Women in the "fifties" were trapped in a small world of strict stereotyped roles that required them to take care of others while being dependent and feeling helpless. There was little possibility to do anything but stay at home and take care of your family. Our society took away women's hopes and dreams and it was not unusual for the women to live the aspects of themselves they were repressing through their children. It was acceptable to give your children a better life than you had had.
My mother, by the time I was born, was in her late thirties and had sunk into a deep depression. I'm certain that society's expectations had collided with her unlived life with such magnitude that having another child was the last straw. She found her escape, though. Every Saturday she would load us kids in the car and drive 50 miles to the nearest city and give us an opportunity to do some of the things she wanted to be doing herself.
I know this is a simple "child-version" explanation of the following story. I recognize my tale is seen through the eyes of a child even now. I suspect my mother's reasons for doing what she did had more complicated underpinnings. All I know is that her actions have never been fully understandable to me and were not tuned into or good for me and my sister.
When I was 4 years old I begged to learn to dance. I don't remember seeing anyone dance, so I have no idea where I got the idea. I have no clue why my mother responded as she did to my demands, which she usually ignored. Before I knew it, I was standing in a dance class with my older sister with little pink leather slippers on my feet. I don't remember any more than that single frame from that class but I can tell you in detail what happened next. And, it went on for a long time. Ask my sister. She will tell you!
Dorothy Thomas was an older woman with big teased dyed black hair. On Saturdays she taught half-hour tap, ballet, modern dance and acrobatic classes, one after the next, to lots of cute little blond girls. She was an astute business woman and her dance classes ran like clockwork. The girls paraded through the basement studio in her house from morning until night.
I couldn't help from comparing myself and remember well the humiliation of not being a petite blond bombshell. My long, thin, athletic legs put my brown ponytail a foot above them. I felt ineffectively protective and bad for my sister, too, because she was older and taller than me. Only Sherri Breathow's brunette curls towered above us all. I couldn't help feeling like a freak and I didn't like it.
Did I tell you about the Mothers? They were perhaps the most painful of anything about this experience. They would drive up to the house in their new pink Thunderbirds and walk down the stairs in tight-fitting stylish clothes, high heal shoes and bungle jewelry. There were beautiful and knew it and didn't hesitate to flaunt it.
My mother, on the other hand, though beautiful 10 years prior, had let herself go and lost her attractiveness and was embarrassingly overweight. She had a standing appointment to get her hair done after dance classes at Palateers each week--which didn't make her look good in the dance basement. I could feel how badly she felt about herself. She wore frumpy old clothes until they wore out and then kept on wearing them.
There was a sitting area for the mothers. The other mothers would sit together and gossip, talk and laugh. They would applaud their shining-star daughters who always stood in the front row of every class. I was certain the mothers had all been cheerleaders in their high schools from the way they formed their clique and cheered for their little aspiring dancers.
My sister and I were country bumpkins, driving into the city from a town of 800 people. The others were from the suburbs and were used to being in large groups and being treated like princesses. My mother sat by herself on her folding chair in the corner and didn't talk to the other mothers. Or maybe they excluded her, I'm not sure. Anyway, I just remember how unhappy she looked.
She would sit and frown. As a young child, I was unable to discern her unhappiness from my own and was certain that she was disapproving of me. I was shy by nature and all I wanted to do was hang back and disappear, even in familiar situations. I was overly sensitive to criticism and disapproval of any kind--especially from my mother. I took EVERYTHING personally. It was not a good environment for me to feel good about myself.
These classes were excruciating for me! I enjoyed tap dancing and excelled at acrobatics. Ballet and modern dance were out of my comfort zone, though, and got worse the older I got. It was particularly grim when I got on toe shoes.
I was nine years old by then and strongly felt the whole dance experience was torturous and awful. After expressing my feelings and asking to quit didn't work, I began to try other measures. My sister joined me and the two of us pleaded to no avail. I decided the only way out of this dismal scene was to rebel. So I refused to use my arms while toe dancing for a year. Fortunately, I was athletic enough to balance without them. After the year with still no signs of being able to stop dance lessons, I gave up my rebelling and began to use my arms again.
Every year Dorothy Thomas rented the Auditorium Theater downtown and put on a Dance Review. This affair was complete with fancy custom-made costumes for each number you were in. All of the other girls had a seamstress make their outfits so they all looked alike. My mother made my sister's and mine. We always looked embarrassingly different from the others. Then we were happy to be in the back row having the crowd looking at Marilyn Boone, Cathy Leaver and the others.
I hated the dance reviews, as you can imagine. The huge auditorium with its lights and live band in the pit was overwhelming. I don't remember much about these events because I was too frightened, but I do know I was really happy when the picture-taking, dancing and hoop-la was over for that year.
The dance lessons continued year after year until I was 15. I don't remember why I was finally allowed to stop, but I cannot begin to tell you how ecstatic I was. Even though my mother's reasons for sticking out dance lessons for so long remain a mystery to me, I don't believe her intentions were malicious or cruel. They certainly had much more to do with her than my sister and me. I wonder if she thought she was sacrificing to give us opportunities to get out of her stuck world as soon as we could? (which we all did.) I suspect she thought that at least we would develop a sense of getting away from the repressed life she hated so much.
I vowed that I would never beg for anything again. I hope my sister has forgiven me. To this day, she remains the first person to remind me, "you have to be careful what you ask for."
My mother, by the time I was born, was in her late thirties and had sunk into a deep depression. I'm certain that society's expectations had collided with her unlived life with such magnitude that having another child was the last straw. She found her escape, though. Every Saturday she would load us kids in the car and drive 50 miles to the nearest city and give us an opportunity to do some of the things she wanted to be doing herself.
I know this is a simple "child-version" explanation of the following story. I recognize my tale is seen through the eyes of a child even now. I suspect my mother's reasons for doing what she did had more complicated underpinnings. All I know is that her actions have never been fully understandable to me and were not tuned into or good for me and my sister.
When I was 4 years old I begged to learn to dance. I don't remember seeing anyone dance, so I have no idea where I got the idea. I have no clue why my mother responded as she did to my demands, which she usually ignored. Before I knew it, I was standing in a dance class with my older sister with little pink leather slippers on my feet. I don't remember any more than that single frame from that class but I can tell you in detail what happened next. And, it went on for a long time. Ask my sister. She will tell you!
Dorothy Thomas was an older woman with big teased dyed black hair. On Saturdays she taught half-hour tap, ballet, modern dance and acrobatic classes, one after the next, to lots of cute little blond girls. She was an astute business woman and her dance classes ran like clockwork. The girls paraded through the basement studio in her house from morning until night.
I couldn't help from comparing myself and remember well the humiliation of not being a petite blond bombshell. My long, thin, athletic legs put my brown ponytail a foot above them. I felt ineffectively protective and bad for my sister, too, because she was older and taller than me. Only Sherri Breathow's brunette curls towered above us all. I couldn't help feeling like a freak and I didn't like it.
Did I tell you about the Mothers? They were perhaps the most painful of anything about this experience. They would drive up to the house in their new pink Thunderbirds and walk down the stairs in tight-fitting stylish clothes, high heal shoes and bungle jewelry. There were beautiful and knew it and didn't hesitate to flaunt it.
My mother, on the other hand, though beautiful 10 years prior, had let herself go and lost her attractiveness and was embarrassingly overweight. She had a standing appointment to get her hair done after dance classes at Palateers each week--which didn't make her look good in the dance basement. I could feel how badly she felt about herself. She wore frumpy old clothes until they wore out and then kept on wearing them.
There was a sitting area for the mothers. The other mothers would sit together and gossip, talk and laugh. They would applaud their shining-star daughters who always stood in the front row of every class. I was certain the mothers had all been cheerleaders in their high schools from the way they formed their clique and cheered for their little aspiring dancers.
My sister and I were country bumpkins, driving into the city from a town of 800 people. The others were from the suburbs and were used to being in large groups and being treated like princesses. My mother sat by herself on her folding chair in the corner and didn't talk to the other mothers. Or maybe they excluded her, I'm not sure. Anyway, I just remember how unhappy she looked.
She would sit and frown. As a young child, I was unable to discern her unhappiness from my own and was certain that she was disapproving of me. I was shy by nature and all I wanted to do was hang back and disappear, even in familiar situations. I was overly sensitive to criticism and disapproval of any kind--especially from my mother. I took EVERYTHING personally. It was not a good environment for me to feel good about myself.
These classes were excruciating for me! I enjoyed tap dancing and excelled at acrobatics. Ballet and modern dance were out of my comfort zone, though, and got worse the older I got. It was particularly grim when I got on toe shoes.
I was nine years old by then and strongly felt the whole dance experience was torturous and awful. After expressing my feelings and asking to quit didn't work, I began to try other measures. My sister joined me and the two of us pleaded to no avail. I decided the only way out of this dismal scene was to rebel. So I refused to use my arms while toe dancing for a year. Fortunately, I was athletic enough to balance without them. After the year with still no signs of being able to stop dance lessons, I gave up my rebelling and began to use my arms again.
Every year Dorothy Thomas rented the Auditorium Theater downtown and put on a Dance Review. This affair was complete with fancy custom-made costumes for each number you were in. All of the other girls had a seamstress make their outfits so they all looked alike. My mother made my sister's and mine. We always looked embarrassingly different from the others. Then we were happy to be in the back row having the crowd looking at Marilyn Boone, Cathy Leaver and the others.
I hated the dance reviews, as you can imagine. The huge auditorium with its lights and live band in the pit was overwhelming. I don't remember much about these events because I was too frightened, but I do know I was really happy when the picture-taking, dancing and hoop-la was over for that year.
The dance lessons continued year after year until I was 15. I don't remember why I was finally allowed to stop, but I cannot begin to tell you how ecstatic I was. Even though my mother's reasons for sticking out dance lessons for so long remain a mystery to me, I don't believe her intentions were malicious or cruel. They certainly had much more to do with her than my sister and me. I wonder if she thought she was sacrificing to give us opportunities to get out of her stuck world as soon as we could? (which we all did.) I suspect she thought that at least we would develop a sense of getting away from the repressed life she hated so much.
I vowed that I would never beg for anything again. I hope my sister has forgiven me. To this day, she remains the first person to remind me, "you have to be careful what you ask for."
