Taking the boys to
cotillion was not exactly a pleasure, a privilege or a chore. It was a combination of all these things with a large dash of
tension added for
spice. Four boys from our neighborhood attended this glorified dancing school which was designed to introduce adolescents into the niceties of interaction between the sexes. As these boys were emerging from their childhood world in which the sexes didn't mingle, this situation was fraught with emotion. The parents cooperated in providing transportation and we got a
chauffeur's view of some of the elements involved.
The tension was worse going, of course. The conversation among the boys centered on who would get stuck with whom on the dance floor. Most of it was about the witch. The witch was a girl who seemed just like the others to the observing parents except perhaps a little more shy than most. Of course, she was taller than the boys, but as the other girls were also, that couldn't be it. Her hair was straggly, and she was pale, but who wouldn't be in such a situation? Whatever qualities were involved which invited the focus, the focus was there.
"I hope I don't get stuck with the witch," George would say.
"I'm not going to," Joe would say. "I'm going to ask the nearest girl to dance, and then I won't have to worry!"
My son would say, "But what if she asks you when it's ladies' choice?"
And so it went, all the way to the party. Coming back was even worse. The tension was reduced only to be replaced with the hilarious excitement that comes from relief. Then they kidded each other about how near they had been to seduction or, if one of them had actually danced with the witch, the entire conversation would deal with that event.
Parent chauffeurs tend not to be as detached as salaried ones, and the parents were often concerned about this scapegoat. They would commiserate with the boys saying, "Have you no feeling for the girl at all?" Such remonstrations were in vain, of course, the boys had feeling only for their own insecurity. In practice it was not as bad as it sounded in the car. The by-play was subtle on the dance floor, although some scuttling reached the surface at times. The girl was alone, and frightened, and ill at ease. So was everyone to some degree. It just showed more here.
The second year, although the same cast was playing, was entirely different. The boys talked about their conquests rather than about the witch. The situation no longer threatened them for they were growing up. They could now look down on the girls physically, and that helped greatly.
My son still reviews those years with pain. They were miserable ones in his life when he had comrades rather friends, yearnings rather than achievements, needs rather than satisfactions. Growing pains hurt not only us but others as well.
Today he is kind. Still highly selective of those to whom he relates, he none-the-less hurts no one. It takes many things to make a boy a man - cows full of milk, mountains of scuffled shoes, handsful of patience and understanding, but most of all love - love that can make a distinction between you and what you do. We all have witches in our lives, but I hope there is One who understands mine as I understand my son.