Up until third grade my inay’s favorite form of torturing me was to make me perform a dance number whenever we have guests at home. It wasn’t such a big deal, until it was.
Late 70’s, tail end of the disco era. We had this “stereo”, a behemoth of a casing for not much power . It had a turntable, a radio tuner, and not much else. Kuya Toto, electronics wiz that he is, added stuff to it until we had a decent 4-way stereo system. We had three vinyl lp’s, all by the beatles.
One day my father came home with new album. Tina Charles. The album came with its own instructions on how to do the dance steps. I tried to do them but my vocabulary just wasn’t good enough at that point. All I understood was that I was supposed to step with one foot forward while pointing at it. I did exactly that. Over and over. And over.
What I didn’t realize was that my parents were planning a party. The day came and there was no turning back. There was a good turn out. I absolutely refused to do the one-step dance number but I was outnumbered. Everyone was egging me on. The more I refused, the more I saw how disappointed my parents were.
Finally, I relented. I found out quickly how unentertaining it was to watch a child point at his toes. As one by one the guests dispersed and awkwardly, I secretly celebrated my freedom.
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