tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4660157619344587652024-03-08T11:08:40.584-08:00Flip Yer Wig- An Irish Dance Mom's ViewAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04876534497354507443noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-466015761934458765.post-45322316353209143742012-12-03T15:10:00.002-08:002012-12-03T15:29:03.069-08:00A response to Mike Farragher's ill conceived and written article in the Irish Voice...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In response to Mike Farragher’s ill conceived
and written article about Irish Dance in the Irish Voice…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Well now Mr. Farreher, I now know why
organizers weren't keen on giving you access... I had so much more hope for you
and your ability to go beyond the haze of tanner and hairspray fumes and see
the underlying core of why we engage in this crazy dance world. I guess I just
expected more, especially from the consummate expert on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Irish cultural experience</i>. But
this just paints the same old picture of stressed out crazy moms and dads and
high maintenance dancers… nothing new. It could be Abby Lee or my favorite,
the Dance Moms of Miami.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The dances that were performed during
the ceili competition you watched are dances our ancestors have danced for
centuries. You should mention some of the names of them to your Mom and Dad
(they weren't all a variation of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“A
Trip to the Cottage”). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm sure
they would bring a smile to their faces as they remembered some Saturday
evening dancing in their kitchens back home. I know that I see my Dad
smile when he sees Kathryn dance them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And, it makes me smile when I listen to them discuss parts of the dance
much the way the Monday morning quarterbacks discuss plays of a big Sunday
night football game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Speaking of which... I often find it
odd that we think<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>spray tanning
(which I'm fairly confident you would have jumped at the chance to don a Speedo
and tan your sexy gams to show off under your kilt) is odd but slapping pads
and full gear on a seven year old and putting him on a football field in the
middle of the hottest day of August seems "normal". Or that an
organization that is geared toward children uses cookies to promote and fund
the organization even though childhood obesity is at an all time high.
Trust me I've eaten my share of Thin Mints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But forgive me if I don't understand why we think the
primping and priming are strange in Irish dance, yet seem to over look them
when our 9 year olds gyrate to some inappropriate pop song in some scantily
clad outfit in “mainstream dance”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now I'd be lying if I told you I loved
those aspects of Irish dance. I have often told you, and have said it even in
my blog, that I’d much prefer to watch Kathryn dance in shorts and a t-shirt,
in a sweltering studio, being yelled at by tough Irish dance teachers than I do
in full regalia. But, when they walk out on that stage and smile in those
dresses, often with intricate Celtic knotwork (similar to dresses we wore eons
ago), I can’t help but feel my heart swell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, when they complete a difficult figure perfectly, my
heart bursts because I know that their hearts are bursting with pride at
reaching a goal set long ago by a dance teacher that trusted their ability.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You didn’t take the time to meet the
dancers like my daughter who often give up countless childhood activities like
birthday parties and outings with friends to practice dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same child that has come home from
dance exhausted with blistered feet, but takes the time to watch videos of her
dances to help improve her technique.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Talk about determination and dedication!!! A life skill dance has taught
her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What I thought you'd see in the
practice room, and later at the lounge, are the strong confident Irish women
(much like our mothers) that are instilling the same confidence that brought
our parents to this new country and gave them the strength to make it. Or
that you’d see the commitment of the dads that are willing to put up with
carrying a pink, glittered dress through the lobby of a hotel for their
daughter who is about to dance solo or who simply sits patiently for hours saving
seats while their wives stand by nervous and stressed watching a last practice
before the big moment. I hoped that you would share or listen to conversations
later that evening as each woman talked about their summers in the Catskills or
the Rockaways. How we all had the same fear of disappointing our sainted
mothers; a fear we still have even though some of the moms are long gone. We
all have the same stories to tell and we all fully believe that a cup of tea
can cure almost anything. These are friendships forged by years of the Irish
Culture that we grew up in and now have the pleasure of sharing with our own
children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 19.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So laugh and scowl if you must at our
tanned legs, glittered dresses and made up faces but know that you have missed
the boat on describing the Irish dance experience to the public.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, remember as the t-shirt in the
vendor stands at the Oireachtas says, “dancers kick their butts in class so
they can kick yours on stage”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04876534497354507443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-466015761934458765.post-66680051213589515682012-08-19T08:25:00.001-07:002012-08-19T08:25:51.393-07:00
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before a competition, feis moms
dutifully pack there Zuca Bags, caboodle boxes (I swear all real things) and
dress bags with a plethora of dance supplies… wigs, make up, electrical and
duct tape, ChapStick (not for lips but to adhere glitter to their eyes),
glitter, staplers, sharpie markers, etc… Which leads me to a text from a dear
dance mom</span><span style="color: black;"> friend </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">with a picture of a bottle of WHITE OUT attached to it that read, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Didn't think this would ever be on
my dance packing check list." My response... "Funny of all the things
we've packed through the years it's a bottle of WHITE OUT that seems odd
LOL." Odd indeed… I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what in the
name of the feis gods [we] would need White Out for but for fear of being under
prepared I text back the universal symbol for “what the heck” … “?”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">Who knew Irish dance was just
like any other sport?! They are always improving the equipment and thus we are
always adding to our “Feis Kits”. On the dance market the new must haves are hard
shoes that have a white rim that runs around the ankle opening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That thin lip of white leather,
carefully encircling the ankle of the dancer, is suppose to make their foot
look<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> compact</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">petite</i> while dancing, thus magically improving their overall
appearance and, one would hope, make them dance better. We Moms tell ourselves
these lies, and a laundry list of others, as we justify our dwindling bank
accounts for the sake of dance. Our hope is that the judges will notice our
attention to the details, perhaps missing a dropped heel or a foot that is not
pointed or arched—another lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And,
while I am thankful Irish dance doesn’t promote the stick skinny idea of beauty,
it appears from these shoes and the fact that we order them a size or two too
small that big feet are a NO-NO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who knew it was my size nine boats that kept me from the podium in my
day? I find it funny how much dance attire has changed over the years/decades. Gone
are the days of the hob nailed shoes our ancestors wore that were oddly similar
to what I wore as a kid. No taps, no fiber glass tips just rows and rows of
tiny little nail heads covering the toe and heel of the shiny patent leather
shoe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I know that was long ago…
long enough for a pair of said shoes to be listed under Irish/dance/old/hard shoes/<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">antiques</b> on EBAY. But these new shoes
make me long for those good old days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">As I sit here now I can’t
help but wonder if my mother would have colored the laces on my shoes to match
the eyeholes? Would she have pack White Out to cover the scuffs and blemishes
that dancing would create? I’m fairly confident that from beyond the grave I can
hear her saying, “You must be daft.” The same way I heard her saying, “Now
you’ve lost what little mind you had,” when I wrote the check for $1900.00 (more
than double the price of my wedding gown some twenty years ago) for a dance
dress for my 10 year old, which I bought in June and she out grew before the
Oireachtas in November.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">How did Irish dance morph
into this combination dance competition/toddlers and tiaras sort of a
world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my day the worst
experience before a competition was for us to spend hours having curlers
affixed to our heads by tough Irish mothers, a scene that was similarly played out
before Christmas Day or any other major holiday or outing. So while I can see
the connection to putting on your “Sunday best”, I don’t know how “Sunday best”
came to mean your hair had to look like a rag doll’s or the dust mop I keep in
the hall closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I know is if
my daughter came downstairs on Sunday morning dressed for church with her hair
looking like it did in her wig I would say, “WILL YOU PLEASE RUN A BRUSH
THROUGH THAT RAT’S NEST.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if
she wore a dress short enough to show her knickers, covered in neon animal
print, bedazzled to the hilt, I would ask her what corner she would expect to
be working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">I have seen dresses at
competitions that look like they were on loan from the circus!!! Crazy patterns
and color combinations that would have Heidi Klum saying “Auf Wieder Sehen,” if
they graced the stage on Project Runway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yet we Moms buy them and tout the designers of them like they were Gucci
or Louboutin—and let’s face it they are just about as pricey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">In class they dance in shorts
and socks, with their hair neatly tied back. I love that… and I love to hear
tough Irish dance teachers yelling counts over music I’ve listened to all my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the look on their
faces when they accomplish a figure in a ceili that was once thought too
hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love when they are sweaty
and exhausted, and yet still they are smiling. Nothing, not even a Swarowski
crystal encrusted dress can compare to that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Lucida Grande"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">So I say… bring back the
simple clean lines… level the playing field… let the dancing be highlighted…
and let the pigs fly, lol. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04876534497354507443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-466015761934458765.post-6042187735858292202012-07-27T16:18:00.002-07:002012-08-23T07:57:51.002-07:00Surviving Nationals<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">While the rest of the sane
world was enjoying the birthday of our fine country on July 4th, I was trapped
with a gaggle of crazy Irish dance moms at the North American Dance
National Championships in Chicago. <span style="mso-font-kerning: .5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">There is duct
taping, wig-throwing, shouting, and nervous sweat in abundance right before the
competition. Amidst the early morning chaos of readying our preteen and teenage
daughters for their moment in the spotlight, I begin to channel some strange
robotic, perfect, zombie inner-mother. I started speaking in a tone that can
only be described as Mary Poppins heavily medicated on Zoloft. “Ok Kathryn time
to get ready,” I say in this bizarre Zen sing-song voice. She gets her bag of sundries
out… a wig (similar to a dust mop I use on my wood floors), a bag load of
various sized hair pins, a brush and then… PANIC. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t have the DONUT?!?!” Now those of you not in the
dance world might just assume that she woke up really hungry or that I have
instilled really bad eating habits in my teenage daughter but neither would be
true. A “donut” is used under the wig to provide height.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ok,” I say in my singsongy happy
voice, “No worries we’ll improvise.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is usually done with a sock—but… I didn’t pack any socks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So to avoid any undo stress I calmly
rummage through the suitcase and pulling out a thong I say in my Zoloft infused
Mary Poppins voice,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes, yes this
will do quite nicely,” all the while thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OMG who the hell are you?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I begin to ready
her head for wig placement, careful not to jab too hard or pull too tightly.
Constantly checking on her nerves, providing encouraging words and from her…
NOTHING. No expression. No conversation. NOTHING.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I start to get a little concerned. I don’t know why she’s
like this at every competition but it starts to put a little stress in my Mary
Poppins Zoloft voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And finally
she speaks…“The girls are waiting for us we’re late!” “Ok it’s breakfast tell
them to walk over we’ll meet them there,” said Zoloft Mary Poppins. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another text and another, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We’re late they’re waiting for us.” And
another, “Ok we are walking out the door, tell them to start walking we’ll meet
them there,” said Zoloft Mary Poppins with a now noticeable Jersey City
accent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the rapid
fire text to her phone and now mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Mary Poppins in me ducked for cover and let me out… “IT’S
BREAKFAST!!! WE DON’T HAVE TO EAT TOGETHER TO DANCE TOGETHER… THE EXACT SAME TEXT
FROM EVERY PERSON IS NOT GOING TO MAKE US GET THERE ANY SOONER… TELL THEM TO
WALK OVER AND WE WILL MEET THEM THERE… NOW CALM DOWN AND KNOCK OFF THE FEISTUDE!!”
With a chime noting the arrival of the elevator Zoloft Mary Poppins returned
and said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now, let’s get to
breakfast shall we.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breakfast was
great. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one ate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Competition time
arrives… headbands, make-up check, stretching, run throughs, grouchy Sheraton
Staff (you know who you were).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
“Moms” settle into the ballroom packed with spectators. They announce our team
and we all hold our collective breaths. “Please GOD just let them dance well.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zoloft Mary Poppins has bitten her
well-manicured nails down to the nubbins at this point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems like an eternity… but somehow
during the dance the rest of the world slips away as we watch our girls
dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find myself feeling my
mother, long gone standing right beside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that this is what she and my dad experienced all
those years ago watching me, and the girls I still call my dance friends
perform these same ceilis in the basement of St. John the Baptist Church in
Jersey City under the tutelage of Margaret McNamara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the here and now, the girls danced beautifully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we wait and see if they were good
enough to get a medal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t actually
tell what place you’ll get just that you placed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emotions ping-pong back and forth, between happy, hopeful,
sad, terrified, disappointed and just teenaged angst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do you think we’ll recall,” my Kathryn asks?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no right answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the record, not even Zoloft Mary Poppins
can answer that one correctly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">They get their “Recall,”
which is code for “more stress this way”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exhausted, we put back on
the dresses, check the wigs and headbands, slap on some make-up and send them
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty seconds later it is all
over with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We waited for three
hours for 30 seconds of fame. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cheer loudly for the their accomplishment, wishing
maybe they could have been a little higher (unless they’re first we all think
it and you’re lying if you say you don’t).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She comes off the stage and we hug and in that hug I feel
every arm of every Irish ancestor wrap around us and suddenly, three hours of
claustrophobia doesn’t seem quite so long and my heart is swelling with pride
and my inner Zoloft Mary Poppins swallows hard on a Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
spoon full of sugar that helps the medicine go down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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