curtsy with perfect poise. Soon the weekly ballet lessons came to an end. My mother curled my bangs and allowed me to wear a hint of blush on my cheeks for my ballet recital. I put on my light pink tights, my pink tutu with the silver sparkles around the edge, and my satin ballet slippers. The teacher, Denise played the song Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky for the recital. I curtsied as fancy as I could and piléd with perfect grace. My arms and legs moved in perfect rhythm through the air from position one to position two. The recital ended and pictures were taken. In time, my ballet slippers and tutu became members of the dress up box—not forgotten, but occasionally pulled and admired in remembrance of my time spent as a ballerina.
Legos: just dump the bucket
A few years after the tutu and ballet slippers were put away I discovered legos. Scenes from The Bird and the Bee’s music video from their song La La La remind me of the legos from my childhood. The legos I had as a kid came in a plastic tote with a lid that looks like a giant lego, as well as a handle that curves over the top for easy transportation. The bucket contained various sizes and shapes of legos depending on the number of connecting circular knobs on the top of the small pieces of plastic. Some had four by two knobs, the big ones had eight by two, and others were only one knob thick and several knobs long. The legos also varied in color: blue, red, white, yellow, and sometimes green or silver, depending on the special feature of the lego bucket.
Almost anything could be made out of legos—at least a shape that resembled the object. (Since the legos only came in squares and rectangles, it was difficult to create anything spherical in shape.) The easiest thing to build out of legos of course was a block, a house, or some kind of boxy car. The tote usually came with a special step by step instruction booklet to build a car or some other pre-designed figure. When my brother and I played with legos, we made our own lego creations. We dumped the lego bucket and spread out all of the pieces, occasionally fighting over the special green or silver pieces, but eventually coming to a compromise. We created our own army of specially designed airplanes and jets, with detachable wheels and wings, laser guns, and even force fields and battle. An entire afternoon was spent designing lego jets, cars, or villages. When it was time to clean up, the best designed lego figures stayed assembled and placed carefully back into the lego tote, while the other pieces were hastily gathered and tossed in until the next time.
Boy bands: we all want it that way
In middle school, when I was too cool to play with legos, I had a passionate interest in boy bands—especially the Backstreet Boys. Kevin, Nick, Joey, Howie, and AJ were all the rave of the late 1990’s. They were the best looking boys on the planet and were talented too. They sang what any awkward, love seeking, junior high girl wanted to hear. The songs typically consist of stories involving emotions entering or ending relationships conveyed through romantic and rhyming lyrics with a catchy beat. In the song I Want It That Way, from the Millennium album it begins with the lines: “You are my fire, the one desire…” lines any preteen would die to hear from an admirer.
The Backstreet boys were on posters, t-shirts, notebooks, and even pencils. In junior high Kayla, a fellow classmate and a good friend, drove down to Florida with her family over spring break, saw the Backstreet Boys in concert, and came back with an autographed t-shirt. The following weekend I was invited to her sleepover. The other girls and I stared in awe at the autographed t-shirt. We gathered around it like a sacred relic knowing that only a week ago each one of the Backstreet Boys touched the shirt and signed it. The handsome and smiling faces of Kevin, Nick, Joey, Howie, and AJ were lined up across the chest of the white t-shirt. Below each backstreet boy head was the appropriate loopy and hustled signature in a black sharpie. Kevin’s was the only signature that was legible, as well as AJ’s, and the rest were too scribbled. Nonetheless, the shirt was already framed and the glass covering the shirt became foggy as my friends and I breathed over the boy band holy relic. Kayla protectively put back on the wall at the head of her boy band temple in her room. The rest of the night we talked about which Backstreet boy we would marry and planned our gaudy and fanciful weddings. Today, as a college student and an almost twenty year old, I still on occasion play a Backstreet Boy song, dance, sing along, and reminisce about my middle school days spent as an advocate for boy bands.
Violin: finding my musical niche and hating the practice
After listening to the Backstreet Boys endlessly—to the point where every song was memorized as well as the musical bridges, I decided to make my own music. I took interest in the violin. Hunting around the house, and finally, in the front hall storage closet, behind the snow boots and dusty jackets, I found a beat up violin case. The case was black, its hard textured surface was dry and cracked and the handle was beginning to fray at the edges. It smelled of must and rosin. The metal clasps were a little sticky from years of nonuse, but opened with ease. The violin rested simply in the case: elegant and graceful. The yellow brown color of the wood was striking against the green interior of the case. I traced my forefinger around the curves of the scroll, down the smooth ebony fingerboard and down the tail piece. New strings were needed as well as a new bridge for the instrument to be playable. The chin rest buzzed whenever it was played and had to be tightened weekly and the rosin collected around the base of the bridge and had to be cleaned. I lifted the it out of the case. The violin was three-fourths in size—a perfect fit for the length of my ten year old arms and once a perfect fit for my mother who played as a child.
Eventually my ten year old arms turned into sixteen year old arms and a new violin was needed. I felt sorry for the old violin. It was like giving away a favorite childhood toy—rich in memories and exhausted with play. I learned how to play the Twinkles, Minuet Three, and Ashokan Farewell by Jay Ungar on the small violin. It endured hours of fitful practicing and an attempt at vibrato. The metal clasps snapped open with ease the last time I put the violin into its beat up resting place and said farewell to my friend.
Independence: not a price, just a plastic card
The same year I got the new violin for my sixteen year old arms, I got a driver’s license. The first time I was alone in a car and driving it felt awkward. It was on my way to orchestra. My mother was not sitting beside me telling me to brake, brake, BRAKE!! Nor was my driver’s instructor sitting on the passenger’s side making notes on my driving skills—thankfully I no longer had to listen to his pen scribbling on the clipboard, it had a tendency to intimidate me. A year later I had my license gripped tightly in my hand. The trips to the DMV were exhausting. I ended up failing my drivers test three times before I got my license. All the hours spent behind the wheel listening to my mother yell brake and the pen scribbling finally paid off. There it was: a piece of plastic the size of a credit card, my height, weight, hair color, eye color, and a carefully planned outfit and hairdo for the picture. The purple word Nebraska in Times New Roman font was at the top and endless warnings about being under 21 in red print were just beneath the state logo. There was another warning on the back that said I wear corrective lenses. It was in fine print, ironically, but it kind of bothered me, making me feel as if I was a hazard on the road. This piece of plastic, warnings and all, guaranteed freedom—independence of carpooling and calling mom or dad to come pick me up.
It almost felt surreal. This was a monumental event—it began a new chapter of my life. I got into the car and turned the ignition. At last I was free! Out of habit I gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, used my turn signal at every turn, and did a roll back stop at every stop sign. When gas was cheap I would go out and just drive. Norah Jones’s video Come Away with Me reminds me of my luxurious drives in the back roads of Omaha and my plastic driver’s license sitting in the passenger seat.
Lunchroom sing-a-long: back here baby
I liked driving myself to school every morning. I never had to wait for my mom to finish putting on her makeup, blow drying her hair, or nagging me about the chores I had to do when I got home. It only took about twelve minutes to get from my house to Marian, a catholic all girls high school. Marian was my second family. In the spring Mr. Zach, the dad of our class president, Clair, would plant tulips, zinnias, daffodils, and snap dragons. In the winter the small trees and bushes would have lights and ordainments in the school colors: blue and white. Every other Thursday was a themed Marian Mom’s salad lunch with baked goods (special k bars, puppy chow, and better than sex cake) for only twenty-five cents. During Halloween all the moms dressed up in costumes and at Easter there was a giant bunny that gave away candy. The hallways were always decorated with the most recent artwork as well as the trophies for state cross country, swimming, bowling, and golf champions. Prayers, hail Maries, and the pledge of allegiance were said every morning before the announcements of Harry Potter club, knitting club, and chemistry club meeting times. All the girls were nice to each other: helping with Calculus homework, tucking in shirts when teachers had stacks of point slips, or sharing cookies at lunch.
Some of my best Marian memories involved lunch time. The seniors at Marina get to eat in the quad—an open space away from the underclassmen. There was a ghetto blaster on top of the microwave that played CDs and we would listen to music or the radio while we ate lunch. I brought a CD to listen to at lunch. The songs on the CD NOW 5 were hits of the mid to late 1990’s and were easy sing-a-long at lunch tunes. When I popped in the CD I had no idea that I was going to make a life long Marian memory. The song Back Here by BBMak came on. My friends and I, and pretty much the rest of the entire senior class, went nuts. Every girl that knew the words (or didn’t) sang along, and towards the end of the song were up and dancing—hands in the air, uniform skirts twirling, and lots of interpretive dancing. Since it was out senior year the song was rather sentimental: “Until you’re back here baby, miss you, want you, need you so, there’s a feeling inside I want you to know, you are the one, and I can’t let you go…”. The song was adopted as the class song and every time I listen to Back Here I can’t help but think of my second family.
Art: I’ve never been able to color in the lines…
After spending several long hours in the art room at Marian I discovered my love of art. It was difficult finding the medium I was best at. Drawing was not my favorite because I had a difficult time with proportions and coloring exactly in the lines. Regina’s video to the song Fidelity (on the album Begin to Hope), reminds me of my search for color—for art. My junior year in advanced art 2, the class started the oil painting project. I had to find a fruit or vegetable and paint it. I ended up choosing a red bell pepper.
The red pepper, slightly tilted to the left, was in a picture with other peppers in the background, almost like it was in a vegetable stand at the grocery store or market. The pepper obviously was red, but at a closer look it was more orangish-reddish in some areas, deep blood red, a hint of yellow here and there, and even the a brown color that hid in the shadows of the pepper. It had reflection spots near the top on the curves rounding off towards the stem in the shape of a lima bean. The stem was green, a little hairy, and had darker green streaks that tapered at the ends.
I fell in love with oil paint the minute I put the paint on the canvas. The smooth red paint went on easy in thick, wide steaks. I soon learned how to mix the paint with turpenoid to make various thicknesses and use a fan brush to blend colors together. I have a mini studio in my room at home comprised of an easel my parents gave me, a shower curtain that acts as a floor cover, glass jars full of assorted brushes with dried paint on them, and my paint tubes—fat and curled at the ends. Whenever I begin a painting, I enjoy watching the paint come out of the tubes, the smell of the turpenoid, and the feeling of the smooth paint, capturing a whimsical thought on canvas.
Relationships: You’ve gotta give a little love
My discovery of art was a newfound love in high school. Now, in college, there are new and different kinds of love: such as best friend love. A best friend love is unique. It requires two personalities that compliment and enhance each other, as well as two souls that can easily read each other’s hearts. A best friend love involves a person that makes you laugh about silly and pointless things, someone you can say anything to (in context or not), and a friend who knows yours and hers strengths and weaknesses. Over time the relationship deepens, growing and maturing.
However, it takes time, effort, and a lot of work to develop a relationship. Rilo Kiley’s song Give a Little Love, says: “you’ve got to give a little love, to get a little love”. Without work or effort, the relationship would be of little value and the individual would an acquaintance rather than a life long best friend. I remember my first few weeks of college when everything was new and awkward. Latching onto people I already knew was easy, and meeting new people proved to be more difficult than I thought. Eventually I met my best friend. Over time we grew together, past the awkward college stage, and into best friends. I had to give love to get some love back. I had to share the last of the wheat thins while we watched Rock of Love 2, drive her to target to pursue the end of the year sales, and not bat an eye when she bought another pair of shoes that were not as cute as the last pair. Despite these sacrifices, and others not mentioned, I have learned to love my best friend and share good memories and times spent together. Not only is she my favorite chum, but a long lost sister and my better half
