memoir
I have decided to compose a memoir.
This is a writing exercise, inspired by my sister. Be gentle.
Ok. It’s called a “Kilt”.
A face like the sun; blush ground in with a lap sponge from the hospital to ruddy perfection, like the good morning sun in a Kellogg’s commercial. Mom sat there, in a denim jumper, perfectly pleated, housing a floral shirt that looked like grandma’s drapes. She sat on the daybed in our basement. It must have been the spring of 1988, the year of my first holy communion and the remodeling of the basement.
“Circle in the Sand is a good song,” she marketed.
I knew different. I knew that it was too slow. The audience wants to jump and be enlivened by my lithe little body. I also knew that I had used a much catchier song to try out to, and that substituting “Circle in the Sand” for “Prove Your Love” would never work out. What would the judges think? I was never nervous, not even for a moment. Try-outs were after school in the gymnasium. I had to think of something to do, I had waited until the last minute, nothing memorized or rehearsed, but I danced, I heard Taylor Dane and I moved like a boy possessed. I cartwheeled and spun, I was alive. Most importantly, I got in, and I knew I could make stars out of Jill and me.
The gymnasium at “Shrine”, never had that classic gymnasium smell, as the “athletes” that utilized never really broke a sweat. I blame the coaches there for my marshmallowy form . I could never do a sit-up, and where were they? I could never do a push-up, where was the “come on, Mary, you can do at least one!”. Nobody ran. The only thing that the gym for was for some lame as ethnic celebration where every person in the school had to dress in the authentic dress of their “people”, and each grade performed on stage. All of the eighth graders sang “La Cucaracha” and I have had that song in my head ever since. This was also the first time I ever wore a skirt. The Penrods are apparently Scottish which means that I wore a skirt and thigh highs, all with matching garters with tassels that I am quite sure have a name, but I for the life of my can’t tell you what it is. All I knew, is that I looked good.
Jill and I had been practicing The Eurythmics for several hours every day and we hadn’t come all this way for some lady in some doubty, denim get up to come in here and tear my creative vision, my debut from my tightly clenched, (then) hairless knuckles.
Jill stood by my side. She looked at my with her big blue eyes and her long blonde hair, and I knew what I had to do.
“We are doing “Would I Lie to You”, we already know it.” And that is what we danced to.
Mom knew that she was defeated. She wanted to direct, but I wouldn’t let her. I knew I was born to dance, and most importantly, choreograph.
Mom, not dissuaded from her defeat, went about creating costumes for us. Jill and I, in our slick, stretchy unitards, our sequined wrist cuffs and belts with matching stars.
Mom was working days at Church Hospital then, so she wouldn’t be able to attend, so Mrs. Lucille went in her stead. I couldn’t see her when we were up there, and honestly, I can’t recall any of the specifics of the dance, except for the end. I needed something grand, something amazing and unplanned that Jill’s 4 year-old brain could not fathom. An air lift, like Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. At the end of the number, I improvised I prompted Jill to run over to me and I hoisted her up like a marlin. A sequin-laden, lycra blend marlin.
“That was so cool, Alec,” she beamed. “Just like Dirty Dancing.”
“That was...very good, let’s hear it for Alec and Jill,” said the announcer.
I was her hero. The audience was speechless.
This is a writing exercise, inspired by my sister. Be gentle.
Ok. It’s called a “Kilt”.
A face like the sun; blush ground in with a lap sponge from the hospital to ruddy perfection, like the good morning sun in a Kellogg’s commercial. Mom sat there, in a denim jumper, perfectly pleated, housing a floral shirt that looked like grandma’s drapes. She sat on the daybed in our basement. It must have been the spring of 1988, the year of my first holy communion and the remodeling of the basement.
“Circle in the Sand is a good song,” she marketed.
I knew different. I knew that it was too slow. The audience wants to jump and be enlivened by my lithe little body. I also knew that I had used a much catchier song to try out to, and that substituting “Circle in the Sand” for “Prove Your Love” would never work out. What would the judges think? I was never nervous, not even for a moment. Try-outs were after school in the gymnasium. I had to think of something to do, I had waited until the last minute, nothing memorized or rehearsed, but I danced, I heard Taylor Dane and I moved like a boy possessed. I cartwheeled and spun, I was alive. Most importantly, I got in, and I knew I could make stars out of Jill and me.
The gymnasium at “Shrine”, never had that classic gymnasium smell, as the “athletes” that utilized never really broke a sweat. I blame the coaches there for my marshmallowy form . I could never do a sit-up, and where were they? I could never do a push-up, where was the “come on, Mary, you can do at least one!”. Nobody ran. The only thing that the gym for was for some lame as ethnic celebration where every person in the school had to dress in the authentic dress of their “people”, and each grade performed on stage. All of the eighth graders sang “La Cucaracha” and I have had that song in my head ever since. This was also the first time I ever wore a skirt. The Penrods are apparently Scottish which means that I wore a skirt and thigh highs, all with matching garters with tassels that I am quite sure have a name, but I for the life of my can’t tell you what it is. All I knew, is that I looked good.
Jill and I had been practicing The Eurythmics for several hours every day and we hadn’t come all this way for some lady in some doubty, denim get up to come in here and tear my creative vision, my debut from my tightly clenched, (then) hairless knuckles.
Jill stood by my side. She looked at my with her big blue eyes and her long blonde hair, and I knew what I had to do.
“We are doing “Would I Lie to You”, we already know it.” And that is what we danced to.
Mom knew that she was defeated. She wanted to direct, but I wouldn’t let her. I knew I was born to dance, and most importantly, choreograph.
Mom, not dissuaded from her defeat, went about creating costumes for us. Jill and I, in our slick, stretchy unitards, our sequined wrist cuffs and belts with matching stars.
Mom was working days at Church Hospital then, so she wouldn’t be able to attend, so Mrs. Lucille went in her stead. I couldn’t see her when we were up there, and honestly, I can’t recall any of the specifics of the dance, except for the end. I needed something grand, something amazing and unplanned that Jill’s 4 year-old brain could not fathom. An air lift, like Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. At the end of the number, I improvised I prompted Jill to run over to me and I hoisted her up like a marlin. A sequin-laden, lycra blend marlin.
“That was so cool, Alec,” she beamed. “Just like Dirty Dancing.”
“That was...very good, let’s hear it for Alec and Jill,” said the announcer.
I was her hero. The audience was speechless.