I was never allowed to go boneless. I must’ve tried, once, but it wasn’t a viable option for negotiation. If you’re confused, boneless is that thing little kids do in the grocery store where they go incredibly limp, instantly doubling their body weight like a leaden water balloon supported only by a parents’ grip on their somehow-always-sticky hand.
The boneless tactic is usually employed as a last ditch effort bargaining chip to either obtain something or avoid doing something. I wasn’t allowed to do anything like that. I was very aware of what I was and was not allowed to do by a mysterious sharp pain at the back of my left arm, accompanied by a deep yet soft voice rumbling out phrases like “Boy, you better not...” and “If I ever see you do something like that...” Crazy, right?
Oddly, every time this happened my mother was standing on my left. (She’s right handed.) In no way however was I under martial control; from a very young age I was offered the opportunity to engage in lively debate for my point of view on anything – what new Fall shows to watch on tv, if I could use well-researched self-designed wearable pyrotechnics in my third grade Halloween costume (have I told you that one?), why a used Camaro was a perfectly rational first job commuting car (honestly, that was debatable). I accepted wins with glee, and attempted to endure losses with grace (no pyrotechnics that year), but I always had a voice and felt heard, if not readily agreed with.
Would that the world worked that way.
So much of my opportunity in modern society has been made possible by the marches, boycotts, sit-ins, and most importantly voting of people whose voices weren’t considered valid enough to pay attention to, so action was sometimes substituted until such a time as conversation was more welcome.
Although complaint is the shape of protest, it is not its substance. Change is its core: a situation needs to end or begin – those profiting off the status quo feel the opposite way, and so the status quo is challenged by a demonstration of active opinion. I’m not really good at it. I’m from an endurance based family. It’s probably not healthy. Many are the times I rearranged deck chairs on the Titanic, found silver linings in storm clouds, seen shattered goblets as “half full”.
My daughter led a revolution at 3 years old: two weeks after being transferred to a new kindergarten class she led the students past the new teachers and down the stairs to their old classroom. The kids all got in a straight line and were quiet, just like she told them. Her old teacher’s impromptu visit to her new classroom was interpreted as a sign to, like Moses before her, lead her people to safety. Both teachers were so stunned that they let the class walk all the way down the stairs before they brought them back. One of the new teachers was extremely cruel, however, and was transferred from the room the next week.
At three years old she built a better civil rights record than I have. I’ve marched, voted, and knit a few hats, but that’s nothing: I have friends that were on strike for most of last year.
My most intense single instance of premeditated defiance was onstage.
I’d always heard about the “three minutes” you had to have ready if you ever wanted to perform at an open mic. It terrified me…it still terrifies me for some reason, but when I was 18 it seemed an impossible thing, like a layup or a 10 minute mile.
I’d performed in the live musical shows at Worlds of Fun amusement park for two years. They had invited me back after freshman year of college as an inaugural cast member of their new show, based in pop hits of the 1950’s.
You can see this one coming from a long way away, but stay with me.
I played the jock. I told that to my wife, who now assumes I must have been a tremendous young actor of unimaginable range. Of course, I was paired with the cheerleader, a bright shiny young lady from very rural Arkansas. There were only six of us in the cast; the jock, the cheerleader, the greaser, the tough chick, and a pair of studious kids with glasses and kind of squeaky voices. Again, I was the jock. Hold on, this gets a little weirder.
We opened and people just loved the show. I got to close the show with “The Heart of Rock and Roll” (which had just been released but served as a lucky thematic bridge); there was a big dance number where we all paired up and did swooshes and dips and things. We did this six to eight times a day, every day, for two months.
There was an after hours park employees-only party to open a new feature at the adjoining water park – we were supposed to perform a version of the closing number there. We rehearsed for a week and showed up for dress rehearsal on the day of the show and after the first run-through I was told that I was not going to perform because the guy who owned the park (and most of the city I think) was at the rehearsal and didn’t want me dancing with the cheerleader. Or anyone. I wasn’t even allowed to sing my part.
My castmates and I politely argued that literally thousands of people had already seen me in the show, and this was just for employees. The man in charge of show production was the exact sort of furious you can get when the person who owns the 250 acres around where you’re standing is looking dead at you. There was discussion, and then a compromise suggested that I “just do a funny Eddie Murphy or Richard Pryor kind of thing” instead. What?
I refused. Then I un-refused, and said I’d be glad to.
There were looks of warning and pleading to please NOT do a “Eddie Murphy / Richard Pryor” sort of thing, since the person who originated the idea was only familiar with a small portion of those gentlemen’s cinematic offerings and had quite obviously never experienced their stage work.
I don’t think I’d ever been mad before. I would have remembered it. That afternoon the sunshine was diamond sharp. I remember going home, eating Cup-O-Noodles at the kitchen table in total silence. My mother told me not to go, just to skip it. She had never seen me mad before either.
I calmly picked up my guitar, got back in my car, drove to the 7-11 and bought a Big Gulp and a People magazine. I drove around for two hours with the windows down, making up jokes in my head. By the time I got back to the park I had eight minutes of solid material, including a novelty song.
I have no idea exactly what I said, but I didn’t curse once, and 300 people laughed, then laughed louder, and at the end gave me a standing ovation. When I walked back to the edge of the stage my castmates hugged me and my boss did too. “You showed him.” he said in my ear, then stood with his arm around my shoulder, and looking straight across the stage, together we stared down the man who owned the city.
Ten minutes later when the stage was turned into a disco, the cheerleader from Arkansas and I were first on the floor.
boneless.