Meet Mr. New Jersey

A few years ago I received a postcard from a former student, who was raised in a volatile Levittown, New Jersey household where lack of affection and beatings were the norm. The card was from the Baseball Hall of Fame and  said, “I’ll see you soon.” For some strange reason, this angry young man enrolled in my Musical Theatre for Children class. The course required students to write a musical and be involved in the performance and technical production of the chosen script. The semester lasted fifteen weeks with a required performance the tenth week of the term. It was a collaborative project that required 100% commitment.

The majority came from New England small towns of under 14,000. Mr. New Jersey grew up in a suburb of New York, yet at age eighteen he had never visited the city. He hadn’t seen a play or musical, not even those performed in his high school. He considered anyone in the performing arts to be homosexual and voiced hatred of those who were.

His fellow classmates had been active members of their high school drama. They knew the hit songs from a variety of Broadway musicals. He did not. They had a commonality in their love of musicals. They understood the importance of working toward a goal. He was a left handed METS fan with competent baseball and golfing skills, but he balked at dancing. “That was for sissies.”

This 5’10” red-head sat in the rear of the theatre classroom, with legs outstretched, arms folded, and grinding his teeth in anger. This happened twice a week for 90 minutes. His classmates avoided him. By week three I insisted he visit my office on the top floor of the Arts Building. I told him to look for M318 in the music wing. The door was covered with a multicolored sign that simply ceiling to floor sign that said DOOR. Smiling I said, “You can’t miss it. Plan to confer for one hour and a half.”

He arrived fifteen minutes late, ill tempered and foul mouthed. His language was horrific, “Shit, why the f*** didn’t you tell me where it was?” He slumped on the small piano stool, leaned back onto the keyboard, struck a chord of dissonance, stuck out his feet, crossed his arms and glared. It was quite a moment.

Ms tough love, teaching style kicked in and got right to the point. “You’ve got some issues that are getting in your way of succeeding, not only in class, but in life. Quite frankly, to put it in language you seem to prefer, you are a pain in the ass.” He sat up with his fists clenched. I held up my “wait a minute” hand and leaned in with a smile. “My dad believed there were more horses asses in the world than horses and you must admit that you are at the head of that class.” I cocked my head to the right. I knocked my foot against his. He sat up, fists clenched. He was ready for a fight.

I shrugged and pointed to a 1920’s picture of a college student in a baseball uniform with a bat resting on his left shoulder. 

“That’s my dad. He was a great southpaw pitcher and batter. He dreamed of being a professional ball player but only got beatings from his German/Irish Parents. As a result, he gave me all the support he could.”

His eyes narrowed. I continued, “All kids should be raised with that kind of love. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah sure. But it ain’t real.”

“It can be, if you want it to be.”

“Aahh, whada ya know about it?

Mimicking his insolence, I said, “Ah, whada ya know about it? Did your parents own their own home.

“Sure, everybody did.”

“Not me." He eyebrows rose in surprise. 

"I grew up in a three-bedroom rental home on a busy highway. My job was to turn the collars and cuffs on my father’s dress shirts so he could wear them for another year.” 

We were frugal. I made all my own clothes.” As I said this, a vision of a long pink dress entered my mind. I apologized. “All except for my prom gown. We bought that.

He commented in a demeaning word slur and a snearing mouth. “Gown? Ya only went to one prom?”

I bristled at the implication. “Don’t be ridiculous.

“Then why only one dress?”

 “Mom was sensible. For coats and complicated items we went to Kennard’s, the downtown department store. Other girls went to Wilmington Dry Goods, a sort of Filene’s Basement, littered with bargains, but Mom needed the comfort of a saleslady. I still remember the spring day we walked into the evening gown section and I fell in love with a taffeta ball gown, straight from the 1954 re-release of Gone With The Wind. I imagined how pretty I would look wearing it. I pleaded with Joan of Arc raised hands. “Please! The bemused saleslady watched my mother hiss through pursed lips, “Don’t be so melodramatic." I fell to my knees. Her eyes rolled. "All right, you can try it on.”

Five minutes later, I waltzed out of the dressing room singing “I Feel Pretty.” and gave a civil war curtsy. Mom’s dainty, glove-covered hand made a turn around motion. She admired me. “You do look lovely.” She checked the price before excaliming, “It’s $75.00?”

The saleslady replied with honesty, “That doesn’t include the hoop underskirt, tiara, white gloves or shoes. The total will be closer to $100.00.”

My face fell. “I knew mom had only budgeted $60.00.” She started to shake her head but I stopped her, “I’ll wear the same dress to both.”

She was skeptical. “Do not try and manipulate me. You know you’ll rip this one in the car door at the evening’s end or come up with some reason that you need a new dress.”

I begged. “I won’t. I promise.”

She gave me her brown-eyes knowing stare and sniffed. “A pie crust promise - easily made, easily broken.

I confided, “Mom, we both know that I am never going to be queen of any prom, I’m not busty and curvy like the other girls my age. I’m just a tree climbing, funny, creative and popular tomboy. For the first time in my life I feel pretty. In this dress I feel like a Cinderella not a stepsister." I stood and focused my earnest blue eyes and said. " I will be proud to wear this dress to both the junior and senior proms.” Mom nodded to the saleslady and I went to both proms feeling like the belle of the ball.

My heart skipped a beat at the memory. I looked at his glowing face and choked out, “I’ve never told that story to anyone.”

He looked at his dirty, sneakered feet. There was a moment of quiet discomfort. I broke the mood.

“That’s enough about my life. What about yours?”

Over the next two months he began to open up, to me, to his classmates and finally to the homosexual guys in the theatre department. How had we done it? I say we because it was a collaborative effort. He was so anxious to hear stories about my Dad that we brokered a deal; one story equaled a discussion on a Broadway musical of my choice. We kept this game up throughout his college career. He even had a few mixed tapes of happy songs that kept him going for the next two years.

He graduated and we drifted apart. I heard he got married and quickly divorced. It didn't surprise me. He needed someone strong and caring and often the two do not go together. Alumni from the 90’s would ask, "whatever happened to that angry guy? Eh, you know, what’s his name?" I knew that he would be in touch when he needed me and thought I would enjoy our ongoing game of mental exercise.

TO BE CONTINUED