Dance Lessons…

We had one of those ‘Living Rooms’… you know… the kind no one actually LIVES in.  It was at the front of the house in Queens. I remember my mom only let us go in when we had company.  Or at least that’s when we were ‘allowed’ to go in, so of course you know I was in there all the time.  I was crafty… I had stealth. In this living room we had an old school stereo system. You know… when systems were actually SYSTEMS. Everything was encased in a glass cabinet with a lock on it (probably meant for yours truly) equalizers, cassette decks, huge speakers with wire that went on and on for miles and the crown jewel… the turn table.

I remember there were times my mom would play music in there, Haitian music, Spanish music, Country Music.  She’d get all dressed up, perfumed down and sit or dance around in that living room. I asked her a few times “Mommy, where are you going” and she’d look down at me and say “Ohhhhhhh… I have to be going somewhere to look nice?” So I’d climb onto the forbidden sofa and placed both of my sweaty palms on the mirror (two of the walls were floor to ceiling mirrors). I’d blow hot breath so I could draw patterns onto it and watch her reflection dancing around behind me.

Now the living room in question was the ‘scene of the crime’ for many events in my young life. The earliest memory I have was of the all glass… two tiered coffee table. The one we ABSOLUTELY were not allowed to touch because we’d leave finger prints all over it. (Mostly me in that we), picture me almost out of diapers (2 maybe 3 years old) dressed in nothing but some white cotton panties (no idea why people let little naked babies run around) climbing on top of that coffee table and doing my first ever booty shake, shoot I thought I was a star. Of course there was the inevitable… crack… crash… bang… boom… and everyone came ‘a runnin’. I sat a bit stunned surrounded by glass bits… looked up at my mother (who was practically tearing her hair out by the way) my sister and my dad. “Hmmm maybe not again” was my only thought as I picked myself up, “Stay there! Stay there!” my mom screeched at me practically jumping up and down. Hind sight tells me she was probably afraid I’d be shredded and bloody. I on the other hand had no such notion, so I hopped my barefooted baby azz through the shards of glass and rubble then bounced out of the room completely unscathed before my mom could switch gears and start screaming at me. Not a scratch on me, and I think everyone was so relieved I was OK I didn’t even get in trouble. Hmm… who says God doesn’t protect Babies and Fools?

Next were those afternoons I would sneak in and watch ‘The Muppet Show’ on the big TV, and by big I mean one of those huge monsters that were built into an actual cabinet, speakers and everything. I’d watch and call my grandmother (my mother’s mother) anytime Miss Piggy was on the screen.  One of my only fond memories of her (as I have exactly 3) in those moments we got along (we mostly didn’t). She thought I was headstrong and mischievous (which I was) and should be more like my nerdy complacent older sister (which I wouldn’t). I thought she was cold and not very ‘grandmotherly’ but… she loved her some Miss Piggy and THIS was common ground.  She was amazed that food could walk, talk and wear lipstick on TV. She’d clap her hands and squeal like a little girl, sit down on the forbidden sofa and watch until that glamorous bit of swine was off of the screen.

We had functions in there, like my dad’s surprise birthday party, my first communion party, pretty much all of the parties, and believe me my mother loved throwing a full swing Haitian house party. Our Christmas tree was always set up in there. My dad would talk me into ripping open all of the presents so he could find out what they were, and I’d only ‘half’ get into trouble because my mom would know he put me up to it. I was in love with all things Christmas. My mom would leave the tree lights burning all night and I used to get out of bed and stare at the tree. We had a wooden mini bird in a birdhouse that chirped the night away and I’d get swept away by thoughts of Santa, Rudolph and Chip and Dale. I’d curl up underneath the tree and fall asleep surrounded by gifts…looking up at those lights. Every Christmas till puberty struck that’s how my mom would find me… every morning, until the tree went down.

Now to the best memory in that room PICTURE IT… there is music playing (something with a lot of bass and REAL instruments) the windows and shades are all open (never happens) sunshine drenching the room… ‘Mommy’s not home’ I thought to myself, ‘whose in the living room?’ So enter… the stealth… I tiptoed my way through the dining room, slowly peaked around the corner and assessed the situation (I was an avid Inspector Gadget watcher) there was my dad, alone, beltless, slacks drooping low, right hand on his ‘Santa belly’, wife beater, eyes closed, left hand raised like he was going to recite the Pledge of Allegiance swaying back and forth like leaves on a tree. “Papi! What are you doing?” I demanded stepping boldly into the room. “Ha ha ha hiiiii” (his signature crazy laugh smh) “I’m dancing” he announced then proceeded to do HIS version of MY Chi Chi dance. “Na Uh… that’s not dancing” I laughed my way over to him. “Let me show you something” he said placing both of my bare little feet on top of his, taking my hands in his. He then proceeded to shimmy around the room with me in what I’m guessing was his version of a waltz… yes… to something with a lot of bass and REAL instruments. I giggled the whole time looking up at him. He looked down at me, winked and said… “This… this is how you dance”.