OUTSIDERS

My daughter dances to the beat of a different drummer...her husband is the drummer.

Lisa is over six feet tall. I met her in 1984. She was Bill’s date. They arrived to the party in a coach with footmen. They exuded the stench of royalty.

Lisa wore a white pantsuit, one that said “I require my wearer to be super tall, super thin and above all, super confident.” Lisa was all that.  Silver earrings. No other jewelry. Chin length, straight hair, naturally blond. Scandinavian to the core.

Lisa and I became friends. She earned money doing a little photo modeling, but she was actually a talented artist. I talked to Lisa about her height. My granddaughter, a teen, had passed 5’10” with no stopping in sight and instead of being happy that she was tall, she was blitzed. 

Lisa said “I hated myself during those years. You’ve got to remember that kids - teen agers - never want to stand out. More than anything, they want to “fit in.” In every single class picture, I was always in the back row — the tallest kid in class. How can you fit in when you’re a head taller than all your classmates?”

My daughter’s 35th high school reunion was Saturday. When we talk about her high school years, pain oozes from those memories. I listen to her stories — events that are news to me. Sometimes we laugh. Often we are silent. She was physically and socially awkward and she liked art and experimental music — not exactly popular currency for teens. Now they have more value. She needed a “Special Needs” class — one for kids who are super-sensitive to injustice, and morbidly affected by loneliness. 

I took piano lessons 3rd, 4th, 5th grades and played off and on my entire life. I played with a high school jazz band for about two weeks but when we had our chance to perform “Night Train” on a radio station, my career hopes were dashed. I lost my place and played six bars behind everybody else — live and on air — until the music conductor pushed me off the piano bench and tried to salvage the train wreck. It was too late. I was banished.

Now, more than fifty years later, I’m taking jazz piano lessons. A wonderful trio of generous professional musician friends invited me to sit in with them at a party last night. History — like lightning — can strike twice. I muddled through one song but then I must have had a mini-stroke or something! The notes made no sense, the piano keys were all in the wrong spots, my hands turned into baseball bats, something happened to my ears. It all came rushing back and I was right back in 11th grade with Mrs. McWhiney  pushing me off that bench and every other musician giving me the stink eye.

My friends last night did NOT give me the stink eye. They did give me a glass of wine and assured me that it didn’t matter (a big fat lie!) Later I played some solo stuff and revived my bruised ego a little. 

I was one of the popular kids throughout school years. Classes were easy. I made friends everywhere. But scars happen to the best of us. At my age, we can’t remember where we were yesterday but ask us about embarrassing experiences from our teen years! Here they come! 

When do we outgrow that stuff?