Center Stage

Whenever a musical came around in high school, I would like to tell you I was the star of the show.   This would be a lie.  The first musical I tried out for was Oklahoma!  I tried out to be a dancer in the chorus.  I was told that I wasn’t cast because I was on the basketball team, and rehearsals and practice would conflict.  The truth?  I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I’m not all that graceful.  Perhaps the two activities did collide – whatever the case, I was relegated to stage crew.  No one headed up make up, so I took over.  I organized, sorted, and matched the needed hues to the whole cast -  I was in charge.  I did the eyeliner on the guys and advised the girls.   I doled out the foundation sticks, highlighted cheek bones, and kept everyone stage ready at all times.  No melting under my watchful care.

I remember one particular incident when I was trying to line Lee’s eyes.  In fact, it was for the drama/comedy You Can’t Take It With You.  I was in the play, but somehow was still doing make-up, as well.  Lee was having none of it – convinced I was performing some sort of back alley lasik on him, he fidgeted and cursed   At final dress rehearsal, I was kneeling next to his chair, trying to finish his make-up so I could go get mine done. Fidget. Curse. Fidget. Curse.  Finally, in an exasperated huff, I elbowed him in the crotch.  One more curse.  Then he sat still.  And every night thereafter. It wasn't that Lee didn't want his eyes lined – he knew he had recessed sort of piggish eyes that just do not stand out on stage without help.  So, what was it then?  In retrospect, I’d say Lee took pride in being different and difficult.  And, he wanted to do his own make-up.  Fast forward to his junior year and Lee could apply his own eyeliner.  He still cursed and probably fidgeted; I didn't have to deal with it, but we weren't really on good terms either.

Just last week, my 11 year-old son, Nate, got his ear pierced.  With my blessing and my thirty-six dollars.  He had wanted to do so for about six months, and I put him off.  He did the pre-pubescent equivalent of fidgeting and cursing:  hounding me.  Every time he thought of it:  in the middle of the night, while driving to Kroger, pumping gas. By putting Nate’s request off, I was in control.  I was kneeling by his chair, trying to make him look the way that his dad insisted him to for the world.   I knew his father (my ex-husband) would not approve of a piercing, but when push came to shove, my son had good reasons for wanting it, and I saw no valid reason to deny him a show of self-expression.  And, any thinking parent of an adolescent will tell you that if an earring and an occasional weird haircut are as bad as it gets, you’re batting 1.000 in the teen parent league.  However, upon informing his father of this fact, dear old dad kindly banned my son from his home and his mother (son’s grandmother) quickly followed suit. 

My son offered to cover the offending 3mm stud with a small, skin tone bandage while visiting his dad and grandmother.  This offer was firmly declined.  He was then subjected to a litany of reasons why earrings were not for boys:  not socially acceptable, not Biblical, buying into Hollywood propaganda, earrings are only for girls, your mother made you do this, you are embracing the homosexual lifestyle.  The list actually does go on – in a similarly ridiculous way.

The fact of the matter is that he wanted to get his ear pierced for legitimate reasons:  it makes him feel cool; his brothers both have one; he likes it.  Simple.  But, what he really wanted, was some control.  He wanted me to quit kneeling by the chair; he wanted control over one square inch of ear lobe realty.  A boy, starting middle school in the fall, wanting to have some control of his own body?  Seems reasonable.  Seems plausible.  And, if you've been a pre-pubescent boy, it’s nice to control something about your ever-changing body.  Not really that big of a deal despite father’s and grandmother’s alarm that the yawning mouth of hell was opening, ready to swallow him whole. 

One might argue that I could have avoided all of this by not allowing the piercing.  By putting him off.  By kneeling next to the chair, demanding to be in control.  We have all seen our share of kids who went down questionable paths when denied the right to self-expression. Nate is verging on being the age where he does, in fact, get to start making his own decisions, and this is a minute one in the grand scheme of things.  I don’t want to have to throw an elbow to the groin, so I’ll let him grow his hair and have an earring.  It is his turn in the limelight.  I’m happy for him.  He is doing his own eyeliner.  After all, I don’t need to take center stage here; my only job to make sure that he doesn't melt under the glare of the lights.