Private School Mouse

I think I have a touch of claustrophobia.  When I was little and we played hide-and-seek, every time I tried hiding under the bed (because, really, no one EVER looks under the bed), I would get so freaked out - like sweaty palms, heart pounding, and a crushing fear that somehow I wouldn't be able to get out - that I had to find a new spot.

I hate running in large groups because it feels like the walls are closing in on me - don't ask me why I've decided to run marathons with 50,000 other people.  I'm a glutton for punishment, I suppose. The same could probably be said for my decision to live in NYC, given the size of my apartment.

Even being in the corps de ballet was a struggle - my own private hell, really.  Thirty or more dancers, performing the exact same choreography, with identical precision, acting as one unit, within inches of one another.  It made me want to scream and run into the wings.

I grew up in a Baptist Christian household - my dad was on the Board of Deacons, my mom the church librarian.  I, of course, was in youth group, volunteered by my parents to work with the two- and three-year-olds during Sunday School, and sent on countless retreats and camping trips over the course of my early adolescence.  I was to only have Christian friends.  I went to a private Christian school.  I was not allowed to listen to secular music aside from the Oldies and soft rock my parents played on the car stereo, and movies could only have a PG rating, at most.

In fourth grade, my parents decided to place me in public school, and things changed a bit - but not necessarily for the better.  At least not right away.  I heard language I'd never heard before at this new school.  I was frightened of and intimidated by the other students who were clearly SO much cooler and more worldly than I was (they had cable and could watch MTV!).  And there was no dress code, so my wardrobe was certainly not up to par.

I will say this about private school - the education was top notch.  At the new public school, I was way ahead of my fellow classmates, and my IQ (which no one would tell me following the test and I still don't know) was off the charts.  Good, right?  Um..well...I was put it a "special" class.  Now, of course to an adult this is exciting - and very impressive.  To a child who already doesn't fit in and is quiet as a church mouse, it's the social equivalent of a Scarlet Letter.

But who was I to say anything?  Combine the strict Christian upbringing with professional ballet training and you get a child who talks back to no one and obeys every instruction to the most minute detail.  I dressed as I was told, ate as I was told, was always early, made sure to get straight A's, and kept my fucking mouth shut.  Unless it was the correct answer to the question asked in class.  Hell, I didn't even yawn because that was disrespectful, or so my ballet teachers told me.

There is a stereotype about Christian girls once they are independent of their upbringing - you know the one.  They "go crazy" - sexually, socially, physically - it's a release of all the perceived and/or real repression.  I think there's a certain amount of truth to that, in general. If you keep a mouse in a cage long enough, when it gets out it's going to chew everything to bits.

Not exactly so with me, at least not right away.  Not until a little ways into college.  Even then, I had a mild case.  Hell, I didn't even date until I turned 23.  After that, however, I think it was all down hill.  I guess my good girl crazy needed a little longer to ferment.  But the thing about that - about the "letting loose" scenario - is that it's not any more pleasant than being boxed up.  As with all extremes, there is also risk involved.  And a lot of awkwardness.  And a lonely, self-concious exploration of the unknown and the scary.  And, finally, a loud thud when you hit the ground at the bottom.

A few years ago, I was cast in a solo performance piece in the Philadelphia Fringe Festival.  The catch with this particular show was that it had to happen in a four-foot by four-foot space, hence the show name, "4X4".  There were four, 10 to 15-minute plays in the production, all in different locations of a very old theater.  Mine was in the basement amidst cable, paint cans, electrical wires, etc.  The piece was a dark one called "Shovel" by Greg Romero - frightening, sad, and very difficult for me personally due to some volatile subject matter.  And, yet again, there I was in this box.  This four-foot enclosure.  It wasn't even real; it was chalk lines on a concrete floor.  But something about the limitation - the constricted playing space, the lack of an exit - reminded me of the space underneath the bed.  The corps de ballet.  The private school.  Even though the shackle on my leg was a prop, I somehow thought I knew what a real one was like.  Theatrically, the effect could not have been more perfect.  The audience's fear was palpable.  Many nights, so was mine.

I love to run in huge open spaces.  I can't not dance when given a big, open floor.  Set me in front of the ocean, and I'll be content for days.  Just, please, don't put me in a cubicle if you don't want to catch me gnawing apart my stapler.