My younger daughter S is a huge fan of dancing. She takes ballet twice a week, and she also takes jazz and tap once a week. I’m glad she enjoys herself so much. She is learning to appreciate the art of movement, to trust what her body can do, and also that dance is an art form. So much of what we see as dance these days isn’t art; it’s really just simulated intercourse. Now, I like intercourse as much as the next guy, but seriously, I don’t want to watch my ten year old pop it and drop it low and grind all over the floor. I much prefer to see her sway gracefully and bend and curve and leap with control. I might not feel the same way next year when she starts Pointe and her still growing toes are crushed under her own body weight, but right now, as long as she is moving and happy doing it, then I will keep writing those checks and driving her leotard covered ass to the dance school.
When I picked her up from dance yesterday, she was very excited because she found out the song numbers her class will be performing in their upcoming spring recital. The recital’s theme this year is “Mary Poppins,” and she is familiar enough with the movie to be elated. She will do a ballet dance to a slower song whose name she can’t remember, but she is thrilled to be a penguin for her tap dance number. Do you remember the penguins in “Mary Poppins?” Of course you do, that’s the scene when Dick Van Dyke pulls his pants down to his knees and flaps his arms around along with the animated penguin wait staff. “Mary Poppins” is a pretty trippy movie if you think about it.
The part that she is most excited about, however, is the dance number for her jazz class. They will be chimney sweeps and dance to “Step in Time,” a lively little ditty from the movie where the chimney cleaners all pop out of the smoke stacks and pounce around the rooftops of London while singing with heavy cockney accents. S got in the car and told me all about her dance number.
“Mom, it’s going to be so much fun. We are going to dance with broomsticks and everything.”
“That does sound great. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I wonder what our costumes will look like, and Mom, we are going to do the whole dance in black face!”
“Wait, what?” Did my kid just tell me she is doing the Al Jolson version of “Mary Poppins?” I can see it now, a whole line of white suburban kids, their blond locks tucked up in newsboy caps, the whites of their eyes stark against the black shoe polish of their faces, their mouths an exaggerated red O. I could picture them all down on one knee, jazz hands fanning out as they sang “Mammy, my little mammy.”
I said to S, “What do you mean by ‘black face?’”
“You know, Mom, all that dirt on their faces, from the chimneys?” she said.
“You mean soot?” Of course she meant soot. They are chimney sweeps, not old vaudeville actors. Why did my mind have to immediately go there? Oh no, does that make me racist? Does my daughter think I’m racist? Of course she does, she gets mad at me if I refer to a black person as a black person, not an African American. That’s it; I need to get fitted for my white robe and hood. Wait a minute, I can’t do that; I’m Jewish. They won’t give me a white hood. Maybe I can get a white robe with a yellow star.
“Yeah, the ashes. I wonder how they are going to do that. I guess it will have to be the last number because our faces will be too dirty to dance in ballet costumes.”
“Good point. I can’t wait to see how they are going to pull that off,” I said, hoping she couldn’t tell I flipped out for a moment over the idea of a whole dance class in black face.
“Yeah, Mom, it’s going to be great!” S settled happily into her seat, and I drove us home, keeping my thoughts to myself. Who says I don’t have a filter?
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