I'd Like to Thank My Friends and Family

While most children can tell a story or perform a dance and feel satisfied with a mere pat on the back, I felt like that pat on the back was a subtle way of saying, “I don’t care, and you aren’t good.” I was eight-years-old and passionate about anything that would grant me attention. I was both aggressive and scheming in this endeavor. I considered each performance, regardless of who constituted the audience, as a potentially life-altering experience. I’d seen Life with Mikey; I knew child show business was tough stuff. But I figured, like the little girl who made Sunshine Cookies what they are today, if my parents didn’t understand my talent, surely an agent walking down the street would.

Every morning during second grade, our teacher, Mrs. Bendish, would lead the class through the first verse of America the Beautiful. After roll call was finished, we mechanically aligned ourselves in a semi-circle facing the chalkboard, and watched her sway a miniature American Flag side to side, exclaiming: “Let’s show this flag what we’re made of!”

At first, this had felt odd. I understood we needed to celebrate our country, but I could not fathom why a country so important would manufacture a flag so small. However, one morning during the early winter, our lower school music teacher, Mrs. Meachin, walked by the classroom while we were singing. She stopped briefly in the doorway, leaning heavily on her cane, and smiled to the room before continuing down the hall. Suddenly it clicked: Mrs. Bendish was not making the class sing for the flag – she was making me sing in hopes that Mrs. Meachin would overhear and immediately put me on stage. The class was obviously a decoy so I would feel comfortable.

The next morning, I awoke with the feeling that today would be the day. I carefully buttoned my green uniform jumper, made sure my Cinderella socks were folded exactly three times over, and took a long look around my room. The stuffed animals knew something was different. They sat up straight on the bed, their faces flooded with trepidation. “Don’t worry,” I reassured them, collecting my reading and math folders. “Even when I’m famous, I’ll bring you wherever I go.” Mr. Bear and Baby-O seemed to relax after that.

I arrived to school anxious to begin our morning carol. When Mrs. Bendish called my name I resounded an exuberant “Here!” and stood up excitedly, beaming. Mrs. Bendish lightly coughed before reading the next name; students normally remained seated during attendance. Roll call continued uneventfully. I remained standing.

Before long Mrs. Bendish lined us up, her arm outstretched and swaying the American Flag. At first I felt a little put off – I assumed for my debut she would have at least found a larger flag. But then I figured she probably didn’t want to act conspicuously in front of the other students, lest they feel jealous when Mrs. Meachin arrived.

The class began singing: O beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain… Mrs. Bendish joyfully conducting from the front. When the class reached: America! I jumped into the middle of the circle, belting the lyrics with all I had. I closed my eyes like Whitney Houston and faced the doorway, arms outstretched toward Mrs. Meachin.

And crown thy good, with brotherhood from sea to shining sea! I kept my eyes closed for a moment. This was special. I wanted Mrs. Meachin to know just how dedicated I was to my impending career. The air felt tense, like everyone was restlessly waiting to see what happened next.

I opened my eyes to an empty doorway. The room was silent. I turned back around to the class and met Mrs. Bendish’s gaze. Her look was of flabbergasted concern. “Why don’t we all sit down now,” she instructed, mouthing, stay-in-side-for-re-cess, before I walked back to my desk.

Mathematics and social studies rolled through the classroom before it was finally time for my “talk” with Mrs. Bendish. I wasn’t scared; we’d had “talks” before. They typically consisted of Mrs. Bendish explaining the “consequences of my actions”, and asking if I “understood why students didn’t behave in such-and-such manner.” I quickly learned after a fiasco with the class chicks in late September that it was best if I sat back and kept my mouth shut.

“Elizabeth,” she began today, furrowing her eyebrows. “Do you understand why you aren’t at recess right now?”

“Probably because I sang too loudly,” I conceded, letting out a heavy, exaggerated sigh. I’d failed. Everyone knew a vociferous voice murdered hopes of stardom.

“Elizabeth,” she tried again, realizing that my sigh was one of defeat, and not one of remorse. Screams from the playground bled through the windows and taunted the room’s silence.

“Elizabeth,” she repeated, louder.

“I’m sorry I disrupted the classroom,” I offered mechanically. Mrs. Bendish’s eyes softened a little. I added hurriedly: “Does this mean Mrs. Meachin didn’t like my singing? Because I’m sure if I sang a different song I could do better.”

Mrs. Bendish did not even try to conceal her exasperation. She looked at me incredulously.

“Elizabeth, in no way is the song important here…” Her reprimand quickly droned out as I imagined her graying hair as hot pink, her conservative navy skirt transformed into a black micro-mini covered in little red hearts. She was onstage, lecturing off tune. I giggled. She stopped dead in her tracks.

“All right let’s go,” she commanded, waving her hand harshly and walking toward the door. “This is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.”

I’d done this before, too. We would walk the thirty steps down the third-grade hallway, pass the make shift library, and arrive at the principal’s office. She would tell Mrs. Young I was acting out, murmur something about me going to see such-and-such, and leave me to explain myself to a woman who considered her emaciated dog, Ginger, far superior to any Greenwich Academy student. Today I stayed in Mrs. Young’s office until lunchtime, instructed to “reflect on how I could be a better member of the classroom.” I decided I needed to pick a better song and choreograph a more sophisticated routine.

When my nanny picked me up from school that day, Mrs. Bendish handed her two sealed envelopes, and requested that each parent read both. Grietje looked back at me and raised her eyebrows.

“How come your brother never gets notes home?” I shrugged.

Our minivan dragged itself down the road and she turned on the soundtrack to “Camelot”. I shouted along, my eyes closed and arms outstretched. Michael covered his ears with both hands.