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Mambo for Mother's Day! |
 Original Illustration by Jim Hummel |
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Gina as Carmen Miranda |
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
DON'T
BELIEVE a word of it. No matter what my family tells you, the
great debacle of the First Grade Mother's Day Pageant was not
caused by vocabulary words, kitchen curtains or a cosmetic spritz
of merthiolate. Only two people know the real truth. One of them
was my mother, but since she took the secret to her grave, it's
up to me to set the record straight. It all started with those
shoes.
Impudent vixen's shoes they were, frivolous mules in woven hemp
the color of mangos. A spray of white straw flowers fastened
above the open toes. The three-inch wedgie heels lent a sexy
note, the kind of shoes women wore to go native, or spike some
hapless man's night fever. What Carmen Miranda capered in when
she mamboed past the conga players; what a better-shod Jane might
have worn to kick off Tarzan's foot fetish...and exactly the
shoes my mother favored to add inches to her five foot stature.
Hers were a tiny size 5, as exotic as they were glamorous. These
were movie star shoes that flaunted a tomato-red pedicure, demanded
a risque ruffled skirt that shouted 'fiesta!.' That my mother's
most daring outfit featured pedal pushers and a seersucker blouse
was beside the point. To me, those shoes were magical. Hardly
a day went by that I didn't try them on, admiring my own soon-to-be-glamorous
feet.
But during that May of my first grade year, I had more than fancy
footwear on my mind. In celebration of Mother's Day, the good
sisters of Our Lady of Good Counsel School were planning their
annual school pageant. Every grade performed a short skit meant
to illustrate the scope and depth of each child's talent to a
captive audience of nervous parents. During past school productions,
more than a few kids, blinded by footlights, had taken headers
off the stage. Others exhibited a sudden and uncanny talent for
projectile vomiting--usually when the time came to utter their
lines.
Which may be why the nuns of the first grade classes decided
to follow the KISS formula: 'Keep it simple, Sister.'
Instead of stressing their budding thespians with complicated
routines or difficult lines, they opted for something foolproof.
That year, the Mother's Day First Grade pageant would be "George
Washington's Ball." We'd all be paired off to dance a few
turns around stage to some creaking waltz--short, simple, and
theoretically safe. This meant costumes would be an uninspired
affair. The girls would wear long organdy dresses like fussy
lampshades meant to compliment the boys' velvet jackets and ruffled
jabots. All of us would be herded through "Makeup"--where
Sister Margaret Rose wielded a powder puff dipped in flour. With
one pat on the face we were accelerated from 6 to 60; another
on the hair gave us the graying senior statesmen's look. Cotton-ball
sideburns were taped to the cheeks of those lucky enough to portray
Washington and his distinguished cabinet. It sounded simple enough,
and most of the parents were optimistic that we'd pull it off
with a minimum of broken bones or mass destruction.
Most of them except my mother. Used to the antics that defined
our household, she prepared me for the big event with a cautionary
tale served up every morning along with breakfast and the vocabulary
word du jour. She gave me a new one every morning, explained
what it meant, and told me to use it at least 10 times in the
course of the day. By bedtime, I was expected to define it, spell
it, and pepper my speech with it at every opportunity for the
rest of my natural life. This may have been a subtle campaign
to prepare me for higher S.A.T. scores, a shot at stardom on
"Password" or the first rung of a stellar career writing
for Webster's dictionary.
On that Saturday before the Mother's Day pageant, the morning's
word was 'mature.'
"It means 'grown-up.' Being able to do what you're supposed
to without anyone telling you first. Behaving like a big girl."
Doling out the oatmeal, my mother spared me a narrowed glance.
I'd gotten the word; now for the lecture.
"I expect you to act mature tomorrow afternoon during your
pageant. You'll be all dressed up and everyone will be watching
you. And you'll be playing the mature wife of John Quincy Adams,
so you better not goof off. And no goofing around with your dance
partner, either."
"John Doherty is a knucklehead," I told her. "He
still wets his pants."
"Guess he's not mature," my sister snickered from down
the table. Her superior seventh grade status meant Jan was exempt
from the word du jour, peeing partners and lampshade dresses.
Her class was scheduled to present a chorus version of "High
Hopes," with the students evenly designated as rubber plants
or ants. It promised to be a showstopper.
"I mean it," my mother warned. "Do something silly,
and you might fall off that stage. You'll land right on your
face and your nose will be so squashed we'll be able to see right
up into your brain. And it'll stay that way the rest of your
life. Is that how you want to look?"
"Like a mature bulldog!" Jan added.
It was something to think about. As far as I was concerned, our
first grade production was as exciting as watching paint dry.
Our costumes were dull, the music was creepy, and the flour coating
our hair and faces itched like cooties. Since my stage debut
wouldn't be the glam extravaganza I'd hoped for, it was best
to get through it as quickly as possible. Which was honestly
my intention, until my sister got involved.
On Saturday evening, less than 14 hours and counting before the
pageant, I was in my room contemplating my costume. Hung on my
door, it was a prim yellow number with puffy sleeves and silly
bows. Not exactly razzle-dazzle stuff for my stage debut, but
as Mrs. John Quincy Adams, I didn't have a lot of options. My
sister disagreed.
"That's a stupid dress. You're going to look like a real
dope."
Setting her hair in snails of pincurls, Jan raised one derisive
eyebrow.
"So's everybody else. That's what we're supposed to wear."
"You are a dope! Don't you remember what Mom said about
being mature? About doing stuff on your own? So if you want to
look nice, why don't you wear something different? That way,
you'll stand out..." A heartbeat pause. "....just like
the movie stars." My sister knew exactly how to dangle the
carrot. Not surprising, since seventh graders knew almost everything.
"I'll get in trouble."
"No, you won't. You could make something yourself and sneak
in just before it's time to go onstage. You'd look better than
anybody, and just think how proud Mom would be. Of course, if
you're too much of a baby....."
That did it. For any youngest child, those were fighting words.
Baby? Not a chance.
Solemn eyed, my sister turned to face me.
"There might be talent scouts in the audience. How do you
think Marilyn Monroe got started?" I had no idea, but with
her stacks of movie magazines, Jan was on the inside track. "A
school play," she confided. "And she didn't wear some
stupid yellow dress, either."
A speculative glance took in my freckles and knobby knees.
"You could look like Lucy Ricardo if you wanted to. The
show where she sneaks into Ricky's nightclub and dances the mambo?"
"No way!"
"You could wear Mom's shoes. The wedgies. You're look exactly
like a movie star then!"
The magic words. Forget George Washington and his band of Pillsbury
dance hall matrons. This was my chance to shine. I'd dance like
Chiquita Banana as whirling dervish, wowing them all. And wouldn't
my mother be proud to see her baby girl as mature starlet? Especially
when I mamboed downstage in a great outfit and Hollywood shoes.
How's that for a close-up, Mr. DeMille?
It shouldn't be too hard. Since my class reported to the school
auditorium an hour before the pageant, I could sneak my costume
out and my surprise would be safe. My parents' first glimpse
would come only after the curtain went up. And if the clock on
my nightstand was accurate, there was now less than 13 hours
to get the rest of my outfit together.
The backstage area was total chaos the next afternoon. No one
could find the sheet music for George Washington's Waltz, so
the bandleader offered to substitute 'Alexander's Ragtime Band.'
It was almost historically correct, he said. Remember Alexander
Hamilton?
Twitchy in lilac crinoline, Molly Frazier as Martha Washington
was frantic. Thanks to the liberal poofs of flour, huge red welts
now covered her face--the result of an allergy to wheat products.
Russell Severin as Thomas Jefferson couldn't stop hiccuping.
Since each one propelled his forty pound body forward, the dangerous
combo of zesty ragtime music and lurching hiccups might be enough
to catapult him off the stage. The nuns were close to apoplexy.
Pre-performace jitters caused Betsy Ross, alias Donna Ulander,
to wet her pants, or where they would've been if she'd remembered
to wear them. Instead she stepped awkwardly over the puddle,
wondering if her sodden yellow anklets would clash with her pink
dress. And George Washington himself, in the form of Vincent
Ambrosino, was missing his big-buckle shoes.
"I cannot tell a lie," he bragged. "I dumped 'em.
My brother said they were fairy shoes."
In the midst of that mayhem, it was easy for me to slip away
and into my costume. The girls' room down the hall was deserted,
the perfect place for my transformation. First came the hair.
Since our TV was black and white, who knew what color Lucy Ricardo's
hair really was? Onscreen, it looked blonder than red, as light
as Ethel's. Mine was auburn, not even in the ballpark. Which
was why I'd brought the merthiolate bottle. A few liberal splashes
of that made it redder than it'd ever been. Lipstick came next,
a shade called 'Calypso Red' I'd filched from my mother. Already
I looked more glamorous and mature.
Finally, my costume. My mother's kitchen curtains, peppermint
striped with ruffled hems, had never looked so good. The exotic
creature in the mirror resembled a Rio showgirl at Carnival.
The final effect was sensational. There were those wonderful
shoes, a few necklaces, some dangling earrings, and then my father's
handkerchief, meant to be wrapped in a saucy headdress. I'd even
remembered some fruit for an authentic touch. Our school band
was now suffering through the overture, a cue that the curtain
was about to go up. I had to hurry. The lights had dimmed, and
my class lined up at stage left. Slipping next to my partner,
I was ready to rhumba.
A collective coo rose up from the audience as we took the stage.
Rows of proud moms grew teary eyed, pointing and waving. Even
in the footlight glare, I spotted mine, second row center, dabbing
her eyes. It wasn't often that her starlet daughters were colonial
dame and rubber plant, respectively, so she'd dressed up for
this special day. Her good peach suit, those white gloves with
pearl buttons, even a gardenia corsage. She looked proud and
excited. And maybe, for a few brief moments, she even believed
things would go off without a hitch. But that was before she
spotted my outfit, the trashed tuba, and the banana projectile.
It might have been the ragtime music that threw everyone off.
Those tinkling ivories didn't quite jive with the dances we'd
practiced, or the somber processional of colonial couples and
one ersatz calypso queen. Six year-old statesmen and their partners
lumbered onto the stage, not sure where to plant feet made leaden
by stage fright and confusion. My partner/husband John Q. Adams
gaped at my costume, so focused on my head dress he forgot where
to step.
"Why's your head bleeding?" he asked.
"That's not blood. It's merthiolate. The stuff you put on
cuts."
"Your head's cut?"
"No. It's red."
"So why's it wrapped in that rag? You bleeding?"
"It's a turban!" I shouted. "Like the movie stars
wear. And quit steppin' on my skirt, stupid!"
"How come a banana's stuck in that rag?"
"Cuz the rest of the fruit wouldn't fit."
By now the nuns were huddled at stage right, trying to grab me
as we made our turn. Behind us, Thomas Jefferson hiccuped, lost
his balance and collided squarely with the lunging Sister Dolores.
Her barrel body rolled toward us, knocking us right out of our
shoes. Only little Kevin McBride (as a nimble Ben Franklin) managed
to avoid the six couple pile-up. He hopped over the floundering
nun and directly into the bandstand . The tuba went down exactly
at the moment Mrs. James Madison lost her lunch. She'd taken
a sharp elbow to the stomach and couldn't stop the spew.
Some kids screamed, others crashed down on the slippery mess
which turned to curds in their powdered hair. The impetus of
falling bodies sent some skidding off the edge of the stage like
elegantly dressed hockey pucks.
George Washington's Ball now looked like a low-budget disaster
flick, and someone had finally thought to lower the curtain.
It was that defining moment when a star was supposed to step
forward, save the day and steal the spotlight. Especially if
there was a Hollywood talent scout in the audience. Clutching
what remained of my curtain/rhumba skirt, I struggled to my feet.
Catching my mother's eye, (hard to do since her hands were covering
her face) I smiled bravely, tossed my turbaned head... and that
lone banana went flying into the audience.
Later, everyone agreed that it was the most memorable Mother's
Day ever. Even Mrs. Cavanaugh, who needed eight stitches to close
the banana-induced wound on her forehead, said she'd never seen
another like it. But two weeks later, (the amount of time it
took to get the merthiolate out of my hair) my mother still wanted
to sell me to the gypsies. She was convinced it was the best
solution for both of us. I could dance around the campfire and
wear as many curtains as I wanted. She'd get her shoes back,...and
never have to worry about the outcome of flying bananas.
© 2001 by Gina Gallo.
Illustration © 2001 by Jim Hummel. All rights reserved.
You can comment on this column or contact Gina Gallo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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