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NEWSLETTERS
Aug./Sept. 04 GoatNotes
With the turn of the leaves and the toll of the school bell, fall has
arrived. Hearing the yellow bus squeal to a stop in my neighborhood, I'm
reminded of my own days as a passenger to and from school. And the thing
I remember most, the one thing that obsessed my young mind to no end in
those days was that I just ... wanted ... to ... fit ... in. As a grown
woman, I've learned (and I'm still learning) that standing apart from
the crowd and doing your own thing can often be very rewarding or at the
very least satisfying. But the little-school-girl-me wanted no part of
any of that. I mean, I *ached*
for acceptance. And I firmly believed I knew exactly what it was that
separated me from that "in crowd" I so wanted to be a part of:
My mother. It was all my mother's fault, if for no other reason that she
showed her love for us by insisting on picking out our clothes for school.
Needless to say, this pummeled my independent heart. (Yes, the same independent
heart that wanted so badly to wear "normal" clothes just like
all the cool kids so I could fit in with everybody else and not stand
out). But none of that mattered, because my mother dressed us, and that
was it!
So, every morning, standing as rigid as the ironing board we used to starch
our pants, my mom would meet us at the front door at 0600 hours (Military
time is an unambiguous, concise method of expressing time used by the
military, law enforcement, hospitals, and other entities. Military time
uses a 24-hour time scale that makes the use of a.m. or p.m. unnecessary.
Midnight corresponds to 0000, 1 p.m. corresponds to 1300, and so on. But
I digress. Does anal retentive have a hyphen?).
Only upon passing her inspection were we permitted to cross the threshold
of camp Hendrix and go out into the chilly dark to wait for the school
bus. One afternoon, during math, I grew increasingly frustrated as I struggled
with the restricting collar of my shirt. I called it my "itchy doily"
shirt because it resembled a napkin, curled up like a cone, and it irritated
the bottom of my neck. For the mathematically challenged, sitting through
addition was hard enough! As I scratched my neck raw, an idea bloomed.
I came to the realization that I couldn't wear what wasn't there. Not
for one more week! I was
going to have to take action.
So ... one evening after supper, I took out the trash. And with it, a
paper sack filled with undesirable items from my closet. In the shadow
of the trees, I jumped the fence into the ally which ran parallel to my
backyard. With my heart pounding in my throat, I raced to the spot I'd
picked out the day prior. Being scared of the dark, I hastily tossed the
neon green "high waters" (what some call Capri's these days),
every item I owned that was polyester and of course the "itchy doily"
into the hole I'd dug. Lastly, I ripped up and buried my sister's bright
blue polka-dotted dress. I didn't do this for her. I did it because that
bright blue dress with polka-dots the size of fifty cent pieces was soon
to be my hand-me-down. I shuddered in glee as I covered it up with dirt.
Completing my task, I sprinted back home, cleared the fence like Olympian
Gail Devers in the hurdles, and whistled my way back into
the house. Slinking into the room I shared with my sister, I curled up
on my pillows and slyly looked at her as she arched her eyebrows in one
of her "you're going be in so much trouble" looks.
Sure enough, fur flew the next morning when my mother discovered most
of my wardrobe missing. She threw her hands in the air in disgust and
put me on instant dress restriction. That was a fate worse than death!
With head down, I boarded the bus that day in what I called my "Buttercrust
Dress" due to the fact that it was red-checkered and looked like
a table cloth. It had been spared burial because I'd forgotten to sort
through my laundry basket. Walking down the aisle, I forced a smile through
my braces. I took my seat, clutching my lunch bag reeking of egg salad
sandwich in my lap, and dutifully saluted my mother through the bus window.
And on I ventured down the road to yet another day of sixth grade.
Fast forward to today, 10 long years later (or there abouts!) Now that
I'm all grown up (or there abouts), I have to say, if I cared what people
thought of me now as much as I cared in the sixth grade, I'd never, ever
step foot on a stage again. Don't get me wrong -- as a performer, I *do*
care about pleasing those that come to see me. I just can't worry about
what they think. Sure I want to be accepted, but I truly feel it has to
come from within myself. And my beliefs were proven true at my first ever
back-to-school Hootenanny for Children's Charities at Floore's Country
Store in Helotes, Texas (right outside of my hometown, San Antonio). Raising
well over $15,000 dollars, the fundraiser for Kinetic Kids (www.kinetickidstx.org)
was a total success. As children ran about with ice cream drizzling from
their chins, folks in the audience mingled at picnic tables and fanned
themselves off with water bottles and beer koozies. In the blistering
sun, I mc'd the musical event as my hair stuck to the sides of my face
like Olympian Michael Phelps' swim cap and my mascara turned to taffy
and glued my eyes shut. But the audience hung with us, and heat aside,
musician after musician took to the stage and performed for a cause they
knew very little about -- except that it was for kids, and that was enough.
The McKay Brothers, Luke Olson, Susan Gibson, and Adam Carroll stayed
the whole day and joined me and my band that evening on a radical version
of "Wind Me Up" that I will *never* forget. Without a care for
what anyone thought, many handi-capable kids joined us on stage as well
to sing along. Choreographed on the fly, little hands and big hands twirled
in the air in a winding motion as every chorus sped up. By the end of
the song we all had the giggles and were dizzy with the fun of it all.
It was without a doubt one of the highlights - if not *the* highlight
- of my career to date.
These Kinetic Kids, physically challenged though they may be, were blissfully
unaware of any need for acceptance. Completely comfortable in their own
skin, they laughed, sang and danced (even in wheelchairs), all for the
fun of it. In doing so, I had fun too! And I need to remember how to keep
that feeling in my heart now that the moment's passed. I was once reprimanded
by a colleague for using the word "funner" (some insist it's
not a word) in a literature class. It hurt my feelings. I was worried
I had sounded dumb. Oh, what I miss when I'm off wrestling with those
dragons that have outposts in my head! Going against this linguistic purist,
(does anal retentive have a hyphen?) I have to say there is indeed such
a word, dang it! Kinetic Kids are "funner" in the fact that
they just live for the day, grateful that they have one to live. I could
have learned so much from these kids had I known them when I was their
age. And there's still a lot to learn from these brave children and their
parents today. Which is why I'll do this benefit concert for them again
next year. Only maybe we'll wait until the weather's just a little bit
cooler. It'll make it "funner" ... because like I said ... I'm
still learning!
Happy Trails!!!
© (P) THM Music 2004
Mailing list additions and deletions terri@terrihendrix.com
www.terrihendrix.com
Email list subscriptions: Anne Currie
wilory@corridor.net
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