I was in that state being half awake and remembered that it
may be Easter weekend coming up. That made me think of something, then something
else, then something else, and then today’s topic.
See, I first remembered a program in the little auditorium at
Lakeside Elementary school in Pine Bluff during which the fifth-grade boys had
to sing In Your Easter Bonnet. We
pulled it off and it was okay. Singing off-key in front of folks doesn’t scar a
person for life. Ask anyone who has ever performed the National Anthem at a baseball game.
But then I thought of another incident that originated when
my Cub Scout den mother got a new neighbor. This neighbor was the wife of a former
Navy man, and she was Hawaiian. I mean she was a real Hawaiian. She and my den
mother became close friends. That’s what got it all started.
See, our den had to put on a program at our school. Women
being the devious and mischievous creatures that they are, our den mother and
her friend got up an idea for which its levity was only exceed by its cruelty.
It’s true. Oh, did I mention that the neighbor, who was Hawaiian, was an expert
at native dancing?
What then, could be more damaging to the collective psyches
of a bunch of young boys than to make them stand in front of a room of peers
and adults and “perform” a Hula, in imitation costumes?
Oh yes, we did. There was a popular song out, from the old Arthur
Godfrey show, called The Hukilau.
Nothing would suit these two women but that they would teach us this song and
its accompanying dance moves. Further, our mothers would make the costumes from
crepe paper, to heighten the air of authenticity, and to torture us more
adroitly.
Picture it if you will. The costumes included a single strip
of crepe paper across our bosoms. I’m sure there was a Hawaiian word for it but
Sainted Mother forever referred to it as my “little brassier.” For the bottom
part of the outfit, strips were cut to resemble the grass skirts worn on the
islands.
Want an idea of what we did, my pals and I? Click here and
let your imagination do the rest.
We pulled it off. We were able to hold ridicule on the playground
to a minimum as there were a couple of guy on the football team, and one
alumnus of Reform School who had suffered right alongside the rest of us. Long-term
effects were more insidious. I think the ordeal thwarted my intention to become
a fireman, and I began to consider a backup plan as a brain surgeon. Even then,
I feared being interrupted during a delicate operation with, “Hey, aren’t you
one of the ones who did the hula dance at Lakeside Elementary that time?”
It didn't even help to imagine my tossing a lobe into a pan and saying "Hula means 'dance,' so when you say 'hula dance' you're saying, 'dance, dance' smarty pants."
It didn't even help to imagine my tossing a lobe into a pan and saying "Hula means 'dance,' so when you say 'hula dance' you're saying, 'dance, dance' smarty pants."
I finally opted for different careers, first as a naval Bosun’s
Mate and then as an urban planner, both being professions in which an aberrant
past is not only accepted but considered formative.
Others of the group were reduced, from their embedded shame,
to practicing such things as law or chiropractory. One even became a TV evangelist.
To say that the event scarred us is like saying a military-school education makes
a child want to “get back” at the world.
I could name names of the still living survivors, some of whom
matured into respected senior citizens. I might even land a spot on Sixty Minutes to discuss my information.
Ah, but I’m not into blackmail.
On the other hand, there is this new guitar I’ve been
wanting. Further, there may be a photograph or two. Just saying.
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| Yeah well … You may think it's funny. |
