Alex Yarde found his daughter’s dance recital a little shocking, but he realizes that aversion to change is a natural part of being a parent.
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Like many fathers, I recently attended my child’s Spring dance recital. It was a great event, complete with tutu-clad three year olds waving to their parents during their dance numbers. One of the competition dance groups, comprised mostly of teenagers, performed a flashy modern dance number to Lady Gaga’s “Calling all Monsters.” The girls were quite good and obviously enjoyed performing the very intricately choreographed number. During the routine, a few of the girls gyrated go-go style around a prop cage and others suggestively sashayed across the stage. At the end of the “Calling all Monsters” number, the friend my wife and I were sitting next to turned to us and said that she found the dance a bit shocking. She paused and then said, “Maybe it is me, they all seemed to be having fun. Am I projecting?” I had to laugh. My thoughts were going in same direction as hers. I felt the dance was a little too much, but maybe this is just the reality of today’s pop culture and I am too old to get it. Like Americans generations ago who were shocked at the birth of Jazz.
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Jazz emerged in New Orleans around the advent of the 20th century. It blended elements from varied traditions, including African, African American, religious, brass band, and blues styles. The improvisational music that resulted had a syncopated rhythm, and originally both the performers and audiences were African American. Early on, the juke joints and brothels of New Orleans’ Storyville, a notorious Red Light district, were the only venues for jazz. Black performers were banned from performing at white clubs. The dances and lifestyle that Jazz influenced were inherently threatening to the broader American public, so much so that in 1917, the Navy, fearing desertion (and race mixing) shut down Storyville. Instead of killing jazz, this helped it grow by scattering musicians, who joined riverboat bands or moved to cities such as Memphis, Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City and New York. The dances and lifestyle The Jazz Age produced flourished, being embraced by America’s youth of the day. The rest is history.
My own childhood had its own musical rebellion. Hip hop culture and rap music were starting to influence popular music everywhere. I remember listening to DJ Kool Herc. Herc, a Jamaican immigrant, delivered simple raps at his parties, inspired by the Jamaican tradition of toasting. Kurtis Blow and The Sugarhill Gang were getting played a little on the radio. Then it exploded. Africa Bambatta, Erick.B., Rakim, Big Daddy Kane, Biz Markie were making a name for themselves. My parents did not love this music. They clearly thought that the way I dressed, how I danced and the music I listened to were awful. The irony is that today many of the cutting edge personalities and groups I enjoyed growing up are now Muzak pumped through speakers at the mall.
It’s this way with all things, I suppose. Every generation searches to innovate, shake things up and free itself of the old fashioned ideas of the previous one and the cycle repeats. Now it’s my turn to be the old fogey. I guess the difference is realizing that MY daughter will (sadly before I know it) be the one snaking her way across the dance floor, and despite any rational argument it’s a bit unnerving. I certainly think of myself as an “enlightened” male. I try to look at gender and sexuality not through a misogynist, dogmatic or old-fashioned lens but a rational one based on gender equality. In this particular instance I failed, miserably! How much of my discomfort at this performance was my projection of “morality” on my children? I know that their sexuality, as well as every other aspect, will develop as they mature, and all I can do is help guide them through their growing process. But this is a daunting task.
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I struggle everyday with two realities. I’m a father. I am a teacher, mentor, friend and disciplinarian, when needed. I can offer a shoulder to cry on and a conscience. At the same time, I’m a son who is, at times, very much in need of all the things I’ve listed. Alongside my wife, I share a tremendous responsibility. I’m no kid anymore (even though I still feel like one as I wait for the summer blockbusters and build Legos with my children). I’m getting older (hopefully wiser) but still feel unsure. I can’t imagine my father being so conflicted. He was cool and he made it look effortless.
My father was a very distinguished gentleman. He was charming and knew everyone in the neighborhood. He carried himself with a poise that is lost in the day of baseball caps and crocs. He wore hats. He wore ties. He wasn’t wealthy but he could wear a suit like a movie star. He was basically Don Draper without the boozing and womanizing. I remember him being larger than life. He was a highly-ranked semi-professional athlete most of his life. He played world-class cricket on an island that is mad about the game. He was raised in a small fishing village by a single mom, in an era when that was looked down upon. Sadly, I suppose that is still the case in some quarters. But my grandmother was a strong, proud woman and instilled those qualities in my father.
My father was not formally educated for long but he was one of the smartest people I have ever known. He had “emotional intelligence” (as it would be called today). He had an innate ability to read people. He valued getting together with people and was a loving father. But he was also a strict disciplinarian and he kept my older sister and me in line. He was my hero. Sidney Pointier, James Bond and Batman rolled into one. He worked hard as a Customs Officer, rarely complained and helped raise my sister and I. He worked the day shift and my mother, who was an obstetrics RN, worked the night shift. So he was the one doing baths, helping with homework and tucking me in at night.
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Do my kids see me in the same way as I saw my dad? Maybe. It is hard to imagine that someone would see me that way. As a kid, I never realized (or cared to think about) how much there is to being a father. No book or class or theory can prepare someone for the work that goes into being a parent. Only now, looking back with time and experience under my belt, can I appreciate the sacrifices, struggles and responsibility. The intricate choreography I wasn’t privy too until I became a father. I now understand why my parents were concerned about my obsession with hip hop and rap. They were looking from their outdated generational perspective, as well as an understandable parental myopia that, ironically, I now share.
They were trying to protect and let go all at the same time. It’s a delicate dance to master. My folks, like the best dance partners, made impossible moves look graceful. They knew how to improvise in order to handle the unexpected curves we kids threw at them and, importantly, they knew how to play the silences. Giving us kids space to stumble, always there to pick us up if needed. Somehow the dance worked. Now, I am the one who has to have an open mind, keep my center and find those well-worn steps with my kids.
Once more, from the top.
Photo: Flickr/James Emery