Dusty Needs More Male Influence

              I have among my belongings a scrap book my mother and I put together many years ago.  My most recent perusal uncovered a copy of my Kindergarten progress report.  It wasn’t a report card, per se, as the nomenclature for grading was S (Satisfactory), I (Improving but not yet Satisfactory) and N (Needs Improvement).  I have always tried to excel in any grading context and I was proud to see I received an ‘S’ in 27 of 30 categories.  Of the three categories where I received an ‘I’, I am guilty of two.  The third was I apparently did not know my address.  Considering my people were nomadic Southern Baptists, I think I can be forgiven as we had only moved to Winnfield, Louisiana, two months prior to starting school.  Plus, I was only four years old, y’all. 

                The other two categories should surprise no one; I was not yet satisfactory in “Listens While Others Speak” and “Rests Quietly”.  I have been a talker from way back, people. 

                Eastside Elementary had two reporting periods per school year and each period offered an open narrative place to send notes to parents.  Although my teacher thought my talking was an issue, she chose to leave the narrative field empty of additional comments. 

                By the end of the school year, I had improved to an ‘S’ in 29 of 30 categories; I retained an ‘S-‘ in “Rests Quietly” category.  I did not and still don’t enjoy a mid-day nap.  I have things to do; conversations to have.  However, something happened or changed in the spring as the narrative notes for the year included the phrase, “Needs More Male Influence” followed by “Performs Beautifully”.

                I wonder the reasoning behind this particular choice of phrase.  What was the motivation to describe me as needing more male influence in Louisiana in 1976?  What was she hoping to accomplish?  Did she feel compelled to soften the blow with her declaration that I “performed beautifully”.  Was it a panicky response to a hasty decision on a document she couldn’t simply destroy and start over?  She also couldn’t use Liquid Paper as its inventor (Bette Nesmith Graham, mother of Mike Nesmith of the Monkees) didn’t have the product available throughout the country until 1979.  Was the added statement a pre-cursor to the now ubiquitous praise sandwich, where you praise, critique and then praise an employee or co-worker.  Was this an open-faced praise sandwich, a praise pizza, a praise frittata? 

My father was a welder at the local sawmill, but he was home most every night to my memory. He even attended church somewhat regularly and by that I mean at least twice more than Christmas, Easter and Family Photo Day.  He taught me how to ride a bike and when I wrecked the first time he taught me to “shut it up” instead of crying.

                What did my mother think?  She didn’t put too much stock in other’s opinions, except Jesus and her mother, but she taught us how to act appropriately in any situation.  Unfortunately, sometimes need overtook training.  I wonder if this was about the dentist visit/toy car debacle.

                I had a dental appointment and my mother came to pick me up from school right after nap time.  As I never really stopped talking during this time, I never received a prize.  Mrs. Brewer, my teacher, would reward good nappers with candy each day.  At the end of each week the best boy napper received a toy truck or car and the best girl napper a small doll; it was the South in the 1970s and we love giving a gift.  Having never once received candy, I was in no way in the running for Best Boy Napper.  My BFF Jason Tarver occasionally received candy, which I summarily decided he should share.  When he disagreed, I ate it anyway.  Yes, I know I was a handful and a half.  We had completed nap time and Mrs. Brewer was in the process of announcing the winners when my mother arrived.  Taking leave of my senses, I began to cry and state very plainly that Mrs. Brewer obviously did not like me as I had never been given the Best Boy Napper toy which invariably went to either Kyle Brewer or Floyd Lamb. 

My mother was caught off guard, without a frame of reference for toy distribution etiquette in a classroom setting.  With a look of horror and confusion, Mrs. Brewer handed me the toy ambulance.  Not wanting to “whoop me down” in front of my classmates, my mother let the scenario play out but I can assure you I was not allowed to enjoy the ill-gotten gain.  That privilege was bestowed upon my brother while I had to stand idly by watching him enjoy the doors that really opened and the wheels that really turned.  I was standing as sitting was not something I was able to accomplish so soon after my re-training session with both mother and father, concerning proper behavior in public.

Female Eunuch in a Homemade Bikini and Other Pageant Tales

             As you all know, I used to be heavily involved in the Miss America system as a Local Director, State Judge and Trainer.  My last hurrah, if you will, was in 2011 when I was part of the team accompanying my Miss DC to Miss America.  The lovely and talented Stephanie (Williams) Dekom is a pediatrician who used her scholarship money to complete her MD at George Washington University.  We recently reconnected when we realized we both live in LA, and this time I am not referring to Lower Alabama.

                Dr. Gorgeous, her equally adorable husband and I met for dinner and the Miss LA County/Miss Culver City pageants for the Miss America system.  It’s been five years since I was involved in anything pageant-related other than watching Miss America and explaining to my friends and family why some of the winners won.  I was looking forward to experiencing the local talent which is occasionally astounding, dependably horrifying and always entertaining,

                The theatre was a wood-paneled relic of days gone by.  I felt as if we were in a finished basement waiting to join the cast of That 70s Show to play Twister.  This made sense when the Directors were introduced and out walked a couple in late, laaaaate middle age.  The wife had a unique hairstyle; an interesting combo of a Bump-It® for the front bangs, a smaller back-up Bump-It ® and a pony tail almost to her waist.  Her profile was similar to photos of the mythical Monster surfacing in The Loch Ness: bump, bump, tail.

                The contestants were an interesting mix from extremely beautiful but marginally talented future Miss USA contestants, marginally attractive but extremely talented eventual titleholders and those both marginally attractive and marginally talented, a potent combination for last place, to be sure. 

In true LA fashion, there were a couple of atypical Miss America contestants.  The first was a 4’12” young lady of Hispanic origin who came armed with white patent leather stripper heels and a rendition of Peggy Lee’s Fever that wouldn’t feel out of place at a burlesque show, with hair and make-up which would’ve won her RuPaul’s Drag Race. 

The other was the most unique contestant I’ve ever seen and I’m including the young lady I saw at a local pageant in 1992 that sang The Judd’s Grandpa and forgot the words.  This young lady who’s slicked down, parted-in-the-middle bangs made her look like Amy Farrah Fowler’s less attractive, more awkward cousin.  She was bedaubed with heavy blue eye shadow and Chapstick ® but no other attempt at make-up.  She wore pants for the on-stage question.  She seemed to have made her swimsuit at home, with bikini bottoms in a faded earth tone I called Adobe Wall and a moss green/white striped bikini top with some sort of Peter Pan collar flap thingie. 

For her talent she sang a self-composed ditty, accompanying herself on piano, energetically pounding the three chords and cleverly rhyming ‘life’ with ‘life’.  She repeated the same verse several times, singing in a British accent not unlike Audrey Hepburn’s “Flars fer sayul” in My Fair Lady.  At no other point in the pageant did she have an accent of any sort other than Disinterested Scientist, which is what I posited to my companions.  I feel fairly certain this contestant is, at present, putting the finishing touches on a Psychology, Anthropology or Feminist Studies research paper or a missive on gender norms, feminism and the American Beauty Pageant, entitled something like, Female Eunuch in a Homemade Bikini, that is simply begging to be performed at a Slam Poetry reading by a off-duty Barista in a tattered Sleater-Kinney t-shirt, reeking of ennui and electronic cigarettes.

Other contestants were reasonably talented except for some of the singers.  Is it a national rule now that someone has to sing “Don’t Rain on My Parade” every beauty pageant?  This one had two, neither who had anywhere near the singing chops to belt a song that is meant to be belted.  And if you’re going to sing Sia’s “Titanium” and you can’t hit the high notes, you should choose a different song.  You should not suddenly sing in a lower register sounding like Barry White in the throes of puberty. 

Dramatic monologues are a mixed bag.  When I judged Miss Arizona in 2009, there was a contestant who did scenes from Les Miserables and was awarded 1^st Runner-up because she was a talented actress.  At this pageant a contestant did scenes from the movie Clueless.  Yes, you read that correctly. 

The winners were predicted by our little group:   Intelligent-Sorta-Pretty-Like-Meryl-Streep-Piano-Player and Pageant-Ready-Adele-Lite-Diva-in-a-Catsuit.  They will do well at Miss California, although Adele-Lite had a monstrously confusing evening gown which looked like something Ursula the Sea Witch would have worn to Prom had she been on land and enrolled in Jenny Craig. 

In other words, the pageant was awesomeness abounding and I can’t wait for the next one.

Zoolander, Tyra Banks and my Mother

           The alarming number of photographs required in my new job was unanticipated.  I have been Assistant Director of the VA Long Beach Healthcare System for thirteen months and I have had my photo taken in a variety of settings for a variety of reasons at least two to three times per week, not to mention posters and the facility Christmas card.  When we have our quarterly Employee Town Hall with their associated awards, I will stand with the other members of the executive leadership team and have photos taken with the three Employees of the Quarter and the 10-15 employees who are being recognized for 25-40 years of service.

                Most people fear being caught in a bad outfit or not looking their best in a photograph.  I do not share their concerns as I am properly dressed and color-coordinated even while slumbering.  I am also not afraid of the camera stealing my soul, which many of my Native American ancestors believed.  I am 1/32^nd Cherokee, Iroquois, Blackfoot, something, according to The Dad.

                What I am concerned about is my smile.  Growing up, I always smiled happily in photographs and had no issues with the outcomes.  However, as my third grade class photo shows, I was not prepared for picture day due to no fault of my own.  It is evidence I was an active child as I was a sweaty mess because my teachers thought it wise to have class photos taken after recess, because, you know, that makes the most sense.  Insert smirk here.

  You would have thought I would have simply not participated in the running and associated sweating, but I didn’t become pre-occupied with my wardrobe and general appearance until sixth grade.  Third grade was a time spent wanting to be like The Dad, I assume.  Otherwise, how do you explain the western wear in the colors of the desert or the fact I voluntarily chose to dress as Buck Owens for Halloween?

As I got older, I tried to pretend to be caught off-guard while laughing as it seemed the closest to natural for my smile, but it somehow came off more psychotic than happy-go-lucky.  My mother told me to smile with my eyes (smizing as Tyra Banks would say).  I tried it but I looked more like someone in need of a restroom than someone pleasantly contemplating the future.  And, as a child, I was the future if George Benson and Whitney Houston are to be believed.  That’s a lot of pressure on a pudgy face, people, especially one with eyes as small as mine.

Thus I conceived my “pleasant face”, a look conquered by my freshman year in high school, shown here with the tie that caused quite the ruckus when I arrived on Picture Day wearing it. 

The look worked for many, many years but now I am in Long Beach and our photographer demands “teeth” through cajoling and/or demanding depending.  I attempt to comply but after seven or eight photo ops where there are five or six photos per op, my face starts to hurt like a runner-up in a beauty pageant who simply wants to leave the stage and eat her candy bar.  I thought about putting Vaseline on my teeth (an old beauty pageant trick) but it makes your tongue numb…or so I’ve heard.

So I am left with a photo legacy that is, at best, a mixed bag.  Sometimes I look great, often I look appropriate.  There are the times I look odd and on the rare occasion there is one where I have a decidedly pained expression. 

And although I have attempted a smile in the photo studio setting, the one thing I do appreciate is no matter the quality of my smile, I don’t think I look my age (45) and for this I am thankful; tiny eyes, ruddy cheeks and all.

Would Carson McCullers Write a Murder Mystery?

In the short hallway between my living room and kitchen I have a mirrored buffet table, atop which sits a photo of my parents cutting the cake at their wedding.  There is also a photo of my niece, beautiful on her late spring wedding day last year.  This photo is propped against my parents’ frame as it was only recently obtained when I gifted it to myself after I arrived at my sister’s home for Christmas.  Mailing things in a timely manner is not my sister’s spiritual gift.

Never giving them more than a cursory view most days, last night they brought to mind a particular wedding, many years ago in a small community in Southwest Mississippi.  Tylertown is where I say I’m from as it is where I graduated high school.  A tiny community west of town called Mesa (mee-sah) is where we attended Mesa Baptist Church, the location of my dear sister’s nuptials to one Jody Darryl Thomas.

The wedding date was set for Labor Day weekend to ensure they were married before Darryl set sail for Navy boot camp, which I’ve been told is not very strenuous as long as you can swim and/or float with any amount of skill.  The wedding itself was pulled together in quick fashion by my mother and Ann Simmons, flower arranger/event planner/family friend/saint.  I was asked to sing as part of the blessed event.  My sister was of course excited about the wedding and her beautiful dress but she was most fond of her Precious Moments music box that was to be the wedding cake topper.  It was indeed a wondrous thing and I was tasked with ensuring it’s safe arrival atop the cake in the downstairs fellowship hall at our church for the reception, which consisted of only cake, Jordan Almonds and punch the same color as the bridesmaids’ dresses, as we are Southern Baptists and that is how we roll.  The chosen colors were apricot and candlelight.

The morning of the event, I was resplendent in a borrowed caramel leather sport coat and moss green chinos and a moss green and rose pink plaid tie as dress clothes were not high on the list of necessities for those with meager means.  While I sang like an angel, the voice was somewhat disembodied as I was hidden behind a rather large fern, of the kind found usually in zoos and/or wildlife refuges. The genesis of the idea to hide me behind this Amazonian flora was never revealed due to, I can only assume, a secret pact between Ms. Simmons and my sister.  They are not talking, y’all, but I am not still bitter or anything.  Truly.  I only mention it for the sake of the big picture.

As I was already dressed when we arrived at the church, I was tasked with ensuring the cake was properly placed next to the fountain of punch, made apricot by adding orange sherbet to pink lemonade, by the ever-resourceful mother-of-the-bride.  The baker and her husband had been in the basement by themselves.  I made my way down the stairs and turned the corner to see a black and white plastic monstrosity sitting atop my sister’s wedding cake.  It took me a minute to process what I was seeing.  It was something akin to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, with mother-of-pearl seagulls attached by wiring, allowing them “life-like” movement.

My poker face failed me and the baker asked what was wrong.  I motioned to the eyesore and said in an urgent whisper, “Whatisthat?  Whatisthat?  Ohmygod, Whatisthat?!?!”

Unbelievably, she asked, “What?” as if she did not know.

I said, “That…THING on top of the cake!  Where is my sister’s Precious Moments cake topper?!?!”

She looked crestfallen and said, “Oh, that?  We accidentally dropped it.  It’s broken.”

I inhaled so sharply her hair and apron moved toward my mouth.  I said very slowly, “Please tell me you are kidding.  This is a joke, right?  She will kill you, you know.  She will.  It will be unpleasant.  It will be painful.  You’re going to die.”

She just stared at me.  Her husband walked over and said, “It’s not that big of a deal.  We got a replacement.  It’s free of charge.”

I turned and said in my most condescending manner, “Oh, good, I’m glad it’s not that big of a deal.  And, yes, I see you’ve replaced it with what I assume is one of your brood’s art projects, but my sister is expecting a Precious Moments music box cake topper atop her cake.”  Gaining momentum due to fear of said bride, I continued, “And you’d better go find a more appropriate replacement because THAT…HORROR (motioning to it) is no one’s idea of a proper replacement and I assure you I will not be here when she comes downstairs.  She will kill you.  In your face.”

Hearing the beginnings of some sort of ruckus my Mother started down the stairs, asking, “Dusty, is anything wrong?”  With a bride’s overly-sensitive hearing, my sister said, “What?  Something’s wrong?  With the cake?  What’s wrong with the cake?”

Faking a lighthearted laugh, I practically screamed, “Oh, Shontyl.  Ha Ha. Relax, sister of mine.  There’s nothing wrong with the cake.  Don’t come down here, its bad luck for a bride to see the cake before the wedding.”

Skeptically she said, “What?  No it’s not.”

“Yes it is, I read it somewhere.”

                “Ugh.  Whatever.”

                “You’re so funny.  Go fix your hair.  I’ve GOT this.” 

                My mother looked at me quizzically and I mouthed, “Do. Not. Let. Her. Down. Here.”  And I gave her a smile like you give when you realize you’ve forgotten your wallet while on a date.  Turning to the baker’s husband, I said, “Shouldn’t you be on your way?  You have a music box to purchase.  Precious Moments.  Go now.”

                He whined, “But its Labor Day weekend.”

                “That’s not my problem.  I’m trying to keep both of us alive.”

                “She can’t be that bad.”

                Chuckling, I said, “I see you have mis-assessed this situation.  And you’re right, she might not kill me, but one or both of you will perish.  Please leave now.  I’m not telling you again.  Don’t make me start cussing all up in the church.  I’m not Methodist.”

                Looking fearfully at me, as she heard shoes on the stairs, the baker turned and said, “I hear someone?  Is that her?”

                “You're closest.  Are they wearing a white dress?” I asked hurriedly shooing her husband out the door and into the mini-van.

                “Not white.”

                “Is it the color of the punch?”

                “Yes.”

                “Then it’s a bridesmaid.  Everyone knows the bridesmaid dresses match the punch.  Are you a Yankee?

                We were able to shift the focus from the cake to the wedding itself.  It went off without a hitch.  I did not protest the fern placement and sang my heart out to “The Wedding Song” and Debbie Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes”.  It was 1989, y’all.  That was a “the song”, do you hear me?

                I don’t know how he did it, but in the end, clumsy baker-husband found a reasonable facsimile of the music box.  It wasn’t Precious Moments but it was close enough to fool my sister until after she returned from her honeymoon.  By that time I had returned to school and have been afraid to broach the subject.  I truly hope she didn’t kill that man, although if she did, I understand.

I wonder what Carson McCullers would say?

100% Pure Grown...

               I am not your typical movie viewer.  I tend to favor documentaries and independent and foreign films over most wide releases, unless it’s related to Star Wars or Harry Potter.  Don’t get me wrong, I have watched all sorts of movies, but usually only after significant coercion and with the promise of a discounted ticket.  Just like exercising or watching college football, I can sometimes be bullied and/or shamed into participation.

                This past weekend was the limited release of Maggie Smith’s newest movie, The Lady in the Van.  It is based on an Alan Bennett novella and is geared toward an audience just a wee bit different than those watching Ride Along 2.  One of the perks of preferring movies like this is the crowd tends to skew older and concerns about waiting in line and the possibility of sold-out status are usually non-existent.  When I arrived at the theatre and discovered a line snaking down the sidewalk and around the corner of the building I was confused.

                As I worked my way across the parking lot, I started to notice the audience was mostly female and mostly elderly.  I’m talking elderly like they may have driven an ambulance during WWII, just like Queen Elizabeth and Miss Smith’s character in the movie.  The accessory de la foule was an oxygen tank discretely encased in a Vera Bradley purse.  As I stood in line, I wondered would my time be spent surrounded by a more mature crowd or would it be like the time I found myself unwittingly at the mall with Payton during a Victoria’s Secret sale?  I pondered if there would be quiet older women, smiling pleasantly or would there be older versions of mean girls and nerd girls and party girls and snitches?  I focused on the female as, counting myself, there were five men out of approximately 100 movie fans.

                There were friends grouped together some complaining about having to wait, others raving about Maggie Smith and reminiscing about her breakthrough role in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and the first of her two Oscars.  There were those who mistook her for other people, like Geraldine Page, who is deceased and Olympia Dukakis, who is not.  There were mean girls gossiping about people both absent and, based on the judicious use of sotto voce, in attendance.  There were of course, tattletales who were talking about the ones who arrived later than their friends and seemingly cut in line and also about those who blatantly cut in line.  One group of tattlers even pointed out a “cutter” to the management of the theatre in an attempt to have her barred.  And there was the small group wondering aloud of the alcohol selections (as this theatre serves wine and beer) and snickering about contraband flasks.  There were a few plotting seat provisions with their companions. Of course, there were also normal women waiting quietly, scrolling on their phones or lost in their own thoughts. 

             I am definitely more mature than I was in college, but I also have days where I feel as if I’m faking my adulthood and no one is questioning it because I am, in the vernacular of my family, “pure grown.”

             Do we grow up or do we simply age?  I think the answer is both.  What do you think?

Rabbit, Resolve

              As a new year is upon us, most people resolve to do things they know they are not going to do, such as lose weight, go to the gym, be better people, etc.  I have long been an advocate of making good changes throughout the year, whenever the evidence suggests a change is needed.  I don’t know if this is because I have a pragmatic personality or if there were something in my past which haunted my subconscious?  All I know is I recently found this when I was going through the Scrapbook my mother made for me many years ago.

 

 

 

This was written when I was in second grade, at the tender age of seven.  I feel sure I truly meant to feed those rabbits and I remember owning them for a very, very short time.  It appears the upkeep and well being of those rabbits was a sore point with my mother as I was uncharacteristically succinct in my resolution.  I didn't even illustrate it, y'all.

I feel the conversation went thusly.

Dusty (dutifully completing his homework):  “Mommy, what does resolve mean?”

Mommy: “It’s when you promise to do something.”

D:  “Oh, ok.  I have to resolve to do something this year.  My teacher said.”

M:  “You need to resolve to feed those rabbits we bought you and your sister.”

D:  “That doesn’t sound fun.  I want to resolve to do something fun.”

M:  “Write it down, son.  I want to see it in writing.  In 1978 I resolve to feed my rabbits.  That is all you will have time to do.  That and making your bed.  Now go find your sister (dutifully avoiding her homework, I feel sure).  She's going to write it, too.”

D:  “Yes, ma’am.”

I remember the rabbits disappeared quite suddenly one day and I’ve never known if it was due to my lack of feeding them and their subsequent death or if we were disinterested and they died from neglect or if my mother tired of us “forgetting” we had them and sold or gave them away.  I truly do not remember interacting with these rabbits other than the day they arrived.   And this is from a kid who played with Legos too far into high school to admit; if I liked something I was invested, y’all. 

Only the souls of those poor rabbits  know their fate.   If my sister knows, she’s not telling. 

You see why I don’t resolve to do anything, people.  It could lead to death or worse…chores.