TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 151

[Tobie Shapiro]

February 14, 200000007


Dear Clan of the Tree Branches,

	So today is Valentine's Day.  You 
remember having to give everyone in the class a 
Valentine's day card?   Not just your special hoo 
ha, everyone.  And there was inviting everyone to 
your birthday party too.  It's funny how they 
have this kind of social ostracism covered with a 
rule, but when the kids get out on the 
playground, they let them run it like the Lord of 
the Flies.   Kids can be so mean.  Mean without 
the gloves.  This Valentine's day, I am steering 
clear of all the flower stands.  I am not in love 
with anybody, and nobody's in love with me.  I 
don't expect flowers or a card or candy or any of 
those other things that are standard fare on this 
day.  I do think that maybe I should get my 
mother something.  But then, again, if I get my 
mother something, I should get everyone else 
something.  Here we go again.





 
‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡
 
†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††



Creative Drama

	While my mother was involved with 
Adventure Theater in Silver Spring, Maryland, she 
enrolled Dana and me in a creative drama class. 
In fact, that's what the company that offered the 
classes was called, "Creative Drama".  I remember 
the lessons.  They would have us act out moods 
and act out animals.  I was good for sad, with my 
eyebrows lifted up in the middle, and my mouth 
curled down.  I was good for happy, with my whole 
face involved in a big grin and my head shaking 
with excitement.  I was good for scared, 
shrinking back, covering my head with my arms and 
throwing my eyes wide open.  Angry was easy.  I 
jumped up and down screaming, stomping my feet, 
making fists and swinging them in the air just 
like my father did when he was mad.  When he was 
mad, he was like an eight year old, that awkward 
age for boys, all aggression, triumph and defeat, 
barking and fisticuffs.  That awkward age sticks 
around until they are about forty.

	Dana was also in the class, but she was 
older and much more sophisticated.  Drama was 
really her bailiwick.  She claimed acting, as she 
said that I had claimed music and art.  We 
divided up the talents that way.  But in the 
acting class, we were in it together, and she 
made certain that I knew I was only borrowing a 
brief dalliance with drama from her which she 
loaned me out of the goodness of her heart.

	The culmination of all the acting lessons 
was the yearly project, a whole play which the 
students put on.  That year, they were doing, 
"Dick Wittington's Cat," about a sailor, Dick 
Wittington, and, well, . . . his cat.  In our 
class, we were having try outs for who would be 
the cat.  I loved cats.  I was already a fanatic 
about cats, and felt I owned that as my personal 
territory.  Therefore, it would only be right if 
I were to get that part.  Several of my 
classmates auditioned for the part.  We were told 
to go out there on the floor and act like cats. 
Everyone else hissed and scraped the air with 
their paws, claws extended.  But I crawled around 
and licked myself clean, stretched and meowed 
plaintively.  I thought I had it hands down.  I 
did a thorough cat.  The others did a 
stereotypical caricature.  The way the part of 
the cat was chosen was not by a panel of judges, 
or by the teacher appointing whom she thought 
best.  It was done by popular vote.  The little 
kids would vote for their favourite cat.  I 
recognized this to be a popularity contest, and I 
was sure that under those circumstances I 
wouldn't win.  I already felt like an outcast at 
six.  When the hands went up in the air and the 
votes were tallied, the part was given to a 
little girl who had hissed and spit and meowed 
angrily, a feisty cat.

	I was more than crestfallen.  I felt that 
a great injustice had been done, to me and to 
cats everywhere.  I knew positively that I had 
been the best cat.  I mean, for Christ's sake, I 
cleaned myself with my tongue!  That's method 
acting if ever there were.  So what was this 
voting for the shallow blond cupie with the poor 
approximation of a feline?  It had been a 
mistake.  This part had been torn from me.  It 
was so unfair.

	So I threw a tantrum.  I put myself on 
the linoleum floor, and hollered, cried, kicked 
my legs and pummelled the ground with my little 
fists.  The teacher and the assistant teacher 
both hovered over me, leaned down into the danger 
zone to try to calm me.  But of course I wouldn't 
be calmed.  This was an ethical tantrum.  It was 
being thrown on principle, not out of some 
childish whim or lack of discipline.

	The teacher ventured in.  "Tobie.  Stop 
screaming, Tobie.  You can take another part in 
the play."

	"I wanna be the cat!  I wanna be the cat!"

	"Tobie.  You can't be the cat.  Everyone 
voted and you weren't chosen.  Come on.  Stop 
crying and join us.  You'll see.  There will be 
another part you can play."

	"I wanna be the cat!"

	This went on for a while.  The teacher 
and the assistant teacher took turns trying to 
persuade me out of my fit while the other amused 
the rest of the class.  Finally, the teacher 
addressed the little girl who'd been voted Dick 
Wittington's cat.  There was a huddle, lots of 
whispering, lots of beseeching.  The teacher came 
over to me.  I was still hollering loudly, not 
tired yet of throwing my cat fit.  She told me 
that I should stop my temper tantrum.  The other 
little girl had been gracious enough to give up 
the part of the cat to me.  She didn't really 
want it that badly, and it was clear that I did.

	The words almost didn't sink in.  What 
was this?  I threw a tantrum so I got what I 
wanted?  As I stopped shrieking and composed 
myself, I didn't know how to react.  Did I simply 
accept this, say thank you, and toodle off to the 
rest of the class?  Did I apologize for my 
behaviour and promise to be the best durn 
Wittington's cat that had ever been?  I was 
embarrassed about my awful behaviour, and not a 
little shocked that throwing a tantrum had 
worked.  Isn't it supposed to be otherwise?  I 
dried my tears, wiped my nose on the back of my 
hand, and joined the class.

	 I remember the play as if I were 
watching it from the audience, not as a member of 
the cast on stage.  I can see me there, at Dick 
Wittington's boots, rubbing up against his legs, 
meowing, curling up and sleeping, acting like a 
cat.  There was no opportunity to lick myself 
clean in the play.  The title role was actually a 
bit part.  It was mostly about Dick Wittington. 
But I can't give you any details.  I've long 
forgotten the gist of the play.  I don't even 
recall my costume.



 
‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡††††‡‡
 
†††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net