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Okay, to keep the #CanCon going, let’s revisit The Worst Grade School Dance of all time.
I believe it was in Grade 7, universally recognized to be the worst year of one’s life and the epitome of “no one look at me or think about me, let me just do my work and eat my sandwiches.”
A parent would volunteer to DJ. I forget what fake name I gave my friend last time, but her name is Lyn and I think she’s fine with this.
Her dad volunteered to DJ.
Her dad volunteered to DJ.
Now, normally, recognizing what the kids wanted, the parental volunteer would just put on that year’s equivalent of “Dance Mix ‘95” and a brief selection of “Jock Jams” and then flip on the lights so we could be home by 9pm.
Lyn’s father, who is technically my dad’s friend but my dad always lets his calls go to voicemail and hides if he comes into the driveway, had a strong objection to the cultural imperialism of American pop culture hegemony.
So, my poor friend, a lovely person, whose father LOUDLY announced himself as her father as he took position behind the CD player, proceeded to enter her own personal Event Horizon for the next three hours.
Her father had brought only Canadian music. He would play only Canadian music. He did not care if students cried/the chaperones intervened. He sat there, arms crossed, in a trucker hat, as though he was someone who captured Vimy Ridge and now could not be told SHIT by civilians.
He opened with (will never forget this) the theme song to Spider Man, the animated series that appeared in Canada from 1967-1970.
We were worried, but he had not yet announced his Canadian Content plan for the evening. I was still trying to pretend my dress wasn’t from Zellers.
We were worried, but he had not yet announced his Canadian Content plan for the evening. I was still trying to pretend my dress wasn’t from Zellers.
Stop guessing about what he played, the reality is worse than you could ever imagine. Also I did not want to be at the dance but my parents still held out hopes I would interact with peers in a mutually-enjoyable fashion, which did not happen until about ten years ago.
The fancier girls had gotten their dresses from Le Chateau, the mall store. Please, Canadian Women, speak up about the important of Le Chateau.
(My mom was once asked to LEAVE an Esprit store bc she was carrying a No Frills grocery bag.) Canadians are not nice at all.
(My mom was once asked to LEAVE an Esprit store bc she was carrying a No Frills grocery bag.) Canadians are not nice at all.
Now, the music. Keep in mind that there WERE Canadian options he could have chosen that wouldn’t have raised too many eyebrows in the mid-1990s. Bryan Adams, Rufus Wainwright, Alanis, Shania’s pop songs, etc.
That’s not how this went down, my beloveds.
That’s not how this went down, my beloveds.
He played...Stompin’ Tom:
He played...Paul Anka. He played...Rush, and not the good songs. He ignored anyone who approached him, begging, simply begging, to hear “Push It.”
And now we come to the worst moment of all, the moment when I saw my friend Lyn die but continue moving as though she was not dead.
It had been suggested, gingerly, to Lyn’s dad, that it was time for a slow dance, so the students could awkwardly place hands on each other.
It had been suggested, gingerly, to Lyn’s dad, that it was time for a slow dance, so the students could awkwardly place hands on each other.
We wanted “I’ll Make Love to You” by Boyz II Men. We probably, at this point, would have accepted “Stairway to Heaven,” as he had RE-PLAYED the Spider Man theme.
Instead, I want to paint a word picture for you:
Fifty pre-teens in a decorated gym, trying to slow dance to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
Fifty pre-teens in a decorated gym, trying to slow dance to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
This HAPPENED. My stories are always true, some details changed to protect the innocent, occasionally slightly script-doctored to amuse and delight, but this moment is the last thing I will remember on my deathbed.
I had previously thought Lyn to be dead. I had not yet seen a person truly die inside. He was her ride home so she had to stay.
Watching her classmates sway awkwardly to THIS, knowing full well the social catastrophe awaiting her on the morrow.
Lyn somehow managed to survive one and half more years at St Pat’s as an outcast before she went to high school and became popular again. She deserved to be popular, having looked into the maw of Hell.
My first piece of published writing was simply a collection of my father’s emails to me in college, in which “Harold” is Lyn’s dad. https://themorningnews.org/article/emails-from-my-father
I hope you have a nice day. This story was a form of child abuse.
Also the school banned parental volunteers in the wake of Edmund Fitzgerald Gate and instead forced teachers to do it.
(My second piece of published writing was “The House of Mirth: A Choose Your Own Adventure.”) https://www.theawl.com/2010/05/the-house-of-mirth-as-a-poorly-played-game-of-choose-your-own-adventure/
(It’s VERY funny and had @Choire not accepted it I would not be here, today, delighting some of you and really annoying the fuck out of others.)
