Irish Dancing Lessons

My very first memory of St. Patrick's day was when I was six years old, and in first grade. I woke up with a horrible stomach ache, which was fairly common for me back then. I had what was later described as a "nervous stomach" and would be plagued by the most horrible stomach aches that would give me the sweats, and keep me doubled over for hours at a time. I pleaded with Gran to please let me stay home from school, and she relented. I dressed in a very festive green striped shirt, in honor of St. Patrick's day that day. I stayed home, miserable, unable to stand for long periods of time, and suffered for many hours that day. Gran's daughters came over, and wanted to know what was wrong with me. Gran told them that she believed I was faking, that I simply did not want to go to school, and they took one look at me and told her that they didn't think I was faking at all. I have always had dark circles under my eyes, and that day they were very prominent, with a greasy sweat on my face, and pale complexion. I didn't eat much for breakfast or lunch, which seemed to convince Gran finally that I was not faking. I always ate. I was a hungry little kid, and always ate whatever was in front of me. I remember sitting, doubled over, on the couch most of the day, until it was time to pick my brother William up from his day at Kindergarten.

The walk seemed to do me a bit of good, and by later that afternoon I felt a bit better. Maureen came home from her day of second grade, and we played under the dining room table till dinner time. That day we would be having ham, potatoes and cabbage for dinner. I disliked the cabbage, but I loved the ham. It was delightfully salty, and I loved anything with more taste than a bland potato, which Gran seemed to favor. Nothing was ever enhanced with butter or salt, so I choked down the dry mealy potatoes and bitter, uninspired cabbage with tiny bites and lots of swallows of milk. We were never allowed to have any meat for our first helping of food, and when we were finished with our potatoes and cabbage, only then were we granted a small portion of meat, usually a tiny two inch square of meat which we would gobble up gratefully with large bites of yet more potato and cabbage. Every year on St. Patrick's day we would suffer the same meal.

Every dinner time, Gran would stand over us expectantly, waiting for the dutiful, "Mmm, this is delicious!" If we did not say it, she would demand to know what was wrong with the meal, so it was always better to tell her it was delicious, rather than suffer the consequences of not enjoying it. If our young taste buds did not agree with one of the bland suppers she prepared for us, she took it personally, and we'd get the cold shoulder for hours afterward. Sometimes she would be in such an ill humor about it, that she would pick at us until we were crying at the table. It was always better to pretend it was delicious. I was always a very slow eater, but never more so than when we had cabbage and potatoes, or the dreaded fish cakes. Gran was well aware that I detested fishcakes, but forced me to eat them anyway. At the end of every meal, we would announce; again, dutifully, "Thank you, Gran, that was very delicious." Gran would then nod her head and we'd be excused from the table.

One evening after supper, she announced that she had a big surprise for my sister and I, and told us she had arranged to have dancing lessons for us. We were so excited! Many of our friends at school took ballet or tap, or jazz, and we longed to join them. She walked us next door to the Democratic club, where a large room full of people waited. She told us that we were to be taking Irish dancing lessons, and we were mystified by this, as we had no idea what this was. I looked around anxiously for my school mates, but saw no one. She introduced us to our teacher, whose name was Donny Goldin, and left us there. Donny was a harsh taskmaster. We were put in the beginner's group, and taught stretches that would strengthen our calf muscles, and taught us the steps to the Irish jig. He demonstrated the steps over and over, and was very strict about our hands remaining straight and stiffly at our sides. We were not allowed to dance these steps yet. We had to walk through them very slowly for weeks, and not to any of the merry music that played and reverberated throughout the Democratic club. I loved the sound of the fiddle music, it sounded both merry and mournful, and had a lilt to it that I felt to my soul. Over time, I'd grow to dread that music, though.

We went to Irish dancing lessons every single Thursday night. In some ways, I enjoyed it, but I'd soon grow to hate it.

Donny was a very harsh teacher. If for some reason, our hands did not remain at our sides, or our calf muscles did not extend the way he wanted, he would hit us with a stick. I hated that stick. Many Thursday nights, I felt the sting of that stick. We grew to become very accomplished Irish dancers, however, we hated it at the same time. Soon we'd be allowed to dance fast, like the more experienced dancers. Some nights, Donny would favor Maureen, and on other nights, he'd favor me. I seemed to be the one who would get hit more often with the stick.

One night, I was feeling a bit more clumsy and made a few mistakes. Donny would yell, and I'd get more and more nervous and flustered, and kept making mistakes. Donny hit me relentlessly with the stick, and I became so hysterical, that I almost vomited. Maureen was very angry, she was always my protector, and as I was excused by a disgusted Donny, she went over to tend to me, against his orders, and she devised a plan to destroy his stick. I was wearing a green sweater that night, and she spotted his stick laying on the floor. While he was busy with another pupil, she threw my sweater over the stick, and carried it outside, and threw it behind the building. My sister was SO BRAVE for doing that. I was in awe of her, and how fearless she was. We wanted to break that stick into a million peices, but we couldn't. It was one of those sticks you would get on a hanger, from a dry cleaner's place, and Donny had removed the hanger and kept the stick. We could only bend the stick, but boy would that thing sting!!

The next week, Donny was a bit nicer to us, and was on to torture the next hapless pupil. He kept looking at us though, and had a brand new stick, this one was wooden, and we were worried about that stick more than the first one. He kept smirking at us, and we decided that he knew all along that we had stolen his first stick. Thank God Sean was picking us up that night.

I did not know why our teacher was allowed to hit us with a stick, but when we told Gran about it, she was unconcerned for us. She seemed more concerned with us not embarrassing her, and told us that we must have deserved it. She seemed to be on Donny's side, and told us that she did not want to hear about us being hit with the stick anymore. If we got hit with a stick in dance class, that meant we weren't listening, and if we got in trouble with Donny, we'd be in worse trouble when we got home. This taught us very quickly to not tell Gran about our troubles with Donny's punishments. Some nights, Sean would walk us down to the Democratic club for dancing lessons. We would beg Sean to come in with us, so that Donny could see him, and know that we had a big brother who would protect us. Sean ALWAYS came in with us, but only stayed for a little while, before he'd leave. It seemed that on those nights, Donny was not as mean to us. Sean would pick us up and have a quick word with Donny, asking how we did that night. As with most bullies, Donny was a sycophant, and would tell Sean that we were his best pupils.

As I entered fourth grade, one of the older students, Patrick, started paying attention to me. He was in seventh grade, and had started out liking my sister. Maureen was "in love" with Patrick, and I was very intrigued by this. I decided that I too, was in love with Patrick, and developed my very first crush. Patrick went to our school, and we used to devise many ways of getting his attention. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't have a crush on him, that it was disrespectful of me to like someone my sister liked, as I was very young, just a little kid, really. Maureen started getting angry with me when Patrick started paying attention to me, and I couldn't understand why. I thought she'd be proud of me, for liking someone she liked, and consider me as grown up as she was. In my eyes, no one was more a hero to me than Maureen, and what she did, I did.

This crush I had developed over time, and for my birthday, Patrick gave me a St. Christopher's medal, and took me behind dancing school and kissed me on the lips. I had just turned ten that day, and thought I was the most grown up person in the world, having been kissed by an older boy. I thought he was terribly grown up, as his breath smelled of coffee, and decided that Patrick was the boy I would some day marry. The next day at school, he ignored me, and started paying attention to another girl in my class. I was crushed. I asked him why he didn't like me anymore, and he disdainfully told me that I was too young for him, that when a guy kisses you, you should kiss back, not just stand there like a dummy. Patrick made the rounds, and got all the girls in St. Margaret Mary's school in such a state, that we were all fighting over him. I didn't know why he had said I was too young, as he was now paying attention to another girl in my same grade. Why was I too young and she wasn't? I turned to my sister for sympathy, but she wasn't having it. She told me I had stolen Patrick from her, and she was glad he didn't like me anymore. Maureen and I eventually made up, but I'd never forget the hurt in her eyes. It never occurred to me that I had hurt her by liking Patrick.

One night, Donny announced that there was going to be a Feis. A Feis was an Irish dancing competition, and he picked my sister and I to be in it. We were honored, but also VERY scared. Were we good enough? He was always telling us how terrible we were, but then he picked us for a competition? What if we lost? We'd be humiliated!!! We trained for weeks, trained HARD, and got very good. We went to Patrick's house for practice, as arranged by Donny, and Patrick's mother. We endured Patrick being nice to one girl after another, and his sister Eileen watching our reactions smugly. We hated Eileen, she was always mean to us. She was always encouraging Patrick to do mean things to us, and those practices at his house were miserable. We wanted to drop out of the Feis because of it all, but Gran wouldn't let us.

One week before the Feis, Gran told us we were not going to be going to the Feis, that she had already told Donny. We asked why not, and she defensively told us that she did not want us to be in a competition. We were crushed. All that hard work for nothing. All those nights with Donny and his horrible stick. He was even more fevered, more driven, and drove us harder than ever, in preparation for the Feis.

After the Feis, we were too humiliated to return to dancing school. We begged Gran to let us drop out, and she refused. We went to a few more classes, and were miserable, as Donny told us it was too bad we didn't go, that he knew we were good enough, but it was too bad we didn't have the nerve to compete. We knew it was useless to try to convince him that we wanted to compete, wanted it in the worst way, because grownups never believe kids.

At every single family event, Gran would parade Maureen and I like circus monkeys, and tell us to perform our Irish dancing for the amusement of her family. We hated this. But we dutifully performed, humiliated, and her family would clap for us. At one function, her nephew's graduation party, she told us to get up there and dance. We begged her not to make us do it, but the flash in her eyes was enough to quiet our objections. We danced, in front of all those people, while Gran smirked with feigned pride, enjoying our discomfort. Her nephews were very good looking boys, and Maureen and I were 13 and 12, respectively, and had developed a crush on these boys. There was one who was 14, and one 15, who Maureen and I had secretly liked for a couple of years. We rarely saw them, and every time we did, Gran would make us go up and do the blasted Irish jig in front of them.

Why couldn't we have had ballet lessons, or even tap? Nope, it had to be Irish dancing, as Gran was obsessed with everything Irish, down to the bland mealy potatoes she served with almost every meal.

To this day, I cringe just a little bit when I hear Irish music, but I also feel a bit of pride, too. We were very good little Irish dancers, and knew we were good enough to compete, even though Gran tried to convince us that we weren't.

I am half Irish, and am proud of my heritage. I love the Irish side of me. I'll never forget the day she finally let us quit Irish dancing, it was a scant few months after that fated Feis, when we finally wore her down enough to let us quit. Sean would take us to dancing lessons, and we'd beg him to take us somewhere else, anywhere else, for that hour, and just TELL Gran we had gone. He never dared, but he did speak to Gran on our behalf, I think, because finally we were allowed to quit.

It was the most releif I had ever felt in my young life, and Maureen's, I think, to be able to end those dancing lessons.

These days I enjoy Irish music, anything celtic, as a matter of fact, and I make corned beef instead of ham. I spice up my cabbage with salt and pepper, and serve it with plenty of butter. It's one of my favorite meals.