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Back in 1995, when I was around ten years old, my French dad and Midwestern mother did the “whitest” thing on the planet: they agreed to send me to cotillion. While “cotillion” literally means a formal ballroom dance that resembles the quadrille, that’s not exactly what this was.
See, my cotillion was more of a finishing school, held every Monday at an LA golf club.
That’s right. Every Monday—already the worst day of the week—I would swap my grass-stained jeans for a suit and tie, leave the comfort of my Lakers-themed bedroom, and have my dad drive me to cotillion.
Since I was still growing, my mother didn’t want to invest in suits and ties every couple of months, so I was forced to wear my grandma’s clothes. Not a typo, you read that correctly. I was a late-bloomer, and in the fifth grade, I stood at 4’10”, nearly the same height as my beloved Nana. She gifted me three of her Talbots blazers—one in cream, one in black, one in forest green—and each Monday I paired a coat with one of my father’s ties and a pair of too short, elastic-waisted khakis from Quiksilver.
My first session, I would know nothing about. I technically attended, but told the woman at the check-in desk that I was not feeling well, then hurried to the restroom, where I tried to sneak out of the window.
The window, however, was heavily screened, so I just sat in the stall for two hours, attempting to fold toilet paper into origami cranes, like I’d learned about in art class.
The next meeting, the following Monday, I planned on “not feeling well” again. This time I’d brought along a copy of my grandma’s Reader’s Digest. I’d wanted my Boys’ Life, but the size of Reader’s Digest was better suited to tuck against the back of my waist. I rehearsed my “illness speech” as the check-in line shrunk.
“Hi,” a voice said behind me.
I turned around. White dress, white shoes, white hair clips, white gloves even. I remember thinking she looked like a unicorn. “Hi,” I said.
“Cool jacket. Never seen a green one like that.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m Joanna.”
“I’m Mat.” I shook her hand. I’d never shaken hands with a glove-wearing girl before.
“I saw you last week, but then you disappeared,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Maybe we’ll dance later?” she said, checking-in. “It’s fun.” She capped the Hello Kitty pen she used to sign in and slid it back into her tiny purse.
“Okay,” I said.
She walked to the girls’ side of the dance floor, her white shoes making little tapping sounds against the hardwood.
I gave my name to the check-in woman. “I have a similar jacket,” the woman said.
“Great,” I said, walking to the guys’ side of the dance floor.
Not wanting to seem foolish for when I’d ask Joanna to dance, I found myself listening to Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, a married couple, who didn’t just preach, but demonstrated how to waltz, foxtrot, and ask a woman to dance. They showed us how to “cut in” (with the man giving another man a light tap on the shoulder), how to use a fork and knife, how to write a thank-you note, and how a gentleman should always walk on the outside of a woman.
After each demonstration, we guys were to cross the puzzle-piece floor and ask a girl to dance, then work through the routine to the best of our abilities. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins would survey the class, offering advice on posture and footwork.
I stood as tall as my Napoleonic frame would allow and approached Joanna. I didn’t say, “Care to dance?” or “May I have this dance?” or anything remotely suave. But I muttered something and Joanna got the idea, and better yet, she agreed.
As I teetered with Joanna, her hands cradled around my neck, inches from the Reader’s Digest, I began to feel the part: The argyle socks and shoulder pads and Brylcream seeped into my being, and I started to feel—dare I say—dapper.
Monday after Monday for the next five years, I learned about Windsor knots, gifts for party hosts, conversation tips, and dating etiquette.
And while I’ve never balanced a chemical equation since chemistry class or had to discuss Beowulf outside of a high school English essay, I have had to use my manners every day.
Many of Mr. and Mrs. Higgins’ lessons were lost on me, but I always understood the power of decorum and how it separates us from other species, how it allows us the opportunity to find common ground, ensuring that hairline fractures don’t split into chasms. When a person looks another in the eye, shakes his/her hand, and asks about his/her day, that person is spending time making a connection—and a person is less interested in tearing down any relationship they have taken time to foster.
When everything is about new and fast and state-of-art, we should remind ourselves of our most basic software, and continue to evolve while keeping the best of tradition.
I know I will continue to try. Only this time, I’ll work at it in a jacket that’s all mine. A 42 regular, sans shoulder pads.
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