The Dance Recital
Today marks the anniversary of arguably the most notorious event of my childhood: the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman.1<—– CLICK ON THESE RED BOXES FOR MY TERRIBLE JOKES
On June 12, 1994, O.J. and Nicole attended their daughter’s dance recital. The family (minus O.J.) then went for a celebratory dinner. Nicole’s mother left her glasses at the restaurant, and a waiter brought them to Nicole’s house. O.J. then showed up and murdered Nicole and the waiter. (allegedly … whatever)
I reference this tragedy for one reason. As a boy who grew up playing sports, without a sister, that is literally the extent of my knowledge about the existence of dance recitals for the first 40 years of my life. Until last year, anytime I heard the term “dance recital”, the image I pictured was O.J. Simpson sitting in a dark auditorium in California.
So when my daughter, Liz, started dance lessons, and my wife, Lauren, told me there would be a dance recital at the end of the year, the ominous music began playing in the back of my head.
It was actually last September when Lauren told me she had signed up Liz for classes. It seemed like a logical move. A young girl taking dance, ballet and gymnastics was pretty much how things went along gender lines when I was growing up.2
So I attended the first class on a Saturday with Lauren and Matt. Matt is only three and is too young for organized classes, so he mostly ran around, and when he tired out we distracted him with endless snacks and videos like any terrible parent does.
The first day for the youngest dance students is always interesting, a social experiment in parenting skills. The parents drop the kid off and leave her inside the class. Minutes after the parents leave her in the room for the first time, without exception, the kid completely loses her mind. Some parents have the discipline to wait it out. When they do, after a few minutes of wailing, the kid loses steam. The teacher distracts her at some point. Invariably, like a light switch, she realizes the parents are not coming back until the end of class, and she begins to engage.
It makes sense. Hanging out with your parents isn’t really that much fun. It’s safe, and when you don’t know any different, it’s preferable. Ultimately though, when they realize there are other fun things out there, they drop us and don’t look back.
The parents who run in and save their daughters from crying… it turns into a disaster that carries over into subsequent classes. Of course, I root for such behavior, so I can be entertained and also feel like I am a superior parent to them.
Every Saturday through the winter months, we went as a family to watch Liz dance for an hour. It’s mostly an organized mess. The kids try to follow the teacher’s moves, and when that fails they put them in two lines and try to teach them that way. There’s a few teacher helpers – older kids – who give those with the most trouble special attention; although every parent thinks their child is being ignored.
Around March, Liz began to tell us excitedly about a routine they were practicing for. “Is this the dance recital, Lauren?” Okay, stop thinking about O.J., Brett.
The teacher picks a song; in this case, a song from Moana I’ve heard so many times, I want to gouge my eyes out every time I hear it. They then work on an actual choreographed routine that you’re sure your child will have no chance of following, and mostly are correct for the months of March, April and May.
“Brett, I need a check?”
“For what?”
“Liz’s recital costume.”
“Why does the costume cost more than the gross domestic product of Denmark?”
And so May came and I took a home equity loan to pay for the costume, and Liz began talking more and more about her recital. Tickets went on sale; all grandparents, and great-grandmas (the great-grandpas never live long enough to make it to the recital) reserved their seats, and we counted the days until the big performance, Saturday, June 9th. Well, at least it’s not the same day as O.J.
Okay, so let’s start with the bad:
- You sit in an auditorium on a hot June day for three hours while 60 three minutes routines go with no break. The organizers aren’t dumb and know if there were breaks, people would leave after their own kid’s performance.
- It is a flower genocide – endless bouquets of flowers are brought as dance recital gifts and sit in the hot auditorium slowly dying.
The good:
- They alternate the older kids with the younger kids, so genuinely decent performances take place in between the little kids’ routines.
- The two grandpas, although they predictably fell asleep, did not snore loudly enough to embarrass us.
Under the bright lights, wearing her costume and a ton of makeup (which immediately made me picture JonBenet Ramsey) … 3
Let me start that sentence again: Under the bright lights of a giant stage that made her look the size of an ant, wearing her costume and a ton of makeup, I watched my little girl concentrate so hard for three minutes. It was the first time I was able to see this person I created, perform real art for others.4
Was it perfect? No. Would an outsider think it sucked? Probably. But after watching how much they put into it, how much she cared, how beautiful she looked, it made the whole long, humid day worth it. I honestly don’t think I have ever loved a human being more than I loved Liz during those three minutes. My tear ducts even made an appearance after a long vacation that medication gave them without my permission.
Still in desperate need of a vacation: The part of my brain that fixates on homicidal maniacs.
Brett’s memoir, WHAT COULD GO WRONG? – My Mostly Comedic Journey through Marriage, Parenting and Depression, will be published later this year.
IF YOU LIKED THIS BLOG, PLEASE HIT THE SHARE BUTTONS BELOW (If you didn’t like it, hit them anyway. I’ll get you free tickets to next year’s dance recital.)
