The Box Step

When I was 10 years old, I was informed by my teacher, Sister Mary of the Holy Water Fountain (not her real name), that I had been selected to attend a very special program. It was going to be after school in a couple of days in the gym/cafe/theatre, a building separate from the old stone parish school. I quickly discovered that other guys had also been selected for this mysterious program.

We were a ragtag cohort of altar boys and hall monitors and candy collection kids. None of the axe murderers or psycho juvenile delinquents in our grade had been selected. A sense of wonder and apprehension grew among us. No one had a clue what was coming.

Our parents dropped us off that fateful afternoon and left, promising to return in an hour. We suspected that they had been told the purpose of the program and sworn to secrecy. Nobody with a lick of common sense ever wanted to cross swords with Sister Mary of the Holy Water Fountain.

We were stunned when we entered the gym/cafe/theatre and discovered that, in addition to our teacher, there were a dozen or so girls from our grade already there. There was also a distinguished older woman standing next to a record player. Sister Mary introduced her as Mrs. Foxtrot (not her real name), and told us to close our o-shaped mouths because it was impolite and we could swallow flies, and to have a seat opposite the girls on a straight line of chairs. We looked at each other and realized that we had been had. It was too late to bolt for the door. We each had earned responsibilities within the grade, and not cooperating now would mean loosing them. Plus Sister Mary was blocking the door.

No wonder the axe murderers weren't invited. Nuns knew a whole lot about compliance and crowd control. Sister Mary eyeballed each and every one of us until we had all taken a seat, and then glared at the girls, daring them to smirk. None did. Then she nodded to Mrs. Foxtrot.

Mrs. Foxtrot told us that she and her husband had been professional ballroom dancers. They had competed all over the country, won gold medals and tall statues, and loved every minute of it. But the Lord had need of someone with her husband's talent, and he was introducing the saints to the Tango and the ChaChaCha now. And that made her think of introducing the nice young girls and boys in her parish to the basics of ballroom dancing. She paused and looked at Sister Mary who blinked once to assure her that all was well.

"Today," Mrs. Foxtrot said with genuine pride and excitement, "I am going to teach you the Box Step."

Tony Scalzoni (not his real name) groaned. Tony preferred to box ears on the football field, not to learn the Box Step. Sister Mary scorched him with a fireball-sized glare that made him wince. "Sorry, Sis'tr," he mouthed.

Sister Mary extinguished the heat from her eyes and then blinked once again at Mrs. Foxtrot, whose smile had not diminished.

"The Box Step is the basis for many American ballroom dances, including the Waltz and the Rumba," Mrs. Foxtrot said. "It is easy to do. All you have to do is make the shape of a box with your feet with your partner."

Partner? We suddenly realized that the girls opposite us had tensed. Something had shifted in the room. There was a sense of mild electricity in the air, like you feel when you walk across a carpet in the winter. Only it wasn't winter and we weren't walking and there wasn't any carpet.

Mrs. Foxtrot showed us how the boy steps out with his left foot, bringing the right foot up with little weight, because it shifts to the right. She showed us how and when the shifts in weight happened to complete the square box. Then she showed the opposite moves to the girls. Most of the boys weren't listening. The word partner had confuzzled their thought processes. Some had lost feeling in their feet. Some had a strange ringing in their ears. Me? I had noticed that Mrs. Foxtrot had been scanning the row of guys while she was demonstrating, and her gaze had been lingering on me. Maybe it was because my eyes weren't watering as much as the guys around me. Or maybe it was the white starched shirt and creased pants that my mother had made me wear.

"I'll need a partner to demonstrate this easy and fun step," Mrs. Foxtrot said, and before I knew it, she had glided over to my chair, taken my hand, raised me out of my chair, and said, "And I accept this handsome young man's offer to dance with me."

A 45 rpm record began to play on the record player. I don't remember what the song was. I do remember standing with Mrs. Foxtrot in the center of the gym/cafe/theatre and suddenly everyone else on earth disappearing. I remember being aware of silk and sound, and of another human being joining with me in rhythm and movement. She was leading me gently through the steps for the first several seconds, and then I felt her let go, trusting me to navigate the floor and the space around us and between us. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

From that time forward, I sought every canteen, hop, high school mixer and dance I could find. I went for years to a Friday night dance where a young DJ hosted such South Philadelphia talent as Bobby Rydell and Frankie Avalon. I went to a roller skating rink in suburban Philly that was transformed into the coolest dance for 50 miles. And, in college, I met my wife one steamy Sunday night on a dance floor.

I am deeply indebted to Mrs. Foxtrot and Sister Mary of the Holy Water Fountain. They opened up a world of  music and shared emotion with human beings that has made my heart yearn, and soar just as often.

Copyright (c) 2011 by James Hugh Comey

Have Courage

When I was in 6th grade, my 3rd grade teacher took me out on my first date. I had moved to another area and had not seen her for three years. Out of the blue, she called and asked me if I wanted to go to dinner and then meet someone. I was more shy than I am now and didn't want to go. My mother told me to have courage, that my 3rd grade teacher was a terrific person, and that it would be a great experience. I figured that they were in cahoots about something.

We went to the Alpine Inn in Springfield, PA, and I tried to not sound like a fool as I blushed my way through crispy fried chicken and cold peas. Then she drove me to meet a man who would profoundly affect my life. His name was Father Robert Greene. He was a Maryknoll Missionary who had been stationed in Tungan, in the Kwangsi Province in China. For 15 years, Father Greene had been preaching and dispensing medicine. In 1950, Communists placed him under house arrest and issued an order that no foreigners or Chinese could speak to him. For 17 months he was only allowed 10 minutes of freedom every third day. Then he was taken before a firing squad where he was told that he was going to be executed for being a spy. But instead of shooting him, he was blindfolded, and angry mobs cursed him and made false accusations about him over eight days. Finally, he was marched through three cities and thrown over the border, where he finally found his way to Hong Kong.

Father Green's story was recounted in a 1952 issue of Life Magazine. He was then encouraged to write a book about his experience. He called it Calvary in China. Father Greene handed me a signed copy of his book that day. He told me about adversity and faith and not giving up, even when all looks lost.

I figured out later why my teacher and mother wanted me to eat crispy fried chicken and cold peas. It was so that I could meet a Maryknoll priest and decide to become a priest myself. It didn't work. I had discovered girls in 4th grade, so the priesthood was out of the question. What they hadn't counted on was how impressed I was to meet a person who had written a book. I had always planned on becoming a teacher. Now, I decided to add writer to my career goals.

As a teacher, I have met many students who have had their own Calvaries. I have watched 6th grade little kids and hulking seniors face hardships that seemed overwhelming. Dealing with sudden divorce or the death of a parent. Tragic accidents where a classmate was suddenly gone from a car crash. Multiple surgeries to fix legs and straighten spines and heal hearts. Each of these kids endured physical and emotional hurts that might have crippled an adult. Each had the courage to face their hardships, to not give up.

Six weeks ago I received a diagnosis of prostate cancer. In three days, I am going to have robotic surgery to have it removed. I remembered Father Greene when I woke up this morning. I remembered him looking me in the eye and telling me about the importance of faith and not giving up, no matter how scary the situation. Joseph Campbell wrote, "Opportunities to find deeper powers within ourselves come when life seems most challenging."

I am lucky to have met Father Greene and so many brave students as I prepare for this procedure and the healing that will follow. I will not be writing blogs for a while. I ask for your good thoughts and prayers as I face this Calvary, knowing that faith and the love of family and friends will give me the courage I need to conquer this.

Copyright (c) 2011 by James Hugh Comey

Rubbing Elbows

In the spring of 1990, I was invited to speak at a local elementary school. It was their Celebrate Writing Day, and a half dozen professional writers of different genres were going to share their insights with the students. My first play for Stages of Imagination, Inc., The Monster in the Woods, was currently running and had garnered some press, so I was the playwright guy. The kids were wide-eyed and wonderful, and the morning went quickly.

The thank you for our pro bono presentations was lunch in their library. A husband and wife team sat across from me. He was a fiction writer; she was a poet, as I remember. I introduced myself in between bites of my hoagie. He was visibly upset. He told me that his fourth book had recently been published, but it wasn't selling as he had hoped. He hated his regular job and wanted to quit to write full time, but his current royalities wouldn't allow it. His wife told him to hang on, that she believed in him, and that somehow they would make it through this difficult time. The students were going to present their writing to their classmates in the afternoon, so I took my leave. I wished the upset writer the very best of luck.

Six months later, I read where the upset writer, Jerry Spinelli, won the Newberry Award for his fourth novel, Maniac Magee.

Writing is a joy, especially when the words are flowing,  the characters are dictating their lines, and the scenes are rich with hurt and humor and hope. It is not a joy when the business of writing, the publishing and production potholes, whack you alongside the head.

Over the years, I have rubbed elbows with many professional writers who have walked up the same steep slope as me. Each one of their victories, whether small or large, is my victory. Empathy among writers is a powerful antidote for the feeling of isolation and rejection that we all experience. Persistance and determination are the driving forces that all creative people must have ingrained in their DNA.

Here are some of the more notable writers that I have met or communicated with via phone or correspondence. Each had or still have challenges with the publishing or production potholes, and each will be damned if they will ever quit.

Writers: Kurt Vonnegut, James Baldwin, Jerzy Kosinski, Andrew Greeley, Chaim Potok, Lloyd Alexander, Ray Bradbury, Donna Jo Napoli, Cyril Clemens, Jimmy Carter, Jon Cohen, and Judy Schachner.

Playwrights: Bruce Graham, Michael Hollinger, Ed Shockley, Walt Vail, Marcus Stevens, and Brian Lowdermilk.

In future blogs I will give more details about my meetings and conversations with some of the folks above. And, maybe I'll describe the night in a loft in Soho when Poets and Writers Inc. was throwing a benefit, and E. L. Doctorow, Allan Ginsberg, Norman Mailer, Susan Sontag, Erica Jong and a host of others, including me, stayed way too late on a school night to rub elbows.

Copyright (c) 2011 by James Hugh Comey

It Begins

I am a writer.

For 41 years I have paid the bills by teaching middle school, high school, community college, and graduate school. I have acted in industrial films and recorded voice-overs. I have consulted in corporations using Neuro-Linguistic Programming, and met with clients to assist them with hypnotherapy. I have run an evening alternative high school for troubled youth, and coordinated gifted and state assesment testing programs for an affluent suburban public school.

Throughout all of these diverse activities, I have been a writer. My novella, Death of the Poet King, was published in 1975 and sold for $4.95. Copies have found their way somehow to places like Yale and Oxford, and Amazon is hawking copies for up to $281.62. That makes me laugh.

In 1990, while on an industrial shoot, I met an actor, Vicki Giunta, who wanted to start a nonprofit, children's theatre company. She wanted to bring original, issues-based, musical plays to children, especially those who had never experienced live professional theatre. She could produce and her sister, Carmela Guiteras-Mayo, a New York choreographer, could direct. All they needed was a writer.

I am a writer, and Stages of Imagination, Inc. (http://www.stagesofimagination.org/), was born. Now, 20 years later, 250,000 pre-K through 6th grade kids have seen our plays, heard our CDs and watched our film, Wooden Heart. We have been fortunate to receive two Silver Telly Awards, a Parents' Choice Recommendation and Award, endorsements from Newberry Award winner, Lloyd Alexander, and Harvard psychiatrist, Dr. Robert Coles, and corporate and state grants. I based my dissertaion at the University of Pennsylvania Graduate School of Education on one of my plays, and educational support materials follow each teacher who attends our plays back into her classroom.

I am blessed that throughout all of my work experiences, I have been able to sneak in time at night or during the summer, to write. This past June, I retired from public education. The stories that have been dancing through my head during cafe duty and grading papers and driving to schools before the sun came up, can now come spilling out.

Ray Bradbury wrote to me once: "Throw up every morning, clean up every noon. Do and then think. DO first. Get it down and done, with joy. Then think about it."

So, it begins.

Copyright (c) 2011 by James Hugh Comey