TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 170

[Tobie Shapiro]

March 5, 2000000000000007



Dear Luminaries,

	The sun is not up yet.  But I am.  I woke 
up earlier than usual from a usual dream.  My 
usual dreams are ones where I am off someplace 
else where I've been for a long time, weeks, 
maybe months.  Now I am ready with  my bags 
packed, and I am trying to go home.  Going home. 
Going home.  There is always something about 
finding my car.  Where did I leave my car?  And 
there is always something about public 
transportation, finding the bus or trolley. 
Frequently there is an airport and/or an 
airplane.  I don't miss my flight or anything 
else you might expect in a dream about going 
home.  But in these dreams, I never actually 
arrive home and sigh with relief.  In fact, even 
though I am supposed to be going home, I have no 
real idea where that is, nor what it looks like. 
I just want to get there.

	I have no home?




 
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Hooping

	I got awfully good at the Hula Hoop.  If 
you've never heard of a Hula Hoop, I'll describe 
it.  It was like a hoop made of plastic tubing 
about an inch thick.  The hoop was about three 
feet in diameter.  The idea was to get it 
circling your waist, round and round, by 
undulating your hips in rhythm, forward back, 
forward back.  I got so I could keep it going 
forever if I wanted to.  It wasn't just back and 
forth.  There was a subtle writhe to it, a sexy 
hula dance, hence the name.  I was eleven years 
old when the Hula Hoop was Hot.  And it was very 
hot.  They couldn't stock them in the stores. 
Everyone had at least one.

	I envision one each for everyone in a 
family with ten kids, all ten of them plus the 
parents with the hoops swinging round and round 
in various states of grace and awkwardness, but 
keeping them aloft, all twelve with happy smiles 
on their faces.   And they are saying, "We love 
the Hula Hoop® (registered trademark).  It's good 
exercize."  The mother and curvaceous daughters 
(there are three curvy daughters) say in unison, 
"And it keeps my figure trim and attractive." 
The little ones, the seven, five and three year 
olds are twirling away, though the three year old 
has to start the thing turning again every other 
moment.  Each time he tries to start it, it drops 
with a clatter to the floor, and he has to stoop 
down, pick it up in both hands, and try all over 
again.  Whoops, no luck.  The little ones cry 
out, gleefully, "It's FUN!"  And the baby, 
sitting on the floor in diapers, is gnawing on 
the hoop for a teething ring.  It's a family 
affair.

	In our family, my brother was too young, 
but my sister and I both had Hula Hoops.  She was 
fair at it, but remember, part of her identity 
was invested in seeing herself as clumsy, so she 
kept dropping it.  She cursed, then she'd try 
again.  Then it would flop after a while.  She'd 
kick it, pick it up and get it started again. 
She'd get it going for a while and then it would 
spin down her legs to the floor and do its death 
rattle.  She'd snatch it up off the floor in her 
fist, curse at it, then throw it angrily across 
the room against the wall.  Spackle is also a 
family affair.

	I stood in the middle of my room hooping 
before my cello lesson.  It was effortless.  It 
was nearly boring, but I was counting the number 
of revolutions it made around my waist.  I got 
way up there in the hundreds, maybe a thousand. 
I just know that it was an awfully long time and 
while I was at it, the laser and the integrated 
circuit were being invented, real live people 
were being forced to sit in the back of the bus, 
and the river Ganges  carried its mystic powers 
by the cities along its banks.  I kept revolving, 
rotating, spinning, twirling, counting.  After 
about an hour, my mother called me.  It was time 
to leave for my cello lesson.  I caught the hoop 
in mid revolution and stopped my marathon.  I 
could have gone on forever.

	Going on forever, though, could get 
monotonous, so I started learning tricks.  I 
taught myself to spin it round my waist and then 
let it slide over my hips to my knees, and spin 
it round my knees.  Then I learned to spin it 
upwards toward my shoulders, lift my arms up and 
work it up to my wrists.  I'd take it off my 
torso with one wrist, transfer it to the other 
wrist, lower it down to my neck.  From my neck, 
I'd let it roll down to my waist again, then on 
down to my knees, and finally to my ankles, first 
one ankle, then the other ankle, both again, and 
back up to my knees, to my waist.  Whatever could 
be done with a Hula Hoop, I learned to do it.  It 
was the only form of physical exercize that I 
ever enjoyed.  Hours were spent swinging this 
thing around and around my body parts, while the 
world went on about its business.

	We heard about a Hula Hoop contest that 
was going to take place at Children's Fairyland 
in Oakland.  There would be judges and prizes, 
and maybe the winner's picture in the newspaper. 
I begged my parents to take me there.  For once, 
there was something popular I could do well. 
Everything else I did was arcane, rare, by and 
large unappreciated.  I rode in the back seat 
with my Hula Hoop beside me, fidgeting and 
looking out the window.  The contest began at 
10:00, a.m.  I lined up with the other 
contestants, ranging in age from six to late 
teens.  One of the judges stood at a microphone 
and announced the procedure.  When he said, "Go!" 
we were to start spinning and follow the 
directions that would be shouted out.  If the 
hoop should fall to the ground or receive any 
help from our hands, we would be disqualified.  I 
don't think that they judged us one at a time. 
From what I remember, it was just the throng of 
us, all spinning and hooping at the same time, 
while the judges walked around taking notes.  All 
the contestants eyed each other, sized up the 
competition, got nervous, gulped and sweated a 
little.  The judge said, "Go!"  I spun the hoop 
at my waist with all the others.

	"Bring the hoop as low as you can," came over the loud speakers.

	I brought it to my knees, then lowered it to my ankles.

	"Bring it back up."

	I brought it back to my waist.

	"Now get it as high as you can."

	I wiggled it up to my shoulders, then my 
neck and dipped my hand in to bring it up above 
my head, twirling on my wrist, extended as high 
as it could reach.

	"Back to your waist."

	I did so.

	There were a few men with cameras who 
were snapping photos of all of us, wriggling and 
gyrating, fused to our Hula Hoops.  The judges 
told us to stop.  I stopped.  The contestants 
eyed each other again.

	I think there were four judges.  They 
each went into the group of hoopers and took 
someone out to the side.  The rest were 
dismissed.  I was among the four.  We were 
invited to do our best, free form, as the supreme 
judges watched, their keen professional eyes 
focussed on the Olympian excellence of our 
performances.

	I let out all the stops.  Waist, knees, 
ankles, one ankle at a time, back up to the 
waist, arm pits, off onto one wrist, then placed 
it on my neck, kept it at my neck for long enough 
to transfer it off onto my other wrist, lifted my 
hand way above my head, added my other arm, spun 
it on both my wrists, dropped it down to my 
forehead, a new trick, then let it back down to 
my waist again.  I was concentrating hard, and 
didn't notice that everyone else had stopped Hula 
Hooping.  I was the sole survivor.  I won.

	Never have I forgotten the scene or the 
circumstances of a triumph so swiftly and 
completely as my first place Hula Hooping 
championship.  I forget how they informed me.  I 
forget what they gave me, whether there was a 
picture in the paper or a trophy, or just a, 
"Thank you, ma'am".  I rode home in the car, 
stunned.  When we got back home, I went up to my 
room and started to twirl my hoop again.  It was 
a seamless transition.  Ho hum.  I won.



 
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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net