Ballet, the bus and a grandma

Sometimes living downtown and working downtown is like being in high school. Or maybe on a college campus. You walk through the halls (or skyways) and down the streets, seeing different faces and sometimes the same. Most of the time, with the advent of technology, people have become detached, in sorts, from humanity. So focused on their iPhones or plugged into their iPods that they don’t truly see what is around them.

The other day on the bus, I ran into a grandmother and her granddaughter. Over the course of two years I have occasionally run into them on the bus. Mostly as an observer of their interactions, but one day it was more than that and this particular day I couldn’t recall why. I knew I had spoken to them about ballet before and I was compelled to get up and move to sit near them and chat.

It had maybe been 6 months or so since the last time I saw them, so I assumed they would not remember me. In seconds I thought of what the people would think of me as I moved to the back to speak with them and show the little girl ballet pictures on my phone. But frankly, as the thought crossed my mind, I realized I didn’t really care. We had a short chat and ride before they made it to their stop for a transfer. The conversation was circling ballet, and I said I thought it was wonderful that this little girl liked ballet in a world where most kids are drawn to hip hop, jazz and competition. At that point the grandmother mentioned that the girl’s mother didn’t care for it, but the little girl loved it.

They smiled and said bye as they walked the aisle to the front of the bus to exit. The little girl, maybe 7 or 8, was dressed in her school uniform with her thick white tights. A pink backpack hugged her shoulders and matched her jacket. As they left I remembered why I needed to speak with them.

For a year and half I said nothing to them. I watched and listened. But one day I couldn’t stand it anymore. The grandmother had given me an in while talking about ballet. It was there that I intercepted.

The little girl’s mother was not her primary caregiver. The grandmother was. She always made sure that the little girl knew how her mother was a bad person. Loudly. The whole bus could hear their conversations. At least the grandmother’s side. I would cringe. Listening to her yell at the girl for not wearing her mittens, or for dirtying her clothes at recess, or for being hopeful about her mother. It drove me bananas and I always wanted to stay “Stop yelling at her! She is just a little girl!”

Instead I kept to myself, pretending to focus on my email messages or a game on my phone. Heart breaking inside for the little girl. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t need to speak to her like that. And when I got her to stop, it was as swift as a grand jete across the stage, so she didn’t notice the redirection.

That particular day the argument was about whether or not the girl’s mother had seen her dance recital the previous year. The girl insisted she had. She and her grandmother went back and forth and back and forth. I understood that the grandmother wanted to protect her from her mother; she didn’t want to lead her to believe her mother could be a better mother only to have the little girl be hurt. But I don’t feel that fighting is the way to do it. And who am I to judge? A childless stranger on a bus. But I did. The girl continued to argue that she had seen a picture on her mom’s phone. The grandma insisted the mom was late and only saw her bow, using the picture as false evidence for having witnessed the recital. The little girl was hurt, but you could tell in her heart she did not believe her grandmother.  She wanted to believe mother had seen her dance.

I stepped in. I couldn’t stand the fighting anymore. The poor sweet little girl clearly already had enough issues to deal with and the grandmother constantly yelling at her could not help. I asked about ballet. I brought the focus back to the little girl and her love of ballet. For the next three stops I was able to bring a smile to her face and to help the proud grandma brag about the little girl’s talent. Relief crossed my tense shoulders and slipped down my back. With one attempt of stepping out of my comfort zone and intervening, I was able to have a peaceful ride. We all were. I did it for me, the bus driver, the passengers, and most importantly, the little girl. 

the clock with the knot

Industrial Arts Class. 7^th grade. I vividly remember the room although I can’t recall the teacher’s name. I can picture a couple boys in the class too. Our final project was to make a clock. I don’t really remember many details of the class, but this project I remember. We were allowed to select our wood from some pieces. We had to buy the wood. The wood I wanted to used was the more expensive kind; I didn’t care. I knew I wanted that wood. It was dark, like chocolate, and beautiful. It also had a knot in it. My instructor insisted that I sand out the knot. But I liked the knot. It was what made the wood perfect and unique. The knot was what drew me to select that particular piece of wood. I liked what the knot would do for my clock. It was like an eye into the tree. One remembrance that the clock was once a living thing and that it was art, created by my own hands and not mass manufactured in a production line of unhappiness. I don’t remember what I told the teacher. As a 12 year old, I was incredibly timid. If it were my sister in the same situation she probably would have argued the beneficial aspect of the knot until the teacher agreed with her and required all her classmates to have knots in their wood. I probably just nodded and walked away. Eventually he told me that if I didn’t sand down my knot I would get a lower grade for the project. I wasn’t going to sell out. Give up what I wanted for a grade. So again with the nod and likely a shrug, at least when I turned it in there was definitely a shrug, to let his disappointed tone roll off my shoulders and puddle at my feet. I was a proud owner of the perfect clock! The clock of my dreams.