My First Gentleman

Once upon a time, far too long ago, I was only fourteen years old and in grade eight. Grade eight was a kind of hell. I was nearly as tall then as I am now and I had all the curves of a lamp-post. The two lumps on my chest were the size and sexiness of grapes and I was convinced they would never, ever grow. I wore pink glasses with fancy gold rims. I didn’t know a thing about makeup and even less about fashion. Teachers loved me; boys did not. That was the year I began to cry for no reason. Those same hormones that were supposed to be helping me to fill out a sweater were causing havoc in my stick-like body in the form of unexplainable bouts of misery and pimples in the most unfortunate of places. And girls that age are vicious, aren’t they? There was one girl in particular who was the cruelest of the lot. She made it her job to decide each day who was to be ostracized – to be talked about but not talked to, laughed at, excluded. I often bore the brunt of those decisions.

Grade eight graduation stood for me as the culmination of all that was horrible about those middle school years. My once-long hair had been chopped short after a disastrous perm. It was the mid-eighties and perms were in. My friend Cathie’s had turned out perfectly; I looked like a badly shaved poodle. Then I sprained my ankle on the day of graduation while we were decorating the hall and I ended up walking with a cane. My Mum did her best. She tied ribbons and flowers to the top of my cane to match the colour of the dress she had made for me. She tucked a few little pale blue flowers into my brittle hair. I polished my pink glasses and wore blue eyeliner. I looked in the mirror and tried not to cry. I had never felt uglier.

It’s not the graduation ceremony itself that I remember; it’s more the dance that followed. I managed some of the fast dances, those that took place in groups of girls I had known since nursery school. I used my cane for support and held my bad foot aloft. I was graceless but at least I was participating. Then a slow song would come on and there wasn’t a boy in that room who would dance with me. I didn’t really blame them either. I sat through slow song after miserable slow song not wanting to watch the couples, not knowing where else to rest my eyes. I sat alone, trying hard not to be seen, but I was too big, too obvious, to be a proper wall-flower.

That was when my Dad walked in. Our dance was being held at the local legion and my Dad, a member, had been in the room next door. He was all dressed up in a white shirt and tie, though his sleeves by that time of the evening had been rolled up to reveal his darkly tanned forearms and butterfly tattoo. He walked straight up to me, sitting there on my chair pushed against one wall. He held out his hand and asked me to dance. Behind him, I could see all the other couples swaying back and forth in their ridiculous, groping embraces and I felt a little embarrassed, a little pathetic. No one else was dancing with a parent and I thought he was feeling sorry for me. But when I looked up, there was no sign of pity in my Dad’s eyes. All I saw there was his fierce pride, that same way he had been looking at me all my life. My Dad was rescuing me the way only a father can. And he was teaching me that I deserved no less than a true gentleman. I stood up, leaned on his arm, and we made our way to the middle of the floor. As we danced, he leaned down a little to whisper in my ear, “You are beautiful.”

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(I know it’s late, but Happy Father’s Day…with love)

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