At the age of six, my Italian parents signed me up for Italian folk dance lessons at their Italian club. See, Club Roma wasn’t just the hall that you had showers, dinner dances and wedding receptions in… it was a place where the Italian boys (in black shorts, knee high ribboned white socks and little suede vests) would be paired up with the Italian girls (in green skirts, knee high ribboned white socks and handkerchiefs pinned in their hair). Whether it was an Italian festival (the “wop hop”) or the annual parade for St. Anthony, we’d skip around in circles, two by two and make fancy patterns with our formations.
I didn’t touch the soccer ball once when I played on my soccer team… or hit the ball and get on base once when I played T-ball … or stay standing for more than a few minutes, let alone touch the puck, when I played hockey… but when you played that accordion heavy folk song and dressed me up, boy could I skip around. I was so good, most of the older boys were often instructed to watch me… “When Frankie goes, you follow behind him…” That’s right, it seemed that skipping to the beat came pretty natural to me.
So, there we were, performing at the Pen Centre (the major mall in St. Catharines). I was partnered with Julie Bettiol and we were skipping our little hearts out. A crowd had gathered and I remember looking up at the sea of grown-up smiles and I enjoyed them enjoying us. It must have been the combination of Julie’s unruly hair and the extra effort she had to expend in order to keep up with my enthusiastic skipping, that made the embroidered handkerchief that should have been securely pinned on her head, fall off and waft to the ground.
I don’t know what made me do it. As costume catastrophe’s go, it’s not like when I played Gilbert Blythe in “Anne of Green Gables” in Grade 10 and in front of the whole school my pants ripped all the way from front to back and my knickers, that were only still fastened to me by the elastic waist band, revealed my little tighy-whities to a gym of judging high schoolers. But I did then what I did when I was six.
I covered up.
On the next skipping pass around the circle, I gallantly (and rather gracefully) swooped down (with Julie still on my arm) and scooped the handkerchief from the floor. As I continued to lead the line of off-beat older Italian boys behind me, I handed Julie back her handkerchief.
Just then a roar of applause and laughter erupted from the surrounding crowd. The bobbing adult smiles were now cheers and appreciative laughter accompanied by the blur of clapping hands. Who knew that a six year old could incite such a response? They were not only enjoying us, they were enjoying me.
I think it was at that moment, that I knew I loved to perform.
Years later, in that grade 10 gym, in front of the toughest audience we would have (the grades 10, 11 and 12 - the older kids in school)… I finished the dance number, with my pants swinging around me and my tighty-white underpants under the spotlight. There it was again … the roar of laughter.
At this point, the boys in the cast had joined me front and centre and we were doing the “shoe dance” including an off-beat, all-male kick line. And right there in the middle was me and my underwear. The slapstick of the boys was lost to my exaggerated pelvic thrusts and hammed up facial expressions… I remember thinking that the audience was actually enjoying this!… so I was going to milk it for all that it was worth. At the end of the number, the laughing didn’t seem to stop and so I pulled every gag I could think of that involved me standing there with my exposed underwear… I delivered my lines, with my knees turned in. I covered myself with my hands (laughter)… Anne’s dress (more laughter)… took my period cap off my head and coverd up my parts (more laughter)… I put my fists on my hips with my cap still covering me on its own (explosive laughter). When I finally exited the stage to thunderous applause, I remember enjoying how much they were enjoying me…
To this day, there is not a moment in my life where I am happier or more satisfied then that moment of feeling genuine appreciation from an audience. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop working towards trying to earn that.
… and it’s all Julie Bettiol’s fault.
